Goodbye Reservations: The Lost & Found Series, #4

Goodbye Reservations

Copyright © 2015 Jacquelyn Ayres

Cover Designer: Robin Harper, Wicked by Design

Editor: Claire Almendinger, Bare Naked Words Author Services

Formatting: Champagne Formats

Promotional Company: Bare Naked Words

Personal Assistants: Wendy Shatwell and Christy French

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the Author/Publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

ISBN: 978-0-9863069-2-1

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Other Books

Acknowledgements

About the Author

For my street team (The G-Team). I love you girls. I’m so blessed to have such loyal readers and, even more so, to be able to call them my friends. I hope I delivered another favorite for you!

1999

Stuck in bumper to bumper traffic, I glance over at my passenger seat. Against my own will, I feel my lips curving into a smile. Pompous ass. I grab the card off the Hydrangea arrangement and read it for the millionth time.

Add this to his amazing looks and sexy British accent and this would be romantic as hell; something to tell our grandkids one day. However, I feel pretty confident that I will never see him again. In hindsight, that’s probably a good thing since he’d, most likely, give me good reason to choke him.

—Buck . . . buck . . . shake . . . stall—

No! I hit the steering wheel. My car stops spasming and passes out dramatically. Goddamn it! I yell—because clearly, that will fix the problem. It’s okay; I’m only in the middle of Route 1 south, sitting in the fast lane like someone went ahead and pressed the pause button. "If you start for me, I promise to not call you a piece-of-useless-shit-on-wheels for at least a month," I beg as I whack the gear into park. Resting my head on the wheel—repetitively whispering, Please for dramatic effect—I turn the ignition off, say a final plea, and try to start her up again. She fights me, but I pump my foot on the gas and balance my comments from encouraging to threatening ones. "You’re a whore!" I scream as she teases me with her attempt to catch. She doesn’t though. I smack the wheel in frustration again. Grabbing the gallon of water off the passenger floor, I pop the hood of my shit-box-on-wheels and get out to see what I can do. I don’t know why people, like me—who have no clue as to what they are looking for—bother to do this, but I can’t seem to stop myself.

I stare—waiting for some kind of affirmation—or a genie (that’s probably more realistic than the affirmation). Resolved to the fact that I don’t know what the fuck I’m looking at, I unscrew the radiator cap. Leaning over, I start to pour water in.

You might not want to do that, love. It doesn’t look as if she’s overheating, a man with a British accent says. I turn to find a giant, black man in my presence.

Is there some sort of invasion going on that I didn’t hear about? I ask honestly.

I’m sorry? He gives me a look of confusion.

Eh, never mind. I wave him off. I don’t know what else to do. I sigh in defeat and recap the water and radiator.

First of all, you need to put your coat on; you’re shivering.

I zip my hooded sweatshirt. Done. Now what?

Do you not have something warmer? he asks loudly as if I’m deaf.

I’m fine. I see you have a cell phone. I shake my finger at it. May I use it to call my friend?

How far away is your friend?

I don’t know. I look around at all the traffic as if I expect Stacey to magically appear.

Why don’t you give her a go again? If it’s your battery, I can give you a jump, he offers.

See, I don’t think it is because she died while running and when I tried to start her, she sounded like she wanted to catch. I shake my head and bite my lip, trying to figure out this mystery . . . well, other than my car being a piece of shit.

Did you run out of petrol . . . I mean gas? He follows me over to the driver’s side.

Fuck.

I stare at him, unable to speak. Of course I ran out of gas. I wish I could help the tears that are building up but I can’t. I work two jobs and yet, after paying all of my bills conservatively, I can barely keep enough gas in my car to get me through the week. That extra shift I did this week?—put me over the edge. The irony.

Don’t panic, love. He looks around. There’s a station right there. I will go and get you some gas; you just get back in your car and stay warm. He opens the door for me.

No. I shake my head. I have to call my friend. I left my wallet at home, I explain with a lie.

I’m afraid you can’t do that.

Why? I jerk my head back.

It’s cold out here. Obviously, there was an accident, stopping the traffic. You’ll be waiting for hours. I’ll take care of the gas.

You don’t know me, though. I back up a little. It’s not that I feel nervous around him that’s making my alarm finally go off, it’s that I don’t, and I think that scares me even more. I mean—who does this?

It’s just gas, love.

Well, you should excuse yourself; that’s very rude. I laugh lightly.

He stares blankly at me for a moment, then throws his head back, laughing. That was good! he says.

I’m Becca. I extend my hand.

Derek—nice to meet you. He takes it.

You, too.

I know you now. Please get back in your car and wait while I run over to the station. He backs away from me and turns on his heel, heading across three lanes of traffic. Smart man, he left before I could argue—thank God. I watch as he gets further while talking on his phone. Ok, my lack of being creeped out by all of this is getting creepy.

Several minutes go by. Yes, I’m still standing outside. My passenger window won’t roll all the way up so it’d be no different sitting in there. Besides, I’m impatient. I feel like if I stand out here, Derek will be back all the much quicker.

You’ll catch your bloody death out here! a British voice booms behind me as a warm coat attacks my shoulders. I turn out of instinct; I already know who it is.

What are you doing here? I ask and, against my inner, stubborn chick, grasp his coat to wrap completely around me. God—he smells incredible.

Same as you, playing in traffic. He grabs the lapels of his coat, closing it more and slightly pulling me toward him. You’re shivering, he says softly. Come, sit in my car with me and warm up. The way he is staring at me is making me quickly come down with a case of butterflies in my belly.

The guy who is helping me is British; do you know him? I change the subject.

He’s British—of course I know him. I know everyone who lives in my country—on a first name basis, no less. He looks at me like I should’ve known that.

Are you being sarcastic?

Yes, sweetheart. He cracks a slight smile.

I told you earlier today, don’t call me sweetheart. I look away from his gaze.

I call every girl sweetheart—it’s not a big deal—stop making it one. The back of his forefinger grazes my cheek lightly.

Do you? I turn back to him.

He opens his mouth but hesitates to say anything. No, he finally spits out. I don’t call anyone that . . . anyone I don’t know, I should say.

You don’t know me. I widen my eyes.

I believe my soul must.

You do realize how high you just jumped on the crazy meter with that statement, right? I raise my eyebrow.

He laughs lightly despite himself, I think. Yes, I believe I do.

Does Derek work for you?

No. He’s my friend.

Why didn’t you come out here to help me?

Because . . . if I had . . . I knew you wouldn’t have accepted my help. He pulls me back, and my breath catches.

I have a hard time accepting help from anybody, I offer honestly.

Come—let us warm up in my car; it’s just over there. He points.

Ok.

Yes? He seems surprised.

I’m freezing my ass off. If it were warm, I wouldn’t go with you.

I shall praise mother nature. He looks up at the sky.

You do know how weird you are, right?

I am?

Yes.

Let’s go, sweetheart. He turns, placing his hand on my back and leads me toward his car. The driver gives me a curt nod as we pass him and get into the back seat. Thank you God and baby Jesus; it’s warm in here. So, do you want to tell me why you’re out in March with no bloody coat on? You trying to catch Pneumonia? He seems cross. I shrug. He doesn’t need to know my business. He exhales loudly and pulls out his wallet. Retrieving a few Benjamins, he holds them out to me. Here—please—buy yourself a coat.

I’m not a charity case, you asshole! I whip his coat off and climb out the car.

Becca! he yells after me. Becca, goddamn it—get back here!

Honestly, I have never felt so insulted in my life. Pompous ass. I yank my door open, get in, and lock it. Checking my rearview mirror, I see that he was smart enough not to follow me.

I sit here for several minutes, trying to organize the many thoughts going through my head. First: I need to somehow get a cell phone. This fucking sucks! Even worse—what if I was in East Bumble Fuck when this happened? I’d be forced to walk to civilization and probably be that stupid female in horror movies who yells, Hello? when they hear a noise, then investigates it only to get slaughtered. I hate those dumb bitches. Second: Speaking of weak characters, why did he have to be stuck near me in this traffic? I think he’s eating this shit up after I blasted him about his character, Jessica. Now here I am: damsel in distress.

A horn beeps behind me. I look up to see why. Seriously? The car in front of me has moved a few feet—that’s all. Shaking my head, I throw my hazards on. Clearly, the guy behind me is experiencing road rage because he continues to honk at me.

Derek makes his way back to me, and I get out to open my gas tank. I flip the guy off and smirk. He looks at Derek and immediately looks away. Not so brave now, are we? I shout. Derek is jacked up—I don’t care what color he is—this guy must’ve realized he’d have his ass handed to him.

Why are you shouting at that bloke?

He’s being an asshole, much like your friend, Grayson. I give him a double eyebrow raise.

So, he came out of hiding? He shakes his head then lets out a little chuckle. Impulsive bastard, he adds as he begins pouring the gas into the tank.

Derek, I’m going to need your address so I can mail you a check, I inform him.

I told you not to worry about it.

I don’t take handouts. I especially won’t take any from him. I cross my arms.

I paid for the petrol. I don’t care to be paid back. He taps the can to get the last of it before switching to the other.

I care.

Pay it forward. He smiles. Christ—I can’t even pay it backwards. Clearly, I’m not going to win here, so I nod instead. You know, Becca, he’s not such a bad guy… he trails off then glances my way.

I’m sure he’s not, he’s just real shitty at putting his best foot forward. I kick lightly at my tire and bite at my bottom lip. Okay, my nerves are finally kicking in.

He’ll be worth the chance if you’ll give him one. He pulls the empty can out and closes the tank.

Look, I’m not in the market for any type of relationship right now. I have too much going on in my life. That should put an end to this. Suddenly, Derek laughs like he knows something I don’t. Fuck if it isn’t driving me crazy.

I’m not going to ask why you’re laughing. I walk past him and sit back in the driver’s seat, leaving the door open. I pump the gas pedal then turn the key. I’d like to say she purrs to life but it sounds more like someone being strangled to death before the murderer lets go to allow air. Yes! I yell before getting out.

I’ll just place these in the back. He nods in that direction before opening the door.

Thanks again. I let out a sigh.

No trouble at all, he says as he closes the door.

Well, you better get back to your car. The traffic’s moving slightly and this guy back here may have a coronary if I don’t move my car. I jerk my thumb towards the irate driver.

It was very nice to meet you, Becca. He extends his hand.

I’m a hugger, Derek—bring it in. I open my arms and wave him in. He doesn’t hesitate. You’re a big damn teddy bear, I say as I’m swallowed up in his hug. He laughs and lets me go. Bye. I smile.

See you later. He waves. Huh? Nah—it’s just a saying.

Climbing back in, I blast the heat then shift to head forward. I can’t wait to get home.

GRAYSON

Well, what did she say now? I ask before he can even get fully into the car.

Come off it, mate! We both know you listened to the entire conversation. He eyes me.

I didn’t catch the end. I was too bloody pissed off, watching you wrap your arms around her.

He laughs. "She asked for the hug. Maybe I’m her type." He waggles his brows at me.

Oh please, for fuck’s sake! I roll my eyes and glance out the window, still able to get a glimpse of her car.

What is it with her—I mean—she’s pretty . . . and funny . . . but, I’ve never seen you act like this before. He smacks the side of my leg.

I don’t know, to be honest . . . just a feeling deep in the pit of my stomach.

I jump slightly at the sound of my mobile ringing. Expecting Derek’s report, I pull it out of my pocket quickly. Sorry, Jeffrey, I need to take this, I tell my editor. He nods, shuffling his fingers at me to go ahead. Derek?! I answer.

Why do you answer like that? He almost sounds irritated, and I half think he is, but he laughs through the question.

Like what? Honestly, I just want my update.

Like you’re ready for the world to end every time I call you with an update.

You know why, I state tersely as I turn away from Jeffrey.

If you’re afraid she’s going to start seeing somebody then do something about it . . . other than having me spy on her for you.

Derek, please, we’ve been through all of this. Timing is of the essence. I run my hand through my hair before getting up, giving my editor a gesture that I’ll only be another minute, and walking to the opposite side of his monstrosity of an office.

You’re being fucking creepy, mate, and I’m not sure how much longer I want to tag along for these charades.

Ah, you have a nerve, don’t you? After all I’ve done for you? I’ve never asked for help like this. I lower my voice more so. I glance back at Jeffrey, noting the suspicious look he has on his face. I’ll just take this in the hall, I say. He gives me a curt nod. Derek, I start as I make my way out to the hall. She’s different. I need a way in. My usual stuff will not work on her and quite frankly, I’m glad it won’t. Please, for the love of God, stop stringing me along and tell me what, if any, news you have, I beg. He lets out a big defeated-like sigh, and I know he will come through no matter how much he hates this.

Everything’s the same. She works a shitload of hours, mate; I don’t know when she sleeps. Her car is way past being on its last leg.

How do you know that? I interrupt him.

Because, she caught me following her at Barnes & Noble, read me the riot act, then yelled at me to jump her car since it wouldn’t start up. He laughs.

Why is that funny?!

"Because, as she was telling me—and you, I might add—off, she headed to her car to take off, in what would’ve been a cool fashion, but it wouldn’t start. She was pissed!" He chuckles.

You didn’t laugh at her, did you? I close my eyes praying that he didn’t.

No, man—I wouldn’t do that!

I know . . . I just had to ask.

I’ll tell you what I did do for you, though.

I lean up against the wall and rub my temple. What’s that?

I connected with her friend Stacey.

What?! What did you say to her? I’m half excited, half nervous.

I told her who I was. Once I mentioned you, she went nuts—in a good way, he adds quickly.

Well, how do you mean? I straighten up and look at my watch.

She wants to help you.

"What?—why?!" This has to be some kind of joke.

She’s never seen Becca get so bent out of shape over anyone before, especially a guy. She believes Becca is secretly interested in you, he finishes then pops—what sounds like—the tab of a can. My eardrum is filled with the sound of him gulping, obnoxiously, I might add. I pull the mobile away from my ear slightly, taking this time to let this information settle in my head. Interested in me? So . . . I do have a chance in hell. You there? he asks, bringing my attention back to the conversation at hand.

Yes, sorry. How does she intend to help? I ask and quickly glance at my watch again.

Not sure, he says in a jumbled voice.

Could you please stop eating while talking to me, you big donkey?!

I’m hungry, he states defensively.

Look, I’m in a meeting with my editor. Is this all the info you have for me? I try to take my tone down a notch. Here he is, helping me, and I’m doing nothing but getting short with him.

I’ll just text you her number. She’s expecting a phone call from you.

Really?

Yes. Try not to mess it up by being . . . you know . . . you!

Yes, I’ll try my best. I laugh. Thanks, Derek, I add.

You owe me.

Put it on my tab. Catch you later, mate. And with that, we hang up.

I take a deep, cleansing breath and head back into Jeffrey’s office. Sorry ‘bout that.

Everything all right?

Yes, I’m sorry; personal matter I had to attend to. So, you were saying? I quickly change the subject as I reseat myself.

I was saying that you have, yet another, solid piece of work here; minimal corrections. He smiles and hands me my script.

"No plot issues? No flaws in the character development? Nothing?" I can’t help but question him like this.

No, Grayson. Why all of the questions? He jerks his head back.

Just curious. A serious writer is always looking to perfect his craft.

Well, I don’t see how you could get it any more perfect than it is. He gives me a huge smile,