Page 17 of Accidentally Mine

Brent

I woke, soaked in perspiration, with a pounding headache.

I’d gone to bed thinking of Roselynn, and thought I’d dream about her—another one of those hot sex dreams that had become a staple of my last few nights of sleep.

Instead, no café. No Roselynn, giving me come-hither looks as she guided my hand under her skirt.

I had only the usual nightmare involving the truck.

And turquoise eyes that had seemed even clearer this time.

I reached into the night table drawer and grabbed a bottle of prescription-strength acetaminophen tablets. I had them all over the house, in every room. When I shook it, though, I realized it was empty.

I needed to get up and take my morning pill cocktail, anyway: Neurontin for seizures, Aricept for memory issues, as well as a few others I couldn’t pronounce, in addition to several nutritional supplements, all which were supposed to help with different aspects of the aftereffects of the accident.

As I lay on my back, willing myself to get my ass out of bed and face the slicing head pain I knew would greet me once I moved, I thought of those eyes.

Turquoise. Piercing. As much a part of me now as my own heart.

My attention landed on the framed photograph on the dresser across the room.

I’d been just fourteen and had just won the Massachusetts Junior Olympic Archery Championships for the second year in a row, the first kid ever to do that.

In the picture, I was looking pretty badass, posing with my Bear Archery Grizzly Bow, a gift for my thirteenth birthday and a piece my dad had saved all year to be able to afford. Probably the best gift I’d ever gotten.

I closed my eyes, trying to remember the look on my father’s face when I won that second medal. It was probably the greatest day in my life, and I thought it’d be engrained in my memory forever.

But as I squeezed my eyes closed in concentration, I realized I couldn’t remember it.

I couldn’t remember how nervous I’d felt going up to shoot.

I couldn’t remember the crowd in the stands, whether there were cheers or absolute silence.

I couldn’t remember landing that winning bullseye.

And I couldn’t remember my father’s face.

The only evidence I had left that it’d ever happened, now, was the picture.

How could my memory be disappearing, but those turquoise eyes were becoming clearer?

I tore out of bed, holding my head in my hands as I staggered into the bathroom and yanked open the medicine cabinet.

I tossed back the pills without water, hoping it’d shake some of those lost memories back into place, even though I knew it didn’t work that way.

Turning the nozzle to the shower, I let the water flow.

While it heated, I went out into the bedroom and picked up the picture of my father, willing his face back into my memory. Willing myself to hold on to those last threads of him.

Without those memories, he was just a two-dimensional figure, a picture in a frame.

I set the frame down and scrubbed my hands over my stubble-covered jaw. Then I went into the bathroom to shave and shower.

I was sitting on the stool at my center island, eating cold cereal, thinking of Roselynn, when Ernest walked in, all ready for the day. He’d already been out and had a box of vanilla glazed Dunkies, his favorite.

“America runs,” he said, offering me one. He was a Dunkin’ Donuts addict to the core.

“I’m good.” I shook my head, gazing darkly into my O-shaped cereal, dunking my spoon.

“Want a ride to Starlight?” he asked, reading exactly what was on my mind.

I nodded and checked my watch for the thousandth time that hour. Nine was much too late. I wanted to see her now.

I couldn’t fucking wait. I was like a kid on prom night.

“I was just thinking,” he said, brushing glazed sugar off the front of his lapels. “It’s been a long time since you’ve entertained a woman here.”

He didn’t have to remind me.

It’d been since my accident. I’d had a few one-night stands with women I met at functions or through friends, but it had only been sex and nothing more.

They always had questions about my scars that I didn’t volunteer an answer for.

I didn’t want to take anyone home, where they could watch my morning medicine routine or have to explain why I couldn’t remember their name when I came or why I woke up screaming during a nightmare.

“When it happens, it happens,” I muttered, pushing the half-finished bowl away from me.

“She’s pretty,” he said once again, knowing exactly what was on my mind. “And a Southie girl.”

“I won’t hold that against her,” I mumbled. What I didn’t tell him was that I didn’t think she was pretty. She was gorgeous. Also, she’d look fucking fantastic in my bed.

But first things first.

Ernest got me there well before nine. I went in, sat in the booth we’d shared the day before, and ordered coffee. I waited, tapping my fingers on the table.

And waited, my pulse pounding like a drum through my body.

About fifteen minutes later, the waitress who was nowhere near as friendly as Anita stopped at my table. “Is your name Brent?”

I nodded.

She handed me a folded piece of notepaper that had my name on it. Opening it, I read: Brent. From Roselynn. I can’t make it. Something came up. Sorry.

Fucking hell.

I couldn’t pretend I wasn’t disappointed. I didn’t think I’d ever been so disappointed about a woman not showing before. Of course, I couldn’t remember ever being blown off, either.

I stared at the message for a full minute before calling the waitress over. “Where did this come from?”

She shrugged, playing with the fraying end of her long braid. “No clue. It was a phone call. I don’t know when it came in. I didn’t take the message.”

“Thanks.” I crumpled the note into a ball and finished my coffee, then I paid the check and went outside. “No-show,” I said to Ernest as I slid into the car.

“That dame blew you off?” He sounded surprised. “Aw. She seemed too nice for that.”

I sat erect in the car and glared at the sign above the coffee shop door as disappointment pulsed through my veins. “She left a message by phone. Apparently, she’s so nice she couldn’t bear to blow me off in person.”

Ernest turned his thick body around in the seat. “Hell no. I’m no love expert, but I’ve been around the block, Brent, my boy. And in my unbiased opinion, she blew you off on account of something coming up.”

“You think?”

“Hell, yes, that sweetheart was practically eating out of your hand.”

I let out a snort and sank into the car’s plush leather seat.

I’d seen interest in her eyes. At least, I thought that was interest. But there was definite hesitation too.

She’d been hurt by that jealous asshole of an ex.

As much as I wanted to be with her, I needed to take things slow.

“Well, you’re a bigger love expert than I am, for sure. So…what’s my next move?”

As if to pour salt in the wound, Phil Collins suddenly started crooning “You Can’t Hurry Love” on the radio. Ernest turned it down and gave me a serious look. “You like this chick?”

I gave him a dark look through the rearview mirror. He knew I didn’t jump through hoops for women every day. In fact, I never had before. “Obviously.”

“Then you do something unexpected. A grand romantic gesture.”

I leaned forward, frowning. It had been a long time since I’d attempted an even remotely romantic move. Flowers? Candy? Too lame.

Ernest shrugged. “It’s a great day. Lady on the radio said we’re getting up to seventy, and nothing but blue skies.”

I waited for something other than the weather report. When it didn’t come, I prompted, “So?”

“So. Take her on a picnic.”

“Ah.” I turned that over in my head. “How can I take her anywhere if she’s deliberately avoiding me?”

“You know where she lives now, at least. You bring the picnic to her.”

An idea began forming in my head.

I massaged the back of my neck with my hand, tense with anticipation as the plan solidified. I reached into my pocket for my phone, to add it to my Key so I wouldn’t lose the thought on the trip. “Can you get me to Formaggio?”

That was how I ended up buying five hundred dollars’ worth of picnic shit and heading down to Roselynn’s aunt’s house in South Boston at ten-thirty in the morning. I wasn’t sure if this was grand and romantic or just wicked stupid. But I had nothing to lose.

One last try. If she didn’t bite this time, I’d give up.

I showed up at the house with a wicker picnic basket and went to knock on the front door, just as it opened.

Roselynn jumped back, clutching at her heart. “Oh, my god! You scared me.”

I covered my nose. “Watch out.”

She smiled, which I took as a good sign. Her gaze trailed down to the basket. “What’s that?”

“A picnic.”

Her eyes widened. “For me?”

“Actually, for the guy next door.” I frowned at her.

“Chowderhead.” I motioned for her to come outside the screen door.

When she did, I almost forgot why the hell I was there in the first place.

She was wearing a pair of jeans so tight they looked painted on, highlighting the incredible curves of her tiny waist, full hips, and ass. My dick twitched.

Collecting myself, I pointed to her postage-stamp front lawn, where Ernest had already set up the red-checkered blanket and was working on lighting candles.

She covered her face with her hands. “Oh, my god.”

I reached for her hand and led her down the steps. She stood staring, dazed.

Her aunt appeared in the doorway and clapped her hands excitedly. “A picnic! How romantic.”

This gesture may have been romantic, but the things I wanted to do to her niece on that checkered blanket were definitely not. Whoa. Calm yourself, Paul Revere. Don’t jump on the horse until you see the signal.

Roselynn pressed her lips together, and her brow furrowed. “It’s so nice. Really. But I have to take my aunt to the doctor in Bunker Hill. We’re already late.”