“Yes.” He tilted his head toward the ticket counter. “Go check in. I upgraded us both to first class so we’re sitting together all the way home. I wanted to be sure to have one more chance to talk to you.”
When Ava launched herself into his arms, he caught her easily, pressing his lips to hers, then deepening the kiss.
After a long moment, he pulled away enough to say, “So does this mean you’ll speak to me again?”
“Oh, yes,” Ava whispered against his lips. “I have a lot to say to you. Starting with … I’m pretty sure I love you.”
“That’s good,” Grant said, before once again claiming her mouth with his. “Because I’m absolutely certain I love you.”
About the Author
Margo Bond Collins is addicted to coffee and SF/F television, especially Supernatural (maybe because of those Winchesters). She writes contemporary and paranormal romance, urban fantasy, and paranormal mystery. She lives in Texas with her daughter and several spoiled pets. Although she teaches college-level English courses online, writing fiction is her first love. She enjoys reading romance and paranormal fiction of any genre and spends most of her free time daydreaming about heroes, cowboys, vampires, ghosts, werewolves, and the women who love (and sometimes fight) them.
You can learn more about her at http://www.MargoBondCollins.net and follow her on all the usual social media outlets.
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The Walk of Shame
By Jennifer Dawson
One
Ashley
The walk of shame.
Kill me. Just put me out of my misery. All I want is to crawl into a hole and die of humiliation.
I squint my caked, mascaraed eyes at the dawn breaking across the Chicago skyline before digging my sunglasses from my bag and slipping them on as my throat tightens and my eyes well.
Why, Ashley? Why? Why? Why?
What is wrong with me?
Head throbbing, I start down the near deserted street, my high heels hitting the concrete a reminder of my transgressions. My only saving grace is that it’s five thirty on a Sunday morning, and the Lakeview neighborhood is still quiet.
At least no one except taxi drivers and the lone exercise fanatic will bear witness to my walk in what’s obviously last night’s little black dress attire. I’m a hot mess, with my just-fucked hair, ruined makeup and too swollen mouth, but I’ll pretend anyone passing by isn’t smug.
I sigh, long and mournful. Last night being the culmination of the gigantic shit storm that’s taken over my life for the past six months.
My downward spiral of humiliation began when the love of my life Trevor Whitmore fell in love with a dancer. Well, in fairness to him, it wasn’t like he cheated on me, because we hadn’t even been going out. It only felt like a betrayal because I’d been stupidly and blindly infatuated with him to the point of obsession.
Which makes me sound like a real idiot, a shame, considering I’m plenty smart in other areas of my life. I come from a good, loving family, I have great friends and I’m the top pharma sales rep in my region.
Only, I’ve never made smart decisions when it comes to men.
With guys, I always turn into that girl you love to hate. I don’t even know why. Maybe because my dad spoiled me too much, or my mom was one of those moms that insisted I was special and perfect. Maybe because in high school, growing up in my small Central Ohio hometown, I was the head cheerleader, and the absolute shit, adored by everyone.
I’m sure at one point I was sensible about men, but Trevor changed all that for me. He was the first boy I’d actually coveted. I’d met him my junior year of college, fallen in lust at first sight, and become completely, obnoxiously infatuated with him. And, like a lot of girls, I confused his desire to use me for sex, with love. The more dismissive he became, the harder I tried to hold on, and the farther he slipped away.
Except when he was too lazy to go through the process of hitting on another girl at the party we were at. Then we’d circle each other like preying tigers before going in for the kill.
It never once occurred to me to say no.
My friend Layla called him my kryptonite, and she was exactly right. I was caught in a vicious cycle. He’d leave me in the middle of the night, I’d get all strong and indignant, insisting I wouldn’t let him use me anymore, but then time would pass, nobody else would catch my interest, and I’d start to jones for him. I’d see him at some bar or party. He’d look at me with those blue eyes, give me that smile, and like an idiot, I’d swear tonight would be the night I’d make him love me.