A Little Loving (Pacific Northwest Lovers Series, Book 2)

A Little Loving

Pacific Northwest Lovers Series

Book Two

by

Gael Morrison

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www.epublishingworks.com

ISBN: 978-1-61417-549-0

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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.

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Copyright © 2014 by Gael Morrison. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

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A LITTLE LOVING

Reviews & Accolades

An emotional, skillfully-paced tale of love and lost trust [that] draws the reader in from the very first page. A thoroughly satisfying read. This is one you won't want to miss.

~Kay Gregory, multi-published author

For Vivian

Chapter 1

With a groan, Jenny Holden banged her palm onto her clock, stopping the ringer before it got started. She didn't want Sam to hear it, didn't want her son up. Not now. Not yet. Not today of all days.

She needed a bath and she wanted it in peace, didn't want to argue with Sam over nothing. She particularly didn't want her son asking questions. She couldn't face that today, not on Jake and Mel's big day.

Jake had done well proposing to Mel. Their wedding would be wonderful, a day to remember, unlike the subdued affair her own wedding had been. Now if only Seattle's crazy weather co-operated.

Jenny listened, but couldn't hear the sound of water flooding down the drain pipes outside her bedroom window or the sound of cars swishing through puddles on the road outside. It had rained in the night, but it wasn't raining now. Thank heavens for that as Jake's wedding was outside.

She twitched open the curtain at the head of her bed. Not a cloud in the sky. As long as the flowers in the Country Club's planters hadn't had their petals blown off in the rain, everything would be beautiful. Her own garden was still filled with blowsy summer blooms, but her yard faced south and retained the heat. It wasn't susceptible to northwestern squalls.

Jenny had warned Jake, her best friend and boss, that if he wanted certainty with regards to the weather, he and Mel should elope to Mexico for the wedding. Jake had replied that weather didn't matter. All he and Mel cared about was that their family and friends would be there.

Two hundred of them according to the invitation list, and almost all were able to attend. There had been no such numbers when Jenny married Phil, just her and Phil's parents, her toddler son Sam, and Jake coming along as moral support. It had been a short ceremony at City Hall, then dinner afterwards at the Ming Court Restaurant.

No drama, no fanfare, and none of the passion that had marked her life before Sam was born. Which had suited Jenny fine. She'd had enough passion and the pain that went with it to last a lifetime.

But she couldn't lie in bed thinking of the past. She still had Jake and Mel's present to wrap. Nothing big, nothing fancy, but something they'd like; two elegant pewter champagne flutes, whose warm metal would keep the liquid inside cool.

She flung back her covers and swung her legs from the bed, then snatched up her dressing gown and tied the cord tight. She tiptoed down the hall towards the kitchen. Coffee first, then a bath.

Jenny stopped just before she pushed open the kitchen door. Yellow light splashed the floor beneath its wood. She could have sworn when she went to bed, she had turned off all the lights. Moving cautiously, she opened the door.

Sam was sitting at the kitchen table, his chair precariously tilted back. Music was hammering through his ear buds.

He tilted back another inch.

Sam! she cried.

He either didn't hear her or was deliberately ignoring her, for he didn't look around or acknowledge her presence. Jenny's cat, however, leaped off Sam's lap and streaked like a grey ghost toward her ankles.

She ran her hand along Twister's back, ending with a caress along his corkscrew tail. Then, with a sigh, she moved toward her son.

She touched his shoulder.

He shrugged off her hand.

She pushed back the hurt and tried not to react.

Sam had changed.

Puberty, Jake had said, when she confided in him that her son had become an alien overnight.

When would it be over? she had demanded in response.

Hopefully Jake was right and Sam's problem was puberty. He was almost the right age. Twelve years old going on sixteen.

Sam's chair tipped further. Jenny caught and held it. Her son stared up at her, a question in his eyes.

You're up early, she said. Do you want some breakfast?

Had some, he muttered.

She surveyed the table but saw no evidence of food or drink. What exactly did you have?

In answer he turned and pulled the hood of his sweatshirt over his head. Then he turned up the volume of his music.

He might think he was all grown up, but the fingers sweeping across his iPod screen were still her little boy's, still pencil thin and childlike, not manly and strong. She longed to sweep her son into her arms.

Something he hadn't allowed in weeks.

She swallowed past the knot forming in her throat and pulled out his ear buds. I'll make us some scrambled eggs, she offered.

I don't want any, Sam replied. But his hood slipped back and he watched as she pulled the egg carton from the fridge.

There'll be no time for lunch, Jenny hurried on. The wedding's at two.

Sam scowled. I'm not going. He lifted one foot and propped it on the table, an action he knew would drive her insane.

She caught her breath and counted to ten, then when that didn't work, went on to twenty. She could not allow Sam to get to her today, to make her worry or wonder if he was happy. Her best friend was getting married. Sam's best friend too. They would both do well to concentrate on that.

Jake wants you at his wedding, she reminded her son softly.

Sam's scowl deepened.

You know he's asked you to direct the guests down the path from the Country Club reception room to where the ceremony's taking place.

Someone else can do that.

Jake wants you. Heaven only knew why. Months ago, when Jake had asked, she'd been delighted at the idea of her son taking part in her friend's special day. Now all she felt was fear and trepidation that Sam would do something to ruin the event. You promised, she added.

I'm hanging out with Mark.

Not today. Jenny sat down next to Sam at the table.

Jake won't notice if I'm not there.

He'll notice. So will I.

Sam shrugged, turned away.

Jenny caught his chin and gently pulled him back to face her. We owe Jake, Sam. He's been good to us.

He doesn't need to bother.

With a sigh, she drew her finger along Sam's cheek, was pleased when he didn't flinch away. Jake doesn't consider it a bother, Sam.

Then why hasn't he come around here lately?

He's been busy. He's got a fiancée now. He has to spend time with her.

Sam's entire body seemed to stiffen, and his fingers curled into his palm.

Worry surged through her. What is it, Sam?

He didn't answer.

You've been crabby all week, she went on wearily.

A line formed between his eyes, and the gaze he turned on her was accusing. "How come I was in your wedding pictures?"

Jenny's heart sank. Sam had looked at the wedding album a million times over the years, but had never before asked this question. You're my son, she said lightly. Where else would you be?

I shouldn't have been there. I shouldn't even have been born. The line between his eyes grew steadily deeper. Tony Vinelli said, he went on, quoting the biggest know-it-all Pritchard Middle School had ever produced, that if a baby's born before his parents marry, then that baby's a... a bastard. Sam said the last word with his chin jutted out as though he knew he'd used it in the right context, and not as a swear that could raise a protest from her. Am I a bastard?

No, Jenny said, reaching for his hand.

He pulled it away.

Names are just labels to categorize things, she mumbled, groping for the words that would make him understand that he was no less than other kids just because she had been single when he was born. Names don't make a thing better or worse. She had hoped he'd be older before asking about this, but had never been sure just how she would answer.

Her son's face now had the look of a bulldog. Why didn't Dad marry you before I was born?

Her heart began to pound at double its speed and she could feel the perspiration on her brow. Is this what you've been worrying about?

He nodded and his eyes were suddenly over-bright, as though he might cry and was fighting the inclination.

Jenny took a deep breath. Phil wasn't your father. Her husband had been four years older than her and certain about things when it came to her and Sam. Especially certain that marrying him would be good for her, and that he would take care of her son.

She'd been desperate enough to agree to the plan and had done her best to be a good wife. Two years later, Phil had died, stricken by the same heart defect that had killed his father. The following year, Phil's mother, too, had died, so now there were no members of her husband's family left.

Who was my father then?

She almost missed Sam's question, he'd asked it so quietly, but before she could answer, he added, It must be Jake.

Jenny's breath left her lungs.

He glowered at her again. "So why isn't Jake marrying you?"

"Jake isn't in love with me."

He should be. You could have made him.

Jenny tried to grip hold of her swiftly fleeing patience. "You don't make people fall in love."

You could have if you wanted to.

Honey— She touched his arm, was relieved when he didn't pull it away this time. —I'm not in love with Jake.

That's not what you said before.

She frowned. What do you mean?

You're always telling me you love him.

As a friend, Sam! A friend without whom they would both have been lost.

Then why— Sam pressed his lips tight.

Why what?

Why did you let him— Again her son stopped.

Let him what?

Make a baby with you.

Jake's not your father. It hadn't been Jake. It had never been Jake. She stood and grabbed a tea towel off its hook, then dabbed the moisture beading her forehead. She wished it was as easy to rub away the images lodged in her brain of Jake's best friend Matt Chambers.

She could still see Matt's face, could see his deep dark eyes and the lines bracketing his lips when he smiled. She remembered his heat forcing fire through her veins as they lay together against the back seat of his car.

Jenny, he had groaned, his lips hard against hers, tickling and driving her need to the surface.

Matt, she'd breathed back, loving his name, reveling in how it sounded on her lips. Matt and Jenny, she'd thought dazedly, linking their names in the way of all lovers.

Then, in an instant, all thinking was gone, lost in a wave of passionate kisses. She hadn't wanted him to stop, hadn't wanted him to know she'd never made love to anyone before. For suddenly she knew that's what they would do, in Matt's car, on that hill, in the wide back seat.

Jenny pressed the towel again to her face and cursed Matt Chambers to hell and back. Until that day thirteen years before, she'd never imagined making love could feel so good. Her parents had drummed fear of sex into her head, had warned her that boys couldn't be allowed to take advantage. Having sex brought trouble, loss of reputation, and worst of all, she might have a baby.

Having Sam had been a gift.

Jake has to be my father, Sam insisted, pulling Jenny back from memories that still burned.

Why does he have to be? Jenny asked.

If it wasn't Dad, then it has to be Jake. Sam spoke the words as though he was desperate to know he had a father who was still alive, and one whom he liked