Willow needs a miracle...
Twenty-year-old Willow is a librarian in the tourist town of Bandon, Oregon. During the summer the town is bursting with interesting people from all over the world.
Two summers ago she met Austin. He was everything she ever wanted in a man: smart, funny, and gorgeous. But after eight perfect weeks he left, and she hasn't heard from him since.
Until Christmas Eve. She receives an email from Austin asking her to meet him at midnight so he can explain.
It might be a booty call, but Willow has to see him one last time, even if it's just to say good-bye.
EXCERPT
He cleared his throat and shifted in the blanket. “I was married,” he finally whispered.
My mind screamed. No. No. No. No. No. Married? He said ‘was.’ Did that mean he wasn’t married any longer? “Was?” I asked, finishing off the wine, grabbing the bottle, and refilling my glass. I had a feeling I’d need it.
“Yes. We married right out of high school, attended college together. Started our careers together.” He smiled and my heart shattered.
“What happened?”
He gulped down the rest of his drink. “She died,” he finally said.
That surprised me. “I-I’m sorry, Austin.” I took another drink. Is that why he left suddenly? Had he left her and she died? Was it my fault?
He stared into the fire, the flames dancing in his faraway eyes. “She was the love of my life. I knew with absolute certainty there would never be another woman for me…” He trailed off.
I stopped breathing.
What did that make me? A booty call? Had he come back to try and forget her? That seemed like a lot of work. The man was extraordinarily handsome. I had no doubt droves of women wanted him. So maybe it was guilt. He came back to tell me he was sorry he’d left abruptly.
But I didn’t want to hear that. I realized the only words I wanted to hear from Austin were words that meant we were supposed to be together.
His wife had been the love of his life, but Austin was the love of mine, regardless how little time I had left.
God, it hurt. The fucking knowing.
My mind screamed. No. No. No. No. No. Married? He said ‘was.’ Did that mean he wasn’t married any longer? “Was?” I asked, finishing off the wine, grabbing the bottle, and refilling my glass. I had a feeling I’d need it.
“Yes. We married right out of high school, attended college together. Started our careers together.” He smiled and my heart shattered.
“What happened?”
He gulped down the rest of his drink. “She died,” he finally said.
That surprised me. “I-I’m sorry, Austin.” I took another drink. Is that why he left suddenly? Had he left her and she died? Was it my fault?
He stared into the fire, the flames dancing in his faraway eyes. “She was the love of my life. I knew with absolute certainty there would never be another woman for me…” He trailed off.
I stopped breathing.
What did that make me? A booty call? Had he come back to try and forget her? That seemed like a lot of work. The man was extraordinarily handsome. I had no doubt droves of women wanted him. So maybe it was guilt. He came back to tell me he was sorry he’d left abruptly.
But I didn’t want to hear that. I realized the only words I wanted to hear from Austin were words that meant we were supposed to be together.
His wife had been the love of his life, but Austin was the love of mine, regardless how little time I had left.
God, it hurt. The fucking knowing.
About the Author
Breena Wilde has been writing for years. She's the international bestselling author of the BLURRED LINES series. She's sold more than five hundred thousand books under another name in the last year. Breena loves to write about love, loss, and the strength of the human spirit. If you'd like to know more about her, you can follow her on Facebook, Twitter, or her Blog: www.breenawilde.blogspot.com.
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Twitter: @BreenaWilde
Blog: http://www.breenawilde.blogspot.com
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About the 12 NA’s of Christmas:
The 12 NA’s of Christmas authors are Marquita Valentine, Zoe Dawson, Chelsea M. Cameron, Tiffany King, Breena Wilde, Sawyer Bennett, Magan Vernon, Sarra Cannon, A. Meredith Walters, Shelly Crane, and Addison Moore.
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