Imperfect Love: Unsupervised (Kindle Worlds Novella) Page 12

  He loves me.

  Chapter Eleven

  Niall

  I stare at the text moments after I type it. Seeing her wasn’t on my plan for the day. Fucking her in a closet definitely wasn’t. But walking out on her afterward was the worst part of it all.

  I’m such a feckin’ idiot.

  She won’t listen to me if I try to explain why. No one in their right mind would.

  I just hope I can make her listen in a language she’ll understand.

  Me: To make this look good, we should get to know each other a little better. What do you say we go out just the two of us? No kids.

  I press send and hope she’ll show.

  ***

  I’ve barely been at the park ten minutes when I see her.

  Showtime.

  Pulling out the iconic diamond pendant with the sapphire stone, I climb up on the park bench and pump my fists in the air. “Having my daughter kick the shite out of the boy you were paid to watch, was the best thing that ever happened to me. It brought me to you. Don’t give up. No matter what happens, promise me you won’t ever give up on me.”

  “Niall, what are you doing?” Laken asks, her fists clenched by her side.

  “Movie.” I pause mid-theatrics. “I need the movie name.”

  “You somewhat quoted Titanic. Again, what the hell are you doing? Get down from there, people are staring.”

  Pulling the poignant teddy bear from the bag on the bench, I cross the few steps between us and drop the necklace and the bear in her hand. “This is what I’m doing. All the insignificant things we’ve done together, when you think they’re nothing at the time, but you add all that shite up? They mean we’re supposed to be together. The first time I saw you, touched you, kissed you, it was like coming home.”

  A small smile breaks the corners of her mouth. “Sleepless in Seattle.”

  Snapping my fingers, I make the signal and Laken lets out a blood curdling scream as Vince tosses two buckets of water on us both, drenching us from head to toe.

  “Niall! What the actual fuck?”

  Grabbing her by the shoulders, I pull her into me. “This is going to be hard as feckin’ hell. I’ll probably screw up most every day, but I’m willing to screw up because I want you. All of you, forever. Every day. Every single feckin’ day.”

  Tears run down her face and mix with her already drenched shirt. “Oh God, did you just absolutely destroy my favorite quote from The Notebook?” A small laugh escapes as she tries to cover her mouth.

  “Completely.” I’m winning her over and I haven’t even gotten to my Hail Mary yet.

  “Are you done?” she asks, trying to look serious.

  I give her a wink. “Almost.”

  Backing up, I stand on the bench again and clear my throat, belting out The Way You Look Tonight in the most off-key singing voice ever heard in public. Children stop playing, adults come to a complete stand-still, and everyone stares as I finish the last few lines and take a deep breath. Thunderous applause erupts, and after a few bows to my adoring public, I climb off the bench and wait for a reaction.

  She lets out a long breath, still obviously in shock. “Wow.”

  “I’ve never sung in public before,” I admit.

  “I can see why.”

  Holding her eye, I finish my speech from the nine-hour rom com marathon I watched in preparation for this moment. “Tell me you love me. Say it out loud. Say it right now before the moment passes. Because in this park, I’m just a photographer asking an ex-nanny to love me.”

  “You just did a My Best Friend’s Wedding-Notting Hill bastard hybrid.”

  “I’m going for extra credit.”

  “We need to talk.” She sighs, sitting on the bench, fidgeting with the ring on her finger. My ring. She’s still wearing it. I’d refused to take it back when she tried.

  Although I know she’s right and I’m the one who asked her to meet me here, that phrase evokes dread inside of me. Nothing good ever comes from those four words.

  I sit down. “I know.”

  “I miss you.”

  “I miss you too.” And I do. I miss her so much I can’t feckin’ sleep at night because I know I’ll dream of her. I have a hard time getting dressed for work in the morning because every time I go to my closet, all I can taste is her on my tongue and remember the way her knees buckled in the small closet. But mostly, I can’t turn on the television because undoubtedly there’s some feckin’ rom com movie on and all I can think is I bet Laken has seen this one. It’s maddening.

  “The job’s going well?”

  She nods and smiles. “Vince is a little hard to handle.”

  “Vince is a pushover,” I answer palming the back of my neck that my grand attempt at winning her back failed miserably. “All you need to do is field calls from his conquests that can’t get the hint and you’ll be in his debt forever. But if you tell him I said that, I’ll deny it.”

  Her fingers play with the fur on the teddy bear. “Duly noted.”

  I can’t stand it anymore. I’m going crazy, and I have to break the monotonous chitchat. “Laken, I’m sorry for walking out of the closet. I’m sorry for ignoring your calls after the gala. We have a lot to work on, but I’m willing, if you are. The beginning of our story may have started on a lie, but it doesn’t mean it has to end on one.”

  “Do you forgive me,” she asks tilting her chin as she squints into the sun.

  I don’t even have to think. “Nothing to forgive, Laken. I overreacted out of shock. I’m Irish. Cut me some slack.”

  Clipping the sapphire necklace around her nape, she glances up with a dramatic sigh. “What are you doing for dinner?”

  “I’m busy,” I say, managing a deadpan stare without an ounce of enthusiasm.

  Laken’s face falls as she grips the bear closer to her body and stands up. “Oh.”

  Without hesitation, I grab her and crush her to my chest. Pressing our lips together, I deliver a kiss that can make all her rom com movies go fuck themselves. “What are you doing for breakfast?”

  Epilogue

  Three Years Later

  Laken

  As the last coat of Blue Mermaid Shimmer #9 dries on Sophie’s fingers, I help her into her silver sequined spaghetti strapped dress and pull her long dark hair into a stylish loose bun on top of her head.

  “This is my favorite color,” she says, holding her hand out and fanning it in the air. “I used to paint my own nails this same shade when I was a little girl.”

  I can’t help but chuckle. “You’re only eleven, Soph. You’re still little.” She looks at our reflections in the mirror and simply raises an eyebrow at me, the rebellious girl she once was still floating underneath the surface of tulle and lace. “There.” Clipping the last of the crystals in her hair, I stand up and hand her a mirror so she can see my handiwork. “All done.”

  Sophie turns around and inspects the back of her hair and nods in approval. “It’s nice to have someone fix my hair the right way for a change. Dad used to make me look like I needed medication.” Popping up from the chair, she gives me a quick peck on the cheek. “Thanks, Mom.”

  Mom.

  It still slams my heart every time she says it.

  Bounding out of the room, she almost makes it to the door when she’s blocked by a six-foot-two powerhouse of a man dressed in a black suit jacket, white dress shirt, and baby blue tie that matches Sophie’s nails exactly. He looks every bit the corporate executive, and anyone just glancing at him would mistake him for the corporate executive he’d become.

  Then the image is ruined by his dusty beard and unkempt “don’t care” hair. The strands stand every which way as if he’d run his hands through it and paced the floor in preparation for tonight. But the part that has me almost doubled over in laughter?

  The Scottish kilt he wears in place of pants.

  Taking a few steps backward, Sophie’s eyes widen in horror. “Dad! Oh my God, no! Just no. You cannot wear that thing to th
e Father-Daughter dance at my school.”

  Chuckling, Niall feigns ignorance and tilts his head as he runs a finger down his tie. “And why not? Does something not match?”

  “Yeah, your skirt. Dad, you’re wearing a skirt! Where are your pants?”

  “Soph, it’s called a kilt. It’s Scottish.”

  “But you’re Irish.”

  “Aye, but your great-grandmother isn’t. She’s full-blooded Scottish, and I thought this would be a great opportunity to show off your heritage to your friends at school.”

  Sophie turns to me in a panic, her arms waving frantically. “Mom! Do something!”

  I shrugged. “I kind of like it.” Pinching his side, I lower my voice. “Leave it on for later.”

  “I just love feckin’ with her,” he whispers with a low laugh. Then, winking, Niall’s eyes heat as he rakes them down my body. “You didn’t get enough of it last night?”

  Sophie makes a face and walks away grumbling. “Gross.”

  “Hey, I’m seven months pregnant, buddy.” I gesture to my round frame. “I take easy access where I can get it.”

  “You’re insatiable, Mrs. Mackay.” A concerned look crosses his face as he wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me to him. “Did you tell Vince you’re quitting at the end of the week?”

  “Um…”

  “Laken,” he groans impatiently. “We talked about this. You need to take some time off before the baby comes. You’ve been pushing yourself too hard since your promotion and Lollie can handle shite until you come back.”

  Logically, I know he’s right. In the last year, Vince Tribiotti had been promoted to a senior account executive, and I’d acquired his job as project manager. In the interim somehow, I’d finagled Lollie an interview as my assistant and she’d blown the interview out of the water. Honestly, she even exceeded all my expectations. I had no idea the woman possessed such a killer business instinct. However, with the way she’d trapped Gloria with the security tapes without batting an eye, I shouldn’t have been shocked. Still, even a couple months away from giving birth, I’m hesitant to give up my position…even if it is just for a few months of maternity leave.

  Niall runs a hand across my stomach. “Have you called Preston to tell him yet?”

  “No, I thought we could do it together when we take him and Sophie ice skating this weekend.”

  “What do you think of your name, Miss Presley Paige Mackay? Think your namesake will share it with you?” Our daughter rewards him with a strong kick against his hand.

  “So, my friends and I want to go to a diner after the dance,” Sophie interrupts, wedging her way between us. “You guys don’t have a problem with that, do you?”

  Niall’s mouth tightens into a hard line. “Sophie, you’re only eleven. This is New York City. You can’t just run around unsupervised.”

  Thinking back to a warm spring day three years ago, I can’t help but grin conspiratorially. “Hmmm, that sounds a little familiar. Do you have that on an index card of go-to comebacks?”

  “Watch it,” he says, jabbing a finger my way before pulling me even closer.

  Weaving an arm around his neck, I straighten his already impeccably straight tie with the other. “If she wasn’t unsupervised, we would’ve never met.”

  “Are you trying to say we’re married because of my shite parenting skills?”

  I shrug. “If the father figure fits…”

  Wrapping his hand around me, he pulls me in close and brushes his lips over mine. With a few more insistent yet tasteful kisses, he leans back and stares at me, the corners of his eyes lighting up as he brushes his thumbs across my cheeks.

  “Gross,” Sophie repeats while tapping her brand-new heels at the door.

  Giving her a side-eye glance, Niall laughs and returns his smile toward me, tapping a finger against the tip of my nose. “I guess I finally made an honest woman out of you.”

  I say nothing, only raise an eyebrow at him and wait for the punchline.

  Running a hand over my swollen belly again, he whispers in my ear. “After everything, I made you a mom after all.”

  “No,” I say, stealing a look at my impatient, beautiful daughter as Niall reaches for his camera to immortalize the moment. “You made me a family.”

  “If you two are finished kissing, can we go to my dance, please, Dad?” Opening the door to our new apartment, Sophie stands out in the hallway as Niall kisses me one last time and reaches behind the cushion of the couch, pulling out a canvas bag full of DVDs.

  Curious, I dive through the contents. “Pretty in Pink? 27 Dresses, How to Lose A Guy In Ten Days? What is this, some kind of trick?”

  “What’s this?” Niall’s eyes widen and he shakes his head. “Woman, what kind of rom com enthusiast are you? They’re all the movies on your must-see list. I thought, since Soph and I are leaving you alone for the night, you could pick two or three of your choice and I promise to watch them without argument.” With a grin, my husband turns and escorts his daughter to her first dance.

  As the door closes behind, I flip through the movies one more time, then dump the entire contents in the trashcan and close the lid.

  Here’s the thing about rom coms. They’re the adult version of fairytales, feeding our ideals that we all have that one soulmate out there. And even though they all take on different versions, the ugly truth is, we all buy into it. We watch them, even though there’s that little piece inside of us that knows there’s almost no chance of us ever finding a love like the ones we see in the movies. What guy in their right mind would be willing to wait years for us like Noah in The Notebook? So why even try? What makes us continue to believe that men like that really exist?

  I’ll tell you why…because they do.

  I found my Noah. And my Jack. And my Edward. And my Michael. And my William. And my Mr. Coulson. He kissed me in the rain. He went down with the ship for me. He got me the job and the apartment. He sang to me. He asked me to love him. And he forgave me for pretending to be someone I wasn’t.

  Rom coms? They’re a dime a dozen. Two hours of your life, and they’re over. But Niall Mackay? Niall Mackay is one in a million.

  And my story? It’s not a fairytale.

  It’s forever.

  Acknowledgements

  K.A., there aren’t enough letters in the alphabet to form enough thank yous for what you do for me every day. If it weren’t for you, I’d still be perched up on that ledge, teetering over the edge. I think I should rename you The Cora Whisperer. Thanks for being the only one who can tame the crazy, and for the eleventh-hour Starbucks run to create cover number 2453.

  Crystal, thank you for your endless support for the Irish, Scottish, Australian—and that one time I made him slightly Canadian—Niall. Your encouragement is everything and I simply couldn’t function without you.

  To my speed queen beta readers, Crystal, Trish, Sara, Angie, Meagan, Heather, Misty, and Tami.…the next rom com fest is on me!

  Trish, thank you for making Niall sound authentic. You are my Irish goddess! I owe you a pint of the black stuff!

  Thanks to Arien Johnston and Jamie McBride for winning my frantic “name my character” contest. It’s because of you two that Laken Cavanaugh exists!

  Cora’s Dark Angels, you keep me sane, you keep me laughing, and your pimpin’ skillz are legendary. I love your faces.

  Kendall Ryan, thank you for allowing me this chance. You’ll never know how much I screamed the day I got your message. My husband still suffers hearing loss.

  Bite Me Graphic Design for the amazeballs cover. You are simply THE BEST.

  Gillian Leonard, you saved my ass. Thanks for being an amazing editor and for continually being there. I’ll always count you as one of the GOOD things I got out of “that” deal.

  Thanks to Danielle Sanchez at Inkslinger PR for your professionalism and for putting up with my constant revisions. You guys are awesome.

  Nicole Kuhn and Alyssa Garcia, thank you, thank you, thank you!
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  Lastly, thanks to the readers and bloggers who share this story. Without you, my vision just stays with me. You help it grow. Thank you for all you do for our community.

  About the author

  Cora Kenborn writes romance novels full of danger, snarky banter, lovable bad boys, and damsels not in distress. She loves delving into the twisted mind of a dark villain while shocking readers with unpredictable plot twists.

  Cora is a true Southern girl from Eastern North Carolina, who grew up on sweet tea and front porches. She says “y’all,” “fixin’ to,” and should you deserve it will “bless your heart.” She’s the mother of three hyperactive and occasionally adorable children and the wife to an understanding husband who tolerates her chaotic writer’s cave.

  Although reading is her passion, she can usually be found taking notes during true crime shows, effectively freaking out everyone in the room. A domestic rebel, Cora admits to being a horrible cook, swears she's allergic to laundry, and believes she's more dangerous with a hot glue gun than any weapon on earth. Oh, and she and autocorrect are mortal enemies.

  Also by Cora Kenborn

  Swamp Bottom Series

  Front Porches and Funerals

  Voodoo and Vodka

  Hook-Ups and Hang-Ups

  Coming Soon

  Blue Lights and Boatmen

  Lords of Lyre Series

  Fame and Obsession

  Fame and Secrets

  Carrera Cartel Series

  Blurred Red Lines

  Connect with Cora online

  Twisted Bitches Book Blog

  Cora’s Dark Angels

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