Well, here's another one of my, 750 word limit, published short-short stories. This is my first chic lit story. Again, the formatting is correct in the original. It's just that this blog thingy doesn't format correctly. Oh the nerve of it eh? hehe
Feel free to let me know what you think.
Making Up For Lost Time
Just who does Paschal Manners think he is anyway? I, Bailey Devereux am so not going there again. Once was enough. If he thinks he can just waltz back into my life after leaving me standing at the alter three years ago, well he has another think coming.
I snatch up my pink Prada handbag, flip my long blonde hair over my shoulder and storm out of my office. I knew I shouldn’t have answered that stupid phone. My Gucci heels click on the hardwood floor as I make my way to the elevator.
The more I think about his call, the madder I get. I punch the floor button on the elevator with more force than necessary, breaking my nail. My gaze shoots toward the ceiling. I need a massage.
When I step outside, a strong Chicago wind whips my silk scarf from my neck. “No!” I shout. “Paschal gave that one to me.” I dart after it, but my heels slow me down. I stop and jerk them off, tossing them aside, just like in the movie Crocodile Dundee. If she could throw her expensive shoes away, so could I.
While running, my eyes track my favorite scarf, which is now swirling in the wind like a dried leaf. Garlic and strong cheese aromas waft around me. I smack into something solid and fall backward until someone grabs me. Wanting to thank my rescuer, I look into his face.
“Ack! You!” I jerk his hand off. “Don’t ever touch me again.” Such a drama queen I know, but who cares? I never wanted to see him again. So what if his jean-clad muscular body, gorgeous smoky-gray eyes, blue-black hair, and dimples are to die for.
“I was on my way to see you.” Paschal smiles that million-dollar smile. The very one that used to make my toes curl and my heart race.
My scarf now forgotten, I plant my hands on my hips, and send him a death-defying look. “I told you, I never want to see you again. Which part didn’t you understand?” I’m so thrilled my voice remained calm. Too bad my insides aren’t.
I turn to leave, but Paschal grabs my arm. My gaze flies to where his hand is and I force myself to ignore the tingling sensation his touch evokes. Ugh! I detest that his touch still drives me wild.
I’m ready to lam blast him. Looking up, I see moisture in his eyes, and my heart melts like a chocolate kiss in the hot sun.
No! You won’t get to me!
“I know you don’t want to see me but can we go somewhere and talk? I need to explain why I missed our wedding.”
My anger returns. “I don’t want to hear what you have to say.” I storm off.
His voice calls after me. “I’d be dead if I hadn’t."
That got my attention. I walk back to him.
“What are you talking about?” Knowing his job as an FBI agent involved risk, I decide to listen.
“I can’t explain here.” He leads me to his car.
Once inside, I face him.
He draws in a long breath and exhales. “After we captured the Tatiloni mob, their leader escaped. I got a note from him saying I was a dead man. He’d already killed seven FBI agents, so Sergeant Paxton sent me into hiding. I’m sorry, but I couldn’t tell you until he was safely behind bars.” He reaches for my hands and squeezes them.
“I… I thought you changed your mind. That you no longer loved me.”
Hurt fills his soft gray eyes. “I never stopped loving you or thinking about you.”
Three years of pain and rejection slips from my wounded soul like a cleansing rain.
“In fact, every time I thought about you standing at that alter alone, I wished I’d stayed and risked getting killed instead.”
“Don’t say that!” The idea of Paschal dead pierces my heart. Knowing now why he had disappeared, I am not about to let him out of my sight.
“Oh, Paschal." I throw my arms around him. "I love you.”
“I love you too.” His husky voice and spicy aftershave arouses my senses. Boldly pulling his face to mine, I possess his lips, kissing him passionately, and making up for lost time.
©2006 Debra Ullrick