Unforgettable, p.1
Unforgettable, page 1
Unforgettable
In Forget Her Not, Samantha King is the only one who knows she doesn’t have it all (unless you count her mother and sister, which she doesn’t). When it comes to men, Sam won’t make time for anything more than a one-night stand. No commitments, no connections. Everything changes the morning she wakes up next to a woman for the first time, except Sam can’t actually remember what happened. But the undeniably gorgeous Mia Rossi isn’t going to let her ignore the passion they shared.
For Sam, the night she can’t remember turns out to be impossible to forget.
In Forget Her Never, Abby Dunn knows there has to be a catch. There always is. But when a sexy stranger offers a night of fun, she throws caution to the wind. Kendall Squires is a fascinating woman who knows just what to say to get what she wants. That should have been Abby's clue that Kendall would know what not to say, as well, and she shouldn't have been surprised when she learns Kendall is married.
Abby knows she has to put that night behind her, but can she ever really forget a woman like Kendall Squires?
Praise for Casting Lacey
“Casting Lacey is a compelling, sexy, angsty romance that I highly recommend to anyone who’s into fake relationship books or celebrity romances. It kept me sucked in, and I’m looking forward to seeing more from Elle Spencer in the future.”—The Lesbian Review
“This is the romance I’ve been recommending to everyone and her mother since I read it, because it’s basically everything I’ve been dying to find in an f / f romance—funny voices I click with, off-the-charts chemistry, a later-in-life coming out, and a host of fun tropes from fake dating to costars.”—Frolic
Unforgettable
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Unforgettable
“Forget Her Not” © 2017 By Elle Spencer. All Rights Reserved.
“Forget Her Never” © 2018 By Elle Spencer. All Rights Reserved.
ISBN 13:978-1-63555-430-4
This Electronic Book is published by
Bold Strokes Books, Inc.
P.O. Box 249
Valley Falls, NY 12185
First Edition: November 2018
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
Credits
Editors: Barbara Ann Wright and Stacia Seaman
Production Design: Stacia Seaman
Cover Design by Tammy Seidick
By the Author
Casting Lacey
Unforgettable
Acknowledgments
There are many people who played a part in bringing this book to life.
Many thanks to Rad, Sandy, and the entire Bold Strokes team for everything you do and for making me feel so welcome. I don’t know what I ever did without you.
Thanks also to my editor, Barbara Ann Wright, for her insight and guidance and for making my first editing experience such a wonderful one. I’m beyond happy to have you on my side.
To my copy editor, Stacia Seaman, thank you for your amazing attention to detail.
To my wife, Nikki, who never stopped believing in me. Thank you for being behind me, pushing me every step of the way; for being in front of me, pulling me along when I didn’t think I could do this; and for being by my side for all the good stuff. You and me, baby.
Paula (Counselor)—Thank you for being the best, most loyal, crazy-fun friend I’ve ever had. You teach me something new every day. You bless my life with constant love and support. I’m lucky to be on this ride with you. (Even if you have effectively doubled the number of bossy women in my life.)
Finally, thank you to my readers for being on this journey and for reaching out to let me know my work has touched you in some way. That means everything.
For Nikki—my map, my compass, my true north.
FORGET HER NOT
Chapter One
I told myself I wouldn’t do this anymore.
When I hear the shower turn on, I’m annoyed that my one-night stand seems to think my hotel room is an appropriate place to get ready for the day. What’s next? Cuddling? Then I realize this isn’t my hotel room.
Fuck. My head hurts.
Like I said, I told myself I wouldn’t do this anymore. I’m pushing forty, for God’s sake. It’s time to settle down—and by that, I don’t mean become someone’s other half. I’m not the marrying type. Too independent and too stubborn, or so I’ve been told. No, I just mean I need to stop sleeping around so much.
Not that I’m some raging whore who opens her legs for just anyone. I have a discerning palate. Certain requirements. For one, he has to make me laugh. Tall, dark and self-deprecating—that’s what I’m drawn to. And I can tell by the way certain parts of my body feel right now that we had a good time last night. I can’t remember a damn thing, but the less you remember, the more fun you had, right? Or maybe you were just that wasted, Samantha.
Shit. I really need to stop doing this.
I manage to crack one eye open. I reach over and pick up One-Night Stand’s watch off the bedside table: 7:55. Shit. I’m definitely going to be late if I don’t get my ass out of bed. I sit up and grab my head. I glance back down at the watch. A Rolex. It’s nice, but a tad feminine if you ask me.
“Drink this, you’ll feel better.”
That is not the voice I expected. I don’t move. I don’t flinch. My facial expression doesn’t change one bit. This is not a reflection of my steely resolve. It’s only because I’m so fucking hungover my body can’t actually react to anything in less than thirty minutes. Inside, my mind is blown. From the way my body feels, everything else is blown too, but that’s not the point.
My eyes follow long, smooth legs up to black panties. Smooth legs? Black panties? I take the water bottle from her hand and try to hide my shock. I take a sip and look a little further up to a tan, toned stomach and black bra. I swallow hard and look her in the eye. She’s smiling at me. “I had fun last night.” She picks up the watch and puts it on her wrist.
“Yeah, um…” I try to clear my dry throat and look behind me, hoping I’ll find a man in the bed.
Fuck. The empty bed makes me turn back around to her, confusion written all over my face, I’m sure. “Was there…” Her eyebrows rise while she waits for me to say something halfway coherent. “I mean…surely there’s someone…” I glance at the bathroom, hoping to see a light on under the door. “Did we…”
Have a threesome? I don’t say it out loud. Instead, I scan the floor looking for a used condom. Please God, tell me I wasn’t so drunk that I forgot to have him use a condom. And also, God—please tell me there was a him involved in this—whatever it was.
“Yes, we did.” She’s nodding and smiling. I think she finds this funny. I watch her eyes go lower and realize she’s checking out my tits. My God, what have I done?
“Who, um…” I casually pull the sheet up to cover my bare chest.
“Who? I’m not sure what you’re asking.”
“Was there…” I take another sip of the water, wondering if I look as bad as I feel right now. “You know…a third person at this party?”
“A man, you mean?”
I nod.
She rolls her eyes. “I’ll let you get dressed.”
Damn. I think I pissed her off. My eyes follow her as she walks away. She’s gorgeous—you know, as women go. Long, wavy brown hair and a very nice ass—you know, as women’s asses go.
Did I touch that ass last night? Well, fuck if I can’t even remember my first lesbian experience. Just my fucking luck.
I’m zipping up yesterday’s trousers when she comes out of the bathroom. I give her a little smile and then look away in case I start blushing. Why do I suddenly feel so shy? We obviously had some awesome gay sex last night or she wouldn’t have been so friendly this morning. And my body is telling me it might have even gotten a little rough. I haven’t looked in a mirror yet, but I noticed a good-sized love bite on my lower abdomen, aka an inch above my pussy. What. The. Fuck?
Maybe the reason I feel so shy right now is because chances are really good that this woman had her head between my legs last night. God, I’m such a slut. I steal another glance at her as she slides into a nice pair of heels. She’s wearing a very sexy yet businesslike skirt and top. I’d ask her where she shops if I didn’t feel so embarrassed.
I slide into my own heels and put my purse on my shoulder, not sure what to say or do next, which is kind of strange for me. I usually run my fingers over scruffy whiskers and say “thank you for a great time.”
The face touching is so I don’t have to kiss them good-bye. It shows just the right amount of warmth, so they don’t feel like they just fucked a coldhearted bitch. I hate being misunderstood, even by complete strangers.
I’m not cold-hearted as much as noncommittal. Men are clingy and needy and want me to have their babies. Well, they used to anyway, when I was younger. I didn’t want to ruin my body then and I certainly don’t want to now. It would never recover. Not at this age.
Damn. I guess she remembers my name. Our eyes meet and she intertwines our fingers. I look down at our hands, enjoying the way her slender fingers fit perfectly with mine. I’m racking my brain for her name while I wait for her to say whatever she was going to say. Her brow knits together and then she smiles. It’s almost as if she’s warring with herself for the right words. Then she suddenly lets go of my hand and points back into the room. “I forgot I need to make a phone call before I go.”
I can read people pretty well, and I’d bet a thousand dollars she doesn’t actually need to make a phone call. She just doesn’t want to endure the awkward elevator ride with me. I don’t blame her, and honestly, I’m kind of relieved. I give her a nod and walk out. When I hear the door shut behind me, I let out a big sigh. God, I’m a fucking moron.
* * *
I’m currently vacillating between wanting so damn bad to remember every second of whatever the hell happened last night and wanting to pretend I didn’t just wake up in another woman’s bed for the first time in my life.
A woman! Christ.
This coffee isn’t helping me remember anything. Neither are these scrambled eggs. Why do hotel restaurant chefs think they have to cook every last bit of moisture out of the eggs? Even when I ask for a wet scramble they’re… Oh God, she just walked in.
She really is beautiful. And she seems very put together, almost as if she knows exactly what her next move will be; her whole life planned out and written down somewhere. Ten bucks says I wasn’t a part of that plan.
She certainly wasn’t a part of mine. Not that I have anything planned beyond the next two weeks. Whatever brought her to Chicago has probably been on her calendar for months now. Or maybe I’m completely off base and I just happened to sleep with a hooker last night. One of those high-end prostitutes. This is a nice hotel, after all, with the bathrobes and complimentary slippers. I take a quick look in my wallet, just to make sure the same amount of cash I started with last night is still there. And then I shake my head at myself. Like I’d pay to have sex with a woman! The thought almost makes me laugh out loud, but I control myself so as not to draw the attention of my beautiful, exotic-looking lover. Yes, I just said that in my head. Hey there, lover. Yeah, I said that, too. Don’t judge.
I wish I knew how we came to be in the same bed last night. What were the circumstances that took me to her hotel room? What words did I speak? Was I suave? Was I forward? Did I kiss her first? All questions I might not ever get answers to unless I speak to her again. All joking aside, I’m not sure I want to do that. How would I even begin that conversation? Sorry I’m such a lush and can’t remember a goddamned thing, but hey, mind telling me why we screwed last night?
And we definitely did. Like I said before, my body is sore in unmentionable places. And that only happens when I go at it all night. God, I wish I could squeeze even just one memory from this thick, foggy brain of mine. I rub my temples again, trying to ease the hangover. It doesn’t help.
She’s taken a booth across the restaurant from me. She’ll have to look to her far right to notice me, which means I’m basically hidden from her view. It makes me smile that I can watch her while I nurse my second cup of coffee and pray this jackhammering in my head goes away.
Who is she? Where is she from? Neither of us is from Chicago, obviously. So, where did this beautiful creature come from and how did I end up in her bed? I know I keep asking that question, but this is a serious matter. I don’t sleep with women! Not ever. Not once. Not even in my youth when I would get so drunk, I couldn’t remember…fuck.
The truth is, I wish I could remember what she feels like. Surely I ran my hands over her body. Touched her smooth skin and kissed those full lips. When I woke up in her bed this morning, I was mortified by the thought of it, but looking at her now, I’d say I scored. Big time.
She just put on a pair of black-framed reading glasses, and my tummy did a flip-flop. Why do I have butterflies? I haven’t had butterflies in a million years. Now I wish she’d look my way. Hey, baby, what’s your name? Wanna talk?
Coffee and a muffin while she works on her tablet—that’s her breakfast. I wonder if that’s her normal routine. God, I wonder if she’s married and this was just an out-of-town romp in the hay. Maybe she does this on all her business trips. I usually look for a wedding ring or signs of a wedding ring (tan lines where a ring should be). I don’t sleep with married men. I learned that lesson a long time ago. Did I think to look for a ring on her finger? I doubt the thought even crossed my mind. Because why the hell would it?
I can’t eat my dry eggs. My stomach is too tied up in knots now.
“Is something wrong with the eggs?”
My server is seriously blocking my view of Sexy One-Night Stand. I lean to the side, trying to look around the rotund woman. I don’t want to lose sight of her. “No. Just the check.”
“If there was something wrong with the eggs, I’d be happy to get the chef to—”
“No!” I look her in the eye. “Just the check, please.”
By the time she’s glared back at me and then shrugged her shoulders, Sexy is halfway out of the restaurant. So, I have a choice. Do I wait for the check and lose her forever? Or do I throw some cash on the table and run after her?
Yeah, I agree.
“Mia!” I stop dead in my tracks. I have no idea what part of my brain suddenly remembered her name. God, I hope that’s her name. Turn around, Mia.
She’s smiling at me. And slowly walking toward me. That’s what she did last night! I can see her in my head, smiling the way she is right now. I wish I could remember what happened after that. Like, for instance, how the hell I ended up in her bed.
“Hello again.” She’s standing close enough that I can smell her perfume. It smells familiar. And delicious.
“Hi.”
And that’s where my communication skills end. Because how do I casually ask who she is and did she get me drunk just to have sex with me, and by the way—did I like it? God, how I want to know if I liked it. The way she’s smiling at me makes me think we had a very good time.
She turns and glances at a group of people standing by the hotel entrance. “I need to go or I’ll miss my ride.” I just nod, still not sure what to say. “But if you’d like to meet up later…”
“I’m…I’m leaving tonight.” God, now I’m stuttering.
She nods and smiles again, showing off her cute dimples. “Okay. Well. I really don’t know what to say.”
We both giggle. “Neither do I.” Her brown eyes are warm and kind, and for a second, I get lost in them. I look down and clear my throat, hoping I’ll find some courage in the next three seconds and string some words together. “I could…maybe…change my flight. Leave tomorrow morning?”
She’s studying my eyes, wondering if I’m serious, I would guess. It’s so crazy, but I’m dead serious. For some reason, I can’t leave it like this. I have to know more. I have to know—why.
She looks back at the group again. Some of them are looking our way. They look like coworkers. Not family. Not friends. “See what you can do. And leave a note for me at the front desk. I’ll be back around six.” Our eyes lock for a few more seconds and then she gives me another huge grin. Her eyes sparkle a little bit when she smiles. “Okay, then. Maybe I’ll see you later.”
“Yeah” is all I can muster. She gives me a final nod and turns to walk away. And yes, my eyes fall to her ass. My fucking eyes fall to her fucking ass.
