My First My Last My Only (EBOOK)

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Chapter One

“Are you avoiding me?”

The smooth timbred voice jolts through me and drops of sticky orange mimosa from my glass splash on the back of my hand. Hell yes, I’m avoiding you!

I turn and plaster a smile on my face. “Of course not. Why would you think that?”

I can’t bring myself to meet his gaze, so I stare over his right shoulder at all the attendees of my mother’s Memorial Day party milling about behind him in the foyer and living room.

“You leave the room every time I enter.”

Yup, absolutely. “Total coincidence.”

“How are you Franny?”

Uh, let’s see…my stomach is churning so hard I just might throw up. “I’m fine, and you?”

“Good. I’m happy to be back in Granite Cove. Maybe we can get together and revisit some of our favorite spots.”

I blink several times as if my eyes have somehow gained the ability to change moments of reality, like the remote on a TV flips through different channels.

“Sure, we could do that.” Never gonna happen.

“Oh Mitch, there you are. There are a few people dying to meet you.” My mother casts a questioning glare in my direction before smiling up at him, hooking his arm through hers, and directing him back towards the living room.

Yes, Mother, spirit away your precious guest of honor before your wayward daughter does something to embarrass you.

I take the opportunity to dart from the dining room, through the butler’s pantry, and into the kitchen. It’s swarming with catering staff, so I push through the swinging door into the living room and out the first set of French doors onto the patio.

My father is holding court to the left. A guffaw from one of the men surrounding him is followed by a few chuckles. I can guess the story he’s telling, the time he sliced a golf ball into the trees and a squirrel mistook it for a rather large nut and absconded with it into the woods. He tells the same one at every Memorial Day party, an annual tradition that, if I’m not mistaken, every single one of the people standing around him listening has heard. Yet, they’re avid listeners. Grant Dawson has a natural charm which draws people in. He could probably recite a grocery list and people would still find it witty.

I did not inherit his ability.

The breeze off the lake cools my overheated skin. I pray it will stop the nervous perspiration threatening to show through my black Maxi dress.

A group of women, contemporaries of my mother’s, occupy one of the patio tables to the right. I edge closer. Perhaps if I stand a couple of feet away, I can appear to be part of the conversation, but not close enough that any of them will expect me to join in.

A discreet glance at my watch reveals I have another half hour before I can safely make an escape. Over the years I’ve gotten it down to a science. Attendance at these gatherings is mandatory, but if I stay for a minimum of an hour, my mother will let me make excuses to depart with little more than a frown and a raised eyebrow. Oh yes, and the sigh of disappointment, mustn’t forget that.

Raising the fluted glass, I do no more than wet my lips with the orange bubbly decadence of the mimosa. My mother shoved the glass at me upon my arrival with the admonishment to “go mingle.” Arguing is pointless, and it gives me something to do with my hands.

In my peripheral vision, I spot a familiar dark head exiting the far set of French doors near my father.

I dart back through the doors closest to me.

Regardless of my mother’s schedule, the party is over for me. I’ll slip through the kitchen and escape upstairs.

I arrive at the swinging door just as a tingle squirms down my spine.

“Francine.” Those throaty cultured tones freeze me in place as if I were five years old instead of twenty-five.

The hesitation costs me dearly.

The door slams into my forehead, halting my progress.
The smack of the door shudders through my body and sends me stumbling backwards into Vanessa Michaels, the bane of my entire childhood.

My mimosa sails into her face and she lets out a startled shriek. Luckily, just the liquid since the glass is still clenched in one fist of my spiraling arms as I frantically try to regain my balance.

The horrified gaze of the server standing in the now open kitchen doorway catches mine as I find purchase by crashing into an immovable object.

A soft grunt echoes above my head.

Strong hands grip my arms. Mitch’s shoulder cushions the back of my head. I blink stupidly, staring up into his big baby blues.

His grin reveals perfectly straight white teeth. “Nice to see some things haven’t changed.”

“For God’s sake, Francine!” Mother grabs me, wrenching me upright. Her hands dig into my upper arms, her perfume engulfs me, and the coppery tang of blood touches my tongue when I lick my lips.

Snatching the empty glass from my fist and handing it to a server hovering behind her, she glowers at me and then pastes on a smile and faces the guest of honor.

“I am so terribly sorry, Mitch. Are you injured?” She clutches both her hands to her chest and stares at him beseechingly.

Granted, I am not what anyone might describe as petite or even—wince, wince—lightweight, but I hardly think I could have caused much damage to him either.
“I’m fine Ms. Dawson.”

“Oh, call me Elaine, please.” She places a hand on his arm and lets it linger on his bicep.

Vanessa grabs the napkin the wary server offers her and dabs at her face and chest. Personally, I only spot the streaks of liquid creating a few tracks through her heavily made-up face. She’s only dabbing her chest to call attention to it. After all, she has it on full display. The blue sundress can barely contain it all.

“Francine, take Vanessa upstairs, so she may clean up.” Mother gives me a pointed glare when I don’t immediately hop to do her bidding.

Must I? This promises to be even more unpleasant than the room full of people openly gawking at my latest disaster. I enter the kitchen through the now propped open door, hoping Vanessa won’t follow but knowing she will.

I glue my gaze to the pristine white tile floor as I trudge past the caterer and lone server in the kitchen, both valiantly attempting to appear busy and not stare at the spectacle. The tantalizing aroma of hot coffee tempts me to detour for a cup, but the lurking presence behind me and the threat of my mother’s continued disappointment prompt me to exit the kitchen.

The click of Vanessa’s heels follows me into the foyer and up the wide, curved staircase. Halting next to the guestroom with an attached bathroom, I stand to the side and let her enter first. The hostile scowl she shoots at me makes me want to run down the hall to my bedroom and hide behind the locked door.

Instead, I let out a tremendous sigh and follow behind her. “I’m sorry, Vanessa. Is there anything I can do to help?” Stopping next to one of the twin beds covered in a silver duvet, I wrap my arms around my waist. Lavender from the dish of potpourri my mother displayed on the dresser scents the room. It’s supposed to be calming, isn’t it? I take a deep breath.

Pausing on the threshold to the bathroom, Vanessa pivots and glares at me with disdain. “Only you would humiliate me in front of Mitch Atwater! If I didn’t know better, I’d think you did it on purpose, not just a result of your klutzy behavior. Really Fanny, if I were you, I wouldn’t even go out in public. Your poor parents must be mortified by you.”

I do an inner eye roll lest she see the nickname still bothers me. I suppose she continues to call me Fanny as a reminder of her superiority and my relegation to the undesirables’ section of humanity.

Flouncing into the bathroom, she yanks a tissue out of the box on the counter and dabs at her face. With a pointed glare at my reflection in the mirror, she tosses the tissue in the garbage next to the vanity and grabs another. “Why are you still standing there? Leave!”

My shoulders flinch. “I am sorry,” I whisper as I leave the room, shutting the door behind me.

Trudging down the hall in the opposite direction, I spare a quick glance at the stairway, hoping to find it empty. Once I assure it is, I pick up my pace to just shy of a jog to reach my bedroom before I encounter anyone else.

My head throbs.

Shutting and locking my door, I lean back against it, closing my eyes.

Mitch Atwater is back in Granite Cove.