Rebound

By Pamela Swyers

Love hurts. Samantha Wells and Max Jacobs know this all too well when they meet, both having been dumped by their significant others. Despite their obvious attraction to one another they make a pact, vowing to be each other's non-romantic partner. If one of them stumbles and starts dating someone in the next 12 months,they are committed to doing a whole month's worth of the other persons laundry.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pamela Swyers
• Release date: Apr 17, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452432311

Pamela Swyers

Pam lives with her husband Bill in Gwinnett County, Georgia. She is the mother of three grown children and has dabbled in creative writing since she could hold a pen. Pam has written poetry, children’s stories and dramatic scripts but her passion and calling is penning fictional novels. Pam currently writes full time and has seven books in print, with more on the way. She can often be found toodling around NE Atlanta, doing book-signings and making appearances when she’s not working hard on her computer. Pam is a professional member of the Georgia Writers Association.

Book preview

Rebound

Pamela Swyers

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

Rebound

Copyright 2010 by Pamela Swyers

www.pamelaswyers.com

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Published by Swyers Publishing at Smashwords

May 2010

Smashwords Edition

This book is available in print.

ISBN (for hardback edition only):  978-0-9843113-2-3

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For Megan

The hunger for love is much more difficult to remove than the hunger for bread.  ~Mother Teresa

When love is not madness, it is not love.  ~Pedro Calderon de la Barca

Forget love - I'd rather fall in chocolate!  ~Sandra J. Dykes

Chapter One

Sam

Schlepping lattés all day, yep, that’s just what I had in mind when I was in college. Actually most days I loved my job. I loved the smell of coffee and have always adored espresso and I didn’t even mind that I went home every day covered with coffee grounds; under my nails, in my hair… I mean, it could’ve been worse. I could’ve be mucking up in a zoo or something.

An associate’s degree from Georgia Gwinnett College looked great on my resumé (and it had helped my bosses decide to make me a barista trainer faster than anyone ever had in Chez Café’s history) but that wasn’t really what I dreamed about as a child. I kind of saw more of a huge corner office somewhere with many assistants at my beck and call.

Grande mocha latte up! I shouted, then placed the drink on the counter.

I’ll take it over to them, said Shane. He was my latest trainee; a nineteen-year-old cutie. Shane Jacobs was tall with sandy blond hair that hung down over one eye. He was in his first year at Gwinnett Tech, studying computers and this was his part-time job.

It was my full-time job.

I started working at Chez Café to earn a little extra money while I was in school, and after two years, I decided to take a break from classes and join the full-time work force. I put in applications all over town, looking for an administrative position, but no one was hiring. Gradually I worked more and more hours until barista-ing became my full-time job. It happens.

Chez Café had been around for a couple of years and was owned by someone who—let’s just say—was not going to run out of capital for a long, long time. The owners were quite financially secure.

They had built in a great location with tons of foot traffic toward the southern end of the Buckhead district in Atlanta. The décor was Pottery Barn on crack. Great comfortable chairs and sofas, bar tables and high stools, every kind of coffee-related paraphernalia one could imagine and lots of earth tones; deep rich golds and reds. It felt very homey. When you grabbed a cup of coffee and sat down to read the paper, you really did feel like you could stay until lunch-time. That’s a good thing.

My boyfriend Zak delivered messages to muckety-mucks by bicycle in downtown Atlanta. He was in great shape (needless to say).

Zak’s parents supplemented his income because, well, Zak was spoiled rotten. He grew up in up-scale Hamilton Mill, a community that was less than a decade old, northeast of Atlanta in a million-dollar home. His dad was some sort of pro golfer or something, rolling in dough. Between Zak and his folks, they covered seventy-five percent of our rent and I took care of the remaining twenty-five. Nice of them, I figured. We had a great (if small) townhome in Buckhead, minutes from work for both of us. The total rent was super high and neither of us would be living there if we had to pay it alone.

These are the kinds of things I thought about when I contemplated life as a barista.

I looked up just in time to see Zak come in the door. He had on his usual bike-riding attire, complete with knee pads and helmet, backpack slung across one shoulder. It was five-thirty and he was off. I’d leave soon and let Shane close up at ten.

Hey, sweetie, I said and pulled him a shot of espresso like I did every afternoon.

He grabbed it and downed it in one gulp like a shot of whiskey. We need to talk, he said. He looked serious. Rare for Zak.

Uh-oh.

I went out and sat with him; it felt great to be off my feet. What’s up? I said.

You and I have been together for like, what, two years? Zak looked down at the table and not at me. He picked at some icing someone had dripped onto the table. Zak had longish curly blond hair like a surfer. He was so dreamy.

Two wonderful years, I agreed, reaching for his hand. He moved it out of reach.

Samantha, I’ve met someone else.

I stopped breathing.

I mean I seriously gasped for air.

When I could speak again I said, What?!

Sorry, babe, he said. I need you to have your stuff out before Monday morning. He got up and left, getting on his little bicycle and pedaling away, leaving me to pick up the pieces.

Chapter Two

My father left when I was twelve (preferring another family to the one he already had) and my mom drank herself into a stupor. Mom still lives in Jonesboro (south of Atlanta) in a tiny apartment, drinking her Social Security. I’d sooner live in a cardboard box under the highway than go home to her.

Where was I going to live?

I packed up my clothes in my two worn pink suitcases, filling them up pretty quickly, then started filling boxes I had dragged home from the coffee house. Thankfully when I got there, Zak wasn’t home. Packing was taking a lot of time, not because I had so much of my own stuff, but because I kept crying and wandering around touching Zak’s things and smelling his clothes.

As I was finishing up, my boss, Dana, called and said I could crash at her place. I’d left her a teary voice mail earlier, telling her of the break-up and bemoaning between sobs that I had no place to go.

Finally I loaded everything into my used Mini Cooper (it barely fit) and headed for my boss’s house a few blocks away.

Dana and Rob Tucker owned the Chez Café and had become my second family, er… maybe my first. Dana was in her forties, but still youngish and great-looking with shoulder-length blonde hair and a hippy attitude. Rob was some sort of corporate bigwig (I didn’t really understand what he did, but it had something to do with stocks and the financial industry). I figured he was on track for being another Donald Trump.

The Tuckers’ McMansion had little grass but lots of square footage. The place was gorgeous. It’s what I always dreamed my home in heaven would look like.

I pulled into the drive and tooted my horn. It was Saturday and Shane was on top of things at the shop. Dana and Rob both came out to greet me in jeans, T-shirts and no shoes. As soon as I stepped out of my car, Dana grabbed me in her arms and I cried all over her; like huge hiccup-y sobs. Rob patted my back and said something like there, there.

Finally we made it inside. Dana put a glass of peach iced tea in my hands and Rob emptied my car, taking all my worldly possessions into the largest of the guest rooms upstairs.

I blew my nose.

Honey, I’m so sorry this happened. He’s a jerk and an idiot, Dana said.

Yeah, I never liked that guy, Rob said unhelpfully.

I know. You said he was flaky, I said, taking a sip of my tea.

And? Wasn’t I right? Rob left the room on that note, ticked off.

Dana put an arm around me and squeezed. Now, let’s get you settled in upstairs. I have a key for you and I wrote down the alarm code. We got up and headed upstairs.

My room was more of a guest suite. The bedroom was likely fifteen feet by twenty and had a full bath, not much smaller than the master. I had a desk complete with desktop computer, a flat-screen TV with cable and a mini-fridge. The tub was more like a small pool complete with whirlpool jets.

There was a little balcony and deck off the bedroom. I opened the French doors and looked out over the pool and back gardens. What a view! Gorgeous flowers were everywhere. I didn’t know a whole lot about what kinds of flowers they were, recognizing only the roses and hydrangeas, but there had to be dozens of different varieties out there.

A gentle