The Week of Living Dangerously

By Joan Bird

STARTING OVER

It began with a very unmerry Christmas, or rather a very merry unChristmas. Or, rather, with the tragic events directly preceding. But Nell Sprigens vowed that her holiday trip to Baja would be the start of something new and not just an escape from something old. More tequila than was prudent, too-tall heels and a mountain of guilt all combined in a madcap whirlwind blur that knocked her off her feet and into the arms of a handsome savior, and soon she was almost naked in his bed. With one knock-knock joke, every boundary fell away. But a hot vacation tryst is just a week of living dangerously. Nell will soon decide where to go next, and her beautiful but broken hero will decide if he can possibly let her leave—along with everything they’ve created.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Boroughs Publishing Group
• Release date: Mar 4, 2016
• ISBN: 9781944262167

Book preview

WILD, PASSIONATE, IMPOSSIBLE

It began with a very un-merry Christmas, or rather a very merry unChristmas. Or, rather, with the tragic events directly preceding. But Nell Sprigens vowed that her holiday trip to Baja would be the start of something new and not just an escape from the old. More tequila than was prudent, too-tall heels and a mountain of guilt all combined in a madcap whirlwind blur that knocked her off her feet and into the arms of a handsome savior, and soon she was almost naked in his bed. With one knock-knock joke, every boundary fell away. But a hot vacation tryst is just a week of living dangerously. Nell will soon decide where to go next, and her beautiful but broken hero will decide if he can possibly let her leave—along with everything they’ve created.

THE WEEK OF LIVING DANGEROUSLY

Joan Bird

www.BOROUGHSPUBLISHINGGROUP.com

PUBLISHER’S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, business establishments or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. Boroughs Publishing Group does not have any control over and does not assume responsibility for author or third-party websites, blogs or critiques or their content.

THE WEEK OF LIVING DANGEROUSLY

Copyright © 2016 Joan Bird

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved. Unless specifically noted, no part of this publication may be reproduced, scanned, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of Boroughs Publishing Group. The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or by any other means without the permission of Boroughs Publishing Group is illegal and punishable by law. Participation in the piracy of copyrighted materials violates the author’s rights.

ISBN 978-1-944262-16-7

Not having seen many books make mention of one family subset, I should like to rectify that in perpetuity by dedicating this story to my nieces and nephews. An amalgamation of scientists, artists, doctors, educators, jurists, business and entrepreneurial types; each generous, thoughtful and kind, they have always made me laugh. Independently and collectively, this is quite an amusing clan. Of course, there’s little doubt some will nearly perish at their mention in such a romantic tale, despite the self-assuredness of their swashbuckling ways. And because I’ve enlisted it to open a chapter, additional credit to Ms. Mel B. for delivering—at a very young age—the absolute best knock-knock joke ever. I love you guys.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

What motivates this writer to finish a story which started in the mind and on the page as simply- a borrowed Bah, Humbug!? So very posthumously, I must give credit to the esteemed Mr. Dickens. Then, too, I must thank my characters, for it is the fabric of their hearts that leads me from start to finish. But all would be lost without the blend of: (1) a willing publisher, (2) a patient and terrific editor, add in (3) my supportive husband, and, for balance, (4) a new puppy—well, not so much Ms. Doobs, though when I needed a break she played a willing and rambunctious fetch. This team is the drive behind whatever raw ability I might have in telling a story. And so, with humility, I am ever grateful to the nudger, the corrector, the lover and the bundle of fur who has proven to be as sleepless as I often find myself.

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

About the Author

THE WEEK OF LIVING DANGEROUSLY

Chapter One

December 21st

Bah, humbug!

Being Ebenezer Scrooge’s clone had not been the plan, but when the demon Fate yanked the be joyful rug swiftly and heartlessly out from under her, Nell Sprigens naturally adopted the mantle. Bonus: the cranky persona protected her from endless questions. A lifetime of loving all things Christmas had morphed into sheer drudgery cluttered with tinsel, glitter, and two-faced people kissing ass before the big day.

Nell wished it away. POOF. All of it gone at her command. Even the pain.

Well, some of it anyway.

The ticket to Cabo San Lucas peeked out from the side pocket of her carry-on with her passport and a small English/Spanish dictionary. This trip packaged up the excuse not to put out a single, solitary decoration, not one antique Santa. It provided the means to pretend she cared about getting a tree but I couldn’t, I won’t be home. Yes, the past sixteen months of apocalyptic happenings justified the suitcase that lay open on the bed.

Nell’s laptop and evidence of the delusion that she could write sat securely in the bottom of her bag, awaiting the cushion of clothing that now lay in neat piles, like the circled wagons of pioneers, sorted by category, and Nell addressed her travel checklist in off-meter song: Twelve pairs of underwear. Eleven total tees and shorts. Ten bras, chemises or body wear. Nine toiletry and make-up necessities. Eight travel-sized aspirin packets… Surveying the array, she realized, Shit, I don’t have seven of anything, before continuing her song. Six pairs of running socks. Fiiiive baaaaa-thing suits. Four throw-on sundresses, three pairs of shoes, two hooped earrings and one super ha-ot lit-tle black dress.

She broke into breathless laughter and collapsed on the bed. Matt would have chastised her for such silliness, damn him. His smile flashed into her brain like a vision, and it pissed her off. Swiping away an unwanted tear she muttered, Two weeks with nary a reminder. Nothing of Matt, like Matt, resembling Matt, not even a hint of his aftershave attacking when she least expected it—having forgotten all about his suits, the mistake of opening the closet in the spare room for her luggage had nearly done Nell in.

Sure, there would be Christmas in Baja, but there would be no blanket of snow. Existence wouldn’t be peppered with mandatory appearances among family and friends, smiling and explaining what her life was like now. It wouldn’t offer up the missing Matt in every shadow, and she wouldn’t feel that catch in her chest at seeing any six-two broad-shouldered man walking in the opposite direction and carrying off a Barney’s cashmere coat as only Matt had done. The pencil forgotten in Nell’s hand snapped clean in two.

Double dammit.

At least, in Baja, she wouldn’t have to deal with explaining the unexplainable.

Chapter Two

December 22nd

Slap Johansson didn’t know what this adventure would bring, but spending two weeks on the beaches of Mexico, snorkeling, fishing, and maybe even learning to surf—hell, anything that might kill him—seemed far better than staring at walls and being suffocated by emptiness. And why not accidentally check out? With life pretty much done, he didn’t give a rat’s ass about anything.

Disbelief of what had happened still stopped him cold, but he knew after renewed shock the pain would settle in again. One more reason to lose his nickname. He might have lost it ages ago, except the girl that pinned it on him became his wife. It had stuck, as she had, for ten incredible years.

His fault: He hadn’t been able to resist a light swat to her beautiful ass the first time they made love. From that moment on, she’d teased him. He’d let her, knowing when she called him Slap it suggested a lot of other things, not the least of which was that crazy and likely indiscreet romantic moment. It hadn’t mattered where they were. It hadn’t even mattered after the twins were born.

The twins. Kyle and Katie. The pain was too familiar after all this time. A sharp pang still twisted his gut at the memory of their silly giggles and angelic faces.

Hell, I didn’t even want kids.

Sir? Did you need another drink?

An earnest young man, his accent barely perceptible. Something Ivy League about the kid had prompted an earlier conversation. Harvard graduate, he wanted to be an editor and spoke three languages. His credentials made him a pretty good candidate for the position. Still, Slap hadn’t revealed his big-deal job title of editor-in-chief. For starters, he’d sworn off sharing personal intel because it interfered with his quasi-permanent saturnine attitude. Second, because he might never go back to work. Revealing what he did for a living could offer the kid false hope.

Deserting his career intrigued Slap. But what about the rest? Could he let the apartment go? He’d been there as little as possible afterward, and the jury was out on whether to ever return permanently. Walls, a roof… Open the door and step into a jail cell. It might as well be a prison for the way it evoked memories capable of reducing him to pointless tears. Officially? He’d run out of excuses, and after the first year, though never voicing complaints, his friends had wearied of his using their spare bedrooms or guesthouses.

He’d managed more time there of late, trying to acclimate to being alone in a once boisterous place that had become empty rooms. Slap should be glad he hadn’t stubbed his toe on a firetruck or stepped on a Barbie doll’s head in forever. He wasn’t. And when his courage failed, his demons too persistent to find any peace, he booked seminars or out-of-town business meetings. He’d come here.

Rubbing the three-day stubble of his wanna-be beard, Slap enjoyed a momentary fantasy of living off the land and staying in Mexico.

You are some rebel, Johansson.

Sir? That drink?

Fuck, yes, I need another drink.

Except needing one didn’t bode well for sobriety.

The bartender had been drying glasses while awaiting an answer, and temptation hovered like some shimmering mirage until Slap’s self-control won the round. No, thanks.

That didn’t sound very committed, sir. Harvard held up a bottle of Maker’s Mark as if the image alone could overpower resolve.

Sometimes it could. Willpower didn’t always prevail, because drinking muted the pain. Except, the immediate relief accompanying that first drink wouldn’t last. Sometimes the drinks in between helped, but the fourth shot of amber fuel ignited a reverse impact, tossing him into a swirling eddy of depression.

It wasn’t, he admitted. Raising his hand, he employed the universal stop sign against an urge to get blotto. But a club soda, a twist of lime.

I’ll get through this. He repeated the mantra over and over in his head as if learned from a savvy meditation guru. In fact, the mind-numbing pain had lessened enough that Slap could now act the part of a shit-happens kind of guy. Fact was, he’d gotten pretty good at it.

As long as nobody mentioned kids.

Twisting his stool to survey the room, hoping to distract his train of thought and maybe even notice the remnants of what was likely a brilliant sunset, his wholesale inventory caught on a redhead who looked…well, frankly, confused. She stood almost as if posed, framed within the arched entry to the bar. Her dress fit nicely in all the right places, but it bore a crazy pattern stamped haphazardly across it like some postal worker