Morning Tryst

By Ellen Parker

During a San Francisco visit, photographer Serena Carter sights arresting potential in the hotel bartender and invites him to model. Later, in San Diego, they meet at a beach, and she discovers his personality as fascinating as the images her camera captures.

Self-made millionaire Zack Sans usually avoids cameras. He prefers the world of scientific laboratories and engineering students. But something intrigues him about the petite photographer.

When realistic Serena accepts an opportunity to photograph Missouri State Parks in all seasons, she expects the budding friendship to die. Will Zack's ties to Missouri overcome cyberstalking, a wildlife encounter, and opposite views of family?

• Language: Unknown
• Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
• Release date: Jun 20, 2022
• ISBN: 9781509242566

Ellen Parker

Raised in a household filled with books, it was only natural that Ellen Parker grew into an avid reader. She turned to writing as a second career and enjoys spinning the type of story which appeals to multiple generations. She encourages her readers to share her work with mother or daughter – or both.Ellen currently lives in St. Louis. When not guiding characters to “happily ever after” she’s apt to be reading, walking in the neighborhood, or tending her tiny garden. You can find her on the web at www.ellenparkerwrites.wordpress.com and www.facebook.com/ellenparkerwrites.

Book preview

Gently setting the pitcher on the bar, Serena pressed her hands flat against the smooth, cool surface to conceal their sudden tremble. Our table…we need…a refill. Drinks and supreme chicken nacho platter. She lowered her gaze from gray eyes behind wire-framed glasses past a clean-shaven chin to rest on a black-and-gold nametag. An instant later, she shifted her line of sight to his neck and confirmed her earlier glimpses. In the next blink, she widened her view. Lingering her gaze on his face for the next few seconds, she classified the radiating character marks around his eyes as more age than smile. Fifty? If correct, he was near to her own fifty-two years. Hiding a sigh, she broke the silence. We have a tab.

He reached for the dirty pitcher and glanced over her shoulder. Table twenty, the one in the corner—with four thirsty ladies?

Affirmative. We’re celebrating. She questioned her use of the word the instant it left her lips. Reminiscing. After a day filled with the memorial service and the commitment ceremony, the four remaining best buddies shared drinks, food, and conversation. During recent minutes, the topics shifted from fond memories to current circumstances with a sprinkle of future plans.

Anything else? He tapped the order on a touch screen and lifted a cocktail shaker.

Slipping one hand into a pocket, she fingered a business card and waited for him to face her again. I want to shoot you, Zack.

Praise for Ellen Parker

I enjoyed it [COMFORT ZONE] very much!

~ Barbara Bettis, author of For This Knight Only.

~*~

For MORNING TRYST

I was excited reading Serena’s and Zack's romantic to dangerous experiences accelerate. What happened next was never expected.

~Lois Scorgie

~*~

A satisfying slow-burn romance in a unique setting: the wilds of Missouri. Parker paints the seasoned couple with an artful brush, taking the reader through travails in love and threats both natural and man-made. An enjoyable read for fans of the suspenseful and the sweet.

~Kathy Schrenk, author

~*~

Ellen did such a fantastic job on painting vivid mental pictures of the state parks along the Katy Trail in Missouri, which are the settings for much of this story. The romance between the heroine, Serena Carter, a professional photographer, and the hero, Zack Sans, a bartender, developed casually, as is how most couples get to know each other in real life. This book had tons of great dialogue to keep you reading. As the characters fall in love with each other, you fall in love with these two characters. Anyone who wants to read a book with a not so in your face macho hero will enjoy this romantic story. Great book. Can't wait for the next story.

~Linda Gilman, author

Morning Tryst

by

Ellen Parker

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

Morning Tryst

COPYRIGHT © 2022 by Ellen M. Parker

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

Contact Information: [e-mail]

Cover Art by Kristian Norris

The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

PO Box 708

Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

Publishing History

First Edition, 2022

Trade Paperback ISBN 978-1-5092-4255-9

Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-4256-6

Published in the United States of America

Dedication

To Laura, LaShaunda, and Phyllis for the encouragement and patience displayed during the development of this story.

Chapter One

San Francisco, Third Saturday in September

Lifting her glass, Serena Carter focused her attention on her best friends. An instant later, four salted rims touched above the simple black table. She intersected Holt’s gaze, noticed the tiniest of nods, and opened her mouth. Live…

Three voices joined to complete the toast. …with gusto—and soar.

To Denise Sims. Rest in peace. She took the first sip of sweet and salty margarita.

Do you remember the final morning of our Glacier Park trip? Debra Holt asked.

It’s right. Serena settled on the hotel bar’s padded chair and silently thanked Holt for taking the lead. A friend of thirty-three years, the tall woman lived and breathed leadership, a quality which made her one of the best Chief Petty Officers in the Pacific Fleet. A dash of silver at the temples of her brunette pixie was the only visible sign of aging.

Sims drove practically straight up on the forest service road. Baker centered her glass on a white cocktail napkin while displaying perfect, royal blue, French-tipped nails.

In the dark. Johnson leaned forward.

The sunrise proved magnificent. Serena stared toward the window wall. Instead of admiring the lights of San Francisco spread out from the twentieth-floor vantage point, her mind reviewed the mountain scene. She visualized stars winking out as the Montana sky paled to light gray. Layers of yellow, peach, and pink ascended over a treeless peak on the far side of the valley. The snow-capped crags displayed a crisp, dark profile in one of the best sunrise photos of her career.

Granted. Johnson rubbed her arms. Only Sims could have gotten us to the viewpoint intact. She had ‘the touch’ in the driving department.

Serena blinked to the present and nodded. A moment later, as the next reminiscence of their late friend began, she stalled her gaze on the bartender. The man stood tall and lean under a magnificent head of mahogany hair brushing his collar. At the moment, she had a view of his profile—high cheek bones and crisp chin. Wrong profile. Exactly what had she glimpsed when she entered the room?

Pensacola. Baker pushed one hand through short, blonde curls. I’ll never forget following Sims into the surf. Without breaking stride, she reached down and picked up shells.

Johnson lowered her drink. Remember our visit to the tourist shops the same afternoon? The hats—I’ve never tried on so many different styles and colors in one day.

Her laughter, Serena added. Sims could start with a subsonic giggle and end in a slapstick roar. A true original. She sobered. On the other hand, I am ever so grateful to all the saints she worked in another jurisdiction when I deserved a traffic ticket.

Holt nodded. I heartily agree. Meeting her professionally would have been the equivalent of a living nightmare. I suspect she would have found half a dozen additions to the obvious infractions just to avoid charges of favoritism.

One after another, the women—a group with bonds forged in Navy boot camp thirty-three summers ago—shared memories of their dear friend.

The server brought a platter of chicken nachos and a second pitcher of margaritas while one story prompted the next.

Glasses were refilled and bursts of laughter rose above the table before the conversation drifted from past to present.

Lifting a cheese-drenched chip to her mouth, Serena glanced again toward the bartender.

When he reached for a bottle, he exposed the left side of his neck for the length of a heartbeat.

She swallowed. It’s real.

In an instant, he faced the other direction and the image was hidden.

Heat swept up Serena’s neck. As caution and impulse squared off in her mind, she forced her gaze to the center of their table. Assume a wife. It’s the twenty-first century. She blinked and imagined him in profile in front of a sunrise—all the sharp angles would be softened by a breeze lifting his hair in a unique silhouette.

Glancing again toward the bar, she held her breath as their gazes intersected above empty tables. Swallowing, she forced her attention to her lap and the conversation at the table.

Holt, in precise language, related the experience of matching her son to a college. Complicating the effort, and furnishing multiple hilarious misunderstandings, was her current assignment on a small Pacific island near the International Date Line.

Three short anecdotes from Baker and Holt later, Serena lifted her glass to her lips. Empty. Again. She skimmed her gaze around the table and found her companions in the same situation. Yielding to impulse, she snatched up the empty drink pitcher and stood. Without a glance at her friends, she strode toward the bar.

May I help you?

His voice, soft and warm as a fleece throw, greeted her across three feet of polished marble. Gently setting the pitcher on the bar, Serena pressed her hands flat against the smooth, cool surface to conceal their sudden tremble. Our table…we need…a refill. Drinks and supreme chicken nacho platter. She lowered her gaze from gray eyes behind wire-framed glasses past a clean-shaven chin to rest on a black-and-gold nametag. An instant later, she shifted her line of sight to his neck and confirmed her earlier glimpses. In the next blink, she widened her view. Lingering her gaze on his face for the next few seconds, she classified the radiating character marks around his eyes as more age than smile. Fifty? If correct, he was near to her own fifty-two years. Hiding a sigh, she broke the silence. We have a tab.

He reached for the dirty pitcher and glanced over her shoulder. Table twenty, the one in the corner—with four thirsty ladies?

Affirmative. We’re celebrating. She questioned her use of the word the instant it left her lips. Reminiscing. After a day filled with the memorial service and the commitment ceremony, the four remaining best buddies shared drinks, food, and conversation. During recent minutes, the topics shifted from fond memories to current circumstances with a sprinkle of future plans.

Anything else? He tapped the order on a touch screen and lifted a cocktail shaker.

Slipping one hand into a pocket, she fingered a business card and waited for him to face her again. I want to shoot you, Zack.

Whoa. He backed as far as the narrow space between bar and shelving allowed. Do I need to cut off your table? Call security?

No, no, not at all. Heat surged up her neck. She glanced down and drew a steadying breath before raising her face and meeting his gaze. With a camera. She slid her card to the center of the bar. I’m a photographer.

He stared for a long moment and frowned.

It’s a legitimate business. Do you need to hear my standard, thirty-second sales pitch?

Touching the cobalt and cream rectangle with one forefinger, he alternated his gaze between the print and her face.

Moistening her lips, she resisted the urge to flee. The silence between them emphasized the chatter of guests at a dozen full tables and the classic jazz seeping from overhead speakers.

A photographer. From San Diego. He sighed.

Did the area code give me away? I really do want to photograph you. No sitting fee under the circumstances. If you ever come down my way…give me a call, and we’ll arrange something. She straightened her spine and lifted a wayward, long curl over her shoulder. Displaying her full, non-threatening height of five foot two, she curved her mouth into a smile. Twice during the lengthening silence, she risked a glance toward the port-wine birthmark on his neck. The weighted quiet tempted her to be rude and ask him to move his hair off his collar for a better look. Then again, with her luck, he’d swish his mane off the wrong side.

Picking up the card, he tucked the information into his shirt pocket and resumed shaking the cocktail. Why?

You have an intriguing profile. Toying with her left earring, she decided the situation called for truth without details. An outdoor portrait, with a minimum of props and taking advantage of either rising or setting sun to emphasize his bone structure, formed in her mind. A photo with such features would be the perfect completion to her mini-folio for next month’s statewide contest. Even an honorable mention in the prestigious event would boost her rather bland, official credentials.

What do you find interesting on my poor side?

It’s not poor. Rising on her toes, she stacked her forearms on the marble. Unique. Fascinating. She blinked and recalled another man with a port-wine birthmark. Memorable.

He pursed his lips for an instant. Repelling. Hideous.

Distinguished. She stared into his alert eyes. The camera will prove me right.

He strained the drink into a martini glass and added a skewer of olives. Only if I agree to be the subject of your lens.

She met and held his gaze longer than good manners dictated. He wasn’t a lower ranking sailor she could order around. Her days of being a minor link in a vast chain of command ended years ago, on the day she retired from the Navy. From my perspective, you’ve no need to hide such a feature.

Moving to the taps, he pulled two glasses of the seasonal beer. San Diego’s a nice city. I’ll consider your offer.

Thank you. She backed one step before pivoting. Sending a quick glance toward her friends, she drew a deep breath. Let the interrogation—friendly, she hoped—begin. Within a couple minutes of claiming her seat, Serena caught up on the conversation. Keeping the spotlight on Johnson for a few more moments suited her fine. Her long-divorced friend displayed a measure of confidence lacking in their previous reunion. Rich brown hair cut in an attractive wedge paired well with her pastel blue turtleneck and simple pendant. Johnson’s revelation she now had a man in her life fleshed out the image of a competent professional.

Raising her gaze, she spied Zack approaching with a full pitcher of margaritas. Her lungs skipped a breath.

May I pour?

In an instant, four glasses were held above the table’s center.

She played it casual and kept her smile small while she watched him fill each glass to within millimeters of the rim. No rings. No cheater’s ring.

Silence enveloped the group until the bartender strode out of easy earshot. Recovering first, Holt leaned halfway across the table. More information, Carter.

I spotted it. Are you going for the perfect imperfection? Johnson turned toward Serena and winked.

Serena delayed her response by taking a sip of her fresh drink. Zack mixed a good margarita. Or maybe all drinks were good by the time the third pitcher arrived. Aim high. Whoops—wrong service branch.

We heard you. Holt and Baker responded in unison.

Sighing, Serena glanced at her friends’ eager faces. You remember the stories of Carlo—my first love. I couldn’t help it tonight. I glimpsed the birthmark, and my mind wanted to visit the past. Carlo and I had some good times.

Baker pointed toward Serena’s drink. Do we need to cut you off?

Not at all. She toyed with her left earring and searched for suitable, accurate words. Her friends, familiar with her tell knew she considered lying, or perhaps concealing portions of the truth. Lies complicate life. I’m in touch with reality and aware I’m not nineteen. Events immediately after Carlo’s shooting remain blurred. But my mind was clear six days after his funeral when I took the oath at the recruiter’s office.

Pausing her glass three inches above the table, Baker steadied her gaze on Serena. Refresh my memory—his killer escaped?

The police couldn’t find witnesses willing to speak. According to my brother, street justice caught up to him a year later. She sipped sweet, tart liquid.

Holt steered the conversation to shooting ranges and personalization of targets.

As she listened, Serena allowed her mind to drift. Zack would never call. He would join a parade of other men with features she found fascinating. However, the potential models preferred never to be photographed. She would need to invent a bribe for her niece to pose for the contest entry.

Earth to Carter. You need to answer the unspoken question.

Snapping her attention to Holt, Serena reached for a chip from the fresh platter. Three gazes steadied on her fingers. Cripes. I knew questions were coming. I gave Zack my business card—not my room number. If he ever comes to San Diego, he promised to consider a photo session. Nothing more.

Nothing less. Baker grinned and lifted a jalapeno slice.

To new life chapters. Holt raised her glass high. You’re not off the hook, Johnson. We expect full reports from both you and Carter.

The better part of an hour later, Serena held Johnson’s gaze during the evening’s final toast. Tonight, she and her Navy buddies closed the door on one portion of life. What lay across the threshold? To life with gusto.

****

A scant three hours later, Zack Sans parked his black hybrid hatchback in the assigned spot. Exiting his car, he paused to survey the familiar basement garage. Late-model, expensive vehicles owned by the executive, physician, and lawyer residents of the newly renovated condo tower occupied almost every space. The slap of his leather soles echoed from the bare concrete as he strode toward the exit sign.

Stepping into the elevator, he pressed the button for the tenth floor without actually looking at the panel. He rotated his neck to shed another clump of tension accumulated during the bartending shift. Too many people. Hours of wearing his friendly mask exhausted him more than a double session on the treadmill.

During the steady ascent, he reflected on some of the memorable customers tonight. Table twenty. Four thirsty ladies. From the safe confines of his work station, forty-feet distant, he viewed the table’s occupants as women friends enjoying life and some sort of reunion. Recalling his brief time at their table, he smiled. Four glasses raised in unison almost before the offer to pour left his lips. One wedding ring in the group, on the lady with short, brown hair and perfect posture. A cheerful blonde and a brunette with an attractive smile sat on either side of the photographer. He stepped out of the elevator, blinked, and recalled her petite frame, long, dark hair, and full cheeks. Best flower in an elegant bouquet.

Three paces from his condo door, he paused. What made that noise? Objects didn’t clink in his kitchen without human help. He reached for his phone and dialed the first digits of building security. Pressing his back against the wall, he edged close, entered the access code, and eased open the door.

Warm, sweet air rushed to greet him. Slipping three steps into the unit, he gained a partial view of the kitchen and the occupant. Exhaling relief, he held his words for an instant to coat them with faux anger. What in God’s green earth are you doing here?

Allison spun toward him with a spatula extended. I’m baking. Good morning, dear brother.

Baking? In my kitchen? At three in the morning? Have you lost your last functioning brain cell? He met the gaze from her hazel eyes.

She shook her head. When did you last check messages? I sent you a text before midnight.

Zack shoved the door closed and set the locks before moving deeper into the condo. He dropped his car keys into a wooden bowl and claimed one of the two black, wood stools at the granite-topped island. "Today’s Saturday. When working at The Fly Inn, I