August Love

By Katie Bingham-Smith

A spicy forbidden romance, featuring a struggling, yet determined, heroine who lost her fiancé and his millionaire best friend who presents her with a life-changing offer. 

 

Losing her fiancé, Duncan, a year ago changed August. Not only is her dream of becoming a romance author fading fast, she's exhausted from trying to keep the home that she and Duncan shared. She never writes anymore and hates her waitressing job, but she can't afford to lose it. Her life has never been such a mess. It's not what she imagined for herself at thirty-two years old. Not even close.

 

When Luke, her dead fiance's best friend, comes back into town after staying away for years, he apologizes to August for not being there when Duncan died. He's intent on making it up to her and asks her to do something that could change her life. And his.

 

Will August say yes and let Luke take care of her financially so she can write her novel even though she's still angry at him and it means sharing his enormous ocean front home? Or will guilt and her flicker of attraction for Luke keep her away?

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Katie Bingham-Smith
• Release date: Feb 25, 2024
• ISBN: 9798988479369

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Twila

Tears blur my eyes as I read Rosemary’s text: Hey, I know today is going to be hard. I’m thinking of you. Make sure to come in and see me! You haven’t had your lashes done for over a month. Miss you XOXO.

My best friend Rosemary, who I met exactly a year ago today, is my lifeline. Last August, we were chatting it up in the line at Mugs after I said, Your lashes look great. I’ve been wanting to get lash extensions.

Oh thank you, she said. I do lashes myself and it’s nice to get mine done for a change, she said, her blond hair falling in perfect waves over her shoulders.

I told her I was a writer, and her eyes went wide. Then she offered to do my lashes in exchange for writing blog posts for her. We became instant friends, and our arrangement works out perfectly. I get fresh lashes a few times a month, and she doesn’t have to write or update her social media, something she hates to do. Not to mention I’ve gotten quite a few side hustles because she recommends me to so many of her clients.

We were deep in conversation on the overstuffed sofas in Mugs hours later when Duncan’s mom called. My hands went numb as soon as I saw her number flash across my phone. I already knew before she told me that her son, my fiancé, drowned in the Atlantic. I screamed but I couldn’t hear it, her sobs mixed words sending me to a dark place. My body froze, protecting me, not letting me process what I heard, and I barely remember the rest of the afternoon. Just that I fell into Rosemary’s lap and she held me until I could sit up again.

I run a comb through my thick brown hair before securing it in a bun on top of my head. My lashes are looking sparse. Whenever I go too long between fills, I look like a freaking potato head. As I style my curtain bangs with a round brush and blow dryer, I remind myself how much better I feel when I take the time to make myself look as good as I can..

Besides, I need to text Rosemary back or she’s going to worry more than she already does. I’ve been bad about keeping in touch with people lately, and the last thing I want to do is drift away from Rosemary.

But when I think about keeping up with appointments and friendships, it exhausts me so much my stomach churns.

Since Duncan died, I slip into a dark place pretty often. The more I close myself off, the harder it is to reconnect with people. No wonder I’m not inspired to write anything. There are days when I’m barely living; just going through the motions trying to survive.

Luckily, Rosemary doesn’t let me hide out for too long. As soon as I met her, it was as if we already knew each other. She’s my soulmate, and there are many times she knows what I need before I do.

My hazel eyes look gray today, my olive skin yellow.

I put in my emerald stud earrings hoping they’ll brighten my face then pull down my white polo shirt. It’s a chilly day for August, even by Maine standards, and I hope I’ll make enough tip money to pay my rent due today.

When Duncan and I moved in together a year and a half ago, I was breathless when he removed the blindfold he’d tied over my eyes. He had told me we were going for a drive because he had a huge surprise, which it definitely was.

I’d coveted this apartment building that overlooked the ocean for three years, dreaming of the day I’d move in and decorate the misty gray walls with the ocean-inspired Rachel Turner paintings I’d collected over the years. But it was so expensive, I knew even with both our salaries, it would be a stretch. I still don’t know how Duncan managed to pay most of the rent for six months. He’d just always say it was taken care of, and that I should spend my money on myself.

That has never been a problem since I have a weakness for expensive things. Especially lately. My mother often reminds me I shouldn’t be buying myself a thing, and I need to learn to budget my money. I know she’s right, but every time she says something about it, my face burns. I spend a lot of nights in bed, filling online shopping carts, hoping each purchase will ease a little of my pain for a moment.

Pain that always returns.

I know if I can get my writing mojo back, I can make a great living as a writer and get rid of my waitressing job. Obviously it will take a while, but I know if I stick to it, keep up with my freelancing work, and get a book under my belt, I can write full time.

I was on a roll, too. But I haven’t worked on my book since Duncan died. Rosemary often says that when I’m ready, maybe weaving some details of my life with Duncan in the story might be therapeutic. She’s probably right. I just need more time. I hope my focus and creativity comes back so I can follow through with my plan to be a full-time writer by the time I’m thirty-three. I still have a year.

My shoulders sink, and I wonder if I’m being too ambitious. Maybe I should shoot for thirty-five instead.

As I dot my lips with my new berry lip stain that cost more than a fish and chips dinner at Finny Friends where I work, I hear my mother’s voice, Maybe if you stopped shopping and saved your money you wouldn’t lose sleep about paying your rent, Twila. And you’re too old to move back home, so don’t even think that’s an option.

Not that I would. You couldn’t pay me to live with that woman again. She better watch out, or she’ll be a character in one of my books.

I try not to be too hard on her though. My grandparents practically shoved her out of the house at eighteen, and she always talks about how she had three jobs and had to live with two roommates before she met my dad, a man who got her pregnant at twenty-one then disappeared. It was just the two of us, my mom never dated again, and I’ve always felt like she blames me for the way her life turned out.

Needless to say, my mom and I have never had that mother-daughter bond some of my friends have. I have no idea what that would feel like.

Of course, the easier thing to do would be to move into a place I can afford on my own and not have to work every day of the week. I pick up every shift I can, write blog posts, and manage companies’ social media platforms.

The argument I have with myself never ends. Because moving out of this space would feel like I’m moving on from Duncan. I have days when I don’t think I’ll ever be ready to do that.

Then there are times when I don’t think I can go on for one more moment and all these reminders of him are too much.

When his parents asked for his grandmother’s engagement ring back, a big part of me was relieved. I hadn’t been able to take it off, but every time I looked at it, every time it got caught in my hair when I was pulling it up into a bun, or it would flicker under the light when I’d sit at my laptop and try to get some words out, my stomach would dip to my knees.

But sometimes I lie in bed and squeeze my left ring finger, missing the weight of the round diamond so much I cry myself to sleep.

The wood floor creaks under my feet as I head to my bedroom. The entire south side is covered in large windows, and the fog is so thick I can barely see the line of pine trees in my backyard.

I run my hand over the bed I didn’t have the energy to make and grab my purse before heading into the living room. I love how everything is on one floor and is open and airy. If I left, I’d miss the smell of the briny air and pine trees, the faint whiffs I get of Duncan when I walk by his closet.

Just get through today, I think as I stare at the date, August 1st, on my phone before dropping it in my purse like it’s on fire. I hate this month. After today, only thirty days left.

I squeeze a pillow on Duncan's side of the sofa and say, I know you don’t want me to be sad, Duncan. I know you were just living your best life.

Then I think about how I’m still so mad at him for going sailing, alone, that day after he’d only had a few lessons. I told him he should wait until someone could go with him, someone who was more experienced than he was, but he was determined.

It’s flat and crystal clear and just because Luke can’t make it doesn’t mean I shouldn’t go. We’ve been planning this for weeks and I had to fight to get the day off, he said as he started his truck.

I just wish you would’ve asked someone else to go with you. You knew Luke would flake. He always does. He couldn’t make it to our engagement party, didn’t come home for your birthday like he promised. Just sent that ridiculously expensive motorcycle helmet that you never wear.

Duncan looked at me the same way he always did when I made a comment about how his best friend always stood him up. Like it physically hurt him to hear the truth. But then he’d always change the subject, never fault me for it. Which was worse than telling me to knock it off.

I’ll be fine, I promise, honey, he said before backing out of the driveway.

It haunts me, every single day, that my last words hurt him.

Normally I walk to the beach, but since I have to work in an hour, I’ll drive so I won’t be late again.

I get in the car and crack the window, the air stagnant lower the window all the way. Maybe this time, maybe this visit to the beach will bring me some peace. I’ve come to the ocean almost every day since I lost Duncan, looking for something, anything, to ease this pain.

It never works.

I guess the only thing I can do is keep trying.

CHAPTER 2

Luke

The new white oak flooring is smooth under my bare feet, the scent of paint, cedar, and sawdust still fresh from all the construction. I’m not sure how long I’m going to hang onto this monstrosity of a house, but as soon as my realtor notified me that a property on Popham Beach was going up for sale, I made the owners an offer they couldn’t refuse. It was a knee-jerk reaction; I haven’t wanted to spend much time in Maine for a while. But just like all the properties I buy, I told myself I’d stay here for a month, flip it, sell it, or rent it out.

Duncan and I spent lots of summers on this beach in high school: throwing the Frisbee and football, body surfing, trying to pick up older women, something neither of us were very good at. Lots of nights were spent building fires, and I can still hear the crackling of the wood, the pop and hiss of opening cans of Bud Light we stole from the refrigerator his dad kept in their garage.

The waves are wild and frothy. It’s a chilly day for August, but maybe if I open a window, and I can hear what I hope Duncan is hearing now, the slapping of salty water against the rocks, I’ll feel closer to him. I’d give anything to dissolve this pain in my chest.

It’s supposed to warm up soon, and for now, my white button-down and Levi’s should keep me warm enough for my walk down to the beach. I wrap my hand around my white sailor knot bracelet. Duncan and I had gotten matching ones when we were ten, and we wore them until they started to fray and fall apart a few years later.

Last August, I was supposed to come to Maine for a few days so we could head out on an overnight sailing trip. A few days before I was supposed to fly out, I saw the sailor knot bracelets at an outdoor market in West Palm Beach where I was buying another apartment complex. I knew Duncan and I wouldn’t wear matching bracelets again, but I had to get them. For old times’ sake.

I canceled on Duncan at the last minute, something I did often and he always understood. My New York realtor told me about a little cluster of cottages on Lake Ontario that would be going on the market, and if I wanted them I had to act fast.

Instead of going to see my best friend and take that sailing trip, I flew to New York.

Those cottages are mine now, but I lost my best friend.

I should’ve been there. Like I promised.

The pain that formed in my chest when Twila called me that Friday night hasn’t left. I wonder if it ever will. Sometimes, it feels like it’s going to rip me in half and all I can hear is her voice on the other end of the phone telling me I should’ve been there. That I should’ve kept a promise for once. That I should’ve known he was going sailing, with or without me, even though he had no business going alone.

I didn’t tell her I told him not to go if he couldn’t find another sailor to go with him, that the ocean wasn’t the place to take chances or fuck around. My years of sailing lessons my father made me take, even though I hated every one of them, taught me that.

Her voice was unrecognizable, both of us in shock, and I still don’t remember who hung up the phone first. I just know she hasn’t returned any of my calls or texts since I left right after Duncan’s funeral, my guilt for not going with Duncan on the sailing trip twisting in my gut.

Maybe it’s still too soon.

I open the front door and step onto the expansive deck running the entire length of the cedar shake house. The humidity hugs me. I immediately feel too warm and roll up my shirt sleeves.

The decking is damp, and I study the cable