Happy go lucky, p.29
Happy-Go-Lucky,
p.29
“Where did you have in mind?” I asked coyly and watched as he picked up his jacket and pulled an envelope from the inside pocket. He set it down in front of me and motioned for me to open it. Eagerly, I pulled out what appeared to be two plane tickets and a wide smile spread across my face.
“Puerto Vallarta?”
“I thought it was about time I took you to see the sex bridge in person,” he said playfully and I chuckled, swiping him on the shoulder with the tickets.
“It’s not a bloody sex bridge. The official name is Lover’s Bridge.”
Cameron grinned teasingly. “If you say so.”
“Wait,” I said, panic rising in me. “These flights are for tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow evening,” Cameron corrected and I gaped at him. He shot me a wink. “Surprise.”
“Did you just wink at me?”
He shrugged and took another sip of his whiskey. “I might’ve.”
I narrowed my gaze, resisting the urge to grin. “You’ve changed.”
“What can I say?” He leaned in to peck me on the cheek. “You’ve rubbed off on me.”
I shook my head in disbelief as I looked at the tickets again. “But I can’t go tomorrow! We haven’t booked the time off work. I haven’t even had a chance to pack. You do realise I start packing for holidays at least a week in advance?”
Cameron reached out and placed a hand on my shoulder. “Relax. It’s all taken care of. I’ve arranged the time off for both of us and you’ll have more than enough time to pack in the morning.”
“But…but—”
The hand on my shoulder rose as he tipped my chin up. “We’ll also be visiting Costalegre and Guadalajara, but I haven’t even told you the best part yet.”
I rubbed my sweaty palms on my skirt. “I’m not sure I can take a plot twist, Cameron.”
His grin morphed into one that was almost, dare I say, impish. He clearly enjoyed springing surprises on people. “Did you know that Elizabeth Taylor’s house, Casa Kimberly, has actually been converted into a boutique hotel?”
“If you tell me we’re staying at Liz Taylor’s house I think I might faint,” I said, completely overwhelmed.
Cameron smiled fondly and leaned in to kiss me softly. “We’re staying at her house. Please don’t faint.”
I sucked in a deep breath, speaking through the kiss. “I’m trying not to.”
“That’s it, darling. Deep breaths in and out.” He sounded both affectionate and amused as his hand rubbed soothing circles on my lower back.
“I love you,” I whispered, momentarily breaking our kiss.
“I love you, too,” he whispered back, his arms wrapping tight around my waist.
I stared into his deep, unfathomable hazel eyes and wondered what I’d done to deserve him. Cameron Grant was the yin to my yang. The wine to my cheese. The ketchup to my mustard. He tempered everything I was with everything that he was, and my life was infinitely better with him in it.
I couldn’t wait to go on an adventure with him tomorrow, and many more adventures for the rest of our lives. My parents called me Happy-Go-Lucky as a little girl, but I never really knew the true meaning of the phrase until I found this man who shone a light on all the best and worse parts of me. Now I knew what true happiness, true contentment felt like.
And it was all because I’d thrown my inhibitions aside for one night and taken a chance. The moral of the story? Taking chances could lead to spectacular consequences. Jumping in puddles for the joy of it might get your feet wet, but then you get to feel the comfort of going home and putting on warm, dry socks.
Similarly, finding a grumpy, curmudgeonly, grouchy, perfect specimen of a man to spend the night with might just turn your tiny little portion of the world completely upside down.
END.
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SIX OF HEARTS SNEAK PEEK
If you enjoyed Happy-Go-Lucky then you might also like Six of Hearts, Book One in L.H. Cosway’s critically acclaimed Hearts Series, also available in Kindle Unlimited! Read on for a sneak peak…
BLURB:
When Jay Fields, world-renowned illusionist, walks into her dad’s law firm Matilda is struck speechless. Not only is he one of the most attractive and charismatic men she’s ever met, he’s also a mystery to be solved.
Jay wants to sue a newspaper for defamation, but all is not what it seems. Matilda is determined to discover the true story behind Jay, however, when he becomes an unexpected roommate, she is not ready for how he will wheedle his way into her affections and steal her heart.
The man is a mystery wrapped in an enigma, and though she can’t yet see the bigger picture, Matilda can’t resist following along for the thrilling and heart-stopping ride.
EXCERPT:
Sometimes in life you just have to laugh.
These last couple of weeks I’ve been making my debut into the hazardous world of online dating, and right now I’m staring at my computer screen, trying to figure out if this latest “suitor” is serious or just seriously taking the piss. What does he look like? I hear you ask? Well, I know he’s got a really nice set of particularly shiny abs, or he Googled a picture of a really nice set of particularly shiny abs and used it as his profile image. Is that supposed to be oil or sweat? I can’t tell.
Anyway, his message reads as follows:
Hey, pretty lady,
Dayum, I am agog! Your picture caught my attention as soon as I spied it. You are soooo flipping beautiful. I really hope we can get to know each other better. Please check out my profile and write me back. If you don’t, I might just have to cry.
Steve.
xxxxxxx.
There are so many things wrong with this, I don’t even know where to start. First of all, I have to whip out the dictionary on my office shelf to check the meaning of the word “agog.” Its definition is “in a state of eager desire,” or “highly excited by eagerness, curiosity, or anticipation.”
Right.
Steve’s use of the word “agog” makes me the opposite of agog. In fact, I find myself in an eager state of desire to delete his message from my inbox. Then there’s his use of “dayum.” His profile states he’s twenty-seven years old and was born and raised in North County Dublin, where nobody uses the word “dayum.” And if they do, they need a good firm talking to. Somebody’s been watching too much MTV. And the mention of crying? I have no words.
In any case, my reaction to his wooing endeavours is a big, fat “no thanks.” This is mainly because his message smacks of a copy and paste job, hence the use of “pretty lady” instead of my actual name.
I can imagine he’s been sending this bad boy out to every Tom, Dick, and Harry on the site. Or should I say every Tomasina, Dickina, and Harriet, waiting all agog for some unsuspecting woman to write back and be tricked into cybersex. I bet Steve only waits about ten seconds before inundating his victims with dick pics.
We really do live in a world full of perverts.
Also, I apologise to any woman whose parents were cruel enough to name her Dickina.
A quick glance at my watch tells me it’s eight forty-five. Only fifteen more minutes before the office officially opens, so I quickly log out of the pit of despair, otherwise known as my online dating site, and check to make sure I have all the day’s appointments prepared for.
Brandon Solicitors is my dad’s law practice, which can be found in a small three-room office space in Dublin city centre. Ever since I finished school, I’ve been working here full-time as his legal secretary. We mostly deal with small claims. You know, people who want to sue their local supermarket because they slipped and fell on a wet floor. Or people who want to sue their local supermarket because they “slipped and fell on a wet floor.”
Please don’t overlook my use of sarcasm on that last sentence.
Basically, we’re not exactly the high flyers of the law world around here, but we get by.
The entrance door to the office swings open, and my dad, Hugh, limps his way into the room. His limp is particularly noticeable today, and it makes me frown. He must not be getting as much rest as usual.
When I was just eight years old, our house was broken into by a group of thugs, and they beat my father so badly that he now walks with a permanent limp in his left leg. That’s not the worst of what they did, though. One of them shot my mother when she made an attempt to call the police. When I became hysterical at the sight of my dead parent, the shooter threw me into a mirror. The glass shattered and I got badly cut, leaving me with a permanent scar that runs from just below my ear, down the side of my neck, and under my jawline. Mum died that night, leaving me and Dad all alone. They never caught the burglars.
I was only a child when it happened, but my heart remembers my mother, and I miss her every day. Dad never mentions it, but I know he does, too. She was the love of his life, and he never quite found it in himself to move on to someone else.
“Morning, Matilda,” says Dad. “Could you get me a coffee from the place down the street? Our machine is broken again.”
“Will do,” I reply cheerily in an effort to block out the horrific memory that had just been flitting through my head. “How have you been sleeping?”
He grimaces and glances down. “I suppose you noticed the leg?”
“Yeah, you need to rest it more often,” I say, grabbing my handbag from under my desk.
“I was up half the night working on the O’Connell case,” he explains.
“Right, well, get an early night tonight, okay?” I urge, walking over to give him a quick peck on the cheek. He replies that he will, and I duck out of the office. I can be particularly protective of my dad’s health, because we’re really all the other has left in the world.
Making my way down the narrow staircase that leads out of the building and onto the street, I bump into a tall man with golden-brown hair. I wouldn’t normally notice a man’s hair so specifically, but this guy has some serious style going on. It’s cut tight at the sides and left long on the top, kind of like a sexy villain in a movie set in the 1920s. I stare up at him, wide-eyed. He’s wearing a very nice navy suit with a leather satchel bag slung over his shoulder. Even though it was the first thing I noticed, his hair pales in comparison to the wonder that is his face. I don’t think I’ve ever been up close to such a handsome example of the male species in my life.
Why can’t men like this write to me online? I ponder dejectedly.
Because men like this don’t even know the meaning of the term “socially awkward,” my brain answers.
My five-foot-something stares up at his six-foot-whatever, and I think to myself, what’s a prize like you doing in a dive like this? Actually, now that I’m looking at him, he does seem vaguely familiar, but I can’t put my finger on where I’ve seen him before.
Probably on the pages of a fashion magazine, if his looks are anything to go by.
If it hasn’t already been deduced from the fact that I can’t even find a date using the romantic connection slut that is the Internet, then I’ll spell it out. I’m useless with men, and I’m talking all men. Even the nice approachable fellows. And I’m not looking at a nice approachable fellow right now. I’m looking at a “chew you up and spit you out” tiger.
Rawr.
Since the entrance to the building is so narrow, we have to skirt around each other. I give him a hesitant smile and a shrug. His eyes sparkle with some kind of hidden knowledge as he lets me pass, like beautiful people know the meaning of the universe and are amused by us ordinary folks who have to bumble along in the dark.
I’m just about to step out the door when the tiger starts to speak. “I’m looking for Brandon Solicitors. Do you know if I have the right place?”
I step back inside.
He sounds like Mark Wahlberg when he’s letting his Southie roots all hang out. His deep American accent makes me want to close my eyes and savour the sound. But I don’t do that – because I’m not a complete psycho.
“Yeah, this is the place. I work here, actually. I’m the secretary slash receptionist slash general dogsbody. It’s my dad’s firm,” I reply. Too much information, Matilda. Too. Much. Information.
The tiger smiles, making him better-looking, if that’s even possible. And thankfully, he doesn’t comment on my fluster. “I have an appointment with Hugh Brandon at nine. I’m Jay,” he says, and takes a step closer to hold his hand out to me. My back hits the wall, his tall frame dwarfing mine. I don’t think he realises just how narrow this space is, and now I can smell his cologne. Wow, it’s not often that I get close enough to a man to smell him. And Jay Fields smells indecently good.
“Ah, right. Jay Fields. Yeah, I have you pencilled in. You can go on upstairs, and Dad will take care of you,” I reply, shaking his hand and letting go quickly so that he doesn’t notice my sweatacular palms. “I’ve got an errand to run.”
He stares at me for a long moment, like his eyes are trying to take in my every feature, but that can’t be right. When he finally responds, it’s a simple, “I won’t keep you, then, Matilda.”
God. Why does the way he says “keep you” in that deep voice have to make my heart flutter? It’s been literally thirty seconds, and I’m already well on my way to developing a crush.
He makes some keen eye contact with me, then turns and continues up the stairs to the office. I’m already on the street when I realise I hadn’t offered my name, and yet he knew it. Perhaps he’d been browsing our website. Our offices might be shoddy, but I always make sure to keep our online presence up to scratch. There’s a picture of me, Dad, and Will, the other solicitor who works for the practice, on the “About Us” page.
So if he knew who I was already, why did he ask if he had the right place?
Miracle of all miracles, was he actually, like, chatting me up or something? Be still my beating heart. Or is he just the friendly, chatty type? I consider these questions as I walk inside the café three buildings down from our office and order two lattes to go. I briefly think about ordering something for the tiger, aka Jay Fields, but he might be one of those picky coffee drinkers, so I don’t.
When I get back, I find Dad’s shut himself inside his office with Jay, and the next appointment is already waiting to be seen. She’s a middle-aged woman wearing a neck brace. I haven’t had the chance to look at her information, but I can imagine what she’s here for. Some sort of accident claim.
What I really want to know is what Jay’s here for. Yep, I’m already wondering about this man way too much. I remember him calling up last week to make the appointment, and somehow I neglected to ask him what kind of a claim he wanted to make. It’s weird, too, because I have my set spiel for appointments, and I never forget to ask for all the information I need. It’s almost like my subconscious knew I was speaking with a gorgeous man, thus rendering me double “F-ed”: frazzled and forgetful.
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About the Author
L.H. Cosway lives in Dublin, Ireland. Her inspiration to write comes from music. Her favourite things in life include writing stories, vintage clothing, dark cabaret music, food, musical comedy, and of course, books. She thinks that imperfect people are the most interesting kind. They tell the best stories.
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Books by L.H. Cosway
Contemporary Romance
Painted Faces
Killer Queen
The Nature of Cruelty
Still Life with Strings
Showmance
Fauxmance
The Cracks Duet
A Crack in Everything (#1)
How the Light Gets In (#2)
The Hearts Series
Six of Hearts (#1)
Hearts of Fire (#2)
King of Hearts (#3)
Hearts of Blue (#4)
Thief of Hearts (#5)
Cross My Heart (5.75)
Hearts on Air (#6)
The Running on Air Series
Air Kiss (#0.5)
Off the Air (#1)
The Rugby Series with Penny Reid
The Hooker & the Hermit (#1)
The Player & the Pixie (#2)
The Cad & the Co-ed (#3)
The Varlet & the Voyeur (#4)
Urban Fantasy
Tegan's Blood (The Ultimate Power Series #1)
Tegan's Return (The Ultimate Power Series #2)
Tegan's Magic (The Ultimate Power Series #3)
Tegan’s Power (The Ultimate Power Series #4)
Table of Contents
Playlist
PART ONE
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
PART TWO
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Epilogue
About the Author
Books by L.H. Cosway
L.H. Cosway, Happy-Go-Lucky
