His Forever Series Books 1-10

1. Christmas Surprise, His Forever Series Prequel-2

I gaze out the window at the smoke rising from the cottage. "Then who's there now?"

"His son's come to clear out the place," Mom says and starts stirring something on the stove. "I thought you could also invite him to tonight's party while you're over there. I sent him a note, but he never replied."

"Mark's here?" I ask, my voice way too shrill. We didn't part on the best of terms when he left town twelve years ago, and we haven't spoken since. "Maybe Dad can go extend the invitation?"

Mom's squinting at me. "But you and Mark used to be best friends. I thought it should be you…"

I never told anyone about what happened between Mark and me, nor about how long it took me to get over him. But that's just it. I am over him, so I'm not about to go explaining about all that now.

"Sure, I'll go," I say and smile at her, which works to get rid of her squint.

I gulp down the rest of my coffee, since I want to get this unpleasantness over with sooner rather than later. I'll just knock, give him the plate, deliver the invitation and leave. I won't even go inside. And then I'll spend the rest of the day wrapping presents and watching TV. I haven't had a real holiday in ages, and that's exactly what I plan to have this Christmas. As for Mark, I haven't even thought of him in years.

I decide to walk over to the cottage, a choice I regret about halfway there. No one's shoveled or stomped out a way to it, and soon enough I'm panting. My legs are burning, and my feet feel like blocks of ice, since my UGGs soaked right through. If I hadn't kept up my gym visits I'd probably be laying passed out in the snow by now.

And on top of it, I have to face Mark with sweat dripping down my face. I could just eat the cookies and lie to my mom about inviting him. But I'm not known for backing down in the face of challenges. And Mark's not even that. He's merely a small annoyance.

I knock hard as soon as I reach the door, before I can change my mind some more. A large black car, another Porsche Cayenne, with California plates is parked out front.

I'm still staring longingly at the car when a wave of heat hits me as the door opens. "If you have a debt to collect talk to Attorney Harris in town. I can't do this one by one," a man's voice informs me, holding out a white business card. I feel my face grow even hotter, and now I'm likely as red as Santa’s hat.

"Oh, it's you," Mark says and opens the door all the way.

I can't make a single word come out of my mouth, though I'm trying, can feel my lips moving.

But it's not Mark, it can't be, because the guy from the mall yesterday is standing in front of me. But I do finally recognize him now, so there's no doubt that it's actually Mark. Even though he's about twice as wide as when I last saw him, and yes, he does have bulging biceps, and a very nicely defined, firm six pack, which I can see now because he's not wearing a shirt. His chest and arms are covered in tattoos, and I feel my mind getting sucked into a sort of funnel as I try to discern all the images. There's an eagle, a lotus flower, a koi fish, a wolf…

"You gonna come in, Nicole?" he asks. "I'm losing the heat here."

"Sure, OK," I finally manage and stumble across the threshold, still mesmerized by his body.

"You do like what you see." He laughs as he says it. "Could've recognized me yesterday though."

The biting arrogance in his voice reminds me why I'm mad at him. Because I am still actually livid at him.

I press the plate of cookies into his stomach. The muscles hardly give, and I'd love to try and do the same with my fingers. He takes the plate by laying his hand over mine on it, and a jolt of electricity once again passes straight through me. I'm growing wet, my whole body starting to vibrate in desire. But that's just because I haven't seen a shirtless guy in months, and even the ones I had seen weren’t as hot as Mark. Or maybe it's because his gaze is telling me he wants to see me shirtless too.

He finally takes the plate, and I clear my throat and unzip my jacket, shaking off some of the snow stuck to it. "My mother sends these, and she would like to invite you to the party tonight."

"She would?" he asks, grinning at me. "What about you?"

Still so cocky. Maybe if he said sorry, I'd tell him I want to kiss him. But do I? After all these years? The "Yes" that bubbles to the surface is actually a feeling deep in my stomach.

But he's not saying sorry, and he's already staring at me like he knows just how much I want him. This desire of mine, or his maybe, is so thick between us I can't see straight, let alone think.

"What do you care what I want?" I shriek. "That never concerned you before."

"Oh, it's like that," he says and walks over to the kitchen table, snatching a sweatshirt from the back of the sofa in the process.

"Like what?"

"You're still pissed at me," he says and puts the plate down on the table, then pulls the sweatshirt over his head. The urge to tell him not to get dressed is so strong I almost say it.

"Not even," I mutter instead.

"See that's what I thought too, seeing as you didn't even recognize me yesterday. But clearly—"

"I mingle with well dressed young business men all day long, I can't remember every face," I retort, not letting him finish his sentence and sounding obnoxious even to myself.

He grins again, then peels off the saran wrap and studies the cookies my mom sent.

"Alright, I'll play," he says. "Well, I see your picture several times a day. Excellent column, though I can't say I agree with your assessments all the time."

"You read my column?"

Last time I spoke to Mark he was being sent to a reform school for stealing a car. Neither of us really believed that trajectory would change. But the car outside, the expensive clothes…things clearly have changed.

"Yeah, and I read most of your other articles too," he says, shaking a mug at me. "Want some coffee?"

"I'm not staying," I blurt out, though that was my plan before. Now I'm not so sure anymore.

"I wish you would," he says and proceeds to make himself some coffee.

"You do? Why?" Though just his look is answering that question adequately. But maybe that's what I want to see. I was in love with him. He never loved me, or even wanted me.

"It's been a long time. We could catch up," he says, shrugging his shoulders.

"Right, because we used to be such good friends."

He chuckles, which just makes me angrier.

"Well maybe not at the end, but we were friends."

I'm growing hot, since I'm still wearing my thick parka, but if I take it off it means I'm staying, and I'm not doing that unless he apologizes. Which I don't think he's anywhere close to doing.

"You could've answered some of my letters," he adds, glaring at me now, the smile completely gone from his eyes.

"After what you said?" I can't believe this. He's the one acting hurt? What a typical guy thing to do. Or at least typical of every guy I've ever dated. Where do I unearth these idiots?

"What did I say? I said no to you, because it wasn't the right time."

"And then you called me fat and ugly, and that you wouldn't touch me with a stick." It sounds childish hanging between us now, but at the time it hurt very badly.

His face actually twists in confusion, and I don't think it's an act. "I never said that to you."

"Well, not to my face," I reply, yanking my hat off, since I'm starting to sweat again. "But I heard you talking to that friend of yours, Doug or whatever."

He cringes. "Oh, you heard that…"

But he knows I did, he saw me running away crying. It was just after I tried to kiss him and then told him how I felt about him. But he just brushed me off and walked away. Didn't actually tell me he didn't feel the same way, just ignored me.

"I didn't mean it," he adds.

"Sure you didn't," I say, putting my hat back on. I'm done tripping down this memory lane. As it is, I want to cry again. Which is so stupid. I'm over him. Have been for a long time.

"Look, it was just bad timing. I was about to get sent away and there you were finally telling me you loved me. I was really pissed at that whole situation, wasn't thinking straight at all," he says, but it's still far from an "I'm sorry."

He sweeps his arm over the tiny cottage. "Just like with my Dad. I was so pissed at him for so long, and now he's dead. I haven't spoken to him in years."

"Maybe you should've visited him more often. He was always right here," I spit out. And I think I mean me. I was always right here too.

"He never visited me at reform school, never cared what I did with my life after that," he says and sits down at the table, slamming his cup down. "But you're right, that's on me too, maybe. I was so angry at him, over my mom leaving, his drinking, him not caring what I did with my life."

"What did you do with your life?" I ask. Not because I care. I'm just curious how someone with no future could go to driving a Porsche. It's probably some shady stuff though, so maybe I shouldn't know.

"Won't you at least take your coat off?" he asks. "You look like you're getting cooked alive."

"I'm not staying."

"Yeah, heard you the first time…" he mutters and takes a sip of his coffee. "I joined the Army after I was released. Did two tours in Afghanistan. Then I came back and went to college, got a nice, well paying job with Morgan Stanley."

"Investment banking? Come on, at least tell me the truth." It just comes out, I have no real control over what I'm saying.

"I am," he says, glaring at me. "What? Frank never mentioned my successes?"

I shrug and shake my head at the same time, causing my neck to cramp up.

"Figures. He always wanted me to follow in his footsteps as the town janitor."

"He was well liked," I say.

"And well in debt too. I started getting calls from all those people who liked him so much almost immediately after the police informed me he'd died. Seems they paid him in advance for jobs he never delivered on. Now I'm stuck either paying them back, or getting someone to do the work." That at least explains the welcome I got.

"Yeah, well, Frank wasn't perfect," I mutter. He could be showing him more respect, but I don't say it. Criticism never went over well with Mark.

"Neither are you, from what I hear," he says glaring at me again.

"What?"

"I asked around after I started seeing your picture and reading your articles, thought I'd try to get back in touch," he says like him doing so would mean all my dreams came true. He could be an investment banker. He sure is arrogant enough. "But the consensus is that you're hotter than hell, but cold as ice."