Love Emerged (Love Surfaced #3)

  Love Emerged

  Copyright © 2016 by Michelle Lynn

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in whole or in part by any means.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events portrayed in this book are the product of the author’s imagination or are either fictitious or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Editor:

  Jovana Shirley, Unforeseen Editing

  Proofread (First Round):

  Ultra Editing Co.

  Proofread (Second Round):

  Behind the Writer

  Cover Design:

  Pear Perfect Creative Covers

  Interior Design & Formatting:

  Christine Borgford, Perfectly Publishable

  Visit my website at www.michellelynnbooks.com

  Table of Contents

  Love Emerged

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Books by Michelle Lynn

  To my son, always be true to yourself.

  Attention Readers: Please note that Love Emerged begins directly after Love Surfaced’s ending (prior to epilogue) moving through the same time span as Love Rekindled.

  Dylan

  I WAKE UP IN MY childhood bed with the scent of fresh laundry lingering around me. Clearly, my mom’s anal obsessive-compulsive necessity to wash sheets every other day is still intact.

  That annoying chore of hers that grated on my nerves during my puberty years wasn’t appreciated until college. Imagine your mom coming to wash your sheets during your prime masturbation years. On more than one occasion, I didn’t care to discuss the stain or where it’d originated. One can only use the excuse of spilled milk so many times. Not that my mom ever questioned me. How? I have no idea because I’m the younger of two brothers, and from the thin wall that separates my brother Tanner and me, I wasn’t the first one to beat off in our parents’ home.

  My legs rustle under the sheets until I hit a smooth leg. I glance to my right, finding a pair of hazel eyes that have been fixated on me for the past three days. They belong to the girl whose eyes have raked over my body, whose hands have touched me whenever possible, and whose pussy has rubbed up against my thigh more often than my mom’s new puppy, Dash. I’m not dismissing her. She’s a knockout with short blonde hair, as many tattoos as myself, long legs that leave you struggling to breathe until you catch a glimpse of her ass. Then, you’re completely breathless.

  But I’m not in any spot to date anyone right now. After two failed relationships, I became celibate again. It’s not as distressing the second time around, but maybe that’s because, this time, my sex free life is my choice.

  Bea, the girl in my bed, has been flirting with me since I arrived for my neighbor Brad Ashby’s wedding, and I’ve behaved, not allowing myself to waver over that friendship line. I’ve kept the conversations to television shows, music, and movies.

  Last night though, I might have drunk one or two shots too many, drowning my willpower in the bottom of a vodka glass, when she circled her ass over my crotch on the dimly lit dance floor.

  All our friends and family members had left the bar early after Brad had once again made a spectacle of himself. We stayed, which marked my first bad decision of the night. Then, she dared me to do a shot with her, resulting in my second bad decision. Then, she asked me to dance—my third bad decision.

  She leaned in close to my ear, all breathy, and whispered, “Fuck me.”

  No heterosexual male who’d drunk half the liquor shelf would or could decline an offer like that.

  The ultimate failed decision is the reason I’m sitting against my headboard, wondering how the hell I’ll sneak her out of my bedroom.

  Four days of having her eyes pinned on me like I was a damn rock star conquered the lacerations that Ava had inflicted from a five-minute conversation. Bea made me believe that Ava had made a mistake when she chose to release me into the open market.

  Now, in the light of day, I’m thinking that Ava’s reason to break up with me was a good one. Even though I never thought that being too good of a person was a viable reason to break up, my stomach won’t stop twisting to the fact that I’ll be hurting Bea this morning.

  “Dylan,” she coos, her hand extending over the imaginary line I’ve initiated between us.

  “Bea.” I purposely attempt to sound indifferent to her touching my arm.

  “Let’s go eat breakfast.”

  Breakfast? What? Is she crazy? I have to figure out how to remove her from my house before my mom comes in to grab my sheets.

  The buzz of my phone couldn’t have happened at a better time. I throw open the sheets, shrug on my jeans from last night, grab my phone, and hightail it out of the room.

  “Hello?” I whisper, not to clue in anyone inside this house to the fact that I’m awake.

  “Dylan, it’s me.”

  My head tips back, lightly knocking the wall behind me, and my eyes focus on the ceiling.

  “What do you want, Ava?” I really wish I had checked the screen before hastily answering.

  “I want to talk. You keep sending my calls to voice mail.”

  “What else is there to say? Aren’t I a wimp? Too nice of a guy who lets you walk all over me?” I argue, my voice rising higher than I wish since I’m hearing the clinking of pots and pans downstairs.

  “Dylan, don’t be like that. I just meant that maybe you could be more . . . I don’t know . . . alpha.”

  “Maybe, what? Toss you around a little? Tie you up and pull your hair while I fuck you? Is that what you want? Maybe I’ll go out with my friends, get wasted, come back, and push you down to your knees to suck me off. Is that what you want, Ava?” My blood boils more intensely each time I think of her sitting on my couch after a night with her friends, asking me to treat her like shit.

  “I just wanted some spontaneity. You’re happy with just watching movies, going out to eat, or hanging out at the corner bar.”

  “I did those things because you liked them. Because all I cared”—I clear my throat—“about was making you happy, but that wasn’t good enough. You want someone who rides a motorcycle and gets into fights. Go find him, Ava. Your knight in terror is out there somewhere. I have shit to handle here, so I gotta go.”

  “Wait. When are you coming back to New York?”

  “I’m not. Cameron will pick up my stuff and send it to me.” My bac
k thumps against the wall, the expected loss of my failed relationship coming to a close.

  Ava and I didn’t live together, but there’s a box with my stuff at her place.

  “I thought you were coming home.” Her voice breaks.

  I can imagine her nose crinkling, her eyelids drooping. The vindictive side of me is happy that she’s upset. Serves her right after she threw our relationship of a year out the window. I’d thought we were perfect, pieces of puzzles that had somehow found each other in a city of millions. Not her though. To her, I wasn’t cool enough. Wasn’t badass enough.

  “I am home, Ava. Good-bye.” I hang up the phone, unable to continue making myself feel like less of a person than I am.

  She acts like I bought her flowers every damn day or took her on romantic carriage rides. Just because I opened doors for her, pulled out chairs for her, and paid for everything, I was an appalling boyfriend.

  What-the-fuck-ever. I’m over it.

  At least, I keep telling myself that I am.

  “Dylan!” my mom calls up the stairs.

  I hear her footsteps, so I slowly enter my bedroom, quietly latching the lock, forgetting she has ears like a deer.

  I turn around to find Bea dressed with her phone in her hand.

  “You gotta go. My mom’s going to open that door in about two minutes. If she finds you in here, questions are going to be asked, and I’m really not in the mood to answer them.”

  I glance at my window where I used to sneak out when I was in high school. The trellis will definitely hold Bea; she’s no more than one hundred thirty.

  “Okay.” She springs into action, as though seeing my mom under these circumstances would be similar to a root canal.

  “The trellis.” I cringe, biting my bottom lip.

  She looks down the two stories.

  “I’ll pick you up down the street and drive you back to your car.”

  Without another word, she swings her legs over the window ledge and climbs down. There’s no lengthy good-bye or promises of a call.

  A knock on my door and the jiggle of my knob immediately sounds.

  “Dylan.”

  I release a breath. Does she not realize I’m twenty-three now?

  I open the door, grabbing my T-shirt off the floor to cover myself up.

  “Why was your door locked?” She examines me, and her eyes shoot toward the window.

  “I needed privacy.”

  “I thought I heard voices.” She swiftly bypasses me to the bed, wrapping up my sheets into a ball.

  My gut twists as I think about what she’ll find in there. I’m sure I threw the condom away. Instinctually, my eyes veer to my bathroom.

  She follows my vision. “I’ll just empty your trash can, too.”

  I jump in front of her, blocking the door. “I’m coming down, so I’ll grab it.”

  She stands there, looking me over, working my psychotic behavior out in her head. Why am I so jumpy? Why won’t I allow her to clean up after me, like I usually do?

  “Okay.” She turns around and moves toward the door. “Breakfast is ready,” she says.

  “I’m going apartment-shopping today,” I inform her.

  She’s enjoyed having my brother and me back in the house these past few days. But Tanner is leaving for Colorado again, and I must start my new life here in Michigan.

  “Oh, I assumed . . .” She holds the sheets against her hip and leans on the doorframe. “It’s a shame about Brad and Bayli calling off the wedding.”

  “Not really. She seemed like a bitch, and I only talked to her twice,” I comment.

  Brad, my next-door neighbor and brother’s best friend, was supposed to be getting married today, but he called it off.

  “Did you ever meet this Taylor they were talking about?” she asks.

  “No, she attended college with them,” I answer. I wish she’d move along because Bea’s probably halfway to her car by now, thinking I’m a douche who abandoned her.

  “I hope he finds happiness, like your brother,” she continues talking.

  I inch toward the door, urging her to leave.

  “I’m sure he will. I gotta run out really quick. I’ll be right down.”

  I give her a nudge, and since she’s lost in her own thoughts of how Brad might be unhappy, she doesn’t notice.

  Once she’s walking down the stairs, I jog into the bathroom and grab the condom. Against my better judgment, I flush it down the toilet. One condom surely won’t clog it. I hope. Otherwise, I’ll be left to answer new questions from my mom.

  Swiping my keys from my dresser, I run down the stairs, sliding into my sandals, and jog to my GTO.

  It’s a classic, and I’m the only one who drives it. I had to leave it here when I went to New York, but now, I’m not letting it go again. In high school, my dad offered to buy me a car, but I saved up half of the money to buy a classic. It was already fixed up for me because, although I could make model replicas of it, physically, I couldn’t do shit with cars. A twinge of pain hits my heart because, maybe if I knew the difference between a differential and manifold, Ava would have stayed.

  Bea’s turning the corner of my street when I finally reach her. I stop, and she slides in, not upset in any type of way. Not that I notice anyway. Panic sets in that she doesn’t expect much from people, and I guarantee that she didn’t anticipate me picking her up.

  “Sorry. My mom,” I excuse myself.

  She shrugs, her hands sitting in her lap. “No big deal.”

  We drive the next ten minutes in silence. Bea softly sings each song, not conscious that I can hear her. It’s cute, the way she sings a few words wrong. Not like I’m going to correct her.

  I pull into Brecker’s parking lot, and her Mercedes sits with two other cars scattered in the parking lot. Obviously, we weren’t the only ones who got a little carried away last night.

  She opens the door and climbs out. “Thanks. See you later.” She winks and turns around.

  “Bea!” I call out to stop her. Not sure why since this is what I wanted—no strings, no relationship. But, for some reason, I’m baffled that she can just walk away with nothing more than a good-bye.

  She leans over the ledge of the car window, her shirt hanging low, giving me a glimpse of what I felt last night. Soft, ample, and luxurious tits.

  “You have my number.”

  She laughs and shakes her head.

  “You really are sweet, aren’t you? No need for politeness, Dylan. Last night was a hook-up. Let’s leave it at that.”

  The gravel crunches under her feet, and I watch as she climbs into her expensive car. Without so much as a look back, she speeds out of the parking lot and out of my life.

  I wish I wasn’t some poor sap, sitting in my car, wondering why I am so painless to leave.

  Bea

  I WEAVE THROUGH THE MASSES of people on their way to work with the sun beating down on my neck. My turn for the morning coffee, so I perch a tray of four coffees on one hand, holding them up high in the air, sliding between two men competing on who tapped the hotter girl on Friday night. I barely fit through the elevator doors before they shut.

  “Seventeen, please,” I say to no one in particular.

  Nonetheless, my floor is pressed, and the elevator lifts to drop everyone off at his or her designated area for the day.

  By the time we jet off floor fifteen, I find myself with only two other people—an arguing couple rambling on about their kids and schedules and working relationship. Ugh, the dramas of marriage. If my mom’s taught me anything—which would be the only thing—it is that marriage is for the incapable. The unity of two people forever is for those who can’t make it on their own and thrive on the dependence of someone else. Not me though. The last thing I want is some expectant guy hanging on me.

  Thank goodness the door dings, and I’m freed from the torment I experienced enough during my childhood.

  I turn around once I’m on my floor, standing on the opposite side of
World War III. “Do yourselves a favor, and just divorce. Your kids will thank you.” I twist on my heels and walk down the hall.

  “Fuck you,” the lady sneers.

  I don’t blame her. I’d have probably jumped out of the elevator and pummeled a bitch if she’d said something like that to me. But the lady really should take my advice because she’d be happier in the end.

  Any guy who told me that I’d let myself go after I’d popped out his three kids deserved to see what it was like to live with half of his income. I mean, it wasn’t exactly like she was staring at George Clooney over there.

  I push the glass doors of the company I work for, Deacon Advertising, open and smile at the friendly receptionist. A new fresh face, but those doe eyes oddly resemble the five before her.

  “Hi, I’m Bea Zanders.” I wave my hand in the air.

  She shifts in her chair to stand up, but I shoo her back down.

  “No need for introductions. There’s been four of you this month already.” I lean in closer, careful not to tip the coffees in my hand. “Here’s a hint—don’t bring personal items in just yet.”

  The cute brunette’s tender eyes turn frantic.

  “But there’s always the exception, and that could be you.” I smile wide, and her lips turn into a slight grin.

  Yes, some think I’m harsh. Others are assured that I’m a bitch, but I’m truthful. I expect the same, so I don’t see why people are offended. Do they want to be blind to what’s around them? To be the one sitting there with a damn cheery smile splashed across their face while people point and whisper behind their back? Trust me, they don’t.

  I dodge a line of co-workers shuffling down the hallway, opposite of myself.

  “What’s up?” I ask John, my cubicle mate.

  He swiftly grabs a coffee from my tray and twists me back around to file in line with the masses. Sliding my purse and laptop bag off my shoulder, he leans over the privacy wall, disposing them onto my desk. “Meeting. Didn’t you get the email?”

  I dig my phone out, seeing it’s black screen. “Dead.”