I Do, I Do . . . Again Read online

  Praise for USA Today Bestselling Author Barbara Bretton

  "A monumental talent." --Affaire de Coeur

  "Very few romance writers create characters as well-developed as Bretton's. Her books pull you in and don't let you leave until the last word is read." --Booklist (starred review)

  "One of today's best women's fiction authors." --The Romance Reader

  "Barbara Bretton is a master at touching readers' hearts." --Romance Reviews Today

  I DO, I DO . . . AGAIN

  a novella

  by Barbara Bretton

  Copyright 2012 Barbara Bretton

  Cover design by Barbara Bretton

  Chapter One

  They say a man never forgets his first love, the first woman to claim his heart. Maybe that was why the sign in the art gallery window caught Robert's eye on that sunny April afternoon. Grand Opening, it read in bold deco print. Sunny invites you to a wine-and-cheese Open House to celebrate the opening of Gallery One.

  Sunny.

  The name alone was enough to summon up the memory of warm summer nights and youthful dreams. Lately he'd found himself thinking about his ex-wife at the oddest times. The scent of Shalimar...a woman with eyes the color of a green meadow...the nagging feeling that if they'd tried harder or loved each other more their marriage might have worked out.

  The odds of bumping into her after so many years were probably a million to one. There had to be more than one woman named Sunny in the state of Pennsylvania, he reasoned as he opened the door then stepped inside the gallery.

  "Hi," said a middle-aged woman dressed in white. "Help yourself to wine and cheese." He was about to thank her when she gave him a closer look. "Are you the guy from the bank? Mr. Daniels said he was--"

  "That's what I get for wearing a suit to an art gallery," he said with an easy laugh. "I'm just taking a look around."

  She shrugged. "Well, enjoy yourself. And make sure you have some wine."

  He glanced around the crowded gallery. The women in the room were either too old, too young, too tall, or too average to be Sunny.

  He'd been looking for a curvy slip of a woman with a fiery personality to match her wild mane of red curls. She could be a blonde now. She could have tamed both her disposition and her hair and turned into someone he wouldn't recognize without a name tag. Nothing stayed the same, no matter how much you wished it would.

  The thought of Sunny trading in her dreams for a stock portfolio was enough to ruin his day.

  A man's first love was meant to live on in his memory forever, beautiful and perfect, untouched by time. This had been a lousy idea and the thing to do now was get out while the getting was good and his memories were still intact.

  And then he saw her.

  He would have recognized her anywhere. She was standing near a Chinese screen, looking as beautiful as she had the last time he'd seen her. She wore a Spandex mini skirt, an over-sized silver and gold sweater and sheer black stockings with patent leather ankle boots. A Technicolor tumble of red curls fell halfway to her waist and he wanted to plunge his hands into the silky mass and--

  Whoa.

  Ex-wives weren't supposed to get a man's heart pumping hard inside his chest. He had no business noticing the way the glittery sweater clung to her rounded breasts or the shapely length of leg revealed by her mini. He'd known her back when breasts like that were a fervent dream, not a luscious reality. He'd seen her with her hair in rollers, with makeup and without. Happy, sad, and every mood in between.

  A big guy with a shock of ice blond hair whispered something in her ear and she laughed. Husky. Low. Sexy as hell. He'd never heard her laugh like that before and the sound sizzled its way to all of his major body parts. Who did that schmuck think he was, whispering to her like that? Back off, Holland, an inner voice warned. That schmuck could be her husband.

  "No," he said out loud. "No way in hell."

  She was his.

  ***

  Sunny was still laughing at Vladimir's joke when she saw him.

  Was the one man she'd loved enough to marry was about to step back into her life? It was impossible.

  Absolutely, positively impossible.

  "It's been a long time, Sunny." That voice. Deep. Rich. Vibrant. The kind of voice that could talk a woman into bed before she knew what was happening. Dear God, it was....

  "Robert?" She stared at him, open-mouthed. He was bigger than she'd remembered and older, but he was still the most beautiful man she'd ever known and she wondered how it was they had ever said goodbye. "Robby!" She threw herself into his arms, tears and laughter erupting simultaneously. "My God! I can't believe this!"

  He swept her up into an exuberant bear hug that lifted her from the ground and made her feel fragile and feminine and infinitely desirable. He smelled faintly of soap and his cheek was still warm from the sun. His thick dark brown hair grazed his collar, same as it had years ago, and she found herself wondering if it would feel as silky as it looked. He was broad across the chest and still narrow of hip and he was still the sexiest man she had ever seen.

  He released her from his hug and she found herself reluctant to let go. It had been so long since she'd been close to him and, right or wrong, it had felt so wonderful in his arms.

  He gave her a long and appreciative look. "Only you could get away with an outfit like that."

  "This is one of my more conservative outfits." She tugged at the tie that hung loosely about his neck. "And only you could get away with this and still look sexy."

  "You look great, Sunny."

  "So do you." Age was always kind to men and in this case, it had been extremely generous. Was it possible for a man's eyes to grow bluer with time? She doubted it, but still....

  "When did you--"

  "What brought you--"

  They met each other's eyes and laughed again.

  "You first," he said. She felt as if she were caught somewhere between the past and the present, suspended on a cloud of bittersweet memory.

  We can make it, Sunny, I know we can. I'll work part-time at McDonald's and after the baby comes, you can--

  She shook her head to banish the memory. "What on earth are you doing here?"

  "Business meeting just outside of town. I was hunting around for a place to grab some lunch."

  "You're the last person I expected to see."

  "I'm kind of surprised myself."

  She made a show of inspecting his attire. "Judging by the suit, I'd say you became an attorney after all."

  He favored her with a wry smile. "Judging by the gallery, I'd say you found your career in art."

  "I'm not going to be the next Picasso, but I'm happy."

  "I'm glad."

  She tilted her head, looking at him with open and unabashed curiosity. "You're telling me you just happened to walk by my gallery?"

  He motioned toward the sign in the front window. "I saw the poster. You know what a sucker I am for wine-and-cheese parties."

  "This from the man who once told me he'd rather be trapped in a locked basement with Godzilla than go to a party with my artsy friends?"

  "I'm never going to live that down, am I?" He shook his head. "I was eighteen. I've mellowed."

  Impulsively she reached out and took his hand. "You don't know how wonderful it is to see you again. I'd hoped to see you at our tenth reunion." Idiot! Why don't you just pin your heart to your sleeve and be done with it? It wasn't as if she'd spent the last fifteen years pining after her ex-husband. She had a successful career, a happy life, friends and family who loved her. She had no right to want more. "I mean, the old gang really missed you."

  An odd look drifted across his face and he glanced away for a moment. Just long enough for her to sense the gulf
time had placed between them.

  "You didn't miss much of anything," she continued, trying to fill the silence with chatter about the last reunion of the class of 1997. "Lisa was pregnant with her fourth baby. John lost weight. Kenny is cornering the market on Rogaine and Karen still loves Paul."

  "And what about you?" Who do you love, Sunny? Who claimed your heart?

  "Still a free spirit," she said, feeling anything but. The sweet yoke of their common history tugged gently at her heart. "Drifting through life, wondering what's around the next corner."

  "People who drift through life don't open their own art galleries."

  "Oh, I land from time to time," she said, trying to figure out a way to release his hand without seeming rude. "I'm not a total flake, Robby. I just look like one."

  "I never said you were."

  "That's right," she said softly, remembering. "You never did." Everyone else had laughed at her dreams, told her to put aside her visions of glory and study business like the rest of them, but not Robert. He had been behind her all the way, even though her dreams must have seemed as formless and bizarre as a Dali painting to him.

  "Excuse me." Her assistant bustled up to them. "No more champagne. No more pate. No more crackers." Her glance flickered to Robert then back to Sunny again. "What now?"

  "No more party, I suppose." She glanced at her watch. "Actually we've run an hour later than I'd planned."

  "The painters called and they're itching to finish up in the back. Can I give them the go-ahead?"

  "Another half-hour," said Sunny. "I'd hate to give our guests the bum's rush." Especially you, she thought, stealing a look at Robert. It had been so long--and there was so much she wanted to know about him.

  Her assistant hurried away to give the painters the go-ahead and Sunny turned back to her ex-husband. She had already noticed there was no ring on the appropriate finger, but that in itself meant little. One of her most persistent would-be suitors had been a ringless married man.

  "Are you married?" asked Robert.

  She blinked. "I was about to ask you the same thing."

  "So are you?"

  "No." She took a shaky breath, remembering something about a wife and children. "Are you?"

  He shook his head. "Widowed."

  "I'm sorry."

  "And I have two kids."

  She took another deep breath. "Two?"

  "A six year old boy and a twelve year old girl."

  "Oh."

  "Do you like kids?"

  "I like them just fine." She'd given him children, whoever his wife had been. A sharp stab of envy knifed at her heart. "It must be difficult, being a single father and all."

  "I'm luckier than a lot of people," he said, eyes locked with hers. "I can afford help at home. Mrs. Jennings keeps us all on track."

  She tried to imagine him driving a carpool or fixing school lunches, but failed miserably. He had everything they'd ever wanted...everything they'd ever dreamed they would one day have together.

  "Sunny!" Her assistant's voice rang out. "Roscoe needs some help over here."

  "Go help Roscoe," said Robert with an easy smile. "I'll still be here when you're finished."

  Her heart did a strange little dance inside her chest. "You will?"

  "I'm taking you to lunch."

  "That sounds wonderful."

  "Know where we can get some good food?"

  "Oh yes," she said with a pleased smile. "I know just the place."

  ***

  She hadn't been his wife since Bill Clinton was in office, yet the minute Robert stepped inside her house overlooking the river, he instantly recognized her personal touch in every corner of every room. From the floor-to-ceiling wall of cuckoo clocks in the foyer to the lemon yellow hammock suspended from the exposed beams in the living room, the place was pure Sunny.

  "Help yourself to some wine," she said, heading toward the narrow staircase to the left of the foyer. "I'm going to change into something more culinary."

  "Nothing wrong with what you have on." Covering up those legs of hers would be a capital offense.

  To his amazement color flooded her cheeks as if she had read his mind. "The glasses are in the kitchen. Second cabinet to the left of the sink. Pour me some red," she said, running a hand through her tousled curls with a quick, yet graceful, motion. "I'll be right down."

  He stood at the foot of the stairs, blatantly watching her until she disappeared through the door at the top of the landing. Her slender hips still swayed gently when she walked, like a provocative metronome. It was nice to know some things didn't change. He'd spent the better part of high school enjoying the way the back pockets of her jeans moved to the syncopated rhythm of her walk. You wouldn't think a man would remember something like that after all this time. He'd finished law school, remarried and fathered two children, but still the memory of Sunny in her faded jeans lingered.

  Sunny was the first girl he'd ever kissed, the first girl he took to bed, the first to claim his heart. It was only logical he'd feel something toward her, a tug of emotion over what they'd once shared. They'd loved with the intensity of youth, the fire of innocence. They'd believed in the sanctity of marriage, believed that the vows they'd taken with such hope for the future would last a lifetime. For an instant he caught the scent of orange blossoms in the air and he glanced about the room, looking for a potpourri hidden away somewhere. He couldn't find one but that didn't mean it wasn't there.

  Nobody imagined the scent of orange blossoms.

  ***

  Sunny prayed he didn't notice the way her hand shook as she accepted a glass of red a few minutes later.

  "To old friends," he said.

  She smiled. "To old friends."

  They clinked glasses. Sunlight streamed in from the stained glass window on the far wall, casting shadows of sapphire and ruby across the polished oak floor of her living room. She wished she'd turned on the radio, anything to mask the thundering of her heart inside chest. What had she been thinking of, inviting him back to her house like this? They should have gone to a restaurant, some nice, anonymous place in the center of town where she knew everyone and everyone knew her.

  She felt painfully aware of his presence, the faint citrusy smell of his skin--the way she longed to run her hands through his thick, silky hair. Get a grip on yourself, Sunny. This isn't a date. This is your ex-husband. Ex-husbands didn't make your hands tremble or your pulse beat faster. And they certainly didn't make a woman dream of slow kisses in the moonlight.

  Or of second chances.

  "There's a beautiful view of the river from my back porch," she said after taking a sip of wine for courage. "Why don't we take our drinks outside?" Space and fresh air would help her recover her equilibrium.

  But sitting outside didn't help. The scent of orange blossoms followed Robert and the world itself seemed too small to contain the emotions in Sunny's heart. For an endless time neither one spoke. Sunny made no effort to excuse herself to prepare the lunch she'd promised him. Robert made no attempt to leave. After a while he reached for her hand, lacing his fingers with hers. They'd held hands like that back in high school, enraptured by the way their fingers meshed so perfectly. Everything had seemed miraculous back then, as if a benevolent God watched over them, making sure no harm could ever come their way.

  They watched as the sun began to disappear behind the trees, blushing the sky with the pink and orange flames of evening.

  But it was always you, Robby. From the very beginning, it was you and you alone, she thought.

  I loved Christine, but no woman ever touched my soul the way you did, he thought in return.

  The night breeze off the river grew chilly.

  Still holding hands, they rose and went back inside.

  The house seemed to reach out and embrace Robert.

  To Sunny it felt like a home for the very first time.

  He built a fire in the hearth while she prepared a simple dinner. The domestic intimacy between them felt
simultaneously familiar and terrifying--a wild combination of emotions that charged the cottage with electricity. There was a sense of destiny about them, as if the fates had conspired to bring them together once again, to give them one last chance at happiness.

  Robert pulled a folding table close to the fireplace in the living room, and Sunny set the table with cherry red water glasses shaped like tulips and plates she had painted to resemble giant cabbage leaves.

  "Chopsticks?" he asked as she laid the ivory utensils across the lime green linen napkins.

  "Live dangerously." She took her seat opposite him. "Chopsticks improve the taste of everything."

  "Of potato salad?"

  "You'd be surprised."

  "You haven't changed," he said, refilling their wineglasses from the half-empty bottle of Chardonnay on the red lacquer butler's table. "Still taking the road less-travelled."

  She took a sip of wine. "That's where you find the best scenery."

  He started to say something flip about the scenery being just fine from where he sat, but the words stayed locked inside his throat. This was the real thing. Not dinner with some friend-of-a-friend-who's-dying-to-meet-you. Not just a way to pass a lonely spring evening while the kids were out of town.

  This was Sunny.

  "It looks great," he said, gesturing toward the food on his plate, "but I'm not hungry."

  She pushed her own plate away. "Neither am I."

  The look in his eyes was as hot and dangerous as the fire burning in the hearth. "Do you still believe in love at first sight?"

  Her eyes fluttered closed for an instant as the impact of his words ignited an answering flame deep inside. "Robert, I--"

  Her words ended abruptly as he pushed back his chair and stood up. He reached for her and, as if in a dream, she placed her hand in his and rose from her chair. She felt his touch in every part of her body and she wondered how it was she had managed to live without the other half of her heart. The feeling was dangerous and mad and totally irresistible.