Connection (Temptation Series Standalones Book 2) Read online

  Connection

  K.M. Golland

  Copyright 2020

  Published by Golland Family Pty Ltd

  Cover Design: Lilliana Anderson

  Editor: Kayla Robichaux

  Formatting: K.M. Golland

  All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic format without permission from the author. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. All characters and storylines are the property of the author and your support and respect is appreciated. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. Except the original material written by the author, all songs, song titles and lyrics contained in this book are the property of the respective songwriters and copyright holders.

  Every girl is a princess,

  with or without a prince.

  Contents

  1. Chapter One

  2. Chapter Two

  3. Chapter Three

  4. Chapter Four

  5. Chapter Five

  6. Chapter Six

  7. Chapter Seven

  8. Chapter Eight

  9. Chapter Nine

  10. Chapter Ten

  11. Chapter Eleven

  12. Chapter Twelve

  13. Chapter Thirteen

  14. Chapter Fourteen

  15. Chapter Fifteen

  16. Chapter Sixteen

  17. Chapter Seventeen

  18. Chapter Eighteen

  19. Chapter Nineteen

  20. Chapter Twenty

  21. Epilogue

  22. Extended Epilogue

  23. The End

  Turn Over

  24. Discovering Stella Prologue

  Also by K.M. Golland

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  “Vaginas rule the world!” my flamboyant best friend hollers.

  “Really, Carly?” I facepalm then peek through my spread fingers, unable to stop myself from smiling at her idiocy.

  “Yes, really.” She points a spatula covered in meringue at me. “And it’s about time you realised it.”

  Sliding my hand to my temple, I massage it to release the Carly-tension Carly so easily puts there. “How? How do vaginas rule the world? Please enlighten me.”

  This should be good.

  She licks the spatula and waggles her eyebrows. “Because men are powerless when it comes to the pink taco.”

  “Oh my God! Are you for real?”

  “I’m for very real. The realest real I can be.” Carly places her hands on the benchtop and pierces me with her very real stare. “That carrot-topped taco between your legs is the most powerful thing you’ll ever own, so I suggest you wield it like a weapon.”

  “Carly!”

  “What?” She furrows her brow for the slightest of seconds before brushing her inappropriate comment off with the swish of her hand.

  Inappropriate. That’s the best way to describe my roommate and best friend of several years. She’s offensive, fierce, and filterless, but she also has a heart of gold and bears an uncanny resemblance to Barbie.

  Snatching the spatula from her manicured hand before she further desecrates our kitchen, I safely place it in the dishwasher, close the door, and rest my backside against it, arms crossed over my chest. “You can’t just talk about my vagina like that.”

  “Yes, I can. You’re a redhead, Lib. It’s scientifically proven that your taco is redheaded as well.”

  This is why Carly isn’t a teacher and I am.

  “Scientifically proven?” I prompt, almost choking.

  “Yep.” She pokes at the cake she’s just covered in meringue and then sucks her finger clean.

  “It’s not scientifically proven.” Dismissing her lunacy like I normally do, I walk to the stools at our breakfast bar and slump into one. “You’re right about one thing though; vaginas should rule the world—”

  “Do,” she interrupts, “not should. Do.”

  “Right. Do.” I sigh, unconvinced, and then pick at my unmanicured nails.

  “You should see to those abominations.” Carly gestures to my fingers while performing a “blergh” face.

  I fold them into my hands and make fists. “Why?”

  “Because they’re hideous.”

  “Why does it even matter? I’ve no one to impress.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  “Who?”

  She points to her voluptuous chest. “Me… and your Prince Charming.” Carly smiles and bats her eyelids, and I know she’s patronising me. “Oh, and you, of course. You should do it for you too.”

  I scoff. “We both know my Prince Charming doesn’t exist.”

  She pouts. “Yes, he does.”

  “No, he doesn’t. I’ve been waiting all my life for him to ride in on his horse at sunset and whisk me away to live happily ever after, and he hasn’t. Not once.” I throw my hands in the air. “So why should I bother ‘decorating’ myself while waiting for him? I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t bother at all.”

  “Oh, Libby Mermaid…” Carly’s lips flatten, just like my mum’s did before she told me Santa Claus wasn’t real.

  I bite back my half-smile at one of her nicknames for me—The Little Mermaid is my favourite Disney Princess—and snap out a, “What?”

  “It saddens me to tell you this, but, yes, you’re right, Prince freakin’ Charming doesn’t exist.” She leans over the benchtop, her chin propped in her hands. “What’s wrong? Something’s really bothering you. I can tell.”

  I divert my gaze to our pastel-pink Smeg kettle. “There’s nothing bothering me.”

  “I call bullshit.”

  “You can call whatever you like.”

  “Libby, what aren’t you telling me?”

  “Nothing!” My face flushes with heat.

  “Lies!” she yells, pointing at me and nearly taking out my eye. “Your cheeks are as red as your taco.”

  Gritting my teeth, I snatch up my handbag and head to my room.

  “Where are you going?”

  I don’t answer her; there’s no point.

  “Wait! Lib, come back. I’m just kidding. Tell me what’s wrong.”

  Again, I don’t answer. I’m just not in the mood.

  “Fairy tales, princes, and princesses are all real,” she calls out. “I promise. Now come back.”

  “Have a good time tonight, Carly,” I say as I close my bedroom door behind me.

  Tears sting my eyes, but I wipe them away with the back of my hand. I’m not going to cry over him. Not again. Not a second longer. He’s stolen enough tears from me already, and I refuse to let him steal any more. Tears aren’t like rain; you shouldn’t just let them fall.

  Blowing out a long, slow breath, I blink my eyes dry just as Sasha—Carly’s eight-month-old golden retriever pup—scratches at my door. I turn the handle and let her in, and she bounds into the room like a sun-kissed whirlwind.

  “Hello, baby girl.”

  Bending down, I knead my fingers into the base of her ears. She smiles, which makes me smile.

  “Did your rude, inappropriate mummy take you for a walk today?”

  Sasha barks and whips her tongue across my face.

  “My guess is that’s a no.”

  She goes for a second tongue-whip, and I scrunch my nose but laugh. “Who needs men when we have dogs like you, huh?”

  She barks again.

  “Exactly! Men are jerks.”

  Sasha rolls onto her back a
nd kicks her legs in the air, so I sit on the ground next to her and scratch her belly, her leg twitching like crazy.

  “Oooh yeah.” I scratch harder. “That’s the spot.”

  My phone sounds an incoming message, so I abandon Sasha’s belly and reach into my handbag, pulling it out to find a text message from Oliver.

  Oliver: I’m sorry, Lib. Got caught up. Raincheck?

  I roll my eyes at his lame excuse. Pfft. Caught up? More like forgot.

  Today isn’t the first time Oliver—a teacher and colleague at my school—has stood me up, but it will be the last.

  I decide not to respond, and a few minutes later, another message sounds.

  Debating whether or not to look, curiosity ends up getting the better of me.

  Oliver: I swear, Lib. My grandma needed me to fix a leaky tap.

  His grandma? Pa-lease. I’m not falling for that. I toss my phone onto the bed and stand up, ready to take a shower and get dressed for my mother’s birthday dinner, when doubt creeps up my spine like a spindly spider and stops me.

  What if he’s telling the truth? I mean helping his grandma is quite lovely and chivalrous, and I shouldn’t punish him for being a wonderful grandson, should I?

  Biting my lip, I clasp my phone and hover my finger over the Reply button until I eventually press it and type him a response.

  Libby: It’s okay. I hope you fixed the leak.

  Oliver: I did. Thanks for understanding, sweet cheeks.

  Sweet cheeks? Warmth spreads over my body, and I feel a little fuzzy but also a little weird; he’s never called me sweet cheeks before. In fact, he’s never called me anything other than Lib or Ms Hanson.

  Oliver: So, raincheck?

  Libby: Sure

  Oliver: Great! Dinner Wednesday?

  I smile; dinner sounds perfect.

  Libby: Looking forward to it.

  Oliver: See you Monday.

  Placing my phone back down, I silently curse myself for being too quick to vilify him. Sure, he’s stood me up a couple of times before, but he’s always apologised and tried to make amends, and remorse has got to count for something.

  Sasha barks her impatience and tries to paw my hand, so I clasp her fluffy face and kiss the space between her big brown eyes. “Your mummy is wrong, Sashy. Prince Charming does exist, and he thinks I have sweet cheeks.” I hug her to my chest, and she licks my chin. “I just have to wait for him a little while longer. And shit!” I cringe at my hands. “I need to paint my fingernails.”

  Chapter Two

  “Happy birthday!” I hand Mum a bunch of flowers and some bath bombs from Lush then wrap my arms around her tiny frame. Like me, she could pass as one of Snow White’s dwarfs.

  Mum buries her nose in a rose and breathes in. “Thank you, dear. They’re lovely.”

  I mouth, “Hi” to Dad, who’s carving a roast beef at the bench behind her. He slips a small sliver of meat into my mouth, presses his “shh” finger to his lips, and winks.

  “Mm,” I mumble, quickly swallowing the evidence. “Smells delicious, Dad.”

  Mum pulls back and holds me at arm’s length, her eyes suspicious slits. She then assesses my appearance, frowns, and pulls the hair ties out of my braids before flicking my hair with her hands so it fans over my shoulders.

  “Hey!” I touch a tendril and frown back at her. “What did you do that for?”

  “Piggytails, Elizabeth? Really? You’re too old for piggytails.”

  “I am not. My students love them.”

  “It’s the weekend; you’re not seeing your students until Monday.”

  Mum ducks into the dining room, so I give Dad a kiss on the cheek then make my way to where my sister, Fiona, is jiggling her daughter, Isabella, on her hip.

  “Hey,” I say to Fi and hold my arms out.

  Izzy launches into them, so I kiss the crook of her chubby neck, making her giggle.

  “Thank God,” my sister says. She cracks her neck from side to side then stretches her back. “She’s getting too heavy to hold all the time.”

  “So don’t hold her all the time.”

  Fi deadpans, “It’s not that easy, Lib.”

  I laugh. “Yeah, it is.”

  She purses her lips. “I was going to tell you not to listen to Mum, because I liked your piggytails, but now you can kiss my arse.”

  Covering Izzy’s ears, I turn her away from her potty-mouthed mother and say, “Naughty Mummy said a bad word.”

  Fi rolls her eyes at me just as Mum returns with a large crystal vase for her flowers.

  “Did you girls plan this?” she asks, smiling at us.

  “Plan wha—”

  “Yes,” Fi interrupts, her grin smug.

  “How sweet.” Mum happily arranges her lilies and roses. “New flowers and a new vase. Aren’t I spoilt?”

  Leaning closer to my gloating sister, I murmur, “Did you get her that ginormous vase for her birthday?”

  She nods. “Yep.”

  It looks expensive, much more expensive than my flowers and bath bombs.

  “You’re such a suck,” I add.

  “That’s why I’m the favourite and you’re not.”

  I glare at her, but she’s right; she is the favourite. Always has been. Mum’s golden child—married, successful, the bearer of a grandchild.

  I only tick one of those boxes.

  Fi pokes out her tongue then helps Mum get plates out to set the table while I stand helpless with Izzy in my arms.

  “Thank you, Fiona.” Mum pats her hand.

  “Anything for my mother on her birthday.”

  I almost spew in my mouth. Fi is so blatantly obvious, and as per usual, she’s also successfully set me up. I can’t help, not with a toddler on my hip.

  “How’s work, Elizabeth?” Dad asks as he dishes up some roasted carrots.

  “Fine. Teaching Grade 3 is a joy.” I sneak a carrot off a plate and blow it, cooling it down before handing it to Izzy.

  “Libby!” Fi scolds. “She’s already had her dinner.”

  My eyes bulge at my younger sister. “So?”

  Izzy smashes the carrot into her gob and hums her appreciation. Dad and I laugh.

  “So… she won’t drink her bedtime bottle if she eats too many solids.”

  “If she’s hungry, she’s hungry. If she isn’t, she isn’t. Look at her.” Izzy sucks on her mucky fingers. “Clearly, she’s hungry.”

  “It doesn’t work that way.” Fi huffs and hands me a wet wipe.

  I take it and clean Izzy’s fingers and face, baffled by my sister’s logic. “You worry too much about what those stupid parenting books say.”

  “Those ‘stupid parenting books’ are helpful.”

  “Yeah, helpful in stressing first-time parents like you out.”

  “Don’t judge me, Lib.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Yes, you are. When you have kids, you can do what you wan—”

  I shove Izzy back into her arms, grab a bunch of cutlery, and head into the dining room to set the table. I’m not in the mood for her holier-than-thou attitude. And anyway, I’m older; that attitude should come from me.

  As I enter the room, Fi’s husband, Ian, is already sitting at the table, his head down, mobile phone in hand. He looks up and smiles then slides the phone into his back pocket.

  “Hey, Lib.”

  “Hey, why are you hiding in here?”

  His back straightens. “I’m not hiding.”

  Smirking, I lay down a knife and fork. “I never said I blamed you for doing so. Why do you think I’m in here too?”

  Ian relaxes. “What happened this time, huh?”

  I shrug. “Just the usual—my hair wasn’t right, and your wife is better than me.”

  “She’s not better than you.” He stands up and takes a bunch of cutlery from me. “And there’s nothing wrong with your hair.”

  I scoff just as Mum, Dad, Fi, and Izzy enter the room.

  “Ian, can you help carry some plates?
” Fi snaps. “Or better yet, take Iz and put her in her highchair.”

  He gives me an I-feel-your-pain look, hands back the cutlery, and pries Iz from Fi’s arms.

  My ten-month-old niece squirms like a worm and says, “Mum, Mum, Mum.”

  Ian blows a raspberry into her chest. “How about Dad, Dad, Dad?”

  She cackles, and it’s the loveliest sound I’ve heard all day, maybe ever.

  Taking a seat, I ask Mum about her day. “Did you do anything special for your birthday?”

  “I’m doing it now, dear.”

  “No, I mean today. Did you go to the movies, or out for lunch, or something like that?”

  “No. But your father did set up a table in your old bedroom for me so I can do my scrapbooking.”

  “Cool!” I fork a roasted potato, pop it into my mouth, and mumble, “Nice job, Dad.”

  “What about you, Elizabeth? Did you do anything special today?” Mum asks, her expression hopeful.

  I almost groan. “If you mean did I go on a date with a strapping young man, then no.”

  “I didn’t say—”

  “You didn’t have to. It’s written all over your face.”

  She turns to Dad with a questioning expression.

  He nods at her. “She’s right, Maria; it’s all over your face.” Dad dabs her nose with his fork and leaves a smear of gravy.

  “Fred!” She wipes it clean then directs her attention back to me. “I didn’t say that. But now that you’ve mentioned the word date, how’s that teacher at your school? Oliver? Is that his name?”

  “Yes.” I tip my glass of wine to my lips and all but skol it. “We’re just friends, Mum, and colleagues.”

  “Just because you’re colleagues doesn’t mean you can’t—”