Everything that lingers, p.1
Everything That Lingers, page 1
Contents
series by raina ash
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
chapter twenty-seven
chapter twenty-eight
epilogue
author’s note
Love & Panic: Chapter One
Love & Panic: Chapter Two
newsletter + bonus
about the author
PRAISE FOR
EVERYTHING THAT LINGERS
Reader comments:
“The characters in this book were so real and their relationships were so complex and nuanced. It's the kind of book that lingers…I LOVED this story!"”
“So much raw emotion…the writing is so authentic and about 'real' people.”
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental or fictionalized.
EVERYTHING THAT LINGERS
Copyright © 2023 by Raina Ash.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in critical articles or reviews.
All characters depicted are 18+
Published by Pink Fox Publishing.
First Edition: November 2023
Printed in the United States of America
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
ISBN 979-8-9860770-2-4 (paperback)
To Terry,
who meticulously reads everything I write even though he wishes I wrote sci-fi and gave it to him in audio
❤
series by raina ash
Love Beyond Words
Nonverbal
Outspoken
Love and Therapy
Love & Panic
The Lion/Lioness Club
Against the Hotel Window
Standalone
Everything That Lingers
Dating Mr. Reeves
chapter one
GRACE
AS I PUNCH THE KEY code into the mansion's door lock, my shoulders tense with the anticipation of going inside. Why did I let my friend Jessica convince me to take a vacation when I don’t even have a job? She manages a few Airbnb listings for rich guys, so I’m staying here for free. But still…
Before my shoulders cave in too much, the lock mechanism clicks, and I glance up at the towering wooden behemoth above me. Wow…how the hell did they install this door? It's literally four times my height, and I'm a solid five-foot-six.
The road to this place is winding and treacherous, filled with potholes and cutting through a narrow row of pine trees. I haven't looked, but I'm guessing several branches scraped my car. So, for a truck to carry this door up here and bring the materials to build this giant house in the middle of nowhere, how the hell…
Biting my lip, I glance at my scuffed white sneakers.
I'm deflecting. My previous therapist said it's how I unconsciously cope—I dismiss my feelings, shift focus, stuff things in a tiny box. Glue the box shut, tie chains around it, drop it in the ocean. Set the ocean on fire.
Therapy definitely helped, and I'm in such a better mental state now, but old habits die hard, I guess.
I'm only anxious about being here because I know I don’t deserve this fancy mini-paradise. There, I faced it.
I tuck a stray curl of my chestnut hair behind my ear, glancing back at my car, which I haven't yet parked in any of the five garages. Inhaling the sharp pine scent of the forest and focusing on the bird songs, nature wraps me in its embrace. Though I'm still on edge and the sky looks ominous, gray, and cloudy, I can't help but feel some relief. Jessica said I can stay here for free for two weeks and forget about my life, escape all the built-up stress from my old graphic design job, and get a break from my grief. I can also ignore the fact that I recently turned thirty. Ugh.
This place is a world away from the chaos I've left behind, so maybe, just maybe, I can find respite here.
Just go inside, Grace.
Forcing myself to stop loitering, I turn the doorknob. Re-tucking my hair behind my ear, I roll my luggage onto the marble tile of the entrance, the squeaky wheels echoing. "Wow," I breathe, my eyes widening at the sights.
The rental is beautifully decorated—which is kind of duh—and I'm left frozen at the magnificence of it all. There's a sparkling crystal chandelier, which I swear must be the size of my sedan. And as I take another step inside, motion sensor lights spring to life, drenching everything in a warm glow that creates a cozy, dreamy atmosphere. Did I just hear a spritz? I sniff and, sure enough, I now smell the fresh scent of lavender.
I move deeper into the house. The living room is large and spacious, with rugs spread across every inch of the marble flooring, each one different from the others. The furniture is simple yet elegant—couches made of suede, and a black grand piano tucked away in a corner. Its glossy finish gleams under the soft pendant lights. There's also an open kitchen with stainless steel appliances and marble countertops.
I move to the glass sliding back door, gazing in wonder at the lush backyard with a swimming pool and spa. A rock waterfall sits at one end of the pristine pool, and I pause to stare at the gently cascading water. Looks like there’s a little romantic rock cave as well, just big enough for two.
This house is fancier and more over-the-top than I had imagined.
Somehow, though I haven't seen him in a while, my ex's snarky voice cuts through the wonder of the moment: "Fancy for a white trash Texas girl, ain't it?"
I return to the front door and close it quietly.
Yeah, maybe.
Another voice interrupts my thoughts, and my head feels entirely too crowded right now: "My precious girl deserves all this and more! Just wanna see my baby girl happy."
My chest aches, right in the middle where it’s the most tender. It’s been months since my mom passed—one year exactly today—but I can still hear her gentle, caring voice, as soothing as a warm blanket.
How much longer until her voice fades? Or until my memories become so hazy that I can't picture her face?
Deflecting the ache in my heart, I puff my cheeks. "Home sweet home," I murmur to myself, walking back to the living room. I glance at one of the brown suede couches. That, along with the massive flat screen and fireplace, beckons me to relax. I’m here to mend my erratic mind and get myself focused on the future, so I simply need to R-E-L-A-X.
After a quick stop in the bathroom, I abandon my luggage in the first bedroom I find, then return to the kitchen. Jessica told me the rental is fully stocked with food, so I grab a box of cookies from a cabinet. Then I find a bottle opener, pop open the wine from the welcome basket, and chug straight from the bottle; that's how classy I am. Finally, I plop my butt down on the couch. The cushions are fluffy and pure heaven, but before I lie down, I unhook my bra, pull it from the sleeve of my T-shirt, and slip out of my jeans. I chuck it all on the floor. If I'm going to relax, no bra and no pants is the only way to do it.
Letting all thoughts and worries leave my head, I bite into a cookie. Chocolate and cream fill my mouth. Oh God. It's a brand I've never heard of and probably can't afford, but damn, it's amazing.
I snatch a remote from the coffee table and point it at the TV. Instead of the TV turning on, though, curtains start to roll down over one of the massive living room windows. Laying back on the couch, I prop a leg up on the back cushions and grin. Once the curtains have fully rolled down, I press a different button and watch them roll back up.
This will entertain me for at least ten minutes. Maybe I'll walk around and close all the curtains just for the hell of it—
The clack of a coffee mug on the kitchen counter echoes throughout the room. With a gasp, I sit up and swivel my head to look behind me, feeling my eyes bulge. A man—scratch that—a tall, chiseled heartthrob is balancing a laptop on his muscular, veiny forearm while staring at me. He’s wearing a white button-down, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and a pair of black slacks that hug his muscular—
What the hell am I doing, checking him out right now??
I bolt to my feet, dusting cookie crumbs off my T-shirt. The man glances down at my bare legs. Not in a lewd way; it's more of a confused stare, like "why is there a half-naked woman in m
I do have panties on, but I fumble to grab a small blanket from an armrest and wrap it around my waist.
The man sets his laptop down carefully next to the coffee mug, his deep-set hazel eyes warm yet intensely curious. "Hello," he says, arching one eyebrow.
I swallow. "Um, hello."
Neither of us speak as we stand here just looking at each other. I might be gawking more than looking. He’s easily over six feet, but he's not massively bulky. There are a lot of muscles, though. A lot of them, like he might be an athlete. And I’m guessing he’s older than me because of the short dark hair peppered with gray at his temples—rugged yet sophisticated.
He's also a stranger showing up somewhere that's supposed to be private.
My heart picks up. I don't like that there's a man I don't know here. After all the BS with my ex, I'm kind of done with men. Also…stranger.
But…he doesn’t seem like a threat. He looks as surprised as I am about the situation.
We both open our mouths at the same time.
"Why are you—"
"I'm Br—"
The tension breaks, and we both smile—his smile friendlier than mine. I motion at him, encouraging him to talk first.
With an amused, wry expression, he walks to me, extending his large hand. "I'm Brent."
Shaking hands and noticing the gentleness of his grip, I respond, "Um, Grace."
After he steps back, he shoves his hands in his pockets, still looking like he's trying to figure out what to make of me.
"Why are you here?" I finally ask, glancing at my white lacy bra that's close to Brent's feet.
His eyes drop to the bra at the same second, and I hurry to grab it, along with my jeans, balling them in front of me. Then my toe catches on the edge of a rug, and I stumble forward onto the loveseat—because that’s just who I am.
I stand up straight before Brent can say anything. "Uh, I mean, I booked this rental, um, my friend Jessica booked it, and it's supposed to be private. I'm pretty sure my arrival day was Tuesday."
His expression turns thoughtful, and he nods. "I reserved this place too. I arrived this weekend, but it's possible I have the wrong date." After scratching the stubble on his chin—which has a few distinguished faint patches of gray—he walks back to his laptop. "Let me check the reservation."
"Excuse me." I dash down a hallway to the bathroom.
Once I'm inside with the door shut, I exhale. I would laugh at the situation if this weren't just my life right now—a series of things never going as planned. Jessica probably booked me the wrong dates, meaning I need to pack up my shit and leave Brent to his solitude. Which sucks because I know I'll never drive back up here, even if Jessica secures me different dates. This place is eight hours from my apartment in southern Cali, and it took forever to convince myself this was a good idea—that I deserve respite after having a breakdown at work and stupidly quitting my high-paying design job. The fact that there's now a mix-up feels like a sign from the universe that I shouldn't be here.
If I need a mental health vacation, I should book a room at a roach-infested motel instead.
My shoulders sag, and I stare into the cavernous marble sink, simultaneously thinking that "roach-infested" is a place I actually belong and that this house must've used half the world's supply of marble. It is everywhere.
I quickly put on my bra and jeans, yank my phone from a pocket, and exit the bathroom.
When I return to the kitchen, Brent and his laptop are gone, so I decide to call Jessica to update her on the situation. There's no cell reception inside, so I wander into the backyard, glancing at my phone and hoping I'll see at least one tiny bar filling up. I approach the gently rolling waters of the pool and gaze at it for a moment. I've never seen a pool so large or one with a waterfall. Too bad I won't get to swim in it. But that's just how my life goes, isn't it?
Thunder rumbles overhead, and I shriek, caught off guard by the sudden noise. As it cracks again, I jump, and my foot lands awkwardly in a small puddle. I slide a few inches, regaining my balance to stop from belly-flopping into the pool. But my phone slips from my hand, smacks against the pool's edge, and plunks right into the water. It twirls like a ballerina, slowly sinking to the bottom, with a few bubbles escaping around it. Amazingly, the screen is still lit.
I'm too frozen to react. Or maybe hopelessness has turned me into a statue. It feels like there's something symbolic about all of this—like no matter what, all of my efforts in life are doomed to drown. Either way, I stand here and stare at my glowing phone as lightning streaks across the sky.
Well, fuck me.
As I chew on my lip, a masculine, broad-shouldered body appears beside me.
Brent has his hands casually in his pockets, looking at my phone with interest. "I could get that for you," he says with his deep, rich voice.
I take a step to the side, feeling too close to the stranger. "Oh, that's okay. Thank you, though. Um, I have a tablet I can use."
I don't actually have a tablet or a laptop, but I'd rather not let this stranger know that I'm here without any way to contact the outside world. He seems nice, but… I don't know anything about him. I've always been cautious of people and who I trust.
And men? Ugh. I'm not interested in getting mixed up in male drama ever again.
I inch farther away. I think I should just get in my car and leave.
As my thoughts race, Brent removes his gold watch and shiny loafers. He starts to unbutton his shirt, which doesn't have an undershirt beneath it, but he pauses, glancing at me. I glance back, hugging my waist and moving another inch away.
He leaves his shirt on and then dives into the pool with perfect form, clothes and all. With disbelief, I watch him swim to the bottom, retrieve my phone, and then zip back to the surface. Forgetting my concerns for a second, I bend to take the phone when he offers it. Then he hoists himself back onto dry land.
As he straightens and pushes dark, wet hair from his face, I find myself gawking yet again. His white button-down is now sopping wet and see-through, clinging to his defined shoulders, biceps, and pecs. His nipples are hard from the cold water, and my lower abdomen tightens. This is a lot of raw masculine beauty I'm witnessing.
Coming to my senses, I avert my hedonistic eyes. Stranger. This man is a stranger.
Though, considering that those who have hurt me the most were all people I knew, maybe a stranger is actually less threatening.
"You should power it off and put it in some rice," Brent says. "You might be able to save it."
I press my phone against my chest. "Thank you," I say as I watch the water stream from the bottom of his soaked pants. "Hold on, I'll get you a towel."
"Put it in rice first," he calls after me as I hurry toward the house.
I locate the rice in the pantry and fill a bowl, dropping my phone in even though I'm pretty certain it's a goner. Then I rush to the bathroom to grab two of the fluffiest towels I've ever felt. I hurry back to the patio where Brent is shivering under the awning, staring up at the darkening sky. I give him the towels.
"Thanks," he says, wrapping a towel around his waist and carefully removing his pants beneath it.
I don't gawk this time, turning away to give him privacy. "So, um, did you rent this place for a month?"
"I couldn't load the website," he responds. "I think the internet is down because of the storm, but I thought I had booked it for a month. How long did you book it for?"
"Two weeks."
"Well, I don't have any problem coming back so you can enjoy your stay. If I leave now, I should be able to avoid—" His words are abruptly cut off by the sudden downpour of rain.
One minute, the world was dry. The next, just curtains and curtains of water as far as the eye can see.
We both stare at it for a moment—at the raw power and unpredictability of nature—then he mutters, "Shit!" and dashes out from under the awning. The towel around his waist quickly becomes soaked as he scurries to a lounger next to the pool. After retrieving his laptop, he rushes back to safety, the front of his shirt open, giving me a view of his abs flexing as he moves.
My pesky lower stomach tightens again. I've never felt such a conflicting attraction to a man—drawn to his obvious hotness and kind demeanor, yet repelled by this strange situation we're in.
