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  Sweet Secrets

  Rhonda Sheree

  Published by Reason Enterprises

  Sweet Secrets Copyright © 2013 by Rhonda Sheree aka Rhonda Eason. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any way whatsoever without written permission.

  Cover designed by idrewdesign

  Edited by Super Copy Editors

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

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  If you enjoy this contemporary romance novel, be sure to give this book a star rating!

  Chapter 1

  I make my way through the crowd on unsteady feet to the guest bathroom at the back of the house. Dell makes a lethal lemon drop martini, and after only half of one, I find myself tottering on borrowed five-inch heels like a child on a bicycle for the first time. Sergeant Tiffany Dell and I have been housemates for the past two years—it’s hard to think of moving on without her. It seems that’s what my life has amounted to during my ten years of military service: a continuous series of goodbyes.

  That last summer at home—before I went to basic training—my well-meaning mother warned me that I might have to go to a war zone where I could lose a limb or even my life. No one prepared me for the more likely danger of having to leave people that I’d come to love after only a year or two. Considering that losing the loves of my life—two in one day—was the very reason I’d chosen to retreat into the arms of Uncle Sam in the first place, the irony is not lost on me.

  I shoo a lip-locked couple out of the bathroom. I don’t know them and I can tell from the way they ignore me as they pass that they don’t know me either, although I’m the guest of honor. Between the two of us, Dell is the social butterfly; I’m just the friend who benefits from her popularity. I get free drinks at the club or a comped manicure at the salon because I’m the girl who knows the girl who knows everyone.

  “Hey, sexy,” a voice says instantly as I exit the bathroom. “You’ve been hiding from me all night, Callia.”

  Robert Watkins, my sort-of boyfriend, has me cornered. We’d met in the gym a few months ago. In my quest to lose fifteen pounds, I started going to the gym every morning around five. I’d seen him there before and figured that was the only time of day he could come when a row of fifty women on treadmills weren’t ogling his sweaty bod as he bedazzled the room with standing chest presses. (I’d later learn that the morning workout was his warm-up. It was during his evening session when the serious bedazzling happened.) After a stint on the treadmill, I could usually be found in a corner, trying inconspicuously to lift five-pound dumbbells until I was sure I’d drop dead of boredom. One day, Robert ventured over to correct my form. Even at that time of the morning, when most of us had rolled out of bed and into the gym with unkempt hair and suspicious odor, Robert looked ready for a close-up. His dark black skin glistened from sweat and a healthy application of Shea butter. Robert’s slick bald head enhances his masculinity and highlights his inquisitive eyes. He has thick lips that he licks compulsively, and a smile so vivid it makes Technicolor appear bland.

  But Robert bugs me. Even now, as he holds his glass of wine to my lips and I take a sip, I see his eyes rolling down the curves of my body and I want to mar that perfect face of his with my nails. It hasn’t been easy dating a guy who could be the inspiration for the cover of Gray’s Anatomy. Robert’s well-tended skin has not a nick nor a scratch, and seeing as I’ve had the privilege of seeing pretty much every inch of his body, its perfection annoys me. I mean, he’s a guy, right? Don’t guys get a little dinged up from playing football, or fixing cars, or whatever guys do? Not Robert Watkins. He’s a pretty boy who goes to great lengths to ensure his product—and yes, that’s what he calls his body—stays in mint condition. And after running me for miles each morning until I’d knocked off fifteen pounds, he was particularly mindful of my product.

  “Not too much,” he says, pulling the glass away from my lips. “Alcohol slows the metabolism. We’ve worked very hard to get you into those shorts—let’s not undo all the good we’ve done.”

  “But I’m sure you’d adore me no matter what size I am, right?” I ask, although I know the answer.

  And Robert knows I know, which is why in lieu of responding, he flashes me that Crest Whitestrips smile, kisses me on the forehead, and leads me out back, where it’s quieter.

  We walk down the three steps and sit on an abandoned beach towel. The floodlights on the house illuminate the night. I helped Dell place towels in different areas on the grass to allow for private conversations away from the blaring dance music inside. “Are you going to miss Florida?” Robert asks.

  I look up at the black velvet sky sprinkled with stars. The air is humid and sticky, and I love that I can wear these short shorts and slinky top and still feel overdressed, the heat hugging my skin like a blanket. “Yeah. I’m gonna miss ninety-degree weather in the wee hours of the morning.”

  “Are you going to miss me?” he asks. He’s playing with my fingers but part of me thinks he’s checking for excess fat. And what, beyond his looks, attracted me in the first place? His commitment. His single-minded devotion to envisioning what he wanted to do with his product and making it happen. Maybe I thought some of that ambition would rub off on me.

  It hasn’t. Oh sure, I’ve remained focused long enough to knock off a few pounds. But I also know that I’ve got an unopened box of Neuhaus chocolates tucked away inside my closet in case of an emergency. The chubby girl isn’t dead—she’s hibernating. My dream is to be the person with the life plan; my reality is that I’m a twenty-eight-year-old woman who’s as indecisive as a game show contestant. I’m afraid to choose the wrong door and get stuck with a lifetime supply of soap when I could’ve had the trip to Italy, but for my poor choice.

  “Of course I’ll miss you. Who else is going to wake me up at five-thirty and make me run three miles every morning?”

  “Three months hasn’t been long enough for us,” he says. We are sitting hip to hip, facing each other, both our legs fully extended and crossed. “You’ll have another boyfriend in no time and forget all about me.”

  I smile. Sweet little narcissistic Robert. Not all of us got enough hugs as children. My younger sister Carmen is this way, too. She drops self-deprecating comments like they are falling Fabergé eggs someone must catch before they shatter to the floor in tiny jewels. So I sympathize and put the fish on his hook.

  “There has never been, nor will there ever be, a guy in my life who is as gorgeous, smart, and funny as you are.”

  He looks at me doubtfully and sips his wine. All well and good for him, but no more alcohol for me, apparently.

  “You lie,” he says.

  “All the time.” I give him a light punch on the arm. “We’ve done this before, right? Hook up with someone, then get orders. It’s who we’ve become. Nomads traveling the earth, unable to fully commit. And those who do commit get their hearts broken eventually, right? As the saying goes: What happens TDY stays TDY.”

  “Yeah.” Robert shakes his head as he appears to be thinking back on a few of h
is TDYs—those temporary duty assignments of three-or four-month stints to another base, sometimes in exotic locations, sometimes not. But always joined by other lonely people far away from their wives and husbands who crave physical connection, if only for a night. I wonder how many marriages this beauty before me has interrupted. “But we’re not TDY,” he continues, “and the military hasn’t given you orders to leave. This is your own doing. You’re leaving. You’re giving up.”

  “The Air Force isn’t for me anymore, Robert. You’ll go on to be a chief someday. Me? I’ll always be a lowly sarge just getting by.”

  “And out in the real world? What’s your plan?”

  “Spend time with my mom.”

  “I meant you. What is your plan for you?”

  “I have a job lined up. Jonesie’s dad works for a small college and they have a branch back home. I’ve already interviewed and everything. I’ll be working in the bursar’s office.”

  “More accounting?”

  “It pays the bills,” I say. “And maybe someday I’ll go to culinary school—”

  “You’re not still gonna make all that crap, are you?” His tone is indignant.

  A light bulb goes on in my head. This might be good. An argument over my reckless lifestyle, an insult here, a curse there, and then me, storming off in tears, never to see him again. A nice, clean break.

  “If by ‘that crap’ you mean my pastries, yes. I’m still gonna make all that crap. And I’m gonna eat it, too. Somebody has to.”

  Our conversation is interrupted by Dell’s voice calling to us across the lawn. “Yoo-hoo? Sergeant Cole. Get in here, please.”

  I struggle up on my high heels—no help from Robert, who knocks back the rest of his wine.

  “To be continued,” he says.

  “No, Robert. Not to be continued. I’m leaving tomorrow, don’t you get it?”

  “Shit,” he says and hangs his head low. “Fine. I can’t tell you how to live your life. But trans fat is in—”

  I place my hand on his chest. “You’ve been a cool buddy and an excellent coach, Robert. But I think you need a girl who’s a little more…oorah.”

  Oorah. The Marines’ battle cry of enthusiasm. I think he gets it because he swings his arm around my shoulder and walks me into the house. Even in this close proximity, I don’t feel the sexual tension that I should. With Robert, I’ve never felt the heat or the butterflies or the hyperventilation that befalls a girl in love. He is nothing more to me than a friend with the looks of an airbrushed athlete with passable lovemaking skills. Robert is like those chocolates I’ve got stashed away in my closet. Perfect in its visual appeal and taste, but mainly empty calories. It’s nice to have when you want it. but best left on the shelf.

  “Here she is, everybody!” Dell rescues me from Robert and puts her own arm around my shoulder. She whispers in my ear, “Was my timing perfect?”

  “Could’ve been about five minutes sooner.”

  “Damn, I’m losing my touch.”

  Dell and I are polar opposites of each other. She towers over my 5’5” frame even without the stilettos she wears as though they are mere ballerina flats. Dell keeps her hair in a short afro and, when not on duty, prefers outfits so tight that the stitching will break if she puts a pound on her rail-thin frame. I, on the other hand, prefer to keep my shoulder length hair relaxed in a ponytail, and wear forgiving clothes that are amenable to my having a slice of cake, or two.

  Dell turns off the docked iPod—the speakers are suddenly still. She climbs onto the center table in our rented ranch-style house and pulls me up with her.

  “Everyone, may I have your attention please.” A friend of mine—or actually hers—puts another lemon drop martini in my hand. “Tonight we are saying goodbye to one of my best friends. Sergeant Callia Cole is ending her ten-year military conviction and heading back home to New York.” She turns to me and her voice softens as she continues. “When I first met Cole a few years ago, I was walking down the street, like ten at night, crying because I’d found out my boyfriend had cheated on me. May you rot in hell, Simon Shitster.” A few claps and whistles from the crowd. “Sergeant Cole hung out with me that night. She told me that she understood what it was like to be deceived, to think you know someone and really not know them at all. She told me that the best thing a girl could do for herself was to protect her heart like the Queen’s guards protect Buckingham Palace.” Dell looks at the crowd and puts a hand on her hip. “Well, I’m here to say that I’m happy I did not listen to Sergeant Cole’s advice. I love love and I don’t care who knows it. But what I did do was invite her into my home and into my heart, and she has proven to be the best, most steadfast friend a girl could have. And so, I want us all to raise a glass to Sergeant Cole and my sincerest wish for her…” Dell turns to me with watery eyes and I shift from one leg to the other, embarrassed by the attention, “…is that she moves back home and finds the man who will love her as much as I do.”

  “Hear, hear.” Obviously a few people in the crowd are ready to wrap this toast up, but Dell is pretty buzzed and unhurried in her speech.

  “And I hope that you have an amazing career as a—you know, whatever you want to do in life. I know you’ll be good at it. But mainly I hope you find love because isn’t that what we’re all here for? To love and be loved?”

  Oh God, this is turning bad. I glance around the crowd but can’t see Robert. I can only imagine what he must be thinking. My confidante up here wishing I find the very thing I had not found with him.

  “Dell, thanks. I think we’re good.”

  “No, I’m not done.” She stamps her feet; her eyes are unfocused. “And even though you don’t trust men because your first love had the gall to sleep with your sister, I know you’ll find a man ten times better than him. Or at least find a man who can screw really well. Sometimes that’s a damned good substitute.”

  The crowd begins to whoop and applause and I quickly lift my drink and toss back a hefty gulp.

  Dell does the same, but she moves her head back so far she loses her balance and falls off the table. Drinks fly everywhere, including on me, but a couple of guys break her fall. She begins to laugh hysterically and someone puts the music back on.

  I jump off the table and lean down over her, my face wet with droplets of liquor.

  “I think the party’s over for you, girlfriend,” I say to her.

  Dell regains her composure and rests her arms on my shoulder. “I’m so jealous, Callia.”

  “You silly, drunk girl. Why are you jealous?”

  “Because you’re moving on. The best things in the world happen to people who move on.”

  “It’s my time to leave, Tiff. Someday it’ll be yours, too. You’ve only got one more year.”

  She shakes her head and sobs. “No. I’m too afraid to leave what I know. You, though, you’re brave enough to leave, even though you have no money and no friends back home and no guy to depend on. That’s so brave.”

  “Yeah,” I say and pull her into a big hug, “when you put it like that it does sound brave. Or, like, the stupidest move ever.”

  Grateful Journal

  I’m grateful that Dell threw me a going-away party tonight, although I’m not much of a party girl. And I’m glad that Robert didn’t take our break-up too hard. And why would he? I’m sure he has a list of women waiting to take my place. Women who will drink his protein shake concoctions with pleasure if it means being known as his girl. Not me. It’s true that for every hot guy in this world, there’s a woman sick of putting up with his crap. You know, he asked me once if he thought the zit on my chest was from my overindulgence in chocolate and if that was worth the destruction of my product. What a gorgeous jerk-a-zoid! I patiently explained to him that the zit was the result of an ingrown hair.

  I’m glad Robert helped whip my butt into shape, but who needs the constant hassle?

  Chapter closed.

  Chapter 2

  I awoke this morning with a mouth that
felt stuffed with cotton and a head that felt like the wrong end of a jackhammer. Robert sent me a curt text that simply said, “Goodbye and travel safely.” I guess he’d been there for Dell’s entire little performance and was not amused. She didn’t remember the whole of her toast and I decided not to fill in the gaps during the ride to the airport.

  “You sure you haven’t left anything behind?”

  “If I’ve left anything behind then I guess I don’t need it. Is Val moving in today?”

  “She’ll move in a few things,” Dell says. “Her lease isn’t up for another month, so she’ll officially move in then.”

  And so it goes. The revolving door of nomads moving from house to house, base to base, country to country continues without me.

  “How do you feel?” she asks.

  “Like I’m about to walk into a big black hole.” I look out the window at the passing palm trees and the clear blue water of the bay. It’s only May and the temperature is hovering around ninety.

  “You’re going home,” Dell says. “You sound like you’re going to a prison camp. Aren’t you excited?”

  “Hmm…” Good question. “I’m excited to see my mother. My sister and I aren’t that close.”

  “You’re thinking about him, aren’t you?”

  “No, I’m not, and don’t you dare say his name.”

  “He won’t be there. You told me he moved away a few days after your dad died and he hasn’t been back. Your mother would’ve told you if he was back, right?”

  “Right,” I say. “Um, Dell?”

  “Yeah?” she says.

  “He’s back,” I say.

  Dell slaps my thigh. “What?! When? You didn’t tell me.”

  “I didn’t want to talk about him. She mentioned in passing that he came back to the area last year. Bought a big fancy house. Apparently he’s got a little money.”