Weekend Fling Read online

  Weekend Fling is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  A Loveswept Ebook Original

  Copyright © 2019 by Stacey Lynn

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  Loveswept is a registered trademark and the Loveswept colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Ebook ISBN 9781984800282

  Cover photograph: © kiuikson/Shutterstock

  randomhousebooks.com

  v5.4

  ep

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1: Willow

  Chapter 2: Willow

  Chapter 3: Trey

  Chapter 4: Willow

  Chapter 5: Trey

  Chapter 6: Willow

  Chapter 7: Trey

  Chapter 8: Willow

  Chapter 9: Trey

  Chapter 10: Willow

  Chapter 11: Trey

  Chapter 12: Willow

  Chapter 13: Trey

  Chapter 14: Willow

  Chapter 15: Trey

  Chapter 16: Willow

  Chapter 17: Trey

  Chapter 18: Willow

  Chapter 19: Trey

  Chapter 20: Willow

  Chapter 21: Trey

  Chapter 22: Willow

  Chapter 23: Willow

  Chapter 24: Trey

  Chapter 25: Willow

  Chapter 26: Willow

  Chapter 27: Trey

  Chapter 28: Willow

  Epilogue: Willow

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  By Stacey Lynn

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Willow

  Wiping sleep from my eyes, I trudge down the hall of my childhood home. If anyone had told me I’d be living back at home after years of living on my own I would have laughed in their face. Unfortunately, the world seems to enjoy having a great laugh at my expense, drastically upending everything about my life over the last six months.

  Now I’m exhausted, seeking the coffee I can scent like a hound dog, already brewed and waiting for me at way-too-damn-early-o’clock in the morning. Working two jobs, keeping my mother in the only home I’ve ever lived in, is zapping all my energy these days, but there’s not a whole lot to be done to fix it except to keep trying.

  I’m only hoping I don’t fail.

  “Mom?” I call out when I register a faint light on over the microwave. She’s never awake before I leave for my job at Java Joe’s coffee shop in downtown Portland. Heck, these days, she’s rarely awake or out of her bed at all.

  “Good morning, dear,” she replies, and I’m so stunned I trip over the frayed edge of carpet that meets faded linoleum flooring.

  “Hey.” I speak slowly, like she’s a wounded animal, although these days that’s not too far off. She isn’t exactly adjusting well since my father walked out on her almost a year ago. She’s continually lost motivation to do anything. “What are you doing awake?”

  And dressed. With her natural blond hair pulled back with a clip at the top of her head. And with makeup on. It’s been so long since I’ve seen her take care of herself I blink before she can see my tears.

  “Oh, you know.” No. No, I do not. She sips her coffee like this is a normal day’s conversation. Her voice is dull, though, almost as lifeless as her gaze currently fixed on the gardens she once kept in pristine condition. They’re overgrown with weeds now, but it appears she doesn’t notice.

  So she might be dressed, but it’s not exactly a great day for her.

  I pour my own cup of coffee and check the time. Five o’clock. Too damn early, but I need to get moving to be at Java’s by six. “You look nice. Any plans for the day?”

  Like job hunting, maybe?

  She glances down at her pink buttoned-up shirt with a ruffle collar and blinks like she’s surprised she’s clothed. Damn. That’s a no on the job search. “Oh. I don’t know. Maybe I’ll go for a walk or work outside.”

  Her focus goes back to the garden.

  My shoulders slump as I take my first drink of coffee, black to match my mood. There’s no way she’s working in the garden in that outfit, and while she might look well, which is a bonus, now is definitely not the time to bring up the stack of bills I left on the table last night.

  Short. Always short. If I can manage to grab an extra editing client, we might be able to pay everything this month, but I’m still barely able to make a dent in everything we’re behind on. What I really need is someone to convince my mom she has to go back to work. Or she has to do something to get herself back to who she used to be.

  The woman who baked me chocolate chip cookies every week. The woman who smiled and laughed like life was one large, exciting party. The woman who held my hand and took care of me when things went rough. This current role reversal is one I’m neither cut out for nor prepared to take on.

  And I wouldn’t have, had Scott not walked into our townhome one day after his job at a bank, where he’s a financial case manager, and out of nowhere declared our relationship over—he’s bored, wants something different—and essentially kicked me out. Five years of my life with someone, down the drain without warning. It shouldn’t have been a shock considering he’d stopped hinting at an engagement two years earlier, but he was comfortable. And I had loved him. At least, I thought I had. Now I don’t think I have any idea what love is. Not the real, forever-lasting kind of love, anyway.

  It was nothing compared to the similar ending of my mom’s thirty-year marriage, so I can’t exactly blame her for it shaking her so bad she needs time.

  She’s now had a year.

  “Mom,” I start to say, and think better of it. If she’s still in a decent mood, or awake, when I get home, I’ll bring up the bills then.

  “Yes, dear?” She grins at me, and for the briefest moment I see a flicker of who she used to be. The happy woman I’ve always loved.

  “Nothing.” I kiss the top of her head. “I need to get to work. Have a good day.”

  She pats my cheek and her smile dims. “You work too hard, honey.”

  Two jobs because she needs me to, even if she’s become so oblivious she doesn’t realize it. Months after my father left her, she had decided she was too tired to go to her job as a customer service manager anymore. Too many days of not showing up after she had exhausted her available paid time off, and she had been fired. My breakup with Scott might have actually occurred at the perfect time, because when I showed up at home needing a shoulder to cry on, I instead found a pile of bills and notices declaring she hadn’t been paying her mortgage.

  “Love you, Mom.” I spin, not wanting her to see the frustration. It would have been enough to send her back to bed. I work too hard because she won’t, and I don’t know how to get her to see she needs help. What’s my choice? Leaving her to suffer and lose everything? I can’t.

  She’s my mom.

  “You should go have some fun. You never see your friends anymore. Maybe a weekend away would be good for you.”

  I close my eyes, shoulders slumping farther. It’s a difficult reality
to wake up one day and realize not only has your long-term boyfriend walked out on you, but you spent so many years trying to please him that when you need a friend, you don’t have any left.

  “I’ll think about it, Mom,” I call out, heading to the bathroom. Shower, dress, forget about Scott and how I gave up everything for him like some stupid, naive girl. Heck, my mom’s probably done the same thing for so much longer it’s no wonder she can’t find her footing now. If I ever see Scott again, I should probably thank him. His leaving taught me a lesson that’s better to learn at twenty-five than fifty.

  It’s the first time since Scott left that these thoughts have crossed my mind, and it’s so startling, it takes me a moment to remember I’m supposed to be showering. Thank Scott? Six months ago, I wouldn’t have imagined doing anything when I thought of him except crumbling into a ball of tears and sorrow.

  Huh. At least one of us Parks women might actually be starting to heal.

  * * *

  —

  Warm sun. Sandy white beaches. A daiquiri in one hand and a salacious book in the other. I can practically taste the salty air on my tongue, breeze whipping through my hair, getting it stuck in a fruity drink or blocking my view of the page.

  Damn. I haven’t been able to stop thinking, dreaming…wishing my mom’s suggestion could be an actual possibility.

  If only the pile of bills and her constant sadness plus looming deadlines weren’t a weighted blanket on my shoulders.

  A fierce jolt to my shoulder pulls me to the present.

  “Ow.” I rub my shoulder where Molly’s has just hit it. Purple hair whips behind her as she turns to me, flinging the hot-pink tips at the ends into her cheek.

  “He’s here. The hottie who worships you is back,” she sings, and clasps her hands together. If she were any more excited, she’d be bouncing on the balls of her feet.

  I don’t have to look to know who she’s talking about, but like a magnet my eyes slide from Molly’s manic smile to the man of the hour.

  Trey Kollins. Multimillionaire. Looks as good in a suit as he does in his current attire of gray sweatpants and a wrinkled navy T-shirt.

  Body built for illicit activities, of which I’ve imagined plenty in the months since picking up the barista position at Java Joe’s.

  Dark-chocolate eyes that seem to inspect me from the inside out every time he walks up to our counter. A stutter that occasionally appears, which only notches up his sexy level to hot-off-the-charts.

  He’s also a wicked flirt, despite the fact he usually sits with a perky redhead for hours most mornings. Today it appears he’s alone, glancing down at his phone as he strolls to the counter like he has the path memorized.

  Perhaps he does. He’s in here almost as often as me.

  “Hello, Mr. Kollins,” Molly chirps, risking her life by skipping on the tile floor to get to the register. “How’s our favorite penthouse resident this morning?”

  Molly’s nutty. Sweet as pie and naive as all get out and the most incredible artist I’ve ever seen. Scraps of paper are littered throughout our workspace with whatever pops into her creative and sometimes twisted brain. Yesterday’s drawing of a lifelike-looking eye with a hand reaching out from the pupil makes me shudder as I remember it.

  “Morning, Molly,” Trey says, reaching the counter and slipping his phone into his pocket. Tucked beneath his arm is a small laptop and a stack of file folders. “Can’t complain. You?”

  “Same ol’ same ol’. Want your regular?”

  “Please.” He presses his hand to the counter, fingers spread wide, and like a moth to a flame, my eyes fall to them. Strong, large hand. Thick fingers. Veins run along the back of his hands and up his arms in a way that makes you want to lean in close, trace the path with your tongue to see where it goes.

  “And you, Willow?” His voice is thick as molasses and creamy like butter. Beautiful in his rich, deep rumble. “How are you?”

  Damn. He’s so hot. There isn’t a red-blooded American female who can argue with me, either. He’s simply beautiful. It’s just…I now know better. In reality, picture-perfect men are Photoshopped.

  “Fine, Trey.” I crouch down and take the strawberries out of the fridge. We have plenty already cleaned and sliced for smoothies, but this man unsettles me. Avoidance is my preferred method of handling him.

  “Medium Americano, black,” Molly calls out, kicking me in the backside as she walks by.

  I fall forward, bracing my hands on the cold shelf. She thinks the attention Trey pays me is funny.

  I find it annoying. In that way being annoyed with someone gives you warm flutters deep in your belly.

  “So, Willow,” Trey says, and from his voice I can tell he’s moved down to the pickup side of the counter. Molly’s lime-green running shoes are to my right and are still within kicking range.

  “Yes?” I load my arms with plastic containers of strawberries. You can never have too many. Also, the fridge shelves look dirty. I should wash them, stay down here until he leaves.

  “Are you ready to say yes to that date with me yet?” He’s asked me out at least once a week for two months now and my answer is always the same. I’m in no way ready to get back into the dating game, and I don’t have the time.

  I drop all the strawberries. “No,” I groan, at both his invite and the mess I’ve made.

  “Sure she is,” Molly chimes in, sliding an errant strawberry my way with the tip of her shoe. “And she’s off this weekend. Her only weekend she’s had off in months.” Molly’s voice has taken on a weird, evil cackle. Where’s the butcher knife when you need it? I could chop her off at the ankles if I had one handy.

  I glance up, glaring at her and hoping to eviscerate my obnoxious coworker, no longer friend, but she grins back at me. She’s leaning on the counter, resting her forearms on the marble, and next to her is Trey, similar pose, grinning down at me.

  “Is that so?”

  I shove the strawberries back into the containers, stand, and set them off to the side. We’ll need more, but my hands are shaking too much to attempt grabbing that knife currently lodged in my back from Molly’s betrayal.

  “I’m busy. And not interested.”

  “Oh, now, that’s not true,” Trey chides, and even though he’s teasing me, he’s right. He’s also arrogant, with a side of yummy deliciousness.

  A quick look at him shows eyes gleaming with something I can’t decipher, but it’s the way Molly’s looking at me that has me facing both of them.

  She wouldn’t.

  I arch my brows at her, at both of them, intentionally and cross my arms over my chest. “And how would you know?” My words are for Trey but my glare is all for Molly.

  She grins like I’m a harmless, tiny, little animal. One she wants to pet and hug and love until I’m smothered.

  “A little birdie told me you are.” His head dips toward Molly and she shrugs.

  “You work too hard and you can use the fun.”

  Her words almost mirror my own mom’s from a few hours ago. Yet it’s more depressing coming from Molly. She’s completely aware of the stress in my life as well as my workload. She’s been the one listening to me dodge creditors left and right for weeks now. A frustrating game of dodgeball played with money and bills instead of the rubber ball from my elementary playground. I hated the game then and I despise it more now.

  Gritting my teeth together, I face Trey. “No, thank you.”

  He’s a whole sexy ball of trouble I don’t need in my life. It’s that reminder that has me turning away, untying my apron strings from the back, and walking away from both of them.

  “I’m not interested, Trey.”

  For a moment, his grin slips, and there’s a look in his eyes that reminds me of something like regret.

  I don’t waste the time trying to decipher it and instea
d disappear into the break room and toss my apron down, collapsing into the chair.

  I need a break. From life. From him. From everything.

  It’s only a few minutes later when the break room door opens and a white napkin attached to a pen in the shape of a flag appears in the small crack.

  Molly. She really is crazy.

  “Forgiven,” I mumble, and lean back in my chair. “Do you need me?”

  She pushes the door open and rests against the frame. If she’s too scared to get closer to me, she deserves it. “I’m sorry. I thought you liked him and he really is a nice guy.”

  “I don’t have the time, Molls.”

  On my people-who-I-trust list, men are currently written in pencil near the bottom.

  “All right, but I don’t think you need anything serious, just some fun with a hottie to remind you that not all guys are jerks.” She shrugs like it’s no loss and steps back. “Coming back to continue ignoring him, then, like you do every day, or are you going to stay in here?”

  My phone rings and a quick glance tells me it’s a phone call I’d love to ignore, but have learned it only makes things worse. “I’ve gotta take this, but can you handle the place for a few more minutes? I need some fresh air.”

  She snorts. “There’s, like, three people right now. Pretty sure I can cover it.”

  “Awesome.” I slide past her in the doorway and smirk. “And since we’re not busy, you can take over with all those strawberries I messed up.”

  “I knew your forgiveness came with strings.”

  “Nope. Just fruit.”

  Chapter 2

  Willow

  I tilt my head back, letting the heat of Portland’s summer sun warm my cheeks before dropping my gaze back to the asphalt beneath my feet.