Just For Me: A Cerasino Family Novella Read online

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1: Kat

  Chapter 2: Nick

  Chapter 3: Kat

  Chapter 4: Nick

  Chapter 5: Kat

  Chapter 6: Nick

  Chapter 7: Kat

  Chapter 8: Nick

  Chapter 9: Kat

  Chapter 10: Nick

  Chapter 11: Kat

  Just For Me

  The Cerasino Family, Volume 1

  Abbie Zanders

  Published by Abbie Zanders, 2017.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  JUST FOR ME

  First edition. February 28, 2017.

  Copyright © 2017 Abbie Zanders.

  Written by Abbie Zanders.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Just For Me (The Cerasino Family, #1)

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1: Kat

  Chapter 2: Nick

  Chapter 3: Kat

  Chapter 4: Nick

  Chapter 5: Kat

  Chapter 6: Nick

  Chapter 7: Kat

  Chapter 8: Nick

  Chapter 9: Kat

  Chapter 10: Nick

  Chapter 11: Kat

  Epilogue: Nick

  Epilogue: Kat

  Thanks for reading Nick and Kat’s story

  About the Author

  Also by Abbie Zanders

  Just for Me

  A Cerasino Family Novella

  by

  Abbie Zanders

  Acknowledgements

  Cover Design Template by Book Cover Mall.

  Professional editing by M. E. Weglarz of megedits.com, a woman with a true gift for spotting plot holes, character anomalies, black holes, and other potential WTFs. Thank you, Meg, from the bottom of my heart.

  Special thanks to authors Jessie Lane and Tonya Brooks for reading the first drafts of this story and providing invaluable feedback.

  And a shout out to my awesome street team, the Zanders Clan. I am so lucky to have you!

  ... and THANK YOU to all of you for selecting this book. You didn’t have to, but you did.

  Chapter 1: Kat

  I walked into the bookstore, just like I did every Friday after work. This, more than anything, symbolized the end of my work week and the beginning of my weekend escape.

  “Buon pomeriggio, Bella.” Mr. Cerasino called out his version of ‘good afternoon’ with a wave. “You late today,” he scolded in his thick Italian accent.

  “Sorry, Mr. C,” I apologized, glancing down at my wet dress slacks. “Took me longer than usual.” The six block walk from the office building where I worked was usually a nice one, but not today. It had been raining cats and dogs for the better part of two days. As a result, it wasn’t easy to spot the hazards in the uneven sidewalk, covered as they were in puddles. Normally, that wasn’t a problem. I’d walked the same route so many times I knew every bump and crevice like the back of my hand. But when a sleek-looking sedan hit the pooling water at the side of the road, I’d made a quick side-step to avoid being doused, tripped over a crack, and ended up on my backside in a puddle of my own.

  “What happened, Bella?” he asked, scurrying out from behind the counter, concern etched in every wrinkle of his olive-skinned face. “Marie!” He called back to his wife without waiting for an answer.

  I could feel the heat spreading as embarrassment crept up my neck and into my face. I hated being the center of attention, even that of this nice, grandfatherly man who called me ‘beautiful’ in his native language every time I saw him.

  I wasn’t beautiful, not by a longshot, but he was a sweet old man.

  “It’s nothing,” I assured him. I pushed up my glasses (a nervous habit of mine), wincing when my swollen wrist protested. “I wasn’t looking where I was going is all.”

  Mr. C’s scowl deepened. “You are hurt. Marie!”

  “I’m fine,” I insisted, growing really uncomfortable now. I needed to get out of there before Mrs. C saw me. Otherwise, she’d be clucking over me like a mother hen. It was one of the reasons I had my visits timed for when I knew she was busy preparing dinner in the back. Well, that and the fact that sometimes he was here around dinner time.

  “He” was the über handsome, quiet guy who sat in the back corner with his laptop. We’d never spoken, and I’m quite sure he didn’t even know I existed, but there was something about a guy sipping coffee while surrounded by books that I found incredibly sexy.

  A quick glance toward the cozy corner showed it to be unoccupied. A small pang of disappointment zinged through me, but I was too preoccupied to give it much thought today, I had something else on my mind.

  “Did it come in?” I asked the owner.

  His eyes, a deep, dark brown, narrowed. “Si.”

  I could barely contain my excitement. Mr. C had confided to me last week that a new shipment of the latest Nick Penn release was scheduled to arrive that morning, just in time for my weekend. The timing couldn’t have been better. I loved Nick Penn. I mean, I really loved his writing. He wrote in such a way that it felt like every word was written just for me and me alone. Of course, I’m sure most women felt that way. That’s why Nick Penn had been number one on the New York Times and USA Today bestseller lists more than once.

  “Can I have it?” I prompted, looking pointedly at his empty hands -—his very empty hands -—and shifted my weight. I knew he thought it was impatience, and it was, but my knee was aching pretty badly, too, from the twist it had taken in the fall.

  “Maybe you should sit down, Bella. I get Marie to make you a nice espresso or a cappuccino.”

  “Thanks, but not today. I really just want to get my book and go home.”

  He looked like he wanted to argue, but thankfully, he shuffled back behind the counter and pulled out a small bag with a little ribbon tied to the handles.

  “Is that it?” I asked in a half-whisper of awe. After four very long months of waiting since the last book had come out, I was almost afraid to believe I was so close to having it in my hands.

  “Si.”

  I reached for my wallet, but Mr. C stopped me. “No charge, Bella. Is on the house.”

  “Oh no,” I protested. I couldn’t let him do that. It was sweet, and I knew he was trying to be kind, but I didn’t take anything for free. Ever.

  I held out the twenty-five dollars, but he refused to take it. I sighed heavily, and pretended to put the money back in my purse, but secretly palmed it instead. As soon as I had the precious in my hand, I was going to slap those bills on the counter and make a run (hobble) for it.

  “Thank you.”

  “Nick Penn, he gonna be here tomorrow. You be here too, yes?”

  “I’ll try,” I lied. There was no way on God’s green earth I was going to come back for the signing. I might love Nick Penn, but I already knew what would happen. The line, filled with adoring fans, would probably wrap around the block. I’d wait for hours and then when it came to be my turn to meet him, I’d be a basket case. He’d look right past me, mumble a “thanks for coming” as he scribbled his name inside the cover (callously breaking my fragile heart in the process), and then it would be over.

  No thanks.

  I preferred to keep Nick Penn in my fantasies, where he was the personification of the golden hearted, alpha male heroes he crafted in his books. You might call that pathetic. I called it the perfect relationship. For me, anyway. To say I’m socially awkward is a vast understatement, and life experiences have proven that I do far better with fictional people than real ones.

  It’s not
that I don’t like people; it just takes me a long time to get comfortable with someone, and my innate introversive tendencies made that difficult.

  “You come,” Mr. C insisted. “You his biggest fan.”

  I blushed. He wasn’t wrong. I’d read each of Nick Penn’s books so many times I could recite entire chapters from memory. When I dreamed, I dreamt of myself as one of his heroines. I had no idea what Nick Penn looked like, though, so the sexy laptop guy from the corner usually filled in very nicely as my hero.

  Yeah, I had it bad.

  The moment I had my greedy little hand on the bag, I put my daring pay-and-escape plan into action. I slapped the money onto the counter, said a quick thanks, and took off as fast as my aching knee would allow. It would have been a really slick getaway, too, if I hadn’t run right smack into the man walking in at exactly the same time.

  And not just any man. It was “he”. Him. The guy from the corner. Sexy laptop guy. Apparently he was running a bit late today, too.

  He was taller than I’d thought (in my defense, I’d only ever seen him sitting down). At least six feet to my totally average five-four, his chest was hard enough that I bounced right off. I would’ve fallen on my backside again had he not reached out with his big, strong hands and grabbed me by the upper arms to keep me upright.

  “Easy there,” he said, and I swear my body lit up like a switchboard. His voice was deep and rich, the perfect combination of sex and sin.

  I drew in a breath, instantly sorry I did when my lungs filled with the clean, spicy scent of his cologne. Slightly woodsy, like fresh cut cedar, mellowed with something smooth, like musk. My typically dormant female hormones went from zero to sixty in less than two seconds.

  “I’m so sorry,” I mumbled, squirming free of his grasp, searching the ground frantically for my book. We both went down for it at the same time, banging our heads in the process.

  “You’re a walking wrecking ball, aren’t you?” he teased, rubbing his forehead. He sounded amused, but I couldn’t have been more mortified. Half of my body was soaking wet, my hair was a tangled mass of curls thanks to the rain, and now I had a headache to go along with my aching knee and throbbing wrist.

  Like I said, this guy had a starring role in more than one of my steamy romance fantasies. And not once, in any of them, had I envisioned our first actual encounter being anything like this. This was a prime example of why I preferred fantasy over reality. In my fantasy, I would have offered him a smile and said something cute or funny or witty, but my traitorous mind had gone eerily blank. No doubt I’d think of something I should have said, something I should have done, in about three hours... but that didn’t make me feel any better now.

  To make matters even worse, my eyes started filling with tears.

  Of course, he noticed. “Hey, I’m sorry. Are you okay?”

  I nodded, keeping my focus on his boots. They were nice ones, made from what looked like hand-tooled black leather. I could just see the hem of his full length duster, also black, brushing against the back of his faded blue denim clad calves. I didn’t dare look up. If he was that hard-bodied, smelled that good, and wore jeans and black leather, I definitely didn’t want to look up and have him see how he affected me; I was too embarrassed. As it was, I might have to change my schedule so I never ran into him at the bookstore again.

  “Bella!” I heard Mr. C call out to me, but full-on panic mode was setting in. I used the distraction to bolt for the door, limping away as quickly as I could. I thought I heard someone calling my name, but the skies chose that moment to open up. I tucked my precious beneath my jacket and made it to the bus just as the doors were beginning to close.

  At least something went right today.

  I swiped my card and found an open seat about half-way back. I chanced a look back at the bookstore, my heart stuttering when I saw the black-dustered figure watching the bus pull away with Mr. C by his side. My glasses were fogging up so I didn’t get a good look at the expression on his face. Seeing as he probably now considered me a complete lunatic, that was a good thing. Why couldn’t I have run into someone else? Someone I didn’t secretly lust after?

  No matter. I crossed my arms, pressing the hardback closer against my body. My night was already set, and I couldn’t wait to get started.

  Chapter 2: Nick

  I watched her flee. That was the only way to describe her hasty exit from the warmth of the bookstore into the cold, icy rain. It took everything I had not to run after her, crush her to my body, and kiss the sense right out of her.

  Until now, I’d been content to watch her from afar, but not anymore. That brief, wholly unexpected collision -—the first time we’d actually touched -—had broken the seal, so to speak. The feel of her soft, feminine body pressed against mine, the slight trembling beneath my hands, made me crave more. A lot more.

  Normally, I wasn’t such a caveman, but something about that woman called to a primitive part of me. Had, since the first time I’d laid eyes on her. I wouldn’t exactly call it love at first sight, because I’m a firm believer that true, lasting love -—like the kind my grandparents have -—is something that develops over time. Whatever it was, though, it was powerful. From the moment I saw her, I haven’t been able to even think about another woman.

  Only her. Katherine Constance O’Shea. Kat, to me. Bella, to my matchmaking grandfather.

  “Whatchu scare her for?” my Nonno Francisco scolded as he joined me at the door.

  “I didn’t scare her.”

  He snorted derisively. “You no use any charm, either.”

  I said nothing, because I thought I had been rather charming during our brief, spontaneous encounter. I’d kept her from falling (a chivalrous move). I’d retrieved her package (a package which I knew contained the book I had written specifically with her in mind). I’d even employed a bit of harmless teasing in an attempt to coax a smile from her pretty face. That might not sound like much, but for a guy like me who was much better at writing romance than executing it, I thought I did okay.

  To be honest, I didn’t usually make much, if any, effort to get women to notice me. They seemed to find me attractive enough that I didn’t have to. My Italian heritage gave me the dark hair, swarthy complexion, and black eyes they seemed to like. My time in the Marines gave me the strong, cut physique and the discipline to maintain it once I rejoined civilian life. I was raised to be a gentleman, and tended to speak only when I had something worthwhile to say, which also seemed to be a plus.

  But Kat, she wasn’t like other women. Despite what my grandfather said, I don’t think she even noticed me. Week after week I sat in the corner of the bookstore, crafting my next novel. It was easy when Kat was around. I’d sneak peeks at her curling up in one of the alcoves with a cup of my nonna’s cappuccino and a small plate of zeppole and imagine the things I’d like to say to her. The things I’d like to do. The hardest part was getting my fingers to move fast enough to capture it all. Often times I had to just get down the bare bones and flesh it all out later when I had time to sit back and think about it.

  Watching her expressions, knowing she held my book in her hands, had to be the best inspiration (and aphrodisiac) of all.

  “Why is she limping?” I asked. That caveman urge doubled in strength when I saw her wonky canter through the cold rain.

  “I think-a she fell. Her wrist, it look swollen to me.”

  I frowned, the thought of Kat hurting extremely displeasing. “Why didn’t you get Nonna Maria to help?”

  “Bella no want it.”

  I could see in my grandfather’s eyes he wasn’t any happier about the situation than I was, but there was only so much you could do for someone who didn’t want your help. I wanted to change that. Call me Og the Cave Dweller, but I wanted Kat to look to me for help when she needed it. Or hell, just comfort. I didn’t care. I just wanted her to look to me for something.

  Yeah, I had it bad.

  “Is she coming tomorrow?” I asked, suspectin
g I already knew the answer.

  He shook his head. “She say she will try.”

  Translation: No. My frown deepened. I really didn’t want to do this signing. It had been my grandfather’s idea, believing it to be the equivalent of shooting one of Cupid’s arrows straight into Kat’s heart.

  I had my doubts, but my grandfather can be very persuasive (especially when he teams up with my grandmother, who also thinks Kat O’Shea is the perfect woman for me).

  So I’d agreed under the duress of their meddling persistence (and some incredible homemade cannoli). Generally, I shied away from public appearances. I’m not a glory hound. I’m grateful for the success I’ve had thus far, and I really appreciate my readers, but I’d rather do my connection online. Face-to-face improvisation was not my forte; I preferred sitting in front of my screen, where I could take a few moments to formulate proper responses and engage in witty banter.

  Being a male author in a female-dominated genre like romance was tough, but apparently, I had a knack for it. I wrote other stuff, too -—military suspense -—but under a different pen name, and while those titles did well, they didn’t do nearly as well as my romances.

  Besides, crowds made me uncomfortable. As if on cue, phantom pain shot up through my leg -—or rather, where part of my leg used to be. It was a souvenir from my last tour overseas. My unit had been called in when violent protests against American involvement became deadly. Still, I considered myself fortunate. Some of our guys lost more than a limb that day.

  Most people didn’t realize I wore a prosthetic; it wasn’t something I advertised. I was still me, with or without flesh and bone beneath my left knee, and if anyone looked at me differently because of it, well, then, that was their problem, not mine.

  Not for the first time, I wondered if it would matter to Kat. I didn’t want to believe it would, but I knew it was a possibility. Some of my faith in humanity had been lost around the same time as my leg.