Title: Have a Heart
Series: Love Happens #4
Author: Jodi Watters
Genre: Contemporary Romance
Release Date: November 9, 2018
Release Date: November 9, 2018
Blurb
If he had one, she'd be the woman he'd give it to.
A runaway
bride, searching for happily ever after.
A Navy
SEAL, who doesn’t believe in such things.
A bar, in
the middle of nowhere, and fate, who’s been awaiting this day.
Tessa
When I left
my groom at the altar, I didn’t care where I went, or who I met along the
way.
When I
walked into a roadside bar in Nowhere, California, I wasn’t planning on
staying.
When I sat
down beside Jason Reynolds, I had no idea who he really was.
My world
turned upside down.
Now all I
want to do is save him.
Jason
I tried to
ignore her. The beautiful train wreck who’d crashed my pity party.
I tried to
fight temptation. Her sweet smile and smart mouth threatened my misery.
I tried to
walk away. My blackened soul didn’t deserve her bright, hopeful light.
My team
calls me Tin Man for good reason.
Love has no
place in my life.
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Excerpt
I’m a wisher.
Always have been.
As a young girl, I’d stand before my closed bedroom door,
wishing a Barbie Dream House would appear on the other side.
“No way,” my dad would sneer, a cigarette between his lips.
“Not unless I hit the ponies tonight.” Despite his habit of gambling our grocery
money, neither ever happened.
As a gangly teenager, I’d stand in front of a mirror,
wishing for bigger boobs and a fuller bush because I’d just seen Candace
Michaels naked in the locker room after third period P.E. class. You could say
I was stunted in comparison. My only solace was knowing those envious breasts
would sag one day.
As a community college graduate, I stood before the
liquidated store I’d just purchased thanks to a small business loan, providing
employment to the two most important people in my life, wishing to God I’d
always be able to pay their salaries. Theirs before mine, it turned out, on
occasion. No matter. There was currency in independence.
I also wished I could twirl a baton, participate in a flash
mob, and eat cake every day without gaining weight. But, as my dad always said,
I could wish in one hand and shit in the other and see which one filled up
first.
His best and only advice.
Through it all, I’ve stared at nineteen different sheets of
paper, always questioning what I’d written, wishing many times over I was a
poet. That I carried within me a grace to evoke tender emotion, along with the
guts to expel the toxic ones, using nothing but a pen and the alphabet.
Oftentimes I missed the mark, yet I sent the messages anyway.
Yes, I’m an old-school letter writer. A throwback to another
generation. It’s not by choice, believe me. This obsession started years ago,
and I only write to one person.
Him.
Lately, I’ve avoided it. There’s been nothing to say.
But now, in the middle of the night, I suddenly have plenty
to say. To write.
The man lying in bed next to me gives me pause. I know he’s
asleep before I turn to look, his breathing slow, but his body tense. Ready for
the unexpected. A learned habit that might never leave him. There’s something
precious in seeing him sleep, the weight of a nation briefly lifted. In repose,
he becomes more man than machine, despite himself.
More real. More reachable.
Careful not to jostle the blankets, I slide the remote from
his slack hand and turn up the volume on an informercial to cover the sound of
my movements. No easy feat, given he has catlike reflexes and can hear
footsteps two doors down. Smiling, my heart expands. Those are only a few of
the many skills that make him straight-up cool, in and out of a uniform.
So far, so good, the light from the TV guiding me as I crawl
out of bed and grab paper and pen from the dresser. Not bothering to cover
myself, I stand in the same spot and write what’s in my heart, the words
clambering to come out. It’s all I can do to make my cursive scroll legible.
Most of my letters are like this. Born of furious inner thoughts.
Dear... I
begin, then pause on the next looping letter.
I always write friend.
The safety of our anonymity now gone, I write his name instead,
personally addressing him for the first time. He feels like two different men
to me, both of whom I love, but neither of which I deserve.
It’s odd to use
your name. I might never get used to that. I might never write you another
letter either. It feels wrong now, as I look at the face of a man who’s been my
sounding board, my guiding light, my surprise of a lifetime. Soft with sleep,
his burdens at rest, it’s a face that proves every sappy love song right.
Love—and let’s be honest, a daily dose of sex—really is all you need. And
pizza.
Love, sex, and
pizza. The ultimate threesome. But I digress.
Everybody has
one, you know. A love story. Even the non-believers, one of which is the man
embedded within my soul. Some of the stories are good, some bad. Some of them,
for the very lucky, are even great. Those are the ones that last, defying a low
survival rate.
I’ve always
wished mine—I mean, ours—to be a lovely tale that played out like a metaphoric
fable, where hummingbirds sipped nectar from orange blossoms on dew-dampened
spring mornings, our love growing from the softest flutter of paper-thin wings,
to a steady beat so sure and strong, you could tell the time and temperature by
it. What appeared outwardly fleeting could easily withstand the rigors of
Mother Nature. Bring on the hurricane. We’ll wait for the rainbow.
Go ahead. Laugh
your fine, cynical ass off. I was thirteen when I dreamt that gem up, and while
you might be hero material to me and many others, you’re no fairy tale prince.
God knows, I’m no princess, so I’m laughing right along with you. We’re the
sorriest pair of hummingbirds ever.
But the thing
is… I don’t care how it really happened.
Just that it
did.
I continue to bleed words of love, and then regret, onto the
page, desperate to say everything I need to. Confess my sins the only way I
know how.
“Hey.”
The rustling of sheets interrupts me, and I quickly slide
the paper into the drawer, reaching for his discarded t-shirt at the same time.
Slipping it on, I cover my nakedness and grin at the scowl
that crosses his gorgeous face. Rolling to his side, his unguarded eyes beckon
me.
“C’mere.” Patting the bed, his voice is rough with sleep.
Without hesitation, I let him envelop me in his strong,
capable arms.
Nuzzling my hair, he asks the question I’m prepared for.
“What were you doing? It’s zero dark thirty.”
“Nothing.” Burying my face in his neck, I kiss him and fight
tears, feeling far more secure than I should. The taste of his skin is achingly
familiar, and I let my lips linger. The privilege, I know, is temporary. “Just
shaking off a dream.”
“Mmm,” he rumbles, and it’s the sexiest sound I’ve ever
heard. “A good one or bad?”
The answer is complicated.
“Both,” I finally admit, the tears falling unbidden. I hide
them, and the darkness allows me my privacy. “Tighter,” I whisper, and he just
seems to know, the band of his arms flexing.
My breathing is shallow, but my love is deep, and I
selfishly ask for more. “Tighter. Please.”
Screw hummingbirds and orange blossoms.
This is the love
story—the sad, but true story—I’m meant to be in.
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Author Bio
My love for
steamy romance began when I was in junior high. A friend and I noticed a
dumpster of discarded paperbacks behind our local dime store. Covers missing
and each book split down the spine, I scanned the pages for any love or lust
words—and curse words, too. From that point on, I scoured the public library
and the paperback racks at every store, reading anything labeled romance. I said
a tearfully grateful goodbye to Judy Bloom, and Jackie Collins began ruling my
world.
I live with
my high school sweetheart husband in the desert Southwest. Awesome in the
winter, not so much in the summer.
My life
long goals are to think before I speak, smile more and swear less, and actually
weigh what my driver's license states I do.
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