Forbidden Love

Jude

I rolled out of bed and made a beeline for the bathroom, hoping to rid myself of the cottonmouth that only came from another night of whiskey before bed.

For months, I’d watched from a far as Haven and her cowboy publicly flaunted their relationship. She smiled almost all of the time. I rarely saw her without him and never had I seen a moment where she wasn’t shining with contentment.

It had been a solid sixty-eight days since she’d told me she loved him. Since I’d gone back to Mace’s house and spilled my guts. Sixty-eight torturous days since I wanted to believe she didn’t really love him but, and try as I might, I hadn’t seen an instant where their relationship and feelings weren’t clear. I wanted to keep the hope alive that someday she’d come back to me, but it was fading, fast. She loved him. She was joyful and I was drowning every night in amber liquid. As soon as the boys were asleep, I was pouring a whiskey on the rocks and sitting in the darkness of my room. Going over how I could have changed things and how I wanted to be the bigger person and say it didn’t matter so long as she was happy. I’d be lying though. I liked that she was happy, but I would have much preferred she be happy with me.

I missed her and I craved her. My life was empty without her…just like yet another bottle.

Haven

Six and a half months. That was how long it’d been since I closed one chapter and started another. One hundred and eighty glorious days with a man who loved me in a way no man had ever loved me. We’ve shared more meals, conversations, sweet-nothings, hands held, stolen glances, and fevered kisses in those last months than I could count. Who knew that six months ago, a stranger would walk into my life and steal my heart away, while turning my world upside down and making me believe I was cherished and loved.

I discovered he loved to wrap our pinkies together when we walked down the sidewalk. It was a simple gesture; a pinky-promise saying he’d never leave me. We may be on borrowed time, but I was blissfully happy and refused to think about when it might end.

Once I learned Dylan was only temporarily renting his place—he hadn’t been planning on staying long so he didn’t sign a full year lease—it worked out to our advantage, because last month, we decided to move in together. It seemed like the logical thing to do considering we slept in the same bed every night anyway. Either I at his place or he was at mine. There was really no sense in keeping his place, which was mostly barren of…well, anything. Making new memories with Dylan in my apartment was one of my favorite parts. It became our apartment.

Along with living together, I gathered some rather fascinating things. Dylan is a fabulous cook, but he color-codes his food. He didn’t like for things to touch on his plate, so serving was always a chore. He used separate containers when he could, and he only ate one thing at a time. The plus side was he loved to wash the dishes, so I never complained about how many place settings he would put to use for a single meal.

He was also crazy tidy. If I wasn’t out of bed, he’d make it with me in it. It made me laugh every time when he made me into a blanket taco, almost daily. Some days I’d coax him back to the softness of the sheets and my warm body with promises of sweet desserts and happy endings. It usually worked.

I loved that he didn’t leave hair in the sink, or the toilet seat up. He had fast become the organization to my chaos. My closet had a floor again, and the top shelf was since filled with boxes of our memories. We documented everything. He wanted me to have a forever memory of him, something I could think about and remember, to get through the pain of losing him. In the last two months, we’d filled up two boxes with pictures, brochures, movie tickets, sweet notes, dried flowers, even napkins from our favorite restaurants. It was been amazing making memories of us; every sad to silly moment counted.

Dylan frequently made stupid jokes that I found hilarious, ranging from cheesy one-liners to long, drawn out ‘three guys walked into a bar’ jokes. Most were just awful, but I couldn’t help myself, and would giggle every time. Yes, he still made me giggle, like a schoolgirl some days.

We never argued. It was one of those relationships where everything just fell together. We were completely in sync. He knew when I was testy or hormonal and would stay silent, offering up chocolate and wine. I knew that when he was nervous or in pain, he paced. I did my part to listen and encourage.

We’d had plenty of nervous days with the never-ending tests and check-ups for pain management. But I wouldn’t trade any of it. Not one single moment of being with Dylan would I regret for all my life. Despite being my complete opposite, he filled every jagged hole in my heart perfectly. He was my knight in shining armor, and Prince Charming wrapped up in one sweet, southern, cowboy package.

We just…fit.

My mind drifted to one of the many memories Dylan and I had made together.

I skirted around him and snatched the bottle of wine that sat on the other side of him. Dylan reached out with his grabby hands and squeezed my bum, trying to distract me again.

“And just what do you think you’re doing, cowboy?” Reaching up to pull down two wine glasses from the cabinet above my head, I laughed.

“I’m giving my compliments to the chef.” He came up behind me and placed his hands on the bare skin where my shirt had ridden up. He dropped a kiss on my neck and ran his hands around the front of my abdomen.

“Is this how you thank everyone who cooks for you?” I gently put the wine glasses down on the counter in front of me, and turned the silver twist-top lid off the bottle.