The Girl He Loves: A Second Chance Romantic Comedy Read online

  The Girl He Loves

  A Second Chance Romantic Comedy

  Kristi Rose

  To DKHM: This is love.

  Contents

  Books by Kristi Rose

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Meet Kristi Rose

  Join Kristi’s Read and Relax Society

  Copyright © 2020 by Kristi Rose

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Vintage Housewife Books

  Cover Design © 2020 Strong Image Creations

  The Girl He Loves/ Kristi Rose. -- 1st edition

  ISBN: 978-1-944513-42-9

  Books by Kristi Rose

  Samantha True Mysteries

  One Hit Wonder

  All Bets Are Off

  Best Laid Plans

  The Wyoming Matchmaker Series

  The Cowboy Takes A Bride

  The Cowboy’s Make Believe Bride

  The Cowboy’s Runaway Bride

  The No Strings Attached Series

  The Girl He Knows

  The Girl He Needs

  The Girl He Wants

  The Meryton Brides Series

  To Have and To Hold (Book 1)

  With This Ring (Book 2)

  I Do (Book 3)

  Promise Me This (Book 4)

  Marry Me, Matchmaker (Book 5)

  Honeymoon Postponed (Book 6)

  Matchmaker’s Guidebook - FREE

  The Second Chance Short Stories can be read alone and go as follows:

  Second Chances

  Once Again

  Reason to Stay

  He’s the One

  Kiss Me Again

  or purchased in a bundle for a better discount.

  The Coming Home Series: A Collection of 5 Second Chance Short Stories (Can be purchased individually).

  Love Comes Home

  The Girl He Loves

  Three reasons why I’m currently crying by Heather Michaels:

  1.My house is falling apart.

  2.My special needs eight year old is begging to play football and it breaks my heart to say no.

  3.I haven’t had sex in two years.

  Between my day job, night school, and doctor’s appointments, I’m lucky if I have time to shave my legs. So when I run into my college flame, Dax Griffin, who’s living his football dreams, the fact that my life is a hot mess burns even more. Seeing him pushes me over the edge and into his bed. This time around, I know not to expect anything more than one night.

  The sex may be great, but it won’t solve my problems. When Dax insists on being my handy man, it seems too good to be true. He says he’s a changed man, but I wonder if I’ve changed enough to accept him.

  As much as I want to say yes, I don’t know if I can trust that I’m the girl he loves.

  Chapter 1

  Friday

  Today’s the day. Finally. Sure, getting here took me way longer than I initially planned. But I’m here. I sit before my counselor because today I’ll be assigned my student teaching placement. This is the final step in finishing my Bachelor’s Degree in elementary education. Only two classes remain that I’ll complete over the summer, then student teaching in the fall, after which I don a cap and gown and fulfill the dream.

  “We've run into a bit of a hiccup,” says Rebecca Jamison, my college counselor, while not making eye contact.

  I shift in my seat. “What do you mean a hiccup?”

  This moment is huge for me. I'm finally going to finish college. I should have graduated from my first go at college eight years ago, but life, in my case an unexpected pregnancy, derailed me. And yes, I had hoped to finish two years ago when I made a second attempt. But who’s counting? Only me and the X-marks I make on the calendar every day. I’m here now. I’m so close I can taste it. And it’s yummy. That’s why “hiccups” are unwanted.

  Jamison, my steadfast administrative cheerleader, acts differently today. Today it seems our roles are reversed. I came into her office relaxed and confident of the next step. Yet she sits across from me worrying one hand by rubbing the tips of her fingers together. Her office, beige walls with worn beige carpet, is decorated with inspirational posters. Mountains calling people to go the distance. Einstein’s profile telling us we are smart. Which is like a joke in comparison. But whatever.

  Three and a half ago years ago when I sat in her office, in this same seat with the worn armrest, I’d been the worried one. A single mom with no extra cash to spare, I wasn’t sure I could afford to go back to college. Jamison told me then there would no obstacle we couldn’t overcome. She’d been right, mostly. I’ve had a few setbacks like having to take a semester off for my son’s hospitalization, but that was unavoidable. Or having to lighten my load because my ex-husband wasn’t co-parenting like a good father is supposed to. Never mind his habit of being consistently delinquent with child support.

  Jamison taps a piece of paper with her other hand and sucks in a deep breath. As she exhales, she says in a rush of words, “Let me explain, Heather. You see, when people apply to the university to be a teacher, we do a background check. We do this because, in order to work in a school setting or with children, the applicant can't have a criminal record.” She casts me a fleeting glance.

  I nod in agreement. I don’t have a criminal record, and what she says makes sense. Would I want someone with a criminal record working with my child? I suppose it would depend on the crime, but as with all humans, my mind leaps to the worst so my gut reaction is no. Nope. Nada.

  That’s why what Jamison says makes sense.

  I wait for her to continue.

  Her gaze stays on something over my shoulder, but I resist the urge to look behind me.

  She says, “When you applied, we did that standard background check. Only there seems to have been a slight error.”

  I lean forward when she says error. “Go on.”

  “At the time you enrolled, an intern was doing the background checks. She goofed and marked yours as passed. Only there’s no documentation to prove it.”

  “I submitted fingerprints,” I say. “Do I need to do those again?”

  Jamison holds up her hands as she continues to explain. “No, your fingerprints are fine.”

  I shake my head in confusion. “I don’t understand.”

  She clears her throat. “Once we have fingerprints, we submit them to the FBI in what's called a level two
screening. This screening looks for certain misdemeanors or felonies. The FBI will then complete the screening and respond with a printable document that shows a pass or fail. We can only assign student teaching placement to students who have a pass on that document. Your file didn’t have that piece of paper, even though all your other essential documents were present. It's unfortunate this error wasn’t caught when you started, but here we are.” She says the last bit to herself. “We ran yours again and, um, yours came back with an issue.” She drew out the words as if she was afraid to say them.

  “An issue?” I repeat. “I don't have a criminal record so I can't imagine what issue there is. My ex-husband is delinquent with his child support payments, but why would that show up as an issue for me? I mean, it is financially. Did Justin file a complaint about the threat I made if he didn’t make those payments sooner rather than later? Nah, any moron listening to our conversation could surmise I’d made the threats out of anger. The day I no longer have to depend on his financial support will be amazing.

  I continue, “Perhaps you should run them again because it sounds like an error on their end.” It’s possible the FBI goofed, right?

  Jamison glances down at her desk and lifts the edge of a piece of paper. “Were you not arrested for indecent exposure, um, nine years ago?”

  The memory hits me, that day coming back in a flash. I groan and roll my eyes. “Well, I was arrested—the cop was new and overzealous—but I wasn't charged. We were sunbathing on the roof of the sorority house.”

  “We” being half of my sorority. Thirteen of us were taken to the station, but charges were never filed. “The courts made us pay a citation. They said it was like getting a driving ticket. We paid a small fee. Well, not really small. It was a thousand dollars but once we paid, they sent us on our way with a slap on the wrist.” And for our roof top fun we were rewarded with a sunburn on areas I hope never see the sun again.

  Not that I ever told my parents about the slap on the wrist because I was mortified. I mean, who gets in trouble for nude sunbathing on a rooftop? We purposely went up on the rooftop so no one would see us, and yet somebody saw with binoculars from an apartment building a block away, or wherever, and called the police.

  Jamison presses her lips together briefly before she says, “That may be, but according to this piece of paper” — she taps the sheet on her desk again — “you were arrested for indecent exposure, which is a misdemeanor in the first degree. The law in Florida states a charge in the first degree, and one that's an indecent exposure, will keep you from working with children.”

  This time she looks at me, pity in her eyes.

  I bluster, “But—but I wasn't charged.”

  She gives me a sad smile. “In Florida, being arrested creates the record. Charged or not.”

  I groan and drop my head into my hands. “You have got to be kidding me! I’m so close to finishing. So close to turning my life around and making real money. Well, more than I make now in retail anyway. Now you're telling me I just spent over three and a half years and accrued butt loads of student loans working on a degree that I can’t have?”

  I study her from between my fingers.

  She says, “Well, you can try to have your record expunged. But that takes time. You can’t do your student teaching until this matter is all cleared up.”

  “And what if I can't get my record expunged?”

  Jamison sighs. “You won’t be able to teach.” She holds up her hand. “But we can shift you to a different track.”

  I snort with derision. My degree track is elementary education. But my plan wasn’t to stop there. “You said once I got this degree, I could then do online school and get my certification in special education. What am I supposed to do with these classes if I can’t use them to teach special needs kids?”

  “If you get the record expunged between now and September, I can get you on the list for a spring internship starting in January. That puts your graduation out by six months, assuming getting your record removed goes smoothly. Six months isn’t so long.”

  I stand on the precipice of a full-blown pity party. Or at the very least a good old-fashioned crying fit. Six more months? That feels like forever. And that’s if things go smoothly. My odds of winning the lottery are probably higher than getting something to run smoothly.

  Yet, I’ve persevered. I’ve stayed strong. I kept swimming. However you want to phrase it, I’ve held fast to the belief that if I worked hard to improve my life, I’d succeed.

  The last five years have been really crappy. I mean, I’m living proof of that saying: “the hits just keep on coming.”

  First, I discover my son has epilepsy. Ever experience your kid having a seizure? Moms out there whose kids have seizures know how scary that is. Like suck the breath out of you scary and leave you trembling for days. I'm not saying there aren’t other scary things, but this is my scary thing and sits right at the top of my “things that scare the shit out of me” list.

  Then my marriage fell apart. Secretly, I’m kind of okay about that. Would I like to have a partner who splits the chores, worry and expenses with me? Absolutely, but my ex-husband Justin wasn’t a partner. He was the dude who brought home money and wanted sex. Sex that wasn’t even that good.

  We married for the wrong reasons, though our intentions were noble. But I don’t miss him. I miss the child support money because I live paycheck to paycheck.

  And now, here I am.

  I say, “You know, Mrs. Jamison, all this information would have been helpful before I borrowed forty thousand in student loans to get this degree. And now you're telling me I can't even use it, much less graduate, unless I can get my record expunged?”

  She pats down the air between us with her hands, as if to say “bring it down, relax, chill.” None of which I’m capable of doing.

  Mrs. Jamison says, “You can graduate on time. But to do so we’ll need to shift you to a different track, a different degree in the same sort of field, because you can't do your student teaching. But there are lots of things you can do. You know, you can, uh…” She glances down at a piece of paper where she’s clearly written out a list of these new and grand occupational opportunities.

  “You could be a corporate trainer. You could be a college academic advisor.”

  I close my eyes. “Isn't that working with children? I mean, just because they're 18….”

  “Well, they're legal adults, so...”

  “Oh, so it's okay to have an indecent exposure record and work with so-called legal adults who can’t even buy liquor, but that's fine. I get it.”

  I really didn’t, but whatever.

  When I started college the first time, it was to major in psychology, which I never finished, and here I am again, second time around, with a degree in a different field that I can’t finish either. Kinda feels like this isn’t meant to be.

  Jamison continues, “You could be a sales rep. Oh, a real estate agent.”

  I hate to be a Debbie Downer, but that train has left the station. I say, “I could’ve done all that without getting a degree. I pursued this degree because I want to work with children like my son. I want to help other families. I want to help other kids. I want to give parents hope, to know they are more than the sum of their problems or their child's diagnosis. That maybe not all their hopes and dreams for their child are gone.”

  She smiles sadly. “You could be a tutor.”

  I shake my head in confusion. “I’m sorry. I could be a tutor? Isn't that working with children?”

  “Yes, but if you do it privately, you don't have to disclose anything.”

  This was a joke, right? “Oh, okay. So, ethically, I can just put my morals aside. That's good to know.” I make a mental note to have every person who ever privately worked with my child fingerprinted. I'm realistic enough to know not everyone in this world is upstanding.

  Dear Lord, I’m a hypocrite.

  Jamison keeps on with her list. “How about a museum cu
rator?”

  “How does my degree in special education transfer over to a museum curator?”

  She shrugs helplessly. “I don't know, Heather. I looked over your transcripts. You have a fair amount of options. You almost finished your psychology degree, and you have a minor in art. You have a lot of credits. I’m sure we can find something. Either way, you need to decide. Do you want this degree, or do you want to graduate when you planned? Or are you willing to put everything off by a year max? Those are the options to get you to graduation.”

  I say, “Okay. I think I should talk to a lawyer before I make any decisions. I have a friend who might be able to help me out and expedite this. Is there any chance I get could on this internship rotation if she can turn this around rapid fast?”

  Jamison grimaces. “Well, technically no.”

  I rear back, stunned. Man, the day was beginning to super suck. “Oh, I see. I guess that’s it then.”

  She holds up a hand. “But I can give you until Tuesday of next week.”

  It’s midday Friday, and I doubt I can find the right lawyer over the weekend. So, essentially that gives me Monday to find a lawyer and that person precious little time to see if my quest to clear my record is even possible.

  “I’m sorry, Heather,” she says. “Your grades are exceptional, so transferring to another program isn't going to be a problem. You'll be accepted into almost anything.”