Unforgettable Read online

  Contents

  UNFORGETTABLE

  COPYRIGHT AND LICENSE INFORMATION

  Disclaimer

  BLURB

  1. Marji

  2. Lucas

  3. Marji

  4. Marji

  5. Lucas

  6. Marji

  7. Lucas

  8. Marji

  9. Marji

  10. Lucas

  11. Marji

  12. Lucas

  13. Marji

  14. Lucas

  15. Marji

  16. Marji

  17. Lucas

  18. Marji

  19. Lucas

  20. Marji

  Epilogue

  What to do now

  Books by New York Times bestselling author Aleatha Romig

  About the Author

  By

  New York Times, Wall Street Journal, and USA Today bestselling author

  Aleatha Romig

  COPYRIGHT AND LICENSE INFORMATION

  UNFORGETTABLE

  Copyright © 2019 Romig Works, LLC

  Published by Romig Works, LLC

  2019 Edition

  ISBN e-book: 978-1-947189-50-8

  Cover art: Romig Works, LLC

  Editing: Printed Matter Editing

  Formatting: Romig Works, LLC

  * * *

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any informational storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the copyright owner.

  * * *

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  * * *

  This book is available in print from most online retailers

  * * *

  2019 Edition License

  * * *

  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment. This e-book may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to the appropriate retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Disclaimer

  The INDULGENCE series contains novellas designed to bring out the harbored fantasies often buried deep inside. If you’re ready to give that a try, enjoy this fun, sexy journey into the world of exploration and find your happily ever after.

  BLURB

  Marji

  Working for a therapist who specializes in exploring hidden desires sounds like a dream job. It is if hearing other people’s fantasies and discoveries is your cup of tea. The problem is that I’m tired of hearing about them. I want more. I want to experience them.

  What harm will it do if I indulge just one time?

  That’s where Lace and Leather comes in.

  A falsified referral and I’m in the door.

  One visit is all I want.

  Lucas

  Sometimes plans change. Sometimes life throws curves. Sometimes we must force ourselves to move forward and take life a day at a time.

  I did all that.

  Now I want more.

  I want to remember what it is like to do more than exist, what it’s like to live. I want to learn if the desires I once possessed still exist. I’m not looking for anyone to replace my wife or the mother of my daughter. I only want to see if I’m still the man I was.

  That’s why I decide to return to a place where that discovery is possible, Lace and Leather.

  One visit is all I want.

  * * *

  From New York Times, Wall Street Journal, and USA Today bestselling author Aleatha Romig comes another of her steamy novellas exploring hidden desires. UNFORGETTABLE is a stand-alone story in the INDULGENCE series.

  *Warning: reading may set your e-reader on fire while bringing a smile to your face.

  * * *

  Have you been Aleatha’d?

  Marji

  “The client blushed as she recalled the setting, describing the scene as she entered the cabin. With each implement she recalled, her cheeks grew redder until she finally apologized. I questioned as to whether talking about their encounter made her anxious or embarrassed. With a sly grin toward her husband, the client replied, ‘It makes me want to go back.’”

  Pulling the earbuds from my ears, I shake my head, pushing the visuals from my mind. With a quick save, using the clients’ identification number instead of name, I close out their records and complete the transcription of Dr. Kizer’s appointment notes from the day before.

  Looking down at the corner of my computer screen, I see that it is nearly seven at night, almost time to leave work and live. That’s what is supposed to happen at this time of night. I know that it is because I’ve read about it in the novels on my Kindle. I’ve seen the images on television or in movies. I even transcribe a therapist’s detailed notes telling me that is the way it should be.

  They’re all the same.

  They’re evidence that not everyone lives for work, novels, and Netflix.

  The images and stories are of people shedding their work or career responsibilities, and like a butterfly, freeing themselves from their daytime cocoon, the drab outer layer exfoliating and the bright, colorful wings stretching until the butterfly is free and able to take flight.

  “Thank you, Dr. Kizer,” Mr. Williams says as his wife smiles, her cheeks blushed from whatever discussion has been happening behind Dr. Kizer’s closed office door.

  The discussion I will be turning into records tomorrow.

  That knowledge causes me to straighten my shoulders, not wanting to give away my connection to the clients’ intimated details.

  As the couple comes to a stop in front of my desk, I can’t help but notice the admiration and adoration they share. It radiates off of each of them. There’s no hidden anxiety or concern. It’s pure, unadulterated trust and esteem, as if they’re the only two people in the room. Forget that. They’re the only two people now in the world.

  Mrs. Williams’s head shakes as she tilts her forehead against her husband’s shoulder with a soft giggle.

  “Um,” I say, clearing my throat. “Would you like to schedule your appointment for next week?”

  Mr. Williams looks my direction. “Make that two weeks. We’re following Dr. Kizer’s advice and taking a week away...” He looks down lovingly at his wife. “...just the two of us.”

  Mrs. Williams nods. “I sent my mom a text and she’s going to stay with the kids. I didn’t think I was ready for an entire week, but I am.”

  Please no details.

  That’s my thought as her cheeks again fill with crimson.

  “Then, two weeks,” I say, pulling up Dr. Kizer’s schedule on my screen. “Two weeks on Thursday at six p.m.?”

  “That’s perfect,” Mr. Williams says as he enters the appointment into his phone. “Oh Marji, do we talk to you about the use of Dr. Kizer’s cabin?”

  “For next week?” I ask a bit wearily.

  “Yes.”

  I sit taller. “I’m sorry. The cabins are all booked in advance.” I hit a few keys on the keyboard, suddenly feeling the same disappointment that is now emanating from the two people before me.

  “Dr. Kizer said there was a recent cancellation,” Mr. Williams says. “Can you please check?”

  “Next week is our anniversary,” Mrs. Williams adds with a hopeful grin. “Seven years and it is better than ever.” She sighs. “Better than
I could have hoped for.”

  “If this doesn’t work out...” Mr. Williams’s words to his wife disappear as I type upon the keyboard until the cabin rental schedule appears before me.

  To my surprise, there is an opening. “Well, Dr. Kizer was right.”

  “She always is,” Mrs. Williams says, her smile returning bigger than ever as she still holds tightly to her husband’s arm.

  I don’t want to think about what will be happening at the cabin—the scene and the implements: crops, gags, and restraints to name a few. It’s really none of my business what two consenting adults choose to do in their spare time. I mean, it’s their decision.

  I could pretend to be naïve, tell myself that they’re going to rent the cabin for a week to hike the trails or picnic near the lake. I could tell myself that it’s no different than any other rental, a Vrbo or a time-share.

  If I did tell myself any of the above stories, I wouldn’t believe me.

  Along with scheduling Dr. Kizer’s clients, seeing them come in on the verge of marital or relationship collapse and observing their transformations, singularly as well as a couple, as I was doing a few minutes ago, I also transcribe her notes. With an earbud in my ear, I listen to the details as my fingers type, creating a printable record of words of thoughts and feelings that should only be discussed in private.

  Of course, what I do is confidential. I wouldn’t share a word.

  I’m bound to the ethics of my job. That doesn’t mean I don’t retain the information, sometimes think about it, and sometimes imagine what it would be like to be one of these wives.

  Please don’t assume I am out to wreck a marriage. That’s the farthest thing from the truth. I don’t want any of the husbands that come in here for counseling.

  No, I want my own.

  I’m not even looking for a husband, just a man who is capable of indulging in a few fantasies I can’t seem to unimagine.

  I write the six-digit code on a card and hand it to Mr. Williams. “Here’s the code to unlock the cabin. The address is on the back. It’s very isolated. There are directions online at the website on the card. Many GPS receivers have difficulty finding it. Please notify the number on the front of the card if you have any specific requests prior to your arrival. Your rental begins on Saturday. Be sure to notify the rental company of those requests by Friday.”

  “Specific requests?” Mrs. Williams asks. “I was under the impression it’s fully...um...furnished...stocked...”

  “Yes,” I say, working to keep a neutral smile plastered on my lips. “The cabin is furnished with everything Dr. Kizer has mentioned or you mentioned and more. It’s the food and drink that you can either bring or it can be stocked.” I take a deep breath. “Perhaps you have diet restrictions? And if you want anything particular that hasn’t been mentioned, the number on the front can help.”

  “Do they...?” Mrs. Williams swallows. “...know our names?”

  I shake my head. “No, ma’am. This is part of Dr. Kizer’s therapy. It’s completely confidential. I also wrote your ID number on the back. That is how they know you.”

  She nodded as she looked up at her husband with her eyes wide. “We should talk...about things. I read about something once...”

  Mr. Williams stands taller. His action silences her words, yet by the gleam in his gaze, it’s obvious that he’s more than interested to hear her thoughts. Turning back to me, he nods. “Thank you, Marji. We’ll see you and Dr. Kizer in two weeks.”

  “Bye.” Have a great time. I don’t say the last part, trying to squelch any images of their future before they take root in my mind.

  As the door to the front office closes and the Williamses disappear, I lean back in my chair and exhale. I’ve been working here for over two years. You’d think those conversations would get easier.

  “Marji?”

  I turn as Dr. Ami Kizer steps from her office. In a gray pencil skirt, white silk blouse, and closed-toe high-heel pumps, no one would know that this proper lady spends her days discussing and encouraging sexual exploration.

  “Yes?”

  “Can you please close up? I have to leave early.”

  “Sure thing. Do you need today’s notes transcribed tonight?”

  “No,” she says with a wave of her hand. “I have them all recorded. They can wait until tomorrow. You deserve to enjoy your night like everyone else.”

  Like everyone else.

  “Okay.”

  “Is everything all right, Marji?”

  I force a smile. “I’m your office manager, remember? I’m not a client.”

  “No, but you’re also a friend. I couldn’t keep this place running without you. If you ever want to talk...”

  “I’m not exactly eligible for couples counseling.” I make a scrunched face. “I’m minus the part about a couple.”

  Dr. Kizer shrugged. “The world is filled with halves of couples waiting to find one another. It’s a matter of looking in the right place.”

  “And where would that be?” I ask.

  “Sometimes where you least expect it. Have a good night, Marji.”

  “You too, Dr. Kizer. See you tomorrow.”

  Lucas

  “Daddy,” Callie calls as she tugs my hand toward the refrigerated section of the grocery store, pointing up at the cups of pudding. “I like chocolate. You said I could have chocolate pudding for dinner.”

  My head shakes. “Callie girl, I said you could have chocolate pudding for dessert. Dinner isn’t pudding.”

  “But I like pudding the bestest.”

  I suppose when I imagined parenthood, I saw myself more as my father had been, present yet not omnipresent. I had delusions of coming home from work to a clean home with dinner cooking in the oven and my wife greeting me with a cold beer or maybe a tumbler with two fingers of bourbon.

  Okay.

  I admit my illusions weren’t quite that misogynistic. I can’t help that I watched reruns of Happy Days or even Leave it to Beaver as a kid. My dad wasn’t that 1950’s, nor was my mom. My dad was hands-on and a good guy. He still is. He and my mom are not only great examples of parents but they’re also fantastic grandparents to Callie.

  The difference with illusions and reality is that now I’m all Callie has in the parent department. I’m Dad and Mom. I’m the fun one and the tough one. It would be great to let my daughter eat chocolate pudding for dinner, watch cartoons, and fall asleep on the living room couch. No, a fun dad would make it even better. Together we could fall asleep under a tent made from sheets in the middle of the living room.

  I wanted that, but life decided to throw us a curveball.

  Callie’s mom is no longer with us, and I miss her every day.

  I’ve tried it all to move on. I’ve tried grief counseling, single-parent classes, and getting involved in Callie’s preschool. The latter was a disaster.

  Do you know how many dads attend parent meetings alone?

  Do you know how many moms feel it is their calling in life to keep that dad involved?

  The answer to that would be too many, especially too many with wedding rings present on their left hand.

  The truth is that I’m not looking for a wife to greet me at the door. I’m not looking to share parenting responsibilities of my precious daughter. I would simply like to feel that I’m more than a daddy once in a while. I’d like to remember what it was like to be a man in control.

  Take my word for it, there is absolutely no control with a four-, almost five-year-old. The 1950s TV shows may give that misconception, but my precious little girl knows what she wants. I love that quality and want to encourage her. However, sometimes it would be nice if I too could get what I want, a grown woman with similar—complementing—desires.

  The memories of Beth and having that type of relationship are fading, and I’m not certain I will ever get them back.

  I corral Callie after throwing two four-packs of pudding in our cart and head toward the produce aisle.

  W
hile I’m not looking for anyone or even someone, there are times when a woman catches my eye. At this moment, it’s the blonde inspecting fresh lettuce that I notice. She seems vaguely familiar, yet I can’t seem to place her, when all of a sudden, Callie bolts from my side to the strawberries, plowing face-first into the blonde’s side.

  “Oh,” she says as she reaches out and secures Callie, stopping her from tumbling to the floor.

  “I’m sorry,” Callie says shyly as she stares up at the woman.

  “Are you all right?” the woman asks, surveying my rambunctious daughter.

  “Yes,” Callie says, “I was looking at the strawsberries.”

  “Strawberries,” I correct. “And not looking where she was going.” I give the lady a sheepish smile. “I apologize for the collision. It seems that these days we have two speeds, full throttle and sleep.”

  The blonde woman smiles and I try not to gasp. There’s something about her that sparks life into my dead soul.

  “No harm, no foul,” she says. “I’m certainly not going to stand in the way of a child and healthy fruit.” Her light-blue gaze leaves me and inspects my cart, taking an inventory of the pudding at the bottom of it.

  “Well, it will be good to add something healthy,” I say with a grin.