Free The One That Got Away by Jamie Sobrato Page B

they’d become as adults had a chance to explore a relationship that they’d never had in their younger days?
    Such questions were far too dangerous for her heart to contemplate, so she forced herself to begin typing.



CHAPTER SEVEN
    M ARCUS WOKE UP THE next day with a slight headache from the wine, wondering if the kiss could have worked out differently. He didn’t regret it, exactly, but did regret having made Ginger feel uncomfortable. Of course she would worry about his motives in pursuing her romantically. Here he was, a new dad, just back in the U.S. after having been shot, and he was throwing himself at her after a matter of hours?
    He must have seemed like a lunatic. And maybe he was, but he also knew from experience that life wasn’t going to stop and wait for him. He had to seize his opportunities. Maybe he would just have to bide his time and prove to Ginger that he wasn’t acting out of desperation to find a mother for his kid. Instead, he was a new man, and what he felt was a growing attraction to a woman he’d always considered a friend.
    The house was silent as he rose and went about his morning routine. It was only when he walked down the hallway toward the kitchen that he heard the faint click clack of fingers typing on a keyboard. He followed the sound to the door at the end of the hall and found Ginger there, sitting at a desk.
    “Morning,” he said. “How long have you been up?”
    She turned in the swiveling desk chair and smiled. “Oh, all night pretty much. I had trouble sleeping, and I eventually decided to spend my time writing instead of tossing and turning.”
    She was already dressed for the day in a pair of jeans and a stretchy pink tank top that created a warm glow on her pale skin, contrasting with her dark red hair. She was so damn pretty. He forced his gaze from lingering on the rounded swell of her breasts, and looked around the office.
    “I hope I wasn’t the cause of your sleeplessness.”
    “Don’t give yourself so much credit,” she said in a teasing tone. “If you’ll remember, I’ve always had insomnia.”
    “Oh, right.” He entered the room, perusing the bookshelves that lined the walls. “So this is where you write.”
    “Sometimes. I have a laptop for when I want to be more mobile.”
    “What are you working on these days?”
    “Nothing much.”
    “Nothing much that kept you up all night?”
    She laughed. “Yeah, okay, it’s a short story, but I’m not going to let you read it.”
    He spun around, assuming an expression of mock offense. “How can you not let me read it? You’re the best writer I know and I used to be your favorite critic.”
    “False flattery will get you nowhere—and you haven’t read anything of mine in years.”
    “Seriously, Ginger, that short story you wrote about the girl lost in the desert still gives me chills.”
    Ginger rolled her eyes and groaned. “Oh God, you remember that thing?”
    “I still have a copy of it. I found it while I was packing for my trip here.”
    She pointed her finger at him. “Use it for kindling next time you need to start a fire.”
    “You should write a novel.”
    “Everyone who writes novels thinks I should stop wasting my time with short stories, and write a novel.”
    Marcus leaned against her desk, wanting very much to read what she had on the computer monitor. She minimized the document to keep him from doing so.
    “So why don’t you?” he said.
    “If you’d stayed in touch, you’d know that I did write one, and it was an utter failure.”
    A stab of well-deserved guilt shot through him. “I’m sorry. But sales have little to do with talent. I want to read your book. I bet it’s great.”
    “It’s over there on a shelf somewhere. Help yourself.”
    “So why not write another one?”
    “I’ll leave the wordy tomes for talented writers like yourself.”
    “How about a book of short stories then?”
    Ginger crossed her arms over her chest and peering up at him. “Is there