Eleven Weeks (32 page)
The problem with heartache is that you can dream about the could have—the
should
have—but when you wake, nothing will console you.
Because seconds later, you remember he’s dead.
And remembering is the worst pain possible.
Kate is running from her family. It’s intertwined with everything that went wrong. When she lost her career. When she lost her sense of self.
When she lost the boy she loved.
Now, she’s got a second chance, travelling with rock-star Lee Collins and his band, Coal, on the road. She wants to forget, and she wants to fall in love.
Now.
Lee will do anything for family. It’s why he hired Kate. It’s why he donates thousands of dollars every year to the foundation that supports his father.
It’s why he keeps his secrets; and it’s why he cannot, will not fall in love. Not with Kate—not with anyone.
Ever
.
Read on for more of
The Problem With Heartache
...
T
HE PROBLEM
with heartache is that you can’t mourn forever. You can’t walk around the streets, wearing black, carrying holy water on your person in the hope that you’ll stumble upon a miracle, be able to use it and bring that person back. One day, you’re gonna forget that tiny vial, and you’re not gonna realise until it’s too late.
“Are you done?” Mum enunciated each syllable like it weighed a ton.
“Give me a second.” I threw my arms behind my back, fiddling with the straps on the bra.
A solution for heartache, however, appeared to be running. Or, it seemed to be for me. I’d been jogging on the beach every day for six months now, and slowly but surely, I was getting better mentally, becoming able to function again.
Even if it meant that my boobs were getting smaller. Hence the new sports-bra shopping trip.
“Are you having fun?”
I cringed.
Really, Mum? Fun?
My fumbling finally resulted in success and I shook the bra off, quickly shrugging my normal one over my shoulders and throwing my T-shirt on top of that. It hung loosely over my hips, the grey speckled material suiting my mood to a tee.
Ha. See what I did there?
Making bad jokes to yourself: a potential symptom of heartache. Thankfully, not a symptom of Huntington’s disease.
I grabbed my purse from the little seat the staff at the lingerie store so kindly provided its change room patrons, and walked to the front of the store to the checkout area, sports bra in hand, ready to make the purchase.
The guy in front of me at the counter was taking a really long time. He had six different sets of lingerie to put through. I couldn’t help but check around his arm to see what. Black lace, red silk, black pleather … and was that something with fur I could see?
“Stop stickybeaking.” Mum slapped my arm, and I snapped my head back to my chest.
“It’s a public place,” I whispered. The transaction in front of me continued. Hopefully, underwear-fetish guy hadn’t heard.
“People don’t like you to look at their knickers, Kate.” Mum tutted quietly, shaking her head.
“Well maybe
people
shouldn’t buy quite so many pairs. And besides,” I hissed, raising my eyebrows at her. “We don’t know that he’s going to wear them all at once.”
“Ahem.”
Of course. You whisper three fairly innocent sentences, but the one about the guy in front of you being a cross-dressing lingerie wearer, he hears.
“Sorry.” I studied the ground.
The man turned around to face me. He had maroon leather shoes, scuffed, like they’d seen better days. My gaze travelled up his black jeans, over his red-chequered shirt with the triangular collar, the black scarf around his chin, covering his lips, his nose—but not his eyes.
Holy hell, did the man have eyes.
“Kate.”
I blinked.
What?
How did this guy know my name?
“Yes?” Mum replied, and I jabbed an elbow to her ribs.
“That’s me.” I smiled brightly. “Sorry about the panties-wearing comment.”
“To be fair, this does look a little weird,” the guy said.
You can say that again …
“We just have this film clip tomorrow, and the stupid wardrobe guy said the models won’t fit any of the … you know …” The man jerked his thumb toward the counter, indicating the underwear the checkout chick had now finished ringing up.
Cogs clicked in my head. This wasn’t—
“Lee?” I silently added
freaking-Collins
. If he was going to the trouble of wearing a bad scarf by way of disguise, I doubted he’d be keen on me screaming his full name in a crowded shopping centre.
“Yeah?”
Silence.
“Kate’s just so happy to see you, is all,” Mum said. She took a step closer. “Hard to recognise, behind that scarf there.”
“That’s kind of the point.” Lee gave her a wink. I swear, my mother blushed.
“Well, we’d love to have you over for dinner sometime, since you’re in town,” Mum was saying, her hands clasped together. She opened her mouth to continue speaking.
“But being a really busy guy, we wouldn’t actually expect you to come.” I overlapped.
“Well, if we invited you formally, we would,” Mum said, giving me a strange look.
“I mean, I could.” Lee spoke the words softly, taking a step closer. “So long as you don’t tell anyone about my secret identity.”
Mum giggled like a schoolgirl.
Help me, God
.
I looked past her, past the stands of bras and the occasional naughty dress-up item and into the shopping centre and—
Him
.
I dropped the sports bra and ran, shouldering Mum as I surged forward, out the doors of the shop.
Left?
Right
.
I could just make out the brown hair bobbing in the distance.
I bolted, as fast as my legs could carry me, darting around mothers with prams, old people supported by walking frames, and teenagers making their way to the food court in an achingly slow fashion.
Turning the corner, I could see the hair again, but it was still too far away. My knees rose higher, my feet hit the ground harder, and I gave it all I had. I couldn’t let this opportunity get away. I had to take it. I had to
make
it.
This time when I turned the corner, he was almost within arm’s reach. Ignoring the stares I was getting from the lunchtime food-court crowd, I dove, reaching out and grabbing onto the denim of his jeans as I fell.
I hit the ground, hard. Tiles smashed into my ribs, my knee, the side of my jaw. Everything went black for a few moments, and I blinked, trying to clear my vision.
When I could focus again, I looked up. Faces hovered over me, voices yelling things, asking things that I couldn’t quite make out.
I need you.
Then I saw him. The blue jeans, the white shirt. The brown floppy hair.
I blinked, and concentrated all my brainpower on focusing on his face.
His face, Kate. Look at his face
.
“Lachlan?”
I blinked again. An old man wearing a chocolate-coloured beret looked back at me.
Shit.
I’d like to thank the Academy, and … okay, my acknowledgements may not be quite as lengthy as
that
Oscar’s speech, but they do have a tendency to go on, so I’ll try to keep it brief!
To Kim, my lovely cover designer, thanks so much for your patience with me when I asked if we could try this or that again. Your patience and talent know no bounds, and I love you for it!
To Marion, for editing my work, putting up with my silliness and also, being able to count. Seriously, how’d you get good at words
and
numbers? That just doesn’t seem like a fair distribution of talent!
Emily, as always, you make my books so pretty! Thanks for putting in the hard yards.
Before any of these people got to see my book, however, and before I even thought I could publish, I had it beta read. I am fortunate enough to have some of the best and probably most good-looking beta readers going! A huge thanks to Simone, for scaring me then not even being as nasty as you made out; to Kristine, for inspiring me to make a change; to Jennifer, for your awesome notes and incredible turnaround time; and to Stacey because even if I know it isn’t true, I love it when you pretend that one day I could be like Colleen Hoover. Who could get better encouragement than that?
To every single blogger who reviewed
The Problem With Crazy
, I cannot thank you enough. In particular, I need to send my utmost love and a zillion unicorns to Kellie, Kristine and Jodie. You all made me cry with your nice words! I can’t believe I was lucky enough to have such awesome ladies as you say nice things about me. If you haven’t already, you have to check out A.K.A. The Book Harlots Review, Glass Paper Ink Book Blog and Fab, Fun & Tantalising Reads. Seriously, people!
A big shout-out goes to my lovely Chandelle, because I can’t remember ever writing a book without bombarding you with a zillion medical-related questions. You’re the best fact checker, doctor and friend I know. Love you!
To Mum, Kristy, Andy, Mitch, Marg, Jeff, Lisa, Paul, Scott, Danger and Berry … I love you all. And humans, come on, stop sulking at sharing your acknowledgment with the puppies.
SydVegas, baby! S, C, JJ and K, you girls make my day, every day. You’re always there for me, and I #FLAYFF! Thanks for being awesome, for letting me pretend I can be an editor and an author, for keeping me sane, for giving me advice, and for Batman. And Pringles. Because, der.
Of course, I have to thank my husband (hehehe …
husband
) for letting me talk about writing
all the damn time
, and for the heart-monitor line. I love making things up with you, and being your wife. You’re freaking awesome, and the best thing I have.
Finally, and most importantly, to you. I can’t begin to express how stoked I am that anyone would read even a few chapters of my work, let alone a whole novel. Thanks so much for taking the time to check out my work. You’ll never know how much it means to me.
Lauren K. McKellar is a writer and editor of fact and fiction. She loves writing and reading, and hopes her books make you feel
all the things
—or some, at the very least.
Lauren loves to write for the young and new adult markets, blogs with Aussie Owned & Read, and is published both as an independent author and through Escape, Harlequin Australia’s digital-first imprint.
In her free time, Lauren enjoys long walks on the beach with her two super-cute dogs and her partner-in-crime/husband.
Connect with Lauren
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email
me.