Authors: C. C. MacKenzie
Run Rosie Run - Introduction
A wise man once said,
‘Be careful what you wish for because you might just get it…..’
Pastry chef Rosemary Gordon had worked hard her whole life to be successful… Now the wedding cake business she runs with best friend Bronte was winning awards life should be perfect…
But Rosie has a deep, dark secret…
And the steadily bubbling chemistry with Bronte’s brother, Alexander Ludlow, has suddenly become way too hot to ignore…
Run Rosie Run
By C C MacKenzie
Copyright © C C MacKenzie 2012
Published by More Press
The right of C C MacKenzie to be
identified as the author of this
work has been asserted by her
under the Copyright Amendment
(Morals Rights) Act 2000
This work is copyright.
Apart from any use as permitted under
the Copyright Act 1968, no part
maybe reproduced, copied, scanned,
stored in a retrieval system,
recorded or transmitted,
in any form or by any means,
without the prior permission
of the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction.
Names, characters, places and
incidents are either a product of
the author’s imagination or are
used fictitiously. Any
resemblance to actual people
living or dead, events or locales is
Cover design by: K Carmichael
About the Author
C C MacKenzie is a wife, and mother of three, based in South Cheshire, U.K.
Since childhood, she dreamt of writing stories that readers would fall in love with, but put those dreams on hold to focus on her family and her careers in banking, fitness, interior design and construction.
C C MacKenzie is currently working on more contemporary romances due for release this year and in 2013. She is also working on a vampire paranormal saga set in a cataclysmic urban future since she loves those suckers!
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Table Of Contents
'You’re not getting any younger.’
At the clear frustration in her mother’s voice booming through the telephone speaker Rosie hunched her shoulders and counted to ten.
Biting her tongue she added the final touch, an icing extravaganza of green goddess calla lilies, to the topper of a five tier wedding cake cloaked in snowy white icing. The design was fresh and clean. She’d spent three days working to get the colour blending the trumpet tips just right. A colour of calla lily, which meant ‘I wish you luck and love in life,’ and was the perfect choice for the loved up couple taking their vows tomorrow.
Woo hoo! It looked fabulous, even if she did say so herself.
‘Rosemary Margaret Gordon,’ continued the disembodied voice. Rosie winced. The use of her full name was a bad sign. ‘I want what’s best for my baby girl. You need to look at your work life balance. Living to work is not healthy.’ The tone, Rosie noted dimly, was now wheedling. ‘I’d have thought after Bronte had the twins you’d have pulled your finger out. But it’s been two years, darling, and I’m worried. You’ll be thirty soon. Tick tock, tick tock.’
Rosie sent the phone a dark look.
There were times when her mother never ceased to amaze her and this was one of them. She was twenty-nine on her next birthday.
‘Tick tock, tick tock?’
‘Your biological clock. If you’d lift your head out of icing and cake mixes you’d have read that many women are leaving it too late to have children. Rosie, you’re worrying me.’
Well, that was a downright lie. When had she ever given her mother a moments anxiety?
Never. Well, apart from the time she fell off the barn roof when she was ten; and the time she and her best friend, Bronte, made a valiant attempt to down a bottle of neat vodka when they were fifteen; and ... well, never mind that. In recent years she’d been as good as gold and hadn’t put a foot wrong.
She worked hard and ran a successful business. Some mothers were simply not bloody satisfied. It wasn’t as if she was out partying, or doing drugs, or having wild monkey sex every night – or any night for that matter.
‘I think you’ve got the sequencing wrong, mother. Surely I need a man first?’
Rosie topped up her coffee from the pot and took a sip.
‘Exactly! You’re in the middle of a man-drought. You need to get out there and find him. He’s not going to stroll through the door and sweep you off your feet. In your line of work the men you meet are already taken.’
The statement, Rosie had to admit, was perfectly true. Running a wedding cake business meant the men she met were the fiancé of the bride or the father of the bride who footed the bill.
It cost her, but she managed to keep the tone pleasant.
‘Man-drought? Been reading Cosmo again? What do you want me to do? Take out an ad in the paper? Join an internet dating site? Or do you suggest I pop along to a sperm bank?’
‘Now you’re just being silly, darling. No man is perfect. Compromise! It’s the key to all things. Look at how I comprise each and every day with your father?’
‘Poor sap,’ Rosie muttered under her breath.
‘I heard that. We’ve been married for thirty-four years and I might not love him all the time, but we’re crazy for each other.’
‘Crazy’s the word all right. How is he anyway? And how’s life in Cyprus?’
At the change of subject her mother gave a heartfelt sigh.
‘He’s out jogging and it’s hot. Rosie, promise me you’ll think about what I’ve said? I worry you’re missing out on something wonderful. Look how happy Bronte is.’
Enough, Rosie decided, was enough.
‘There’s only one Nico Ferranti. I’ll give them your love. Got to run, the timer’s about to go. Bye.’
She pressed the red button and knew her mother wouldn’t be happy at being cut off, but what was she supposed to do? The woman was driving her nuts. It wasn’t as if eligible men were jostling to beat a path to her door.
The trouble was she’d trawled through the local male demographic years ago. Bronte had found Nico when he’d bought Ludlow Hall, both of them struck dumb by their amazing chemistry. Okay, Bronte might have loathed Nico in the beginning, but it had all ended in happy ever after.
And she wasn’t jealous of her friend’s happiness. Not really. Well, maybe a little. But she knew she’d never ever attain the dizzy heights of marital bliss her friend had achieved.
Rosie knew this for an absolute fact because she’d already met the man of her dreams, had lost her heart to him on her tenth birthday.
The trouble was she wasn’t the woman of his dreams, more like his biggest nightmare.
Alexander S. Ludlow saw her as a sister like Bronte, a friend, or worse as a
Two years ago, she’d persuaded him to drive her home from a wedding party certain her luck was in. She’d gone all out with her hair and a fabulous red bustier to showcase her boobs. But he’d simply patted her on the head goodnight and that was it. The mortification, the dashed hopes, the bitter disappointment, the lack of hot steamy sex still stung.
And she knew the sex would be hot and steamy because years ago her frenemy, Janine Brooke-Stockton, had told anyone who would listen how many times Alexander had made her come. Slut.
Not even Bronte knew how much she pined after Alexander. And Bronte Ferranti knew pretty much everything there was to know about Rosemary Gordon. It was the one secret, a dark secret, Rosie had kept from her friend and Rosie hugged it, kept it close to her heart.
She’d also squirreled treasured mementos of her dark little secret in a locked wooden box under her bed.
A part of her wondered if her fixation with Alexander was healthy because contained in that box were items with which a shrink would have a field day.
In no particular order, the purloined souvenirs included; Alexander’s lucky cricket ball he’d lost when he’d been sixteen. A pair of solid silver cuff links he’d been awarded for rowing at eighteen - and still bemoaned the loss of today. The fragile gold chain with a tiny gold hand bag and tiny gold shoe he’d given her for her sixteenth birthday. Valentine cards she’d written every year since her twelfth birthday and never sent. Newspaper and magazine clippings documenting him receiving his degree along with many business successes and a fabulous tie in pure silk by Armani.