Two Wrongs: A Second Chance Romance (Trouble by Numbers Book 2) Read online

  Two Wrongs

  Book Two of the Trouble by Numbers Series

  Donna Alam

  Contents

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  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Author’s Note

  One Hot Scot

  Sneak Peek

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  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  The moral right of this author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. No parts of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the express permission of the author

  This book is a work of fiction. Any reference to historical events, real people or real places are used fictitiously. All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-1544741710

  ISBN: 1544741715

  Edited by Jenny Sims at Editing4Indies

  www.editing4indies.com

  Cover Art by Kellie Dennis at Book Cover by Design www.bookcoverbydesign.co.uk

  © Donna Alam 2017

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  Chapter One

  Ivy

  ‘Oh, my God! Look at that sausage!’

  Typical. Friday night book club and, as usual, Natasha has her eyes glued to her phone. I bet she hasn’t even read this week’s book; she probably spent most of her free time drooling over one of the many cooking videos from her Facebook feed. Feed being the operative word. She does love her food, and particularly, anything meaty. I shiver at the notion of the fleshy substance, placing a bowl of dip and crudités on the low table in the centre of my tiny living room.

  ‘I’m going to instigate a no-phone rule before next Friday’s meetup. And before you ask, no, you can’t bring a sausage dish next week.’ She really is enough to drive a vegan to drown in soy latte. ‘Not chorizo, salami, bratwurst, or any of that stuff.’

  ‘Oh-ho-oh.’ Less word than a dirty snigger, Nat keeps her blond head lowered, and her gaze glued to the screen of her phone. ‘It’s not a recipe I’m looking at, but more of a sausage fest. I wouldn’t mind a taste of this particular bit of meat, if you know what I mean.’

  I close my eyes and sigh, realising exactly what she’s looking at, because it’s a fact her love of food porn is only surpassed by her love of actual porn. Honestly, does no one use their phone for calling these days? Not Nat, at least. If you were unlucky enough to get a look at her browsing history, you’d probably only see three things:

  Food. Food Network. Tasty. Those how-to-cook-amazing-things videos. It’s definitely a voyeuristic interest on her part as I’m sure her culinary skills don’t exceed much more than burning toast.

  Porn. The Hub. The Hamster. The Tube. Though she draws the line at any of those pay-per-wank subscription sites. Her words, not mine.

  Celebrity stalking. And this is probably what takes the lion’s share of her data plan. Can she name three world leaders or a UNESCO World Heritage Site? Probably not, but I bet she can tell you exactly where the Kardooshians dined last night.

  ‘Nat,’ I reply wearily. So wearily. ‘You know how I feel about you watching porn.’

  ‘I know how you feel about me watching porn at work,’ she corrects. ‘But, Boss Lady, I’m not on the clock now.’

  Natasha is the Beauty Treatment Manager at my newly opened hair and beauty salon downstairs. At twenty-one, she’s five years younger than I am and on the surface, a wee bit brash. But I’ve known her all her life. Well, at least since June, my grandmother’s best friend, took her in. There’s a side to her people don’t take the time to see. Or maybe it’s more a side that’s hard to see beyond her voluptuous frame and tiny clothing. That and her peroxide blond mane. But beyond the dolly-bird exterior, she’s incredibly kind and warm-hearted. So maybe her outsides don’t exactly match her insides, but she often has an emotional understanding beyond her years.

  And then there are the other times. Times like this, when it seems like she’s just come off Ritalin.

  ‘Your granny will be here in a minute.’ I’m not sure this is much of a deterrent beyond my warning tone. As a semi-permanent fixture in the salon and a member of our smutty book club, Nat’s grandmother, June, has a fairly liberal attitude.

  Cock is such a braw word, don’t you think? Wonderful, virile and . . . hard. I wished Mills and Boone had used it in their stories back in my day. It’s my favourite word!

  ‘Well, I hope she remembered her reading glasses ‘cause she’ll not want to miss this.’ Nat’s gaze moves momentarily from the screen, one eyebrow raised in a taunt. ‘I imagine you’ll want a keek, too. I don’t know whether you’re familiar with the business end of this sausage, but I know you’ve met who it’s attached to.’

  I think my heart stops—misses a beat or something—as my mind begins to whirr. Since returning to the village after years of living in London and then the States, I haven’t been involved with anyone. Well, not that anyone would know. So is it any wonder my mind jumps to the last person I want to think about while simultaneously questioning how the flip could she know? It’s a reflex reaction, and a panic I quickly discard because there’s no way Natasha could know. Because no one does. It’s just my guilty conscience talking, which could only mean she has some dirty pictures of . . .

  ‘Is it Bradley Cooper’s sausage—I mean—is it Bradley Cooper?’ So I might be a little excited, even if I do have to rub my chest to ease a pinch of guilt, because celebrities ought to be entitled to keep their lives private. As well as their privates off the internet. Yep, even your celebrity crush.

  ‘Have you met Bradley Cooper?’ she asks a little incredulously.

  I shake my head. While I have styled some of most well-known heads in Hollywood, I haven’t had my hands on that beauty. �
�I did once stare at him for a whole half hour from the other side of the salon floor.’ Because, up until a few months ago, I worked in one of L.A.’s top salons—a flagship store—where I held the lofty title of Art Director.

  ‘I’ll never understand why you came back to Scotland,’ Nat adds, not attempting to hide her disgust.

  ‘I just wanted to come home.’ I offer a quick shrug along with my lie; I’m getting pretty good at lying and all kind of evasion. And if this crappy village is my home, I may as well be homeless.

  In front of me, Natasha purses her lips in disbelief before holding out her hands to mimic a set of weighing scales. ‘Auchkeld or L.A.? Old lady perms or Lady Gaga’s head?’

  ‘Who’s giving Lady Gaga head?’ June, Nat’s granny, pulls a mint-green cardigan over her thin shoulders, shivering as she enters my living room. ‘Deary-me. It’s raining cats and dogs out there.’

  ‘And we’ve got someone hung like a horse in here.’ Nat presses something on her phone, turning the screen to face us, and though neither of us can see exactly what’s playing on the tiny screen, the unmistakable sounds of sex fill the small room.

  ‘Is that one of those sex videotape things?’ asks a pink-cheeked June.

  Her cheeks could be flushed from the cold outside, though if I know June, and I do, I’d say she’s probably a wee bit excited. She’ll have a stroke one of these days, and not the kind she’d like to receive, because I’ve seen the way she flutters her lashes at Mr. Poletti, the ancient barber from the shop along the street.

  ‘Is it the Gaga?’ she asks eagerly, hurrying her ancient frame across the room. She may be only a kick in the bum off her ninetieth year, but she can move pretty fast if there’s filth involved.

  ‘Oh, God. Harder! Yes—right there.’

  ‘Goodness!’ June exclaims.

  ‘It’s so much better with sound,’ Nat crows.

  I begin to make my way around the low table to Natasha, if for nothing else than to stop her little show. But is it odd to think the audio—the girl on the receiving end of that sausage—sounds a little like me?

  ‘Fuck, that’s so good, darlin’,’ a deep voice growls. ‘Come on, get there. Get there for me.’

  ‘Is that a Scots accent?’ June asks her granddaughter a little excitedly.

  That must be it—where I hear the similarity—or I’m imagining things because that sounds a little bit like . . .

  ‘Fuck me, Dylan. Fuck me harder!’

  ‘Aye, he’s from out west.’

  Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.

  Blood drains from my entire body, weighting my feet to the spot. I think it’s possible my heart actually stops because I do know those voices. And I know that sausage—I mean—that man. I also happen to be a member of the show playing out on Natasha’s phone. A cast of just two. It was another time, another place, and another person, but yes, that person was me.

  Something twisty and needling pokes me in the chest followed quickly by a cool coating of relief. I must be in shock because I shouldn’t feel comforted by the fact that—

  ‘Gonna flip you over and make you come on my tongue.’

  —comforted by the fact I haven’t forgotten the sound of him. That delicious husky rasp. The accent he’s famous for. And though I know his voice to be deep any time of the day, but during sex, there’s a huskiness to it that, even now, hits me right between the legs.

  And a moment later, I hate myself.

  ‘Oh, God. Dylannnn.’

  I sound . . . well, fucked.

  ‘Your pussy feels like heaven, baby.’

  ‘He’s got a terrible, filthy mouth!’ exclaims June, more compliment than complaint.

  ‘Edera . . . Sei molto bella!’ Grunting. Skin meeting skin. ‘Dolce figa . . .’

  ‘I wonder what it means?’ June squeaks over the top of Dylan’s dirty Italian.

  Hurt, anger, longing, and lust are pushed aside as clarity hits me quite suddenly upside the head. Yes, the past me is getting screwed, but in the here and now, I’m about to be really and truly fucked as I recall two things:

  I’m not the only viewing party here.

  And things are about to go horribly wrong.

  ‘Is—is that?’ Still glued to the spot, I raise my arm, pointing my finger like some bloodless harbinger of doom. I expect I look just as pale.

  ‘Aye, Dylan Duffy’s massive schlong has just hit the internet!’ Much like June, Nat’s answer borders on glee, her eyes unmoving from the screen. Which is probably just as well, given the state of shock I’m in. ‘Lucky girl, whoever she is. She’s got a fantastic arse.’

  ‘Turn it off. I said turn it off!’

  Panic balls in my throat as I remember, vividly, what comes next.

  So this mightn’t have been the only time Dylan and I recorded our lovemaking.

  So I may have watched it more than once or twice.

  So I might know exactly what’s coming next. Me, obviously. The moans are a pretty big clue.

  But more than that, this recording shows the essence of our relationship. As it was.

  We’ll come—together because, yes, that is an actual thing—and moments later, Dylan’s arm will catch my waist and pull me up from my post-orgasmic collapse across the bed. He’ll crush me to his chest, and we’ll both look up at the camera he’s holding.

  We’ll smile.

  We’ll look so happy.

  Blissed out.

  And so in love.

  And when that happens, right here in my tiny flat above my newly opened beauty salon in the bum hole of Scotland, my friends will learn what an awful person I am. They’ll discover I’ve been keeping great whopping secrets from them. That I’ve lied. So many lies. And I’ll have to come clean and tell them the real reason I left Los Angeles—the whole sordid tale. I’ll have to admit I know the man currently screwing me on-screen a little more than just biblically.

  Dylan damn-him Duffy.

  One truth will lead to another, and I’ll have to confess that I not only went to bed with Hollywood’s hottest bachelor, but that I also married him without breathing a word to those I know and love.

  And as if that’s not going to be hard enough to say, I’ll have to tell them it’s over.

  And that it’s all my fault.

  ‘For the love of fuck, just turn that thing off!’

  Chapter Two

  Ivy

  Can I be bitter even if it’s my fault? Technically, I mean.

  Whatever. At least, I can’t take the blame for the leaked video footage because I’d deleted my copies—yes, that’s right, plural—from my phone and hard drive months ago.

  Ivy Adams, now available on hard drives everywhere . . . being driven hard.

  Nope, I’m definitely not to blame for the release of the Dylan Duffy sex tape currently breaking the internet, according to Nat.

  But I can’t describe my relief that whoever is responsible for invading my privacy deleted the ending. Presumably to protect their asses and prevent a lawsuit. Or maybe the ending hit the cutting room floor as it lacked that all-important p-in-v action? Whatever the reason, the fact that neither of our faces appeared on camera prevented me from losing it—stopped me from falling to the shaggy rug in my living room in a crying, hyperventilating state. It also prevented my subsequent death from heart failure brought on by shame. Because despite my frantic demands, Natasha didn’t hit the stop button. Her excuse? She was just too stunned. Apparently, she’s never heard me yell fuck across a room before.

  That’s because I rarely lose my shizz, and I rarely swear. Not out loud, anyway. Outwardly, I’m just a little bundle of Zen even during the times I’m an internal mass of seething f-bombs. At least, I am when I’m thinking of him. Dylan if-it-moves-I-fuck-it Duffy.

  Anyway, I’m not sure I believe Nat’s excuse. She’s a bit of a dirty bird and probably wouldn’t have stopped the clip anyway.

  But following my mini-meltdown, Nat and June went home, though not before a couple of hours of goss
iping and at least fifteen minutes of book talk. In the kitchen now, I ignore the dirty dishes in favour of pulling out a chair and firing up my laptop, while also counting my lucky stars that my best friend and current roommate, Fin, wasn’t here to watch me flip out. She would’ve had me under some tough interrogation right now, and I just don’t have the strength left for any sort of deflection. Mum was right when she said liars should have good memories.

  Sodding video. Bloody privacy invading . . . twastards, whoever they may be.

  So I’m pleased she’s not here. She rang earlier to say she’d missed the causeway timings and was spending the night in one of the cottages over on the island where she’s working right now—a little island just off the mainland where a hotel development is underway. To be honest, I’m just happy she manages to get out of bed these days. The job may be way beneath her education and skill set, but it’s good for her. My best friend could do without any extra drama in her life, and watching my ass receiving a solid sexing under the ripped body of a movie star is a can of worms she shouldn’t have to see nor deal with the subsequent fallout.

  Like me, Fin’s recently returned to Auchkeld after years of living a very different life. Though, unlike me, she’s here at no fault of her own. Her husband recently killed himself even if she is in denial about it. But that’s a whole other story.

  I place my palms on the scarred kitchen table, attempting to centre myself. Deep breaths. Be calm. There is no key to serenity. The door is always—

  ‘Come on, you piece of . . . of crap!’ Scowling, I rattle my laptop a little, which doesn’t help it, or my inner peace. The chair legs grate against the floor as I push away from the table, standing abruptly. Then I flip the kettle on . . . while flipping my laptop off . . . with a finger. It seems a watched laptop never reboots and instead decides on an evening of updates.