Just One More Kiss: Based on the Motion Picture Read online

  Just One More Kiss

  Based on the Motion Picture

  Faleena Hopkins

  Copyright © 2020 by Faleena Hopkins

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. The characters and situations are purely from the author’s imagination.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Just One More Kiss

  A poem

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  About the Author

  Just One More Kiss

  based on the motion picture

  Enjoy the award-winning movie in select theaters, and available to rent on March 17th, 2020. Subscribe to Faleena Hopkins’s mailing list for news.

  A poem

  written by my dad to my mom after she left this world.

  For Liana

  You used to love it when the geese would come

  flying in low formation leaving ponds for fields

  Their calls would always make you smile

  I can still see that smile

  Now you have left

  but every morning like clockwork the geese come

  It seems it would be such a simple thing

  Especially for an all powerful being

  He could take the geese to heaven

  and send you back to me

  Yet every morning

  the geese come.

  - Terry Mackey

  Chapter 1

  ABBY

  Why did I bring my cell phone into the bathroom? Our guests arrive in an hour. Max and I still have to set out food!

  Wait.

  Did we buy food?

  Another text-beep skyrockets my stress-level and I yank open the shower curtain, shampoo sliding into my eyes as I blink to see what information my assistant needs that can’t wait. Peter is a wonderful assistant except the day before a launch.

  I’m supposed to have stayed at the office until at least, you know, ten o’clock tonight, ensuring all fires are put out before morning arrives with its usual new set.

  Putting out fires.

  I hate that term.

  Everyone knows not to use it around me.

  Why did I just think it?

  Shuddering at the memory it evokes, I stretch far to snatch my phone from the edge of the sink with one hand, pushing suds from my vision with the other, swearing loudly, “Shit!” as I realize both hands still have shampoo on them.

  My fingers touch it, fail to grasp, slide around, and the phone flies off the sink’s ledge, falls to the tile with a hard crack and skitters to the farthest wall.

  I see the shattered screen.

  Horror contracts my face.

  “No!!!”

  “Abby?” My husband calls through the bathroom door. “Everything okay?”

  “I dropped my phone! It’s broken!”

  “And that’s a bad thing?”

  I call back, “Not funny, Max,” eyes stinging, one leg reaching over the bathtub rim, so I can step out and grab my poor, shattered baby. But hesitating as more shampoo drips down into both eyes, further obscuring my vision because it stings like hell, I crane my head under scalding water to clear out the suds, leg still hooked, other one barely keeping me upright.

  Our bathroom door opens, robe thwacking the back from the hook it hangs on, and I blink toward my husband whose broad shoulders and six-foot-tall height fills most doorframes handsomely. He’s in navy-blue slacks, matching socks — no shoes yet — strong fingers casually knotting a tie that matches, too, over a pale grey button up shirt — one of his best for the special occasion.

  A lopsided grin appears, his black eyebrows twisting above amused ice-blue eyes that say I look absolutely ridiculous. “Abs, what are you doing?”

  I retrieve my ambitious leg, nearly lose my balance as it slips on the tub’s rim. Standing upright, knees together, I shove my head into the water, faced away from him, to bide time so I can think of a witty comeback.

  I got nothin’.

  So I yank the shower curtain closed, and cover my laughter.

  Max calmly slides it back open. “Hi there.”

  From under insanely strong water pressure, since New York doesn’t lack for rain, I blink at him. I’m trying not to swallow a mouthful as I admit what all women know, “It’s not fair you get ready so much faster than I can.”

  “Not fair, you’re right.” He makes an it’s-out-of-my-control expression, and glances to the phone, using his chin to point. “Was it worth it? All for the love of an inanimate object?”

  I remind Max, “You’re just as addicted to your phone as I am!”

  There’s no denying we’re tethered to the damn things for work, so he sighs, “Pity, that,” a phrase he got from his mother, a novelist who writes in the fantasy genre, and whose vocabulary randomly harkens back to days of yore as a side effect. It always makes me smile when it rubs off on Max. I’m lucky to have married a man who loves his parents, especially since my sister and I lost ours when we kids.

  When Max and I were first dating, and he invited me to meet Henry and Alice, I told Lorna I would watch him like a hawk.

  I said, “If he doesn’t value having both parents still in his life — the kind of people who care enough to want to meet his girlfriend this early in the game —then it’s over. I’m done with him!”

  Ten years of marriage later, and I’m not going anywhere.

  Max frowns toward my phone, “Let’s see what we’ve got,” mouth grim. He’s as ambitious as I am, and he knows it, only his work ends at 4:30 p.m. when the bell sounds on Wall Street. I don’t count the research he does after hours; it doesn’t compare with the omnipresent calls of my boss, my team, and my assistant.

  Party or no party, I need that phone. We’ll have to run out and buy one if it doesn’t work.

  Guests arrive soon.

  The clock is ticking.

  Rinsing out my hair I ask, “What time is it?!”

  He doesn’t answer as dry socks negotiate soapy mini-puddles left from my phone’s suicide mission. Max bends, blue slacks pulling tight over his cute butt, which distracts me a moment as he rises to inspect the damage. “Uh oh.”

  “It’s bad?”

  “Charlotte gave birth to her spider-babies on your phone.”

  I burst out laughing, “What?!”

&n
bsp; He points to the obliterated screen then up to the heavens demonstrating, “A million webs flying away, breaking children’s hearts everywhere.” Max locks eyes with me, happy he made me laugh, and walks the phone back. He winces, “Damn!” lifting his sock and inspecting a dark spot as it spreads. “Hope that dries soon. I like these blue ones. Don’t wanna wear black socks tonight.”

  I turn off the shower, wringing out my hair. “Why not? How about you toss in a black cat and I’ll walk under a ladder as you toss it to me.”

  He smirks, “Right?” and hands my baby over. Our fingers brush and the zing reminds me it’s been too long since we’ve had sex. A week, I think. And we never go that long without it. But this campaign. And the party. And life!

  No time for sex now, I frown while reading the string of texts Peter vomited.

  Max turns to the mirror, perfecting his tie. “If your assistant was into women I’d be jealous.”

  I mutter, “I know, right?” reading and scrolling and reading and scrolling some more.

  Steam forces Max to wipe the mirror with his palm, craning his neck. “Abs? I’m thinking maybe no tie tonight. What do you think?”

  “Um…” I glance up, blinking back to the present moment. “It’s our ten-year anniversary party.”

  “Yeah?”

  Tilting my head I hum in thought and smile, “Come here.”

  He steps closer, snatches the phone from me, sets it on the sink’s edge like it weighs a ton, then walks up, his glance sliding down and back up my drenched, naked body as I grab his tie, pulling him in. He lifts an eyebrow, noting my wet hands, but makes no mention of them aloud. He’d rather see where this is going.

  “How do you look without it,” I murmur, loosening the knot, goosebumps zipping across my skin as the energy between us shifts. Dripping eyelashes flicker up to find that Max’s smile is gone, eyes darkened in that way I love. He’s thinking of kissing me. That’s all I can think about now, too.

  I slide off his tie, giving it a final tug, and put it around my neck, “Oh oops. Drenched now.” I reach for his top button, snap it open and lock eyes with him, a tiny smile tugging at my lips. “Hmm. You’re right. This is hotter.”

  A grin flashes on him only to disappear as he leans in for that kiss, warm, possessive, and telling me how much he’d rather join me in a shower than do anything else right now.

  Need sways my body, his hands sliding down my hips as heat bleeds into every inch of me. Until a text interrupts. We pause before both sets of eyes reluctantly slide to the sink’s edge to see who is the jerk.

  I whisper, “I don’t want to know, but tell me anyway. What does it say?”

  Max leans to read it. “Big shock — it’s from Peter. It says: Abby! I need you! WTF?!!” My husband sighs, “I know how you feel, Pete.”

  I grab his hand, pull him back to me so I can kiss him, murmuring, “You want to know something, Max?”

  “What?”

  “I love you.”

  Big blue eyes soften as they trace every line of my face. “I love you, too, Abs. No tie it is.” He gives me a final kiss, steps over, grabs the phone, hands it to me, “You let your assistant talk to you like that?” and snatches my towel off its hook, tossing it to me on his way out.

  I catch it, calling out a distracted, “I like a friend-vibe to my leadership!” before glancing between phone and towel, wondering which gets my attention first.

  Phone wins.

  Chapter 2

  MAX

  I shouldn’t be doing this.

  It’s so, so wrong.

  I know it.

  All of society knows it.

  The woman in my arms knows it.

  And this isn’t the first time we’ve ducked out of a party when she wasn’t looking.

  I fucking can’t help myself.

  I love her taste.

  Her willingness.

  The way she passed me while I was talking to my father, and took the note I slid into her hand saying to meet me in the hallway in five minutes…

  I’d written it early.

  When I was frustrated.

  Then with the party going so well, I almost didn’t give it to her but the sneaky looks she gave me drove me to distraction.

  She could’ve said no.

  It’s my anniversary party.

  Ten years.

  But fuck!

  I’m a man, dammit.

  I have needs.

  And secrets turn me on.

  If we get caught…

  Can’t think about that now.

  In the shadowy hallway I’ve got her caged against the wall right by the front door my wife and I walk through every single day.

  Hoping she doesn’t find us.

  The guests have all arrived.

  Closest friends.

  Some family.

  No one is leaving anytime soon.

  This is a safe hiding place.

  For the moment.

  And lust wouldn’t wait.

  I’m working hot kisses up her neck now, her parted lips still wet from my kiss as she tries to pretend she’s not petrified.

  But that’s what makes it fun.

  Panting breaths.

  Smashed bodies.

  Me hard as a rock.

  I claim her mouth again and she’s into it, until suddenly she breaks free and whispers, “Max, stop. We can't. She'll find us.”

  This is so, so wrong.

  I rasp, “No, she won’t,” kissing her to shut her and her fears up.

  We could have sex out here.

  If we were quick.

  Then we’d go back into the party knowing what we’d done.

  She halfheartedly pushes me away, increasing my efforts to convince her, “Oh God,” I pull up the hem just as we hear my name being called from deep inside the party.

  A distant and confused, “Max?” from her.

  “We can’t! Stop, Max, she’ll find us.”

  The summons comes again. “Max? Where are you?” only it’s closer now.

  Shit!

  Shit!

  Shit!

  How can we get out of here quickly.

  But I don’t wanna leave her.

  And life is short.

  Isn’t that what they say?

  “So what if she finds us?”

  Surprised, hoping I’m not toying with her heart, she whispers, “You don't mean that!”

  I murmur against her lips, “What if I do?” and claim her mouth as mine.

  For now.

  For tonight.

  And if we’re brave enough, maybe forever.

  Louder now, “Max? Where are you?”

  We stop kissing.

  I don’t budge.

  No more hiding.

  With her pressed against the wall, caged in my arms, I touch my forehead to hers.

  The door swings open, and there she is.

  My mother. “Oh!!” Her voice softens on an embarrassed laugh as she exclaims, “You two! Ten years and you still don’t let up?” Abby and I crack up. Mom sighs, “C’mon, your guests are wondering where you are!”

  Chapter 3

  Abby

  I can’t stop laughing.

  Max kisses my forehead, and follows Alice back to our party.

  My body is warm.

  Lips tingling.

  Grin, stuck.

  Built in 1928, our apartment building is three stories tall, its private deck a rarity in Manhattan, and tucked between skyscrapers in a way that makes it feel protected. But they block the stars so Max installed twinkle lights in their place to flatter everyone.

  Arthur!

  Oh no.

  He’s singing and playing guitar for us as a friend, not for a fee, and we disappeared!

  So rude.

  How embarrassing.

  I walk up and sigh, “Arthur, I missed your last two songs!”

  My best friend Jennifer is sitting on her husband’s lap as she and Tom enjoy the music, everyone else around the deck
grouped in various conversations.

  Arthur sizes me up, gifted fingers coming to rest on his guitar, the last note hovering in the warm, summer night air. “You snooze you lose. I uh...played your favorite.”

  I straighten up. “No you didn't. Luna's Crush is my favorite, and you know it!”

  His eyes sparkle with triumph. “So you did hear me!”

  I’m caught.

  I know it.

  What a terrible host I am.

  Jennifer and Tom are laughing at me.

  Still, I hate the bait and switch. “In the background, but I prefer to be right here where I can just gaze at you…” I lean forward, hands under my chin like a fangirl, “…and just be like, in awe.”

  Jennifer laughs, and Arthur gives me an okay-I-forgive-you grin.

  But it vanishes at my sister’s, voice. “Don't layer it on so thick, Abs.”

  Lorna said that pretty loudly.

  Too loud.

  I flip around, and see her on the bench that runs the length of our red brick wall, alone, talking to no one, glowering in a bun so tight it might be cutting off circulation.

  Lorna never got over what happened to us, but don’t dare tell her that. She’s an artist whose work actually sells because all of her anger is on canvas. People will shell out big bucks for pain.