Faded Sunset Read online

  Faded Sunset

  Copyright © 2021 Rachel Blaufeld

  All rights reserved

  ISBN: 978-1-7340017-4-7

  Edited by

  Pam Berehulke

  Proofread by

  Virginia Tesi Carey

  Cover design by

  © Sarah Hansen, Okay Creations, LLC

  www.okaycreations.com

  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Without limiting the rights under the copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the above author of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Warning:

  This book is intended for mature audiences.

  Interior design and formatting by:

  www.emtippettsbookdesigns.com

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Books by Rachel Blaufeld

  Quote

  About the Book

  Author’s Note

  Prologue

  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

  Epilogue

  Grand Escape

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  World of True North Series

  Friendzoned

  Stand Alone Titles

  Break Point

  To See You

  Heart Stronger

  Hot for His Girl

  Wanderlove

  Love Disregarded

  Love at Center Court Series

  Vérité

  Dolce

  The Electric Tunnel Series

  Electrified

  Smoldered

  Tinged

  Crossroads Series

  Redemption Lane

  Absolution Road

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  Clouds come floating into my life, no longer to carry rain or usher storm, but to add color to my sunset sky.

  — Rabindranath Tagore

  “You aren’t that woman. As far as I’m concerned, Tommy broke your vows when he hurt you. You deserve happiness, and I want you to get it soon. Grab all of it.”

  ~ my friend, Sheila

  Margaret Long’s world looks bright and shiny on the outside. Married to a successful attorney, she lives in a mini-mansion with her husband and their perfect daughter. No one would imagine how dim and dark her life really is. With a fractured heart and a broken body, she wonders how to break free.

  The day Margaret happens to meet Mick Grantham is serendipitous. With a huge appetite for success after rescuing his mom from a violent situation, he now feeds that hunger by rebuilding broken businesses, not people. Although Margaret has a vibrant personality, her fragile exterior brings out his compassion, drawing him into her world.

  It’s a dangerous situation, especially with Margaret’s outspoken daughter involved, who is wiser than her years. Someone is likely to get hurt, but Margaret and Mick’s attraction can’t be helped until changing circumstances force them to a halt.

  Not all happy endings are born easily, but those won through adversity are often the most satisfying.

  This book features a couple who follows an ugly path, only to arrive at their happy ending. Trigger warnings include abuse and cheating. Not every road to love is a smooth path, but I understand if this story isn’t for you.

  While the characters in this book are products of my imagination, if you or someone you know are involved in an abusive relationship, you can call the National Domestic Violence Hotline at 1-800-799-SAFE or find them on the web at www.thehotline.org.

  Margaret

  “Another round?” James asked, his emerald-green eyes staring directly at me, but he didn’t really see me.

  Yes, he saw me—the prettied-up, fun-loving, fake version of me—not the broken-down woman who lived in hell. This came as no surprise because it was exactly the look I’d been trying for before I cozied up to the bar at the Oak around ninety minutes ago.

  I’d been hungry—no, desperate—for someone to take a good look at my facade and roll with the person they freaking got.

  You get what you get, and you don’t get upset. For a moment, I remembered the teachers saying those exact words in my daughter’s preschool a few years ago, and thinking it was a perfect mantra.

  I’d already spent a lifetime searching for the person who would know me deeply and understand me. A partner who got me in ways I didn’t get myself. When I found that person, I’d decided I would hold on tightly. But I’d failed at finding someone on my first attempt, and had lost my way on the second attempt.

  Smiling at James, I said, “Definitely,” and he signaled for the bartender.

  At that moment, I’d classify myself as tipsy, but not wrecked. I knew the bartender’s name was John, and he was adorably cute in his almost too-tight plaid vest buttoned over a white dress shirt, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He made a mean French 75, and attended graduate school here in Boston. He’d been behind the bar both times I’d been here before, but not in charge of my drinks. Now, John was my drug-of-choice dealer.

  James, an established lawyer, traveled between here in Boston and New York for the law firm where he’d made partner close to a decade ago. I placed him to be around four or five years older than me.

  “Divorced,” he’d told me earlier in the evening. “Wasn’t a good match.” She couldn’t handle his travel schedule, or so he’d claimed.

  “Me? I’m a writer,” I’d told him and left it at that.

  “Journal? Times?” he’d asked with an eyebrow raised.

  His question felt less about where I worked and more about my political party. Personally, I didn’t think we were at that stage of a relationship, or ever would be.

  “Freelance. I write a lot for Adweek. My life’s not that serious. Lifestyle and social media pieces, mostly,” I’d said like I meant it. I wished it to be true.

  As we waited for my drink, James’s hand grazed my back, sweeping under my hair and caressing the back of my neck. More than anything, I wanted to slap his hand away, but I just met his gaze again, confirming he was still seeing me. James was into me, at least for the night, which was enough at the moment.

  I’d told him I was separated. And in my heart and soul, I was separated, despite wearing my wedding band. But in reality, I wasn’t.

  I was fully aware that made me public enemy number one, but everyone had a skeleton or two in their closet. Mine were neither pretty nor organized. They were a messy bag of bones that not even the most dedicated paleontologist could put back together.

  John slid a fresh drink toward me as I relaxed into the high-backed bar chair. Standing behind me, James reached out to take his. Like most nights, the Oak was packed, and I’d been lucky to snag a chair when I arrived. Relieved, I’d hung my fur-trimmed jacket on the back and saddled up for a drink. James appeared moments later and had been keeping me company ever since.

  “Cheers,” he told me now, tipping his lowball toward my glass.

  “Cheers.” I returned the sentiment, taking a sip and closing my eyes for a few seconds.

  “You probably end up in New York often,” James said, more like a statement than a question.

  “You say that like you already know.”

  “I assumed,” he said. “Writing, lifestyle, it’s all connected, and I was thinking we could meet up there,” he said, sprinting rather than leisurely walking from this meet-up to a potential next one.

  His left hand now rested on the back of my chair and I took it in, confirming there was no wedding band. His body was turned toward me, his posture confident as he leaned a bit closer.

  “You know, you need to be careful
in this,” he said, caressing the collar of my coat. “I heard the animal lovers are attacking people who wear fur.”

  And just like that, whatever false connection I was imagining between us evaporated. This man and I had nothing in common.

  After taking a sip of my drink, I asked, “Tell me, what kind of car do you drive? A Tesla?”

  He shook his head. “BMW Seven Series,” he said proudly, like this was a selling point.

  “With leather seats? Guzzling gas?”

  Rather than taking offense, he threw his head back in laughter, exposing the cords of his throat. Under different circumstances, I would have thought it was sexy, but I was just about over James. Not to mention, I suspected he was married with all this wanting to meet up in New York.

  Then again, so was I.

  “Ouch,” he said, raising a finger in the air, pretending to be burned, before settling his hand onto my thigh.

  I shifted my leg slightly, trying to shake James loose as the street entrance door opened, allowing in a burst of cold air. It had been opening and closing all night, but this was the first time I’d noticed.

  When I glanced at the doorway, my head started to swirl, and I tried to blame the latest drink. But it was the blacker-than-black gaze focused on me that left me off-kilter, the unzipped leather jacket, the cashmere sweater covering the body I knew better than any other.

  His expression hard, the man approached, wedging himself between James and me without even bothering to say excuse me.

  Breathless, I met his eyes. “Mick.”

  Nodding at me, he said, “Margaret.”

  I wilted a little when he didn’t use the nickname he’d given me, and so did my heart. Hearing my given name rumbling from him now, I noticed it held a mix of tension and relief.

  Silently cursing at myself, I wished I hadn’t used his nickname just then. I wasn’t supposed to call him that anymore.

  “Pardon me,” James said snidely, obviously not appreciating another man pushing his way between us.

  “Pardon yourself,” Mick spat out as he gave me his back and stared down James. “You in the business of picking up women who are taken?”

  Of course, at six foot three, Mick had a few inches on the poor guy, and I was surprised James didn’t wilt under Mick’s glare. Most people did. Instead, James tossed his credit card on the bar, making desperate eye contact with the bartender and gesturing for his tab.

  “Dude, she said she was separated,” he said matter-of-factly to Mick.

  “First off, don’t fucking dude me,” Mick said. “Second, I’m not her sorry excuse of a husband. Either way, if I were you, I’d get the hell out of here.”

  I wished James would just do as Mick said, but instead he leaned around Mick and asked me, “You okay? Want me to drop you somewhere?”

  For a second, I wondered if he had his BMW Seven Series, and then shook my head against the idea. There was nothing humorous about this current scenario, or my life, for that matter.

  Mick glowered at James. “She’s more than fine. I’m here, so she doesn’t need you to drop her anywhere. Now go.”

  As James stepped back, Mick turned to take me in. Cupping my cheeks with his warm hands, he not only saw me but looked deep inside me. His dark eyes singed me as they took me in, seeing all my emotions play out on my face.

  “What did he do?” Mick simply asked, and we both knew he didn’t mean James.

  Shrugging, I reached for my drink, but he pushed my hand away from the half-filled glass.

  “No, Margo, first tell me what happened, then I’ll get you a new drink that stuffy piece of shit didn’t buy you. After that, I’ll take you back to my place and make you forget both of them, if that’s what you need. Do you need a reminder of how we work?”

  I glanced behind me, noticing that James had slunk away quietly.

  “Mick, please,” I said with a sigh, not wanting to get into it with him.

  In a short time, Mick had gathered enough ammunition on my husband to start a world war, which was why I came to the Oak instead of calling him. I was trying to break the cycle. Although, I didn’t want to examine why I picked our place to escape to.

  “No.” Mick’s response was firm, and his determined gaze continued to burn through me. “Talk.”

  “Same as usual,” I whispered, knowing his imagination gave him a pretty good idea of what the usual was. “How did you know I was here?”

  “Fucker,” Mick muttered under his breath.

  It didn’t escape my notice that he’d ignored my question.

  He cleared his throat. “Let’s go take care of it,” he said matter-of-factly, knowing there would be something for him to put back together. “You need to push forward and get out like you said you would. If not for me, then—”

  His words were interrupted by the shrill ring of my phone. I pulled it from my purse without looking at caller ID, already knowing who must be calling.

  “Is everything okay?” I said in a panic.

  “Yes, everything’s under control, but we’re at the emergency room. Priscilla—”

  “Where?” I asked, hardly able to breathe.

  My own injuries would have to wait. These were more important. Awkwardly holding my phone to my ear, I was shrugging on my jacket as I heard where they were with my daughter.

  Without asking any questions, Mick tossed cash on the bar, then took my hand.

  I wasn’t sure how he did what he was doing. How he could sense what I was going through, the emotions tumbling around inside me, but his gentle grasp on my fingers told me he did. Without asking, he led me outside toward the valet, and of course, his car was sitting right out front.

  As the valet tossed him the keys, I told Mick, “Mass General. Now.”

  With a nod, he opened my passenger door and then hurried around the front of the car. Once he’d dropped into the driver’s seat, he blew out a long breath while tapping at the GPS, searching for the quickest way to our destination without saying a word. As he pulled the car out into traffic, he finally spoke.

  “You bought yourself a day or two, Margo, but this has to end.”

  I wasn’t sure which he meant—us, or my other relationship, or both—but I didn’t ask. I simply sat twisting my hands, worried desperately about my daughter while at the same time wondering how I’d ended up in this nightmare of twisted feelings and bad choices.

  Margaret

  One month earlier

  “We need half-and-half.” Tommy fumed as he tried to slam the door on our Sub-Zero fridge, but the hydraulics wouldn’t permit it. The door let out a slow whoosh as it refused to comply with his demand, softly closing instead.

  I wished I could do the same.

  With my hair still in a messy bun and dressed in rumpled pajamas, I nodded at my husband’s angry statement without looking up from my laptop. My editor wanted to meet around eleven. Mentally, I went over potential assignments she might have for me, and how quickly I could make Priscilla’s lunch and sneak in a workout before heading out the door.

  “Margaret, did you hear me? We’re out of half-and-half. Now I’m going to have to stop for coffee on my way to work. It’s a huge waste of my time.”

  I don’t know why I didn’t look up and just tell him I was sorry. Maybe I was channeling the Sub-Zero, but I was so damn sick of the weak version of myself.

  “Use some of Prissy’s milk,” I said without thinking. “It’s just as creamy, and I’ll grab some fresh half-and-half today.”

  I knew it wasn’t a satisfactory answer, but for two seconds I was caught up in myself and my career rather than my husband. Distracted, I wondered if maybe, just maybe I would get to cover Fashion Week this year.

  “It’s two percent. That’s hardly creamy,” he said in an ominous voice.

  One part of my mind noted my mistake, but I was still wrapped up in my thoughts. It had been a goal of mine to cover a few of the new gender-free fashion designers and the way they were using Instagram to market their clothes since I’d seen a documentary on the topic.

  It really must have been an off morning for me, because I didn’t sense Tommy approach until his hand clamped painfully around my wrist. He gripped it hard, pain radiating all the way to the bone, and any career dreams vanished.