The Plan: A Standalone Off-Limits Romance Read online

  The Plan

  An Off-Limits Romance

  Ella James

  Contents

  Part One

  1. Marley

  2. Gabe

  3. Marley

  4. Marley

  5. Marley

  6. Gabe

  7. Gabe

  8. Gabe

  9. Gabe

  Part Two

  1. Gabe

  2. Gabe

  3. Marley

  4. Marley

  5. Marley

  6. Marley

  7. Gabe

  8. Marley

  9. Marley

  10. Gabe

  11. Gabe

  12. Marley

  Part Three

  1. Gabe

  2. Marley

  3. Gabe

  4. Marley

  5. Gabe

  6. Marley

  Part Four

  1. Marley

  2. Marley

  3. Marley

  4. Marley

  5. Gabe

  6. Gabe

  A preview of Mr. North

  Introduction

  1. Beth

  2. Beth

  A preview of On the Way to You

  Foreword

  Chapter 1

  Part One

  “Between any two beings there is a unique, uncrossable distance, an unenterable sanctuary. Sometimes it takes the shape of aloneness. Sometimes it takes the shape of love.”

  –Jonathan Safran Foer

  1

  Marley

  There are a lot of pros, I tell myself as I drive South. For one: the lack of smog. I couldn’t put a percentage on it, but my lungs will be a good bit healthier in Fate than they were in Chicago. I could add years onto my life by moving home. Okay, maybe not years, but probably months. They say every moment is a chance to turn it all around, right?

  Not the U-Haul, Marley.

  Throw another strike in the “pro” column for the teensie crime rate in my hometown. You’re not going to lose your life at random in small-town Alabama. If you get killed, it’s going to be because your coked-out bestie crashed the boat when you were working on your tan sans life jacket, or your off-the-wagon cousin Larry thought your festive reindeer antlers were the real deal at the family Christmas party.

  By the way, after the party, you won’t have to worry about driving home in snow. Winters here are cold and wet, with lots of pass-the-Prozac gray skies, but sometimes it’s mild enough to stroll the boardwalk by the lake or even take a boat out.

  The lake. See? Total pro right there. It’s big and…soothing. Right? I mean, the lake is totally soothing. Most people soothe themselves by fishing, a mind-numbing pastime that makes me want to drown myself, but there are certain times when boating can be fun. I spent my high school years skiing, drinking, and making out on islands.

  Those were good times.

  They were.

  As if to reassert itself, Lake Fate glints between the pines. The highway furls onto a wooden bridge whose planks clack as I steer the U-Haul over it and into a tunnel of massive, mossy oaks. And even though I grew up here, and even though I’ve always come home once a year, I’m almost stunned by the beautiful scene in front of me: a line of pristine, pre-war mansions, glistening like jewels under the storybook trees.

  Fate is known in Hollywood as a setting for feel-good, down-home films. Every spring, the people here spritz up their antique palaces and welcome camera-toting tourists, all eager to step back in time and see the world through a simpler lens.

  I pass the shady median where a wrought-iron sign proclaims, in fancy script, “Fate Will Change Your Life.”

  It should probably say, “Itty bitty town, majestic ego…”

  Life-changing this place is not, but it does have another big strike in its favor: cheapness. Seriously—everything, so cheap it’s almost laughable.

  You can get one of these stately mansions for three-hundred thousand dollars, and a sprawling lake-front lot for less than a million. Average income in a place like Chicago stretches here into enough to live like royalty.

  The canopy of oaks thins just a little, revealing the picturesque town square. At its center is a giant catfish statue, leaping from a brick concourse amidst several fun spray fountains.

  The Fate Hotel, a caved-in relic when my mom was little, was elegantly restored when I was a kid: three red-brick levels sporting ivy-covered, iron balconies, Greek-revival-style columns, and a gold-lettered awning.

  As I wait at the red light beside the hotel, a group of tourists on bicycles pedal down the sidewalk that runs down Main, toward the lake.

  I catalogue the shops that line the square as my foot clamps the brakes: florist, farmer’s market, antique store, coffee shop, bike shop, jewelry store, monogramming shop, even a boat dealership.

  All things I can’t afford to even think about right now, but…one day soon, I hope.

  I grit my teeth as I hang a right at the light, bypassing the rest of cutesy Main and driving slowly through another gorgeous, historic neighborhood. The narrow street tilts upward, and I gas the U-Haul toward the top of Rudolph Hill. A few minutes later, I roll to a stop under the trees at Rudolph Park and look down at my little town. The Baptist church steeple. The giant, round silos. The old mill—now a bank—and the stripes of train tracks cutting into Main and Dixie. Everything shaded by pine forest. Everything swathed in kudzu vines.

  A line of sweat trickles down the side of my nose, and I suddenly I have to bite my lip to keep from crying.

  I can’t lie, not even to myself; I didn’t want this. Don’t.

  In the back of my U-Haul, folded into a small square, is a posh and cozy, $800 pram—a designer stroller that would have been a chariot for my sweet, fat-cheeked baby angel.

  Angel baby.

  I sink my teeth into my lower lip, but can’t hold back a tiny sob. I would have taught you how to plant seed, and drive a boat, hop on a tire swing and throw your head back till you’re dizzy. We would have strolled down Main Street in your silly, fancy stroller. You would have been the cutest baby anywhere in Alabama in your frou-frou little outfits.

  God, I want her! It’s been five months, and I still have nightmares where I see her as she was the day I lost her. The same day I met her. It just doesn’t seem real—still. I still want my full-term, living baby more than anything on earth.

  Tears stream down my cheeks as I glare down at my hometown from atop the hill. It’s not that it’s so horrible, it’s that this isn’t supposed to be my life. I don’t deserve this.

  And how small, and how pathetic, that that’s where I am emotionally: the why-me phase. Why anyone? I’ve got it better than most people alive right now on planet earth, and still…

  I swallow back another sob and draw my arms around myself.

  There’ll be another time to try.

  But not right now. I’m all out of savings. And here in bum fuck nowhere, I’m an hour or more from an in-vitro clinic—at least two from somewhere reputable. When I do save up enough to try again, I wonder what people will say about a single mom who chose to have a baby by herself?

  I wrap an arm over my head and cry, because this shouldn’t even matter. When mom’s health took a turn and my brother, Zach, told me the doctor gave her just a year or two, I was already pregnant. At the time, I didn’t give a passing thought to moving back here, to the town I fled the day I graduated high school.

  When I lost her, I felt frantic. Try again, just try again. No price was too high, no course of action too extreme. Of course, by then I’d burned through all my savings. I used the last of my retirement on another IVF cycle, and that one failed. Some flaw with
the donor sperm. The clinic should have caught it. They offered me a discount on my next cycle, but then Mom fell. Zach was out of town, so she laid there without her oxygen until her physical therapist arrived five hours later.

  When I heard about the opening at Fate Pediatrics, it seemed like destiny, or…yeah.

  Move back, rent, and stash my money for another IVF cycle. In six to eight months, I should have enough to try again.

  I tell myself it’s worth it as I head back down the hill by way of High School Drive, slowing to check out the school’s new digital sign before I steer back into the heart of the historic district.

  Damn, the trees are big. So tall. I had forgotten. I had forgotten how ornate the old, iron-gated cemetery. How many gazebos are there downtown, bejeweling medians? I drive past the old train depot, down Stars Boulevard, under the swaying mossy oaks, and turn onto Stripes, a long, straight line of pristine homes, and see my destination towering amongst the oaks.

  Fendall House—three stories of Italianate grandeur. The levels are square-ish, stacked like tiers of wedding cake: the bottom with a wide front porch and ornate columns, the middle with a balcony that hangs over the porch, and the top, a small, white square with delicate latticework, known to people who love old things as a widow’s walk.

  The windows, fixtures, and hardwood are all original, circa 1860. The small, square windows around the mahogany double doors are made of unique red glass. Inside the mansion, high-ceilinged halls lead to richly appointed parlors and bedrooms dominated by to-die-for antiques. Even the ceiling fans on the front porch are beautiful and delicate. Ever since I was a little girl, this was my favorite of Fate’s hallmark homes.

  When my Grandma Ellis mentioned that the owner, her friend Miss Shorter, was renting out a portion of the second floor to bring in extra income, I jumped at the chance to live here. Bonus points: my mom lives just a block and a half north.

  I press the U-Haul’s brakes and take a long swig of my water as I peer up at my new home base. I remind myself I’m fortunate to live somewhere so beautiful, even if it’s only temporary. I think of all the fun nights Kat and I will have, and Lainey, my other hometown bestie, when she’s not with her husband.

  I can knit in peace here, maybe even in the widow’s walk. I’ll stock the refrigerator with flavored water, my favorite yogurt, fruit and vegetables, and fresh-shot venison. I’ll carve a pumpkin here, and hang my white coat on the back of the creaky bedroom door. At night, after work, I’ll watch Game of Thrones, This is Us, HGTV.

  It’ll be okay. I’ll be okay back here in Fate.

  It’s weird, and yes, a little stifling, but I can do this. I can live a happy, small-town life. I’m thirty-two now. I can handle anything. If this last year has proven anything to me, it’s that.

  Just have to wait a little longer for my happy ending…

  I climb out of the truck and take my time pushing the U-Haul’s cargo door open, looking in at all my things, deciding what to unload first. This could take hours. Hopefully, it will. I need the workout—and the time to clear my head.

  I climb inside the truck and grab two small things first: my favorite Elvis lamp and a box of yarn and clay, easy pickings for my first trip up the stairs to my rented digs. Then I grab my purse off the truck’s rear ledge, step down, and—

  “Oofh!”

  I blink at the wall I’ve just slammed into. At first, I think I’m seeing things. I blink a few times, fast, to try to magic him away. Hallucination. But…he’s not.

  His curly hair is wild and dark, just like it always was. His blue-gray eyes—more blue, although he claims they’re gray—are just as sharp as I recall. His face is still so striking: dark brows over a stern, strong nose, and high cheekbones. My gaze skates over his rich mouth, and I realize I’d forgotten how beautiful he is.

  Gabriel McKellan is famous at least in part because he looks like such a god. The familiarity of him hits me like a ball of ice right to the gut, but where he’s different makes me warm. That stubble-beard, the way his jaw is sharper, shoulders thicker. My gaze skates down his white t-shirt, pasted over rigid abs. I note his forearms—thicker, tanned—before appraising jeans-clad thighs.

  One of them flexes.

  Shit.

  My errant gaze jerks back up, where I find his features twisted in a scowl.

  “What are you doing?” he asks roughly.

  “What?”

  Gabe’s brows pinch together, and he glares behind me, at the truck. “What are you doing, Marley?”

  I look around the quiet, leaf-strewn street, trying to figure out not what I’m doing, but why I’m seeing him here. Nothing looks amiss, though. Nothing to suggest I’ve had a mental break.

  “I’m moving back to Fate. Today,” I add, my voice a shaky notch above its normal octave.

  Shock cocoons me as I look up at his face: Gabe, whom I haven’t seen in twelve years. Gabe, whom I last saw through the crack of a door in an apartment in Las Vegas. His eye was swollen and his nose was bleeding. I remember thinking, He hates me.

  He looks like he hates me now. I run my dumb gaze up and down him one more time, and notice his foot tapping the curb. Even barefoot on the sidewalk, he’s commanding. Domineering.

  I inhale slowly, bringing my heart-rate down a notch, so my voice is steady when I ask, “Where are your shoes?”

  “Why are you here in that truck?”

  “Because I’m moving in?” It’s not a question, but it sounds like one. I bug my eyes out in response to his mean stare. “What are you doing here? Did your shoes go in the toilet with your mood?”

  His glare deepens. “They’re inside.”

  I blink at the porch behind him, where I notice a white dog sitting beside a rocking chair. “Inside where?” I ask.

  “Inside the house.” Gabe shakes his head, his jaw locked like an angry sentry.

  “What is going on?” My heart begins to pound again. “Are you my nightmare greeting party?”

  “I’m your warning party.”

  “Warning what?”

  Gabe’s jaw ticks. “I live here.” His gaze flickers to my truck again. “That means you’re going to need to find yourself another place.”

  Is he insane? My head spins. “You live in New York.”

  For just an instant, I feel sure this is a joke: a TV joke.

  “Is there a hidden camera?” I ask lamely.

  “Of course not. And I’m serious. You can’t stay.”

  “I’m on the top floor. I already rented it!”

  “I’m sure there’s something else.”

  “Are you kidding? I was told the top floor is its own unit. Are you on the bottom? Because you’ll just have to deal with me.”

  “Will I?”

  I can feel my neck flush at his tone. “Yes, you will. Put on some big boy pants. I hear you’re Mr. Famous now. Go buy a house if you can’t wipe that scowl off your face.”

  “Fendall House is mine already. Miss Shorter has me fixing the place up.”

  “Is this the Twilight Zone? Just go away, Gabe! No one needs you here!”

  He steps down off the curb, so that he’s standing in the street beside me: tall and wide, his thick arms crossed as his eyes narrow. “You were never skilled at confrontation, were you, Marley? You won’t win this.”

  “Win what? I don’t need permission!”

  “Don’t you?”

  I flinch, and my cheeks burn. “I can’t believe you’re being such an asshole.”

  “I recall that being your opinion.”

  “Good! It was!”

  He laughs, a sound I feel between my legs, and shakes his head. “What don’t you understand about this, Marley? No matter how long you stand here with your boxes looking at the place, you’re not moving in with me.”

  I throw my head back on a barked laugh. “Don’t you wish. I am living upstairs, Gabe. You are downstairs. That is not together. We don’t even have to see each other.”

  “Except…” He gestures
to my truck, his blue eyes widened.

  “Go inside! Put on a blindfold. I don’t know.” I brush past him. “Excuse me.”

  My face—my whole body—throbs with fury. I’m so overwrought, I head down the front walk, toward the white dog on the porch—whom I realize must belong to Gabe.

  Shit fuck.

  I veer into the bushes, heading across the lawn toward the home’s rear right, where there’s supposed to be a staircase tacked onto the house’s back side.

  “Not your walkway,” he says coolly.

  “Figured that out,” I snap over my shoulder.

  Hurt stings my cheeks and neck, prickles tears in my eyes. I whirl. “You are such an asshole! Always were. The biggest jerk in our class!”

  “What was it, then, Marley?” He takes a long stride down the walkway toward me. “Oh, wait, I remember.” He looks pointedly down, and then back up at me with those electric eyes—and I know what he’s meaning.

  “Jesus—you’re a pig!”

  He smirks. “Only for you.”

  “Fuck off.”

  With those ungraceful words, I march toward the house I’m sharing with my ex-husband.

  2

  Gabe

  I give the box a hard shake. Hearing nothing, I chuck it aside and grab the next one. With trembling hands, I shake it. Nothing. Motherfuck me! Why I stored this shit this way, under the fucking stairs… I can’t even stand up fully as I fumble through the madness.