“What are you doing? Get the fuck up.” She covered her mouth with one hand, her other holding the bat above her head before she started sobbing. Oh fuck. Was this good sobbing? Or the bad kind? The I-wish-I’d-never-done-this kind or the crap-she-doesn’t-want-to-marry-me kind?
“Put the baseball bat down. You’re unnerving me.”
“Oh my God.” A smile broke through her fingers. I started laughing ridiculously, adrenaline fuelled as I offered her a toothy grin that wasn’t sure whether to break out or stay tucked in. I tried to read her. I failed. She held out her hand and wiggled her fingers at me, and those wiggled fingers allowed me to breathe again.
“Come here,” she whisper-sobbed as she pulled me up.
“Jesus, woman. Why do you try to kill me in every aspect of our life together?” The bedroom, the kitchen (she’s not mastered cooking yet) her penchant for see-through corsets and now as I asked her to spend the rest of her life with me. She smiled as it hit me in the face again that I loved her more than anything or anyone. Every single piece of her I wanted to be mine.
“Skye, I’ve loved you for the whole of my life.”
“We’ve only known each other for eight years,” she replied, rolling her eyes through a smile.
‘Just be quiet for once.” I kissed her softly and she thawed completely. “Will you marry me?”
She peered at the diamond, emerald green sitting on a deep red cushion. She raised an eyebrow. “Good fucking job, William.”
“Thanks, almost grew an ulcer choosing it.”
She kissed the life out of me. “Put it on then, Clark!”
I adjusted my glasses and placed the ring exactly where it belonged.
The end.
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Chapter 1 - One Night Only
If you loved One Take Only, you will love One Night Only, Stacey and Matt’s story.
“Raining again, London. Really?” I said to no one in particular, holding out my hand to feel the splash of raindrops before rooting around in my Gucci tote for an umbrella. “What are you doing to me?”
Exasperation laced my voice. I wanted to look my best. I’d woken up earlier than normal to wash my hair in a bid to ensure my red waves would still be in place, and not drooping around my shoulders by the time I left work. A blast with the hand drier in the ladies’ loo gave it an extra boost of oomph. I added fresh gloss to my lips, and a few spritzes of perfume behind my ears helped me freshen up.
“Hope you have a good night, Stace.” I turned to find Kelly, the new intern—adorable—waving as she breezed out of the office. She was enthusiastic and wanted to squash everything you needed to know about being a fashion journalist into her first hour on the job. Impossible, but still adorable. “Enjoy the show, you lucky cow!”
“I’m sure I will, gorgeous. See you tomorrow.”
We’d arrived at work wearing the same cute shirt dress and as I watched her walk away, I realised she was also wearing a very similar biker jacket and leopard print scarf. Fashion trends had a lot to answer for. I liked to keep up with the latest styles despite sometimes detouring out of fashion to write more investigative journalism pieces. Anna, the Editorial Director of Upfront, the women’s magazine I worked for, had given me the opportunity to stretch my writer’s wings. My first assignment was about the recreational use of cannabis by young professionals. Eye-opening, to say the least. I got a taste for writing about something other than affordable cashmere sweaters you could buy in the supermarket, and although I was still called upon for fashion story ideas, I was thankful to be given a bigger scope.
I loved my job, and had enjoyed writing for as long as I could remember. At first, working for the fashion side of a women’s magazine was a dream come true but now I was approaching my thirties, I was beginning to wonder how long I wanted to write about knee-high boots and designer look-a-likes that wouldn’t break the bank. Anna knew I was getting itchy feet and didn’t want to lose me. Before I knew it, I was in her office, with an offer to interview a doctor who relaxed off-shift by smoking weed.
“What are you waiting for, Stace?” A hand slipped through my arm and I felt a yank towards Piccadilly station. “You left five minutes ago to ensure you wouldn’t be late.” Vanessa, another journalist and regular de-briefing-on-life buddy, walked me towards the tube.
“I was sorting the barnet out.” I pointed to my hair as we huddled under my umbrella. “Rain is my nemesis.”
“You don’t want to miss him, do you? Frizz will be the least of your problems if he’s already left work tonight.” I closed my umbrella as we reached the safety of the station. “Don’t forget. Piccadilly to Central. Five stops. Twenty minutes. Go.”
“How long have you been using the tube to be such an expert?” I replied, cocking my head. Vanessa laughed. “Text you later. Much later. Maybe it will be early, like six in the morning as I start the walk of shame.”
My raised left eyebrow made her smile. “It’s about time you got some!” She laughed. “Jesus, you haven’t seen him in days. What’s wrong with the man?”
“He’s busy. Stocks don’t sort themselves, you know,” I replied as I held out my hands.
“I know, I know. Where would the London Stock Exchange be without him?” She turned me by my shoulders and pushed me towards the Piccadilly line escalator.
“He’s a very important financial analyst.”
“Which means?” Van shouted.
“He analyses…things. Numbers. Stocks.” I walked backwards, facing her as she laughed. “He’s the main cog in a very big machine!”
“You’re nuts! See you tomorrow.”
I waved as I disappeared down the escalator, listening for the heavy sounds of the next tube train pulling into the station. I loved the thrill of London, always had. The fast pace of life and the ability to have an adventure at any time of the day or night was exhilarating. I’d lost myself in the exciting lights of the West End, found myself on the eclectic streets of Camden, and fallen in love with the culture of Soho.
Unfortunately, living the London life to its fullest had its limits. My credit card took a beating and when my best friend, Skye, opened a café in Brighton, where you could drink coffee and play old-school board games, I left my overpriced flat, AKA glorified bedsit, and moved in with her. I had to admit; the commute was a killer at times. One hour on the train from Brighton to London at six a.m. was not for the fainthearted. Dodgy smells, weird overheard conversations, and quirky travelers made it an interesting journey. But it meant I got the best of both worlds. Busy city life during the week and serene beach walks with my best friend at the weekends.
Bliss. My life was bliss.
The platform was busy. Rush hour was treading through, and as the wind gathered speed with the next tube arrival, I let it take my hair with it. I squashed into the carriage—an elbow in one rib, a laptop bag grinding into my left knee. Smoothing my hair down with my free hand, I held onto the handrail above as I thought about tonight’s plans with my boyfriend of…ooh, about twelve weeks, Tim.