Just Like Home (Bring Me Back Book 2) Read online

  Just Like Home

  A Bring Me Back Novel

  Diana Gardin

  Contents

  Also By Diana Gardin

  Prologue

  1. Brantley

  2. Axel

  3. Brantley

  4. Axel

  5. Brantley

  6. Axel

  7. Brantley

  8. Axel

  9. Brantley

  10. Axel

  11. Brantley

  12. Axel

  13. Brantley

  14. Axel

  15. Brantley

  16. Axel

  17. Brantley

  18. Axel

  19. Brantley

  20. Axel

  21. Brantley

  22. Axel

  23. Brantley

  24. Axel

  25. Brantley

  Epilogue

  Sneak Peak: Just Like This

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2020 Diana Gardin.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be re produced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher.

  Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Names, characters, and places are products of the author’s imagination.

  Front cover image by Avery Kingston.

  Book Formatting by Kate L. Mary.

  Printed by Amazon, Inc., in the United States of America.

  First printing edition 2020.

  Published by Diana Gardin

  Gardin Grows Press

  Created with Vellum

  Also By Diana Gardin

  THE ASHES SERIES

  Out Of The Ashes

  Settling Ashes

  Ashes Adrift

  THE NELSON ISLAND SERIES

  Wanting Forever

  Ever Always

  Falling Deep

  THE BATTLE SCARS SERIES

  Last True Hero

  Saved By The SEAL

  Man Of Honor

  THE RESCUE OPS SERIES

  Sworn To Protect

  Promise To Defend

  Mine To Save

  THE DELTA SQUAD SERIES

  Lawson

  Ryder

  THE TROMA CHRONICLES

  The Lilac Sky

  THE BRING ME BACK SERIES

  Just Like Breathing

  Just Like Home

  Just Like This

  Prologue

  Brantley

  Thirteen Years Ago

  Nerves swim in my belly, simultaneous with the kicks and nudges that have become my baseline. It’s when I don’t feel the baby moving that I get worried. But right now, she seems to be performing an entire ballet all by herself in there.

  “It’s going to be okay, little bailarina. Mama’s dancing girl.” My words are a whispered coo, the tone I save only for the tiny life growing inside me.

  I didn’t pick up much Spanish from the mother who was in and out of my life growing up, but what I lacked learning from her I made up for with classes in school. Maybe I didn’t learn enough about my Cuban culture from my mama, but I soaked up as much as I could from movies, music, and the internet. Just knowing I was half-Cuban made me so curious to know about my roots, but I feared I’d never get to learn much more than I already had.

  The car I borrowed from my cousin chugs along a quiet, tree lined parkway. I follow the directions I was given, turning off into a neighborhood called Anchor Bluff. A neighborhood so picturesque and beautiful it takes my breath away.

  I wind through vine like streets, craning my neck to catch a glimpse of astute, manor homes set back on manicured lawns. Curved paved driveways, bronze majestic mailboxes. Swaying palm trees for days and days. This neighborhood says more than “We Have Money.” It says, “We Have Pride.”

  This Fort Lauderdale neighborhood is such a far cry from the Palm Beach County trailer I grew up in. My throat is suddenly thick with the possibilities this could mean for the little girl currently performing spins in my stomach.

  She could have a life here. The kind of life I can’t give her.

  Rubbing my belly, I steer the car into the driveway of an understated, Spanish-style home. Tall flocks of palm trees flank the walkways, the paved-stone drive, and dot the pristine front yard. I park my borrowed, beaten-up sedan behind a luxury SUV and stare up at the beautiful double front doors.

  My hand grips the car door handle when my cell phone rings. Pulling it out of the canvas bag hoisted on my shoulder, I glance at the screen. My teeth clench together as my stomach bottoms out, and I debate ignoring the call.

  But I’ve never been able to shut him out.

  “Hello,” I whisper into the receiver.

  “Where are you, Brantley?” The abrasive, demanding tone of Brick’s voice startles me in the peaceful ambiance of the neighborhood.

  I close my eyes, gripping my phone tightly in my hand. “Brick, I told you. I’m out of town for the day.”

  “This is bullshit, baby.” Brick, my boyfriend of over a year, tries to soften his tone. But on a six foot-one, two-hundred pound wall of muscle, it doesn’t thaw very much. “You didn’t tell me where you were going!”

  I keep my voice level. It’s the best way to keep Brick calm. “Listen, Brick. I came to meet the adoptive parents of the baby.”

  “What the fuck?”

  Pulling the phone away from my ear, I wince at the roar that escapes from other end of the line. Then I continue talking, clearly and as quickly as the words will leave me.

  “We talked about this, Brick. You and me, we can’t raise a baby. This is the best thing for her. You dropped out of high school. I’m only sixteen. My dad...he won’t even let me come home while I’m pregnant. How do you think I’m going to be able to raise a baby?”

  “I swear to fucking God, Brantley, tell me where you are. We aren’t giving up our baby. No fucking way.” Brick’s breathing heavily, and the sound of muffled voices behind him gets fainter.

  Then: the unmistakable sound of sirens. The voices around him grow louder again as they begin to shout.

  “Brick? Is that the cops? Please tell me that isn’t the cops. What’s going on?”

  Brick yells to someone beside him. “Yeah, I’m comin’, shit! Brantley—”

  He’s cut off abruptly by the sound of someone yelling right in his ear. “Get in the fucking car, now! Or we’re leaving your ass! This ain’t a fucking game!”

  The sirens wail in my ear now, and the unmistakable sound of the police shouting for someone to stop where they are reaches my ears.

  “Brick? Brick?” My breath comes fast and hard as I wait for his reply. Instead, the line goes dead.

  Not daring to call him back, I stare at the phone in my hand.

  I squeeze my eyes tightly shut. What do I do now?

  Brick has been a lifeline for me. Since my dad kicked me out of his trailer and sent me to stay with my aunt an hour south for the duration of my pregnancy, Brick’s been the only tie to my old life. I’ve been missing everything about Palm Beach County. Not because my life there is so great, but because it’s my life. The only one I know. I’m especially heartsick for my best friend Arden.

  Thinking about Arden makes my chest ache. She told me from the beginning that Brick would be no good for me. I fell for him because I can see more to him than the gang tattoos, baggy clothes, and the scowling face. That’s all everyo
ne else sees.

  Brick was jumped into one of the prominent Latino South Florida gangs at the age of thirteen, literally beaten to within an inch of his life to gain membership into a brotherhood he felt would protect him from the dangers of our community for the rest of his life. Before that, he had dreams of doing something with his future.

  A single tear burns a trail down my cheek. I rub my belly again, this time looking down at where my stomach presses against the steering wheel.

  “Listen to me, little bailarina,” I whisper fiercely. “A life as a gang member’s daughter is no life for you, do you hear me? You’re going to do amazing things here. I promise.”

  Climbing out of the car, I walk with my belly jutting out and my head held high. Raising a trembling hand, I knock on one of the double front doors.

  It opens almost immediately, and I know the woman standing before me must have been watching me sit in my car, waiting for me to approach.

  “You must be Brantley,” she says breathlessly. “Thank you so much for coming. Please come inside.”

  The statuesque redhead steps back from the door, and I walk self-consciously past her. Suddenly, I’m very aware of the fact that my five-foot-two stands in the shadow of what must be her five-foot eight height. When I’m not pregnant, I’m a size ten on a good day. My chestnut brown hair hangs in waves down my back, and my skin stays tan year round, thanks to my Cuban heritage. This woman looks like she avoids the sun due to delicate Irish skin, and she has deep green eyes that currently drink in my pregnant belly like she might be dying of thirst.

  Suddenly, a tall African-American man with dreadlocks appears by her side, draping an arm around her waist. He smiles easily at me, holding out his free hand for me to shake. “Hi, you must be Brantley Hughes. I’m Ethan Hall, and this is my wife, Evelyn.”

  Hitching my bag higher on my shoulder, I stick my hand out to shake his. “It’s nice to meet you.”

  Turning to his wife, I note that she’s looking me in the eye now. She smiles, and I see the genuine warmth in her gaze. Her whole expression shines with it. There aren’t many people I warm to. It’s a personality trait I’ve learned to trust. But I’m immediately drawn to this woman.

  “Hi, Brantley.” Evelyn’s voice is like smooth honey on a warm biscuit. “Would you like to come into the family room and sit down? I’ll get us some lemonade.”

  I follow the couple down an airy hallway, decorated with photos of their life together, and enter a family room that opens to a big, family-style kitchen. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook a lush backyard. There’s a gorgeous patio and pool area. My mouth drops open slightly, but I recover and sit on a brown leather chair.

  Evelyn brings me a glass of lemonade and I sip, staring at the pool. “Your house is beautiful.”

  Evelyn smiles. “Thank you. All we want is a little boy or a girl to help fill it with laughter”

  I nod. “May I ask how old you both are?”

  Evelyn tips her head to the side, evaluating me with a small smile. “You’re placing your child for adoption, Brantley. You can ask us anything you’d like.”

  Ethan jumps in, sitting beside his wife on the couch. “We’re both thirty. We met when we were sophomores in college at Florida State.”

  Evelyn nods. “To tell you a little about ourselves, we own a boat rental company. We moved to South Florida after college on our own, because we’re pretty much all each other has in the world. Ethan was raised by a single mom who died of cancer when he was a senior in high school, and I was raised in the foster care system. When I found out I couldn’t have children the traditional way, I knew right away I wanted to adopt.”

  I can’t take my eyes off of Evelyn as she tells her story, and my gaze zeroes in on her hand as Ethan picks it up and twines his fingers with hers as she finishes. I already know I’ve chosen them before I revel the news to the couple for myself.

  “Why?” I whisper, looking down at my hands. “Why are you willing to participate in an open adoption? Most people I’ve found aren’t interested in letting me be a part of their lives.”

  “Because,” Evelyn responds. “This baby is going to have two mothers. A birth mother, and an adoptive mother. She should get the opportunity to know both of them.”

  That’s when the tears spill down my cheeks. I look up at Ethan and Evelyn, and Evelyn is already on her feet. I meet her halfway across the room, and her arms wrap around me.

  “Thank you,” I whisper.

  “Thank you.” Her voice is thick with her own emotion. “For the gift you’re giving us.”

  1

  Brantley

  “Oh. My. God.” Arden’s hum of pleasure coincides with her chewing, rendering any more words impossible as the rest of the fluffy pastry disappears into her mouth.

  When she finishes, she brushes crumbs from her fingertips and nods at me. Her three-month-old daughter babbles from the sling nestled against her chest, and Arden brushes a soft kiss against the baby’s head. “Those are sheer perfection. What are they called again?”

  “Patrellitos de Guayaba. Guava and Cream Cheese pastry. Traditional Cuban, and I’m so glad I made them. Might as well add another layer to these hips.” I slap my curvy ass as I sashay past her, carrying the platter of pastries and placing them in the display cabinet at the bakery counter.

  One of our regular customers perks up from her stool. “Those are new? I’ll try two.”

  Mrs. Perkins, a sweet old retiree, stops in every morning for her coffee and something sweet. She’s always wearing a different-colored jogging suit and stops by The Art of Java on her way back from Forsythe Park. Our Savannah coffeeshop is a favorite among park goers, especially in the mornings.

  Today, Mrs. Perkins’ suit is fuchsia.

  Leaning on the counter, I rest my chin in my hand. “Well, Mrs. Perkins? Whatcha think?”

  She polishes off a pastry and offers me a proud smile. “Well, these are absolutely delicious, sweetie. Love ’em.”

  Her compliment pulls a beaming return smile from me. I never knew either of my own grandmothers, but I imagine Mrs. Perkins is exactly what one should be like.

  “Thanks, Mrs. P.” Swiping her mug, I refill the coffee and slide it back toward her as the bell over the coffeeshop alerts us to a newcomer.

  Glancing up, I note the arrival of the young, fresh-faced blonde bouncing toward the counter. I jerk my head toward Arden.

  “Incoming. Nanny to the rescue.”

  Arden frowns slightly, and I’m probably the only one who catches it before she pastes a bright smile onto her beautiful face. She tosses her long, blonde braid over her shoulder and turns to face the nanny she recently hired to care for little Dahlia while she helps me run the coffeeshop during the day. We’ve always been a team, since the day we met at thirteen years old. That hasn’t changed, not when Arden met and lost the first love of her life, along with their son, in a car accident two years ago. Not when she fell for Flash Jackson a year ago and he helped put her broken pieces back together again, and not when baby Dahlia was born three months ago.

  She’s my best friend, business partner, and soul sister, and it’ll always be that way.

  Leaning over, I whisper in Arden’s ear. “You hired a good one. Baby girl will be just fine for a few hours.”

  Parker reaches us, tucks a strand of her wavy, honey-colored hair behind her ear, and reaches out to stroke Dahlia under her chin. “There’s my sweet girl!”

  Some people talk to babies, and I cringe. It’s all gooey and disgusting, and I can’t stand the sound of it. But when Parker does it, it’s not vomit-inducing. She’s naturally sweet, and she doesn’t use baby talk when she speaks to Dahlia. She just lowers the tone and the pitch of her voice, and her facial expression goes soft. She’s a perfect nanny for an infant.

  “Hi, Parker. How are you today?” Arden removes Dahlia from the sling and places her gently in the stroller beside the counter. She tucks the blanket around her, and the baby kicks her legs with a squeal. r />
  Parker grabs the diaper bag from behind the counter and gives us both a cheerful grin. “I’m doing great. Did Pilates this morning at that new place that just opened up down the street and it was amazing. You should come with me sometime!”

  I tip my head thoughtfully to one side. “I’ve never tried Pilates.”

  Parker’s eyes widen. “Oh, you’d love it, Brantley. It makes me feel so strong.”

  I eye Parker’s size six figure. If Pilates makes you look like that, I’ll give it a shot.

  But really, I’ve never had a problem with my curves. I keep fit by eating mostly clean with the exception of the baked goods I taste, and I walk every evening after dinner. But Pilates could be fun. I’m always up for a new adventure.

  “I’ll come with you sometime,” I assure her.

  She grins. “Great!” Turning to Arden, she says, “We’re going to head to the park to look at the ducks for a little bit. Dahlia seems to like that. Then we’ll head back to your house in time for a bottle and her afternoon nap. Sound good?”

  Arden’s relief is written all over her face. She worries every single time she has to hand Dahlia off to Parker. I think being a mom does that to you, makes you anxious about leaving your kid no matter what. But a mom like Arden, who’s lost one child already?