Synopsis

Chance,

I never in a million years thought I would want a guy who smells like a tree and probably hugs them on the daily, but alas, you've somehow snuck your sexy, khaki-covered ass into my life. It doesn't help that we're stuck living in this apartment together for God knows how long, but I can't stop thinking about that kiss. I know I said it was one and done, and maybe that's the smart thing to do since I'm not convinced of your emotional availability. Maybe I'm a masochist. Or, maybe I might kind of like you. I said what I said.

No regrets, Marcos~

***

Marcos,

Your ability to simultaneously compliment and insult me is probably one of my favorite things about you. I think it's part of your charm. Does that make me a masochist as well? I definitely like to torture myself. The night I kissed you, I knew it had the potential to push you away, but I couldn't stop myself from wanting you. I still can't. You can flirt and bully me all you like. I'm not going anywhere. I've finally found my home, and it's here. And just in case you need me to be more specific, I like you too. 

Forever, con amor…

Chance~

Forever, Con Amor is an interconnected, stand alone, slow burn, contemporary, MM opposites attract romance that is heavy on humor, light on angst, and features an age gap, a sexy yoga session, heels, and a few passive aggressive quips about cargo pants, hugging trees and kale.

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Excerpt

CHAPTER ONE 

MARCOS 

I should’ve been in the shower, but that would have required me to get out of bed, and I honestly didn’t have the energy. Sunlight crawled across the carpet from the window, and I scowled at it like it somehow had a choice. Like the sun had purposefully fucking risen just to aggravate me. My eyes were heavy with lack of sleep, and had I swallowed a cotton ball? I cleared my throat and rolled over onto my stomach. Burying my face into my pillow, I contemplated all my life choices and groaned. Out of all the stupid shit I’d chosen to do with my life, school surely had been a wise decision. Right? The alcohol I’d consumed last night—not so much.

“If you make me late again, I’m really moving out this time.” My roommate and unfortunately for him, best friend, pounded on my door. “Wake the fuck up Basulto or I’m coming in.”

I rolled onto my back and stared at the ceiling. “Don’t threaten me with a good time and not follow through. I can’t take any more of your false promises.” Sitting up I grabbed my phone from the side table and unlocked the screen. “Go away. I’m in the middle of something. I’ll be ready in five minutes.”

“Five minutes my ass.” He knocked again as he laughed. “It takes you at least five minutes to choose what shoes to wear.”

“I resent that. It takes me at least ten minutes. Shoes are very important for one’s daily vibe.”

“Class starts in thirty minutes. I’m leaving in fifteen. Hurry up or you’ll have to drive yourself. In morning rush hour.”

I cringed, resting my back against the headboard, and mumbled, “Someone didn’t get any last night.”

“I heard that.”

I grinned as I opened my Instagram app.

“It’s true, you’re such an asshole after the nights you stay here,” I said, this time loud enough my neighbors probably heard me. “Maybe you should move in with your boyfriend.

Parker and his boyfriend Van had met last semester and he basically lived at his boyfriend’s house. He only stayed here on Tuesdays so we could drive to our shared class together like we had since we started at Winchester State College over two years ago. Van hadn’t technically asked him to move in, but it made sense he inevitably would. They were ridiculous. Like, I’d eaten too many red hots and ice cream and cupcakes with goddamn sprinkles on them, sweet. I wouldn’t be surprised if they were married by Christmas. The thought left an empty feeling inside my stomach. Or maybe I was hungry. Definitely hungry. I loved Park like a brother, and if I wasn’t grossed out by quasi-incest, I would have married the asshole myself. We served together for four years in the Air Force where we’d stayed buried in the closet to protect ourselves. Don’t ask, don’t tell had no longer existed on paper, but it had been the culture. We'd protected each other and had each other's backs. After we’d both discharged, I moved up to Atlanta with him instead of staying in Tampa where we’d been stationed. We’d been through hell and back together, and I wanted nothing but a happily ever after for him. But he was my family, my only family, and I wasn’t ready to lose him completely from my daily life. Having him as a roommate, as sad as it was, made me feel needed somehow. I’d been on my own since I was seventeen. When I met Park in Basic Training, I’d had no one. And since then, it's been me and him and this weird simpatico. His happiness was my happiness, but lately I didn’t quite know where I fit in anymore. 

“Don’t act like you wouldn’t be lost without me,” he said, hitting the nail on the head. 

“You have that backward, mijo.”

“The clock is ticking. I’ll make coffee.”

“With that new creamer?”

He sighed loud enough I could hear him through my bedroom door, and I suppressed my laugh. I was such a needy bitch.

“Yeah, with the new creamer. Now, get dressed.”

Of course, I didn’t. Instead, I scrolled through the app feed, looking at pictures of well-placed books, and poses, and puckered bored expressions. Why were all my friends so pretentious? I flipped to my profile. God why was I so pretentious? I snapped a quick selfie and stared at it. My dark curls were wayward at best, my face was makeup free, the bridge of freckles, marching over my nose were on full display. I looked like shit. Hungover and tired. I didn’t think a twenty-four-year-old was supposed to look haggard.

“No more booze,” I whispered to myself and posted the picture to my feed with the hashtags late night and worth it.

The last one was a lie. The club scene, as fun as it could be, had started to wear out its welcome. I set my phone on the mattress and got out of bed. My bones ached as I stretched them over my head and yawned. Definitely not worth it. Swearing when I caught a look at the clock on the nightstand, I rummaged through my closet faster than I liked and decided on cut off shorts and a vintage Suzanne Vega t-shirt. Slipping my feet into my Bella Lou gladiator sandals, I thought I looked decent enough for the halls of my shitty little state college.

I grabbed my phone and was about to put it into my back pocket when I remembered why I’d opened Instagram in the first place. My thumb swiped over the smooth glass, the screen lighting up as I flipped to the account I checked every morning since last November. It was an addiction, at least that sounded better than calling myself a stalker. It wasn’t my fault his feed was aesthetically pleasing and that the random shit he posted made me want to unravel him even more. His personality was a mystery. It by no means meant I wanted him.

Him.

Chance Davenport aka @a_twist_0f_fate and conveniently the new director at Pride House, the youth shelter where I happened to volunteer my time. This was all Parker’s fault if I was being honest. He worked at Pride House too, and every year the staff and residents put together and performed a play for charity. Last year I helped Parker out with the annual production, designing costumes and lending my make-up expertise. I’d thought I’d do my part and be done, working with kids wasn’t my thing. I was a design major for fuck’s sake. But once I’d started and met the residents, I’d never admit it to a single soul, but I was smitten. The kids reminded me so much of myself at their age. Like me, these kids had been forced into the system and onto the streets by families who’d rather disown their blood than have a kid in the alphabet mafia. Every experience was different, every life unique, but I saw myself in their eyes. The hunger. The fear. The things we’d had to do to survive. Shit like that bruised you in places no one would ever see.

Chance hadn’t posted any hashtags, just a picture and his usual quote of the day. Today it was something from Aristotle.

“One swallow does not make a summer, neither does one fine day; similarly one day or brief time of happiness does not make a person entirely happy.”

I stared at the simple snapshot of a river, the Spanish moss hanging low from the branches of a tree, skimming the surface of the water. The sun hadn’t quite fully risen, the air steaming along the bank. I wondered if he’d taken the picture today. Had he woken up early with the intention of capturing this moment? Did he live near the river? Had he camped there overnight? Was he alone? And more importantly, why in the hell would anyone get up that early on purpose? The man was a riddle, and God dammit I was going to figure him out. 

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Other Titles Within this Series

LOVE ALWAYS, WILD

For Him #1

NOT SO SINCERELY, YOURS

For Him #2

DEAR MR. BRODY

For Him #3

TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN

For Him #3.5

About the Author

Amanda is an award winning and best selling author of LGBTQIA and contemporary romance and fiction. She lives in New Hampshire with her family where she moonlights as a nurse on the weekends and hikes as much as possible.

If she’s not busy with her kiddos, you’ll find her buried in a book or behind the keyboard where she explores the human experience through the written word, exploring all spectrums and genres.

She's obsessed with all things Hockey, Austen, and Oreos, and loves to connect with readers!

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