Nine Months Later
“Have you seen my passport? I was sure I left it on the bookshelf.” Annie tore through her chaotic apartment, bulldozing through stray magazines and sheet music.
Weston leaned on the kitchen counter, enjoying the show. “On your bookshelf, where exactly? In that mess of half-finished puzzle books or tucked between the torn magazine pages that might spill over at any minute?”
She slanted him a dirty look. “My place is cluttered but organized, and I’m tired of you judging it. One more crack, and I’ll change the lock.”
“I’ll pick the lock.”
She pursed her lips. “I can’t believe Leo taught you that.”
“I also know how to jack a car.”
“Leo never stole a car. He didn’t even have a license.”
“You don’t need a license to steal a car.”
She puffed out a laugh, then side-eyed him. “Did he really steal a car?”
Weston mimed zipping his lips and tossing the key. Annie didn’t need to know about the night they’d taken a Mercedes for a joy ride to impress a couple of club girls.
He grabbed Annie’s passport from a stack of old phone books and raised it in the air. “Are you looking for this?”
She grabbed a couch pillow and tossed it at him. It landed a foot short of its target.
He sauntered over to her, passport in hand. “What were you saying about your organized clutter?”
She pressed her forehead against his chest. “This was a memory blip, not clutter.”
“Whatever you say, Squirrel. But we know which of the two of us is more organized.”
“Whatever.” She nuzzled closer. “You’d be lost without me.”
No argument from him. “I also wouldn’t have a pet rabbit I don’t hate.” The second those words were out, he flinched. He hadn’t meant to blurt that confession.
Annie pulled back, squinting one eye at him. “What do you mean I’m the reason you have Felix? You took him from your neighbor.”
“Yes. I did.” He scratched his nose. “That’s exactly what happened.”
She stepped fully away and crossed her arms. “You’re lying.”
He glanced at his watch. “Would you look at the time? We should really leave.”
“Explain about the rabbit.”
“We might miss our flight.”
She didn’t budge.
With what he had planned for today, better to smooth this over before he dug himself deeper. “I bought Felix from a pet store and lied about his separation anxiety so you’d quit chasing me at my shows.”
She leaned closer to him and cupped her ear. “You’ll have to speak up, Herbert. It sounded like you said you lied about Felix to ditch me.”
He fought his rising laugh. “I was blinded by your beauty and distracted at my shows and didn’t know what else to do. But think about how great it worked out. We have an adorable pet rabbit.”
“Because your need for control is so preposterous you’re willing to exploit a perfectly innocent animal.”
“It was self-preservation. You were relentless.”
“That didn’t sound like an apology.”
“Sorry?”
She rolled her eyes. “No, you’re not. You’re a control freak who always has to have his way.” She pushed to her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. “But I kind of love your evil-mastermindedness, future husband.”
Hopefully she’d love today’s surprise even more.
He took her hand in his and planted a kiss on the engagement ring he’d given her last week. Proposing had been as emotional and terrifying and perfect as he’d hoped. He’d done it right in front of the Office of the City Clerk, had dragged her up to fill out the marriage license right away. She’d cried and laughed, the two of them kissing and smiling through it all. “This is proof,” he’d told her. “My promise to you there will be no freaking out before the ceremony.”
She’d loved the gesture, had prattled on about how they’d get properly married next year, during the summer. She hadn’t clued into the stunt’s ulterior motive.
“Enough about your rabbit games.” She bounced on her toes, a thousand-watt grin lighting her face. “Have I told you this trip will be my first flight and that Ibiza is my number one bucket-list destination out of my list of two hundred and twenty-four?”
“A few times.” About two hundred and twenty-four.
She skipped over to her bag, grabbed the handle, and rolled her shoulders back. “I am, as of now, a jet-setter. A stylish woman of the world, about to embark on the vacation of a lifetime.”
“With the man of her dreams.”
She tossed him a wink. “We should pretend to meet in the hotel lobby. You can pick me up. I’ll take off the engagement ring.”
He grabbed her bag and planted a hungry kiss on those adorable lips. “Not a chance. Every man there’s going to know you’re mine.”
She tossed her arms around his neck, kissed him while smiling. “All yours. And you’re mine. Which means I actually have to get my butt in gear and start planning our wedding.”
Her joy dipped slightly, a hint of stress in her creased brows. All signs that today’s plan wouldn’t backfire on him. It better not, at least.
Annie was the first thing he thought about in the morning, at lunch, while walking down the street, when seeing vintage clothing stores or passing a craft shop. He refused to sleep without her, splitting their time between his place and hers. He bought her gifts incessantly, loved toying with her long blond hair while they watched a movie. He couldn’t look away from her when she found a new song for their set list, her skin glowing with excitement. She was his best friend. She was the reason Aldrich Pharma had announced their merger with Biotrell and a large part of why he still worked for his family company. She’d even begun to win over his father.
Today better go off without a hitch.
He carried her luggage to the waiting car and slid into the backseat with her.
She linked their fingers and turned to him, her hazel eyes, more green than brown today, brimming with affection. “Have I thanked you for planning this trip?”
He kissed her nose. “You have, but don’t hold back. Thank me again.”
“Thank you, again. I don’t have patience for planning. I mean, I will for the wedding,” she said quickly. “But I know how crazy busy you are. I hope taking the time off work isn’t killing you.”
“Not when this is a partial business trip.” DJ business was also business. His father had grudgingly agreed to ignore Weston’s moonlighting. With the merger solidified, shareholders couldn’t argue against his capabilities. And when Ushuaia called asking Falcon to play their massive open-air club, he couldn’t refuse. Especially since a trip to Ibiza lined up perfectly with today’s plans. “Besides, exploring that exotic island is no hardship.”
She fiddled with his fingers while tucked into his side, tracing the length of each digit. He watched her intently, bounced his heel, waiting for her to clue into their driver’s direction.
Eventually, she squinted through the window. “He’s going the wrong way. Why is he going the wrong way?”
Weston tugged her closer, worried she might open the door and bail out. “I have no idea.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard that before. Always when I ask you about a random gift that appears out of thin air. Where are we going, Wes?”
“Like I said, I have no clue.”
“Do you have a clue if we’re going to miss our flight? In case you’ve forgotten, I’m a woman of the world, and gallivanting women don’t like missing their flights when they’ve been counting down the days with stickers and colored markers in their scrapbooks.”
“I have not forgotten. Our flight is later than I told you. Enough with the questions.”
“Weston.”
“Anthea.”
She gave him the silent treatment for the rest of the ride.
When the car pulled up to a random curb in midtown Manhattan, she caved. “Why are we still in the city?”
He kissed her ear and murmured, “Don’t move.”
He stepped out of his side of the car and rounded to hers in several long strides. He yanked her door open and dropped to one knee.
She glanced around the street, then back at him. “What you doing?”
He gathered her small hands in his. “The day I met you was the most important day of my life. Knowing and loving Leo was a gift, but meeting you was destiny. I didn’t know it then, but you’re the glue and sparkles that hold me together. You’re every artwork I’ve ever admired, captured in a vibrancy I never fathomed. You’re the reason I’m living a full life, and why I have a silly pet rabbit. You’re my…” His throat clogged with emotion. She was everything. “You’re my heart, Squirrel.”
Her chin trembled, those expressive eyes glossing over. “What’s a heart-squirrel?” she asked through her tears.
He laughed. “You. You’re the crazy squirrel. And I love you so damn much.”
“I love you, too. More than anything. But you’ve already proposed, and I said yes.” She pulled out her left hand and waved her vintage square-cut diamond ring in his face. “We even have our marriage license. What’s with the bended knee and gorgeous profession of love?”
He’d gone on a hunch with this next move. A slightly reckless hunch. Annie was taking her own piano lessons, while teaching in her spare time and working on her DJing. She had gigs booked. She’d even started a scrapbooking club for kids at a community center, and she still waitressed a couple of nights a week. All hectic and time consuming, though fulfilling. He’d known she wouldn’t love carving time for wedding planning. Planning in general wasn’t her forte.
He, however, was a born organizer.
“That was just the preliminary proposal,” he said, his voice shakier than he’d like. “This is the official one.” He fanned his hand toward the building. “We’re having the ceremony today.”
“What do you mean today?” Annie’s voice screeched as her brain struggled to play catch-up. They’d talked about an eventual wedding, sometime next summer. Time for her to figure out the million and one things that would need doing. Now Wes was watching her with wary, shifty eyes. He was nervous, and she was flummoxed.
“The wedding’s already planned,” he said, casting a glance at the brownstone behind him. “And it’s happening now.”
“I’m sorry.” Her laugh had an erratic pitch to it. “I must have misheard you again. First the Felix reveal, now this.”
He stood from his bent knee and held out his hand, palm up, to help her from the car.
She stared at it, helpless. “My wedding isn’t happening here. Now. I’m wearing an old skirt and a tank top.” Printed with the words: Because I’m the DJ, That’s Why. “And I wanted our friends at our wedding. Nothing big and fancy, but a day we could share with them.”
Another moment of perfection to gather and cherish alongside the millions of others they created daily. She’d worked so hard to build friendships this year. Talk to women. Share her worries when getting together for food and drinks with people like Pegasus, whose real name was Gretchen. Grow a network she could count on, and who could count on her. She’d hate not to have them here today.
Wes stretched his hand closer to her and lowered his voice. “As much as I love our bickering with benefits, which would have been entertaining while planning a wedding, I didn’t want the planning to be a burden. You’re busy and hate scheduling and research, but I enjoy it. I also wanted to do this for you. Not just the signing of our marriage license. Really show you I’m ready for us. So let me love you the best way I know how. Let me whisk you off your feet and be your prince.”
God, this man. All those months of infatuation, yearning, pining, she’d never imagined he’d be this devoted, that a few words from him would knock her sideways. Her dream wedding morphed into this moment now. A random New York street. Pedestrians casting them odd glances. Weston Aldrich offering her the one thing he’d never offered anyone: his unprotected heart.
“Yeah, okay.” Her words sounded watery. She accepted his hand and stood. “I can’t believe we’re getting married today. Do we have time to call Vivian and Rosanna and—”
He pressed a finger to her lips. “Trust me, will you?”
She nodded, too blown away to speak. He signaled to someone in the brownstone behind them, and Vivian and Sarah scurried out. Annie squawked. They whisked her inside, and people were everywhere, catering people and makeup people and hair people.
“Whose house is this?” she asked, dazed.
Vivian clutched her hand tightly. “A friend of Sarah’s. And no more questions.”
“But—”
“No buts.” Rosanna appeared from around a corner, as stunning as ever. “You’re officially kidnapped. There’s no worrying or questioning. There’s only smiling and enjoying.” She held up a white dress.
Annie screamed.
Rosanna winced. “You broke my eardrums.”
“How did he—”
Rosanna tutted and raised her hand. “Is she always this bad at following instructions?”
Vivian linked arms with Sarah. “We usually let her ramble and check back every few seconds to make sure she’s breathing while she’s talking.”
“You’re all traitors,” Annie said, unable to tear her eyes away from the fashion masterpiece. It was the exact dress from one of her scrapbook pages, layered lace, fitted and feminine with a tiny train. Immaculate. Romantic perfection.
Suspicion dawned, giddy delight that her favorite man had scoured her books for inspiration, pored over the pages, and had created her perfect wedding.
“He’s amazing,” she said, a fresh wave of emotion shaking her voice.
“He loves you so much.” This from Rosanna.
“His research skills would make him a killer private eye.” Sarah.
Vivian kissed Annie’s cheek. “Now shut up and let us work.”
Twined wild flowers were woven into Annie’s braided hair, like ones she’d plucked on a Central Park picnic Wes had once surprised her with. The girls changed into dresses in varying shades of green—like her eyes, Vivian mentioned on a sigh. Weston had apparently been quite specific on the tones. Bowls of salt and vinegar chips were brought in for them to munch on, alongside fancy appetizers only Wes would choose. Both their worlds colliding.
That man was more than a prince. He was frustrating and irritating and amazing and handsome and talented and smart and the most thoughtful man in the world. Having this beautiful day imagined by him was better than stressing over choices, worried she’d forget the smallest detail.
When she saw the rooftop garden, as whimsical as any floral dress she’d ever worn, more tears welled. Flowers smelling of sunshine spilled over stone pedestals and sprouted from every inch of the architecturally stunning deck. An arch of wild flowers stood at the far end, poetic in its simplicity.
Marjory had even brought Felix. She kept wiping her eyes, while muttering, “I always knew it.”
Annie’s new acquaintances were milling with Weston’s. He’d made his own friends recently, part of his mission to live a fuller life. They wore lovely suits, praised her beauty and kissed her hand. One massive man towered over the rest. Brick Kramarov. Heavyweight boxer and Weston’s spokesperson for their new Parkinson’s treatment. He hugged her kindly and leaned his head down. “I wish you two nothing but the best.”
Annie glanced behind him, looking for Brick’s plus one. “Is Isla here?”
Brick’s face shadowed. “No, she…” He swallowed heavily. “I haven’t told her about working with Weston on the Parkinson’s drug yet. The timing has to be right.”
Brick’s sadness hurt Annie’s heart. He was a pile of goo packed into the body of a warrior, and his pain was palpable. Annie hadn’t met Brick’s love interest, but he spoke of her often, even confessing that his spokesperson offer was a way to win back the love of his life. Annie hoped his plan worked.
A man stole Brick’s attention, talk of boxing taking over, and Annie’s favorite piano student, Joyce, gave her a hug and patted her cheek. Pierced and tattooed DJ friends interrupted, offering their congratulations. A motley crew for her and Weston’s kaleidoscope life.
Then there was Rosanna’s father, standing to the side, chatting with Victor S. Aldrich.
If you’d asked Annie nine months ago if Weston’s father would attend their wedding, she’d have laughed herself silly. Then she would have checked for a hidden camera. Fast friends they were not. There were no warm family dinners or engaging phone calls. His name was nowhere on her emergency contact list. But they had an understanding.
Victor had shockingly thanked her for nailing Duncan to the wall and solidifying the merger. There hadn’t been enough evidence to convict the creep, but he’d been fired, his reputation ruined. Aldrich Pharma had since thrived. She wasn’t sure where Duncan had slinked off to, but he’d be lucky to get a job flipping burgers. The last she’d spoken with Weston’s father, after his grudging gratitude, she’d thanked him for having such a wonderful son and had told him, unequivocally, he’d only meet future grandbabies if he thawed his frozen heart.
They made eye contact across the decorated rooftop. Victor nodded stiffly. She replied with a wide smile. The corners of his lips twitched briefly, as though reciprocating the gesture, or maybe he was passing gas, then he returned to his conversation.
She glanced toward the sky and silently thanked Weston’s mother for teaching her son how to love, regardless of his father’s stony nature. She thanked Leo for being a great big brother and teaching her to be strong and happy and for bringing Wes into her life.
She searched the rooftop for the man of the hour, but he was nowhere to be seen. Another handsome man approached her with a woman on his arm. Annie had never seen him before. She’d have remembered those thick eyelashes and his dashing sweep of dark hair. The woman on his arm, however, was familiar: the freckles dusting her nose, that strawberry blond hair, her hesitant yet curious gaze. Something tickled Annie’s memory, a younger version of this woman, with pigtails poking out of her head.
Annie slapped her hand over her mouth. “Clementine?” she said through her fingers.
The woman’s brown eyes lit up. “I wasn’t sure you’d remember me.”
“How could I forget you?” She’d been so quiet in their shared foster home, reserved, distrustful. For three months Annie had invented ridiculous stories while brushing Clementine’s beautiful hair, trying to make her smile.
“I was shocked when Weston called,” Clementine said, her face flushed. “I’ve thought about finding you so many times, but…” She ducked her head as though embarrassed.
“I did, too. Lots. But everything was so hard back then.” Impossible. Life sending her for another loop. Yet here Clementine was, because Annie had mentioned her to Wes, once, almost a year ago. “I had no idea Wes was doing this. I can’t believe you’re actually here.”
Clementine sniffled and caught Annie in her arms, holding and hugging her with equal force. She pulled back and fussed over Annie’s dress. “If I ruin this I’ll never forgive myself.”
“I probably wouldn’t forgive you, either.” She winked. “Now introduce me to this hunk of a man.”
The hunk in question dropped his gaze and smiled shyly. “I’m Jack, the lucky man engaged to this amazing woman.” He looked at Clementine, his sweet shyness melting away into adoration thick enough to taste.
Weston couldn’t have given Annie a better gift than seeing Clementine grown, happy, on the arm of a seemingly sweet man. Speaking of which, where the heck was her prince?
A violin trilled and Clementine clapped. “That’s your cue. We’ll catch up later.”
That did sound like her cue. It was the hopeful violin segment Wes had worked into some of his opening DJ sets, but her groom was still absent. The guests maneuvered as though prompted to assume their places. Vivian took Annie by the arm and led her toward the flower arch and waiting minister.
Annie stumbled in her pretty heels. “Last I checked, the groom should be at the end of the aisle when getting married.” She came to a dead stop, fear locking her ankles. “Did he get cold feet? Is he on a plane to Ibiza without me? Am I getting ditched at the altar?”
Vivian pinched Annie’s upper arm. “What did we say about the questions?”
“Have you no heart?”
Vivian deposited her under the arch and patted her shoulder. “Have faith, young grasshopper.”
The guests stood, facing her, eyes bright and eager. Except for Victor. His severe scowl was as predictable as ever. But the rest of them? They left an opening, the type of rose petal-covered aisle a bride would use to float toward her beloved, but this bride was at the arch, the groom was a no-show, and their friends were grinning, like this odd circumstance wasn’t odd at all.
The violinist switched songs. The small gathering glanced toward where the bride should appear. And there he was. Weston. Falcon. Her best friend and lover, decked out in a tux that hugged his lean lines and probably cost a mint. That man and his suits.
He smiled at her, paused and shook his head as he covered his heart with his hand. He glanced up at the sky and mouthed something she couldn’t understand. Her eyes burned, her throat turning raw and scratchy. She was going to lose her cool before he walked the short distance to her.
When he reached her, she bit the inside of her cheek. She would not cry and ruin this gorgeous makeup. “You did this,” she whispered.
“I did.”
“I can’t believe you found Clementine, and the dress is beyond gorgeous, and the flowers and everything you planned is almost perfect.”
He stepped closer, blocking the gathering from view. “Almost?”
“I’m supposed to be the one walking down the aisle, not you.”
He made a soft clucking sound and kissed both her hands. “That was for me, not you. I wanted to walk toward the most ridiculous, amazing, beautiful woman in the world so she knows she’s the only person who could ever be at the end of this path. You’re the only direction for me, Annie. You’re my compass. Everything will always point to you.”
Biting her cheek didn’t help. Tears overflowed. “Even if I’m standing on the lip of a bubbling volcano about to erupt all over your gorgeous tux?”
He laughed and wiped her tears with his thumbs. “Even then. Now what do you say we get hitched? We have a honeymoon in Ibiza to get to.”
Annie had never considered herself lucky. Not with the rough childhood she’d been dealt. But here, right now, amid their hodge-podge of friends, one rabbit named Felix, the New York skyline stretching into the distance, and this breathtaking man looking at her like she was the center of his world, she’d never felt luckier.
THANK YOU FOR READING WES AND ANNIE’S STORY!
Want to know what happens when a girl with stage fright is forced to work as a stage magician’s assistant? One-click this falling-for-your-boss romantic comedy now: New Orleans Rush (Book 1 in the Showmen series)
Keep reading for an excerpt and details about Kelly Siskind’s next release: The Knockout Rule!
New Orleans Rush
Beatrice Baker may be a struggling artist, but she believes all hardships have silver linings...until she follows her boyfriend to New Orleans and finds him with another woman. Instead of turning those lemons into lemonade, she drinks lemon drop martinis and keys the wrong man's car.
Now she works for Huxley Marlow of the Marvelous Marlow Boys, getting shoved in boxes as an on-stage magician's assistant. A cool job for some, but Bea's been coerced into the role to cover her debt. She also maybe fantasizes about her boss's adept hands and what else they can do.
She absolutely will not fall for him, or kiss him senseless. Until she does. The scarred, enigmatic Huxley has unwittingly become her muse, unlocking her artistic dry spell, but his vague nightly activities are highly suspect. The last time Beatrice trusted a man, her bank account got drained and she almost got arrested. Surely this can't end that badly...right?
Start reading New Orleans Rush now!
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New Orleans Rush Excerpt
Seeing the world through rose-colored glasses was a cultivated skill. A sunny outlook could brighten partly cloudy skies and refract that brilliance into the world. Most days smiling through adversity was effortless. Tonight, Bea’s positivity had fled the building.
“Hit me with another, sir.” Her request came out faster than intended, each word knocking into each other.
The bartender in question cocked an eyebrow. “You sure that’s a good idea? Looks like you enjoyed a few before coming here.”
She squinted at the man’s gelled hair and fancy bow tie. He seemed the unflappable sort, the type who could have survived her gray day with a sip of tea and self-deprecating chuckle.
Bea planted her elbows on the bar, briefly grimacing at the sticky surface. “I appreciate your concern, but that was my first drink. And if we switched bodies in one of those body-swapping movies, and you had to relive my last thirteen hours, you’d realize I could win the Guinness World Record for Worst Luck. Denying me another drink would be barbaric.”
Except the alcohol was fogging up her usual rosy glasses. Or maybe it was the cold medicine she’d taken when she failed to find Advil in her purse.
The bartender cracked a smile. “Barbaric?”
“A crime against humanity.”
He shook his head and reached for the vodka on the shelf. “Maybe don’t inhale this one.”
Another lemon drop in hand, she swiveled on her stool and scanned the room. The low lighting made her eyelids heavy, the red carpets and mahogany walls adding to the bar’s sleepy warmth. It had a Rat Pack vibe, accentuated by the bow-tie-wearing servers and lampshade table lights. Jazzy music joined the hum of the crowd. A crowd as unfamiliar to her as the rest of New Orleans.
Move with me to the Mardi Gras City, Nick had begged. We’ll work the bar scene at night. You can paint all day. We’ll live each minute like it’s our last!
Her boyfriend—now of the ex persuasion—had neglected to mention that four days into their adventure he’d change the rules, leaving Bea homeless and jobless in the birthplace of jazz. She also hadn’t painted anything but artless amoebas the past month.
Sinking lower on her stool, she cupped her drink with both hands. She didn’t sip it right away, letting her tipsiness linger instead. Then a guy in a top hat and cape appeared.
Yep. That just happened.
She looked into her full glass, then back at the mirage, wondering if she was drunker than she’d realized. She had consumed her first drink faster than usual, and mixing cold medicine and alcohol wasn’t the best idea. She squinted harder at the man. The top hat was still there, making its already tall owner stupendously taller. The cape was still there, too. Not just any cape. A midnight velvet cape with stars stitched through the material.
It was a galaxy far, far away. Right here. In a New Orleans bar.
The cape looked soft and plush. If Bea could rub her face in the fleecy fabric and roll into a cocooned bundle, she was sure she could sleep for a week and wake up in a different life. One that didn’t resemble a fifty-car pileup.
The top hat man focused on her, as though sensing the longing in her stare. Or maybe he’d heard her say, “I’d love to nuzzle your cape.”
A thought she’d accidentally unmuted.
He walked toward her like she was the only person in the jazzy room and stopped in front of her barstool. “You can touch it, if you’d like.”
The fabric looked even softer up close, but the sensual timbre of his low voice had her sitting straighter. “If you’re not referring to your cape, things might get ugly.”
She wasn’t above tossing her drink in his face.
His lips twitched. “I do mean the cape. Unless you’d like to try on my hat.” He tipped up the felt brim.
She loosened her grip on her glass, pleased she wouldn’t have to waste a perfectly good martini. But the way her day was going, the hat would probably give her lice. “I don’t accept hats from strangers. Or capes.”
“I believe that applies to candy, not capes.”
“What if it carries an ancient spell and whisks me away to some dark castle where I’ll be imprisoned and tortured until they learn I can’t command the cape’s magic?”
The edges of his eyes crinkled. “A valid point.”
His languid gaze slid down her body and up again. He studied her so long she finally sipped her drink, then he extended his hand. “I’m Huxley.”
The second her fingers—cold and damp from the chilled glass—slid into Huxley’s large grasp, heat shot up her arm. The cape most definitely had hidden powers. “Bea,” she said. “Fascinating to meet you.”
The most fascinating moment of her gray day.
Aside from the subtle blond scruff highlighting dramatic cheekbones and his aquiline nose, Huxley wasn’t traditionally handsome. Puckered skin overtook half an eyebrow, part of his right ear was missing, and a thick scar ran down his left cheek. His dirty-blond hair had a slight unruly curl, the ends licking at his neck.
Individually, his features weren’t particularly attractive, but as a whole this man was ruggedly elegant. Like when you stepped back from a Monet and all the paint strokes blended into a masterpiece.
Until he said, “Bee, as in the insect?”
Now he was more of a disturbing Picasso painting than a Monet masterpiece. “As in Beatrice Baker, but make a bee joke and I might borrow your cape after all. See if I can use its dormant magic to turn you into a colon rectum.”
He barked out a laugh. “Excuse me?”
She fixed him with her best menacing stare. “A colon rectum. It’s an ugly beetle.”
Frequently taunted with “bee” jokes as a kid, Bea had studied insects and animals. The odder the name the better. Using the insults against bullies would often confuse them into silence. It had a different effect on Huxley, whose striking cheekbones rounded, his lips curving upward like he’d stumbled upon a four-leaf clover in a barren land.
She found herself leaning toward him. “Are you from New Orleans?”
“I am. But you’re not.”
She froze, worry weaving up her spine. He wouldn’t know she’d just arrived from Chicago, unless he’d followed her here. Not impossible, but the one person who would have tailed her was even taller, with a slight paunch. Big Eddie could have sent someone else after her—an accomplice to intimidate and threaten. Except a gun for hire wouldn’t waltz around, brazenly, wearing a cape and top hat, and Big Eddie had no clue where she was.
She relaxed on her seat. “How’d you know I’m not local?”
“Deductive reasoning.”
“Because you’re a clairvoyant with a photographic memory and can tell me every meal I’ve eaten the past week?”
Amusement lit his eyes. “My ways are much simpler than that.”
“Do share.”
He pointed at her lap. “The keychain on your purse is a dead giveaway.”
Right. The Chicago Bulls tag. A gift from her ex-boyfriend on their third date. She didn’t love basketball, but the keepsake had been sweet. It was now a sour memory. She removed it from her purse zipper and tossed it onto the bar. “Now I’ll blend in.”
Huxley’s posture shifted, shrinking the distance between them. “A woman as beautiful as you doesn’t blend.”
Whoa.
Her pulse tapped up her neck, her rapid breaths chasing the erratic beat. She tried to decipher the odd color of his eyes, but the dim lighting made it tough, and a man bellowed Huxley’s name from the back of the room, breaking the moment.
Huxley turned, and she gawked at the hollering man…because mustaches like his were extinct. That was a mustache wearing a face, the type of hairy handlebar that could serve as a playground for miniature children. A monkeybar-stache! She snickered at her internal joke and checked her drink again. It was still half-full, but her day no longer felt half-empty, thanks to the cape-wearing man before her.
“I’ll be back,” he said, all wonder eclipsing from his Monet face.
Once he joined the owner of the monkeybar-stache, Huxley glanced at her, but the mustache man’s aggressive hand gestures drew his attention away. She sipped her drink and watched the odd interaction, wishing she could read lips.
When she finished her lemon drop, she turned and flagged the bartender. “One more, please.”
He accepted her extended glass. “How ’bout we call this your last? You should head home after, sleep this Guinness Record Day off.”
A brilliant idea, if she had a home, or a bed.
It hadn’t taken much effort to stuff her clothing and paintbrushes back into her duffle bag this morning. She’d then loaded her yellow Beetle—the trusty automobile being the only mainstay in her life—and had sat in her parked car for an unhealthy length of time, replaying today’s disaster.
“Here’s the thing,” Nick had said when she’d woken up this morning. “I’ve changed. I don’t want to be in a committed relationship. It’s best we know this now, before we get in too deep. It’s been fun, and you’re great, but it’s time we moved on.”
She had tugged at her ear, sure her hearing had failed her. “I’m sorry, but it sounds like you’re breaking up with me?”
His answering nod had been all sympathetic puppy-dog. “It’s for the best. I mean, I was getting coffee this morning, and a girl in line asked me out. I wanted to say yes, which means there’s something missing between you and me. If we stay together, I might regret it and hurt you in the process. And you know I’m a stickler for honesty.”
Getting dumped four days after following Nick to New Orleans had been humiliating. Listening to him admit he’d accepted the coffee girl’s date for tonight had driven her mortification home. All because Nick believed in honesty. So much so, he reminded her the apartment he’d rented was in his name. He then graciously suggested she crash there until she found something new, no hint of irony in his voice.
Bea had stared at him. And stared. She hadn’t screamed and cursed, because she wasn’t a screamer or curser. She’d simply looked at the man who’d convinced her to quit her waitressing job, leave Chicago, drive across four states, upend her life for a dream, and she’d said nada.
The fact that he’d never blessed her when she’d sneezed should have been a red flag, along with his Kardashian-sized shoe collection. But Bea had wanted to escape and delve into her art and forget about her father, and the mess her sperm donor had made of her life. The matter of a certain loan shark threatening her bodily harm may have also expedited her departure.
Now here she was, the victim of another sabotaging man.
She dragged her newly filled martini glass closer, ignoring the pull of the caped man behind her. She was in no state to find any man intriguing. Not on a Guinness Record Dumping day. Sipping her lemon drop was no longer an option, either. She tried to suck that puppy back, but the straw jammed into her cheek. Huffing, she pushed it aside and downed the martini, finishing by wiping her wrist across her mouth. The room took a lazy spin.
She sat awhile, twirling the empty glass, waiting for her equilibrium to settle. The weight of her troubles hunched her shoulders. She still had no job. No place to live. The alcohol provided no insight, nor did the monotony of the spinning glass. She couldn’t reverse time, so telling Nick where to shove his “it’s for the best” face was off the table. Time to call it a night.
Tip left for the bartender, she hopped off the barstool. The walls did a tilt-a-whirl—a questionable sensation. She’d only had three drinks. Enough to make her mind feel loose, but not enough to turn the room into a merry-go-round. The cold medicine she’d used to Band-Aid her headache must be the culprit. The aching no longer plagued her, but the room’s drowsy spin could pose a problem.
Bathroom. She just needed to make it to the bathroom, splash a little water on her face, and she’d be rain as right. Or right as rain. She’d shake this wooziness and figure out a plan. Translation: she’d sleep in her car tonight and hope to wake up in one of those body-swapping movies.
Maybe she could become Emma Stone. That girl had a sassy spine, no qualms about mouthing off to deserving men. They both had the red hair, freckle thing going on. Emma’s boobs were smaller, so wearing fitted tops wouldn’t make Bea feel like a Hooters waitress trolling for tips. But Bea had an hourglass figure with a daylight saving’s hour padding out her rear, which she loved. Come to think of it, Bea liked her body just fine. It was her life and backbone that were in need of swapping.
So lost in her hypothetical switcharoo, she didn’t recall walking to the bathroom or flushing the toilet or even leaving the stall. She hoped she hadn’t sat directly on the seat.
Beside her, a black woman with peroxide blond curls reapplied red lipstick. She cut a look Bea’s way and whistled. “Someone’s had a rough night.”
Bea sighed at her bleary reflection. “I made a bad decision.”
One that shouldn’t derail her life. Nick’s name did rhyme with prick, but she was in New Orleans. A colorful city with men in capes and monkeybar-staches. The perfect place to replenish her drained creative juices. She didn’t need Nick the Prick to start fresh. To prove her capability, she fumbled for the watermelon lip gloss in her purse and managed to paint on a layer. Everything in the world could be made better by watermelon gloss.
The woman curled her top lip and wiped some excess red from her tooth. “You’re preaching to the choir. My bad decision is named Miles, and he has a special ringtone.”
She pocketed her makeup and pulled out her phone. A few swipes of her thumb later, Carrie Underwood’s “Before He Cheats” blared from her rhinestone-covered cell. Bea bobbed her head as Carrie sang about keying her cheating boyfriend’s car and smashing his headlights.
When the chorus ended, the woman shoved her cell into her purse. “That, girlfriend, is how you remind yourself to avoid bad decisions. Miles calls every few days. He leaves a voicemail apologizing, and I don’t call back. I could block his number, but I like remembering I’m no man’s doormat.” Her pointed look was as fierce as her leopard-print dress.
Bea was still wearing the pink pedal pushers and turquoise polka dot blouse she’d pulled on this morning. The outfit exuded more bubble gum cheer than Hot Tamale attitude, but she’d always been a Double Bubble gal. She also wasn’t sure Nick had earned a Carrie Underwood ring tone. Definitely a Taylor Swift lyric jab or two, but Carrie could be pushing it. They had, after all, broken up prior to his date tonight, but accepting the date before his “it’s for the best” speech made the situation suspect.
Still, she didn’t want to key his 1978 Mustang Cobra, which he loved more than his shoe collection. Life was too short for revenge.
With a wink, the woman left the bathroom. Bea followed. A little too fast. One hand on the wall, she closed her eyes as the tilt-a-whirl whirled again. Eyes open were preferable. Air was also in order. She tried to strut outside with Hot Tamale attitude, but it likely resembled a dizzy stumble. She made it outside and sucked back air like a drowning swimmer breaching the water’s surface.
Her first breath cleared a layer of fuzz from her head. The second restored clarity to her blurry vision. She wished it hadn’t. There, across the street, was none other than Nick, walking hand-in-hand with his date.
The bar wasn’t far from his apartment, something she should have considered before setting up camp inside, and her uncharacteristic anger returned to a simmer. She didn’t love Nick. Moving to New Orleans and leaving her past had been as much for her as for him. But she’d trusted the man wouldn’t leave her high and dry…for another woman. After four days.
Because he was honest.
She contemplated stomping across the street and telling him to screw off. She detested confrontation more than she hated green lollipops, but calling him a spiny lumpsucker or tufted titmouse would leave her with a modicum of satisfaction.
Then she noticed his black Mustang. Half a block down, his treasured automobile sat parked at the curb. A gift from the Carrie Underwood gods. Nick was walking the opposite way, and Bea’s attention lasered in on his vehicle. She wasn’t a malicious girl. Her back was basically made of Teflon, all resentment and stress sliding to its demise. Yet she was ogling Nick the Prick’s muscle car with devious intent, and she barely recognized herself.
She’d worked since she was old enough to deliver papers. She’d then cut lawns and babysat and eventually waitressed. She’d dabbled in house painting––anything to add color to the world and money to her pocket, all while pursuing her art in private. Growing up, she’d been the levelheaded one who had kept the electricity on and heat flowing. She prided herself on being the only member of the Baker clan to never procure a mug shot.
See? Totally levelheaded.
Which meant her next action could only be blamed on Nick’s “honesty” and the brilliant Carrie Underwood. She’d also revised her cheating theory: dating a woman the same calendar day of a breakup was definitely considered running around.
She walked to the side of his Mustang.
If he wants honesty, he’ll get honesty.
She lifted her car keys from her purse.
I honestly think you’re a fungus beetle.
Fisting the keys, her mind drifted to her father. To the feeble shrug of Franklyn Baker’s shoulders when he’d admitted to gambling away her life savings, and how she’d caught nothing but a mouthful of flies in reaction. Her wicked grin faded. Her keys bit into her palm.
I am no man’s doormat.
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And guess what’s coming in 2021?
Book 4 in the Showmen series:
Take a right hook to the heart with heavyweight boxer Brick Kramarov as he falls for the last person he ever expected. Check out the blurb and preorder today!
Inspired by Cyrano de Bergerac, Siskind’s latest slow-burn romance is stay-up-all-night addictive and proves love hits when you least expect it…
Growing up with an adoring father for a boxing legend isn’t all sunshine and rainbows. It looks more like hospital visits, bloody noses, and cracked ribs.
Isla Slade now works as a physiotherapist, helping athletes heal their bodies. Except for boxers. She has no interest in reliving the stress of her teen years. Dating someone in the boxing world? She’d rather snort wasabi powder.
Until she meets Preston Church.
Preston manages heavyweight boxing darling Brick Kramarov. A brute who’s built tougher than his name, with a cocky attitude to boot. She wants nothing to do with either man, but her father begs her to help them prepare for a huge Vegas fight.
She doesn’t expect Preston to recite romantic poems and slowly break her resolve. His fascinating mind gets under her skin, even if his star athlete reminds her how much she hates boxing.
Too bad it’s Brick coaching Preston how to woo Isla, falling for her from the sidelines. Once she finds out, she’ll have to decide if she can risk loving another man who puts it all on the line for the knockout.
Preorder The Knockout Rule today!