NAUGHTY NELLE

NELLE L’AMOUR

NAUGHTY NELLE

A delicious taste of the sizzling books New York Times Bestselling Author, Nelle L’Amour, will have FREE! in Kindle Unlimited this summer.

Meet scorchin’ hot bad boy Blake Burns, Hollywood heartthrob Brandon Taylor, cocky alpha Drake Hanson, sexy, single parent billionaire Ari Golden, and swoon-worthy donut mogul, Owen King. This steamy anthology includes:

*    BABY DADDY: Special 12-Chapter Preview

*    UNFORGETTABLE: Special 18-Chapter Preview

*    THAT MAN 1: Complete book

*    TRAINWRECK: Complete Book

*    The Big O: 3-Chapter Preview

Also included is Nelle’s full-length standalone novel, DEWITCHED. Who on earth is naughtier than the Evil Queen? Find out how she gets her happily ever after in this humorous and romantic 5-Star fairy-tale retelling of Snow White.

SPECIAL BONUS: You will also get a sneak peek of ENDLESS LOVE, the highly anticipated sequel to Nelle’s critically acclaimed international bestseller, UNDYING LOVE.

AND when you’re done reading, don’t forget to visit NAUGHTY NELLE’S TOY STORE, where you can purchase many of the fun, adult products featured in her books.

Get naughty! And be prepared to laugh, cry, and swoon!

Copyright © 2017 by Nelle L’Amour

Kindle Edition

All rights reserved

First Edition: July 2017

This collection is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to events, locales, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is purely coincidental.

No part of this ebook may be reproduced, uploaded to the Internet, or copied without permission from the author. The author respectfully asks that you please support artistic expression and help promote anti-piracy efforts by purchasing a copy of this ebook at the authorized online outlets.

Nelle L’Amour thanks you for your understanding and support.

To join my mailing list for new releases, sales, and giveaways, please sign up here:

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Cover by Arijana Karcic, Cover It! Designs

Formatting by BB eBooks

For all my Belles who dare to be naughty.

If you can’t be good, be good at it.

—Anonymous

BABY DADDY PREVIEW

NELLE L’AMOUR

ABOUT

A new STANDALONE romantic comedy from the New York Times Bestselling author of THAT MAN and UNFORGETTABLE.

I have three cardinal rules:

Never mix business with pleasure

Never let a woman spend the night.

Never date a woman with kids.

Kids freak me out. God only knows how many this baby daddy has. Man, what was I thinking when I was in college? Me, Drake Hanson. God’s gift to women. Aka Donor 5262. It was a piece of cake and fifteen hundred dollars a month for my deposits (in sperm bank speak) came in handy. Wank, bank, and go. I just didn’t think about the consequences. One day, some kid is going to call me Daddy and I’m going to get hit up for child support. Big time.

Now, my father is pressuring me to settle down because the investor who’s looking to acquire his animation company doesn’t want a player running a family-oriented business. Just in time, she came along. The temp. Dee Walker. The minute the hot as sin brunette with her killer curves and those chocolate brown eyes stepped foot in my office and saved me from an ugly disaster with her magic hands, I wanted her to be mine. Except she’s totally off limits. And there’s someone else she loves with all her heart and soul that I can’t replace.

Can my temp become my forever before my past catches up with me? I’m willing to break all the rules.

Copyright © 2017 by Nelle L’Amour

Kindle Edition

All rights reserved

First Edition: April 2017

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be re-produced in any form or by any means without prior written consent of the author, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

In memory of my beautiful baby girl, Luna.

I will always love you.

Destiny is not a matter of chance; it is a matter of choice.

—Zoltar

PROLOGUE

Drake

Ten Years Earlier

“Hi, handsome.”

“Hi, gorgeous,” I replied with a wink. Constance, the buxom blond receptionist, was far from gorgeous, but I sure knew how to charm her. Minoring in What a Woman Wants had its benefits. A big smile lit up her face.

“Sheila will take you back to Room 2.”

“Nah, it’s okay. I know the routine.” Sheila was her recently divorced co-worker with the spray tan and fake boobs. I knew she had a thing for me. Except I didn’t have a thing for her and fooling around with the staff was definitely a no-no.

Swinging open the heavy door that led to my destination, I walked down a short corridor, past several administration offices, marveling at how many times I’d walked this path before. I did some mental calculations—I’d frequented this place three times a week regularly for the past four years. So, that was over five hundred times. By now, I could walk to infamous Room 2 with my eyes closed.

Room 2 was at the very end of the hallway, and when I got there, I cranked open another door. I took in my surroundings. Not a thing had changed from the last time I’d been here two days ago. In fact, nothing had changed since the first time I’d set foot in this room.

It was small and sterile, a lot like a doctor’s examining room. Except instead of an exam table, there was a TV, a DVD player, a rack of familiar magazines, and a chair covered with a disposable towel and holding a jar labeled with my name. Forcing myself to not overthink the fact that hundreds of dudes had gotten off in this room, I bypassed the porn (at this point, I’d seen the DVDs a hundred times and leafed through every Hustler), grabbed the specimen jar, and sat down in my wanking throne, ready to get to work.

Setting the jar between my legs, I zipped down my fly and freed my dick. I cast my eyes downward and stared at it. It might be eight inches of limpness now, but in a few strokes, it was going to be ten inches of rock-hard, pulsating magnificence. A smile warmed my lips and pride soared in my heart as I curled my fingers around my already swelling length and aimed it at the jar. I should mention some dudes wore goggles they provided just in case they missed, but me, the hockey player, never missed a goal.

Call me God’s gift to mankind. Not only was I going to give some childless couple a family, but I was also going to make the world a more beautiful place with my premium genes. These couples deserved the best. They were dropping upwards of $40,000 per child, so it sure as hell well be the Rolls Royce of babies. Not a freak. And man, the lucky kid who got my package.

It’s good thing I didn’t have a steady girlfriend. The only downside of this job was that I couldn’t have sex for forty-eight hours prior to reporting for active duty. So, I could only hook up a few nights a week. But don’t feel sorry for me. The amount of action I got totally compensated for my days off.

Staring down at my long, thick shaft, my mind wandered. Who should I think about during today’s session? Jasmine? Amber? Carrie?…yeah, she was good. I loved the way she went down on me the other night with that big mouth of hers, taking me to the hilt. Imagining her soft pillowy lips clamped around my rigid length, I began to slide my hand up and down, picking up speed until I was pumping fast and furiously. My eyes squeezed shut, I felt my cock swelling in my palm, the blood rushing to it. In five, four, three, two, one, I had a blast off as I fantasized coming in Carrie’s warm mouth, my load coating her throat. I peeled my eyes open and watched as my jizz dripped down the interior of the jar. Grinning, I screwed on the lid and put it on the shelf where I always did. Baby gravy.

My fly still down, I headed over to the sink area where I washed up.

Wank, bank, and go. Tonight, I was going out on the town and was going to fuck my brains out. A couple of hundred dollars would come in handy at the high-end club I was planning to go to and plunk down some big bucks.

I tucked my spent dick back in my jeans and zipped up my fly. Seriously, jerking off for money was the best damn job in the world.

But when I graduated this year, my father had other plans for me in the kids’ biz.

CHAPTER 1

Drake

It was the most dreaded day of the year.

Not Black Friday.

Not Valentine’s Day.

Not Tax Day.

It was fucking Bring Your Kids to Work Day. The third Wednesday in May. God, I hated this day. It wasn’t even nine o’clock and dozens of kids were flocking the halls of Hanson Entertainment, the animation company founded by my father.

My legendary old man, Orson Hanson, loved this day. Kids were after all what made him a multi-millionaire ten times over. Danger Rangers, the series he created when I was eight, was an overnight sensation. The theme song, “Go, Go, Danger Rangers,” became a national anthem among children and stores couldn’t keep the toys in stock. Now in its second decade, the show was still going strong on Peanuts, the children’s television network owned and operated by Conquest Broadcasting. Over the years, our slate of animated series had expanded and included many other hit series. Approaching the ripe old age of sixty-five, my father was looking to retire…sell the business and achieve what he’d always wanted—to become a billionaire and be ranked among the world’s moguls on the Forbes Top 40 list. No matter whom he sold the company to, he wanted me to continue to run it.

The kids’ business—not the cartoon kind—had netted me a small fortune too. My old man sent me to UCLA, but he insisted I get a job while I was taking classes. To see what it was like. To build a work ethic and values. And to keep me out of trouble. Dad knew I was a party animal, a lazy son of a bitch, who’d rather screw around than study and who had trouble keeping his pants on. Well, I found the perfect job: Wanking off.

The minute I saw the ad for “Sperm Donors Wanted” on a bulletin board at the campus coffee shop, I knew I was a shoe in. I went online and filled out the form. I was perfect breeding material. Six feet two inches tall (no shorties or fatsoes wanted), dark, thick hair (no gingers allowed because no one wanted a carrot top), baby blue eyes, and straight as an arrow (sleeping with guys eliminated you immediately). I was healthy and came from a family where almost everyone lived to be a hundred. Plus, I had an amazing skill set—I was athletic, could sing like a rock star, and had a 150 IQ. Okay, I goofed off and my C grades reflected that (I lied and said I had a 5.0 GPA), but the potential was there. Plus, I was hung like a horse. I had no STDs and my specimen past the test with flying colors—getting a higher score than I’d ever gotten on any academic test. My sperm count was worthy of the Guinness Book of Records, their morphology museum-worthy, and the real clincher was my little testicular tadpoles were Olympians that could swim like Michael Phelps.

The sperm bank was conveniently located in Westwood Village, a few blocks away from the UCLA campus. It was the perfect “job.” I only had to go in two to three times a week, whenever I chose, and it took ten minutes or less to complete the task. An easy peasy fifteen hundred dollars a month. Not bad for a few hours work. Some called it a sperm bank; but I called it the wank bank. Wank, bank, and go!

“Be a hero!” proclaimed the home page of the website. “Give a childless family their dream.” Looking back, what the hell was I thinking? My nightmares had started a few years ago right after my best bud, Brock, dragged me to see the Vince Vaughn movie, Delivery Man. Vince played a hapless dude, who, like me, had given batches of his seed to a sperm bank while he was in college. Fast forward several years, the sperm bank was being sued for a shit load of money by the women he impregnated, demanding to know his identity. Had I known what the movie was about, I would have never gone to see it.

Given how many batches of Donor 5262 (as I was officially known) sperm I deposited (in sperm-bank speak) and had frozen, half the kid population in LA might be some form of mini-me. Okay, I’m exaggerating a little, but still there were likely hundreds, if not thousands. And right here, right now in our studios, a few might be roaming around. Though I didn’t do open donation where the parent and donor mutually agree to let the kid contact and meet you at the age of eighteen, I still constantly felt the inevitable would happen. One day, I would run into a clone of myself and my life would change forever.

After taking a sip of my coffee and a bite of a glazed donut that I’d purchased at a nearby Donut King on the way into the office, I booted up my computer. The day, filled with one parent-child activity after another, was going to be a total time suck. I had a lot of shit on my plate, including readying a pitch to Conquest Broadcasting, so the last thing I needed was a presentation to all the little brats about the cartoons we produced. Last year was a fucking disaster…one of the kids started throwing his chicken nuggets at me and before long the entire screening room had erupted into a nasty food fight. This year could easily be a repeat. Even worse.

Studying my calendar and looking less and less forward to the day ahead, I looked up when I heard an unexpected voice.

“Mister, can you tell me where the bathroom is?”

My eyes landed on a chubby little boy, wearing shorts and an Astro Camp sweatshirt. Probably eight or nine, he was a freckled carrot top and wore large horn-rimmed glasses that covered most of his pudgy face. His eyes beneath the thick lenses looked glazed.

“It’s down the hall on the right,” I replied as I sized him up. Nah. For sure this little nerd wasn’t one of mine. From my research on genetics, one could only be a redhead if both parents had the genes in their ancestry. Not one ginger existed on either my mother’s or father’s side of the family.

“Could you please show me?” His voice grew smaller. More watery.

“Fine.” I mentally rolled my eyes. I had better things to do. Reluctantly, I stood up from my desk and strolled over to the youngster who didn’t budge. As I neared him, he paled and clutched his stomach.

“What’s the matter?”

The boy’s mouth opened wide as if to say something, but instead a loud BLEGH! dislodged from his throat.

The sound shot through my ears as a spray of hot molten lava with chunky bits splattered across my T-Shirt.

Jesus!

BLEGH! Another round of projectile vomiting, this time hitting me below the belt. All over my crotch.

Christ!

The kid began to cry. I’m talking big fat ugly tears that rolled down his face from under his glasses. “I want my mommy.”

Shit! With his freckled face now the shade of puke green, he looked like he might barf again. Parents shouldn’t be allowed to bring their kids to work. When I became President of this company, this day was going to be eliminated once and for all. Covered in vomit, I inhaled deeply and regretted doing so as the odiferous smell drifted up my nose. I began to feel nauseated myself. Crap. What was I going to do? A new voice distracted me. It was soft and raspy, innocent and sexy at the same time.

“Hi, I’m Deandra. But you can call me Dee.”

My gaze shifted to the doorway of my office. At the threshold, stood a shapely brunette wearing a gray fitted skirt, sensible black pumps, and a cropped red sweater over an ivory blouse. Her lustrous chestnut hair was swept up in a ponytail, showcasing her flawless complexion, doe-like brown eyes, full upturned lips, and cute as a button nose.

“Are you his mother?” I yelled out above the wails of the child. Get him out of here.

“Oh, dear!” exclaimed the attractive, twenty-something woman, taking notice of the disastrous situation.

The kid’s sobs grew louder and he cried out again for his mommy. Obviously and unfortunately, this woman bore no relationship to him.

“Who are you?” I asked as she hurried toward us.

Keeping my eyes on her curvy body, I watched as she took the hysterical kid into her arms. “You poor baby.”

You poor baby? Hello! What about me? I was the one who’d taken a barf bath.

Stroking the boy’s copper curls, she made eye contact with me. “I’m your new assistant. The temp.”

Her words sunk in. I’d totally forgotten that my regular, soon-to-retire assistant, Mona, had taken her overdue vacation time to visit her daughter, who’d given birth two weeks early. She would be away for at least three weeks, and always efficient, no matter what the circumstances, she’d managed to arrange for someone to fill in for her until she returned.

I met my new assistant’s chocolate orbs. “Okay, then start by getting this kid the hell out of my office and find me something I can use to clean myself up.” I was unable to look down at the damage and the stench was really getting to me.

“Sure,” she replied with a small dimpled smile. Even in my distressed state, I had to admit this girl was cute. One hot little number. My eyes stayed on her as she escorted the kid, whose crying had subsided, out of my office, one arm wrapped around him in a motherly way. My gaze traveled down her taut body, spending way too much time on her spectacular heart-shaped ass and shapely calves.

I stayed in one spot awaiting her return, decorated with revolting chunky bits. Growing more and more nauseated and disgusted, I grew impatient. Where the fuck did she go? Five long, wretched minutes later, she reappeared, holding a thick stack of paper towels and a glass of sudsy water.

“I found his mother,” she beamed as she approached me. “Everything’s good. She’s taking him home.”

“Good,” I mumbled, watching her soak a wad of the paper towels with the soapy liquid. “What are you doing?”

“Stand still. I’m going to try to clean up this mess.”

“Hurry! I’ve got a presentation in an hour.”

I stood as still as I could as she began to vigorously wipe the chunky bits off my T-shirt. Bit my bit, they disappeared, but the horrific smell lingered. “Work on my jeans now.”

The disgusting red chunky bits (what the fuck did that kid eat for breakfast? Dog food?) were clustered around my fly with a few scattered down the legs of my jeans. After tossing the wet towels she used for my T-shirt onto the floor, she moistened another bunch and began to scrub my crotch with small, vigorous strokes.

“Jesus,” I moaned.

Still working, she gazed up at me. “Am I hurting you?”

My muscles clenched as I felt my cock swelling beneath the denim. Holy shit. She was giving me a fucking hard-on.

“Rub harder,” I gritted through my teeth.

At my command, her strokes grew faster and more forceful. I hissed. Christ. Didn’t she know what she was doing to me?

“Don’t stop,” I breathed out, feeling the makings of a volcanic eruption between my thighs. I was so close to coming…about to cream my pants and scream out in relief. And then on her next stroke, I did, cursing under my breath, just as she stopped her ministrations.

“I’m sorry. This isn’t working,” she said, frustration in her voice. Oh, it worked just fine. If she knew I’d just had a full-on orgasm, she didn’t show it. In fact, she probably thought I was yelling at her.

She examined her handiwork, no pun intended. “I’ve gotten most of the puke off, but I can’t get rid of the smell.”

I looked down at myself. Nope. This wasn’t good. My Danger Rangers T-shirt was soaked and stained, and it looked like I’d taken a leak in my pants. And she was right. The horrible odor was palpable.

I dug my hand into a pocket and retrieved my cardholder, pulling out my Visa. Still feeling a hot, tingly sensation between my legs, I handed it to her.

“Listen, I need you to run to the Galleria and pick up a new pair of jeans and a T-Shirt. There’s a Bloomingdale’s there…they should have what I need.”

“What size are you?” Her eyes roamed down my body, staying a little too long where they shouldn’t have.

For a minute, my mind jumped to my cock. Big, very big! I bit down on my tongue and answered, “I wear a Size Large T-shirt and a 32 in jeans.” And silently I added, “While you’re there, pick up some Calvin Klein briefs. The ones with extra support.”

Without wasting a second, she flew out of my office.

CHAPTER 2

Dee

Less than five minutes on the job, I was out the door, shopping for my new boss. All I knew from Human Resources was that his name was Drake Hanson and he was the Head of Development for Hanson Entertainment. It didn’t take a genius to figure out he was connected to someone who owned this animation company. And therefore some kind of big shot. After filling out the necessary paperwork, I was immediately escorted to his office.

Well, I certainly didn’t expect my day to start off as it did, I thought to myself as I drove back to the office in what I was learning was typical LA traffic. Coming from a small town outside of Fresno, I still hadn’t gotten used to the hustle bustle and it totally freaked me out. LA drivers were ruthless and I was surprised I hadn’t already gotten into an accident.

My new boss wasn’t going to be happy when I got back. New to LA, I didn’t even know what or where the Galleria was. Googling my cell phone, I learned it was a mall in Glendale near Hanson Entertainment and then used my GPS app to find the fastest route via the Ventura Freeway. I got there in ten minutes…except the exit was closed off, and when I got off on the next one, I totally got lost and somehow ended up in Pasadena.

As I crawled along the freeway in my beat-up Ford pickup truck, my new boss occupied my mind. I could tell he was bossy and somewhat of a jerk. And the man seemed to hate kids, which was pretty ironic since he made kids’ cartoons. I was familiar with most of them.

But one thing for sure, he was gorgeous. Sinfully gorgeous. My sister had told me that hot guys were a dime a dozen in LA, and yes, I’d seen a lot of cuties, but none compared with this man. His eyes were the bluest blue and could hold you prisoner while his body was pure manly perfection. He was the perfect height—probably just over six feet—with broad shoulders that gave way to chiseled biceps and ripples in just the right places that showed he must work out. And then there was that incredible thick length between his long, athletic legs. Holy shit! My breath hitched in my throat as I relived it growing hard beneath my palm as I tried to wipe his crotch clean. I could actually feel it pulsating against my hand and I swear he got off on me. How was I going to work for this sex god? Okay, it was just a temporary job for a few weeks until his regular assistant returned. But still.

Suddenly, a car on the right pulled in front of me. I slammed down on the brakes and cursed. A new reality set in: why was I worrying? I was probably going to get fired for taking so long or I was going to die in a car accident. Catching my breath and returning my full attention to the road, I prayed the latter wouldn’t happen. I had something far more important than myself to live for.

CHAPTER 3

Drake

Where the hell was she? Dee…I think that’s what her name was. I was lousy at remembering names. Always in one ear and out the other. It could have something to do with my selective hearing.

The Galleria was only a short ten minutes away, but she’d been gone for almost an hour. A disturbing thought knocked at the door to my brain. Maybe she wasn’t coming back. I mean, I’m sure I didn’t make a very favorable impression on her. In fact, I probably scared the shit out of her. The minute she stepped foot in my office, I yelled at her and demanded she clean that crap off me from that damn kid.

Okay, that was bad enough—I don’t know how she was able to tolerate the smell or even look at the gross vomit—but that was nothing compared to the fact that I practically came in her hand. And I was still feeling the aftermath of the orgasm shooting through my balls.

Seriously, how goddamn embarrassing! I can’t believe she didn’t react. There’s no way she didn’t feel my cock expand then grow as hard as a rock and feel my spasms as I blew my load. Seated behind my desk, now bare-chested and minus my jeans, I stared down at my package. Impulsively, I put my hand on it. The fabric of my briefs was still damp from my release and my cock was still enlarged and warm. The image of that girl with her dimpled smile flashed into my head and a surge of desire spilled through my blood.

Okay, this girl wasn’t exactly my type. She was dark-haired and curvy when I preferred tall, willowy blondes, but there was something so fresh and sexy about her. It was like Rebecca of Sunnybrook farm had grown up and was milking the hell out of me. The bottom line, she turned me on like a light bulb. The temperature in the room had risen at least ten degrees. Maybe more.

Now acutely aware of the air conditioning blowing on me, I returned my attention to my computer screen. My door was locked shut because I sure didn’t want another brat disturbing me and I sure as hell didn’t want anyone from the company to see me almost butt naked. I glanced at the time. It was almost ten o’clock…the Bring Your Kids to Work Day breakfast was about to end and I was expected to give a thirty-minute presentation about our company—an overview—to the kids in our state-of-the-art screening room. Following the presentation, the kids would break into groups and visit various employees and departments, including our character designers, computer animators, editors, and our in-house recording studio.

My father hated tardiness. Moreover, Gunther Saxton, the German media mogul who was looking to buy our company, would be there observing me…to see if I was CEO material. Shit. What was I going to do? My eyes darted to the far right corner where I’d tossed my stinky, vomit-ridden T-shirt and jeans. There was no way I was putting them back on. And there was no way I was leaving my office. Damn that girl. I couldn’t even call her to find out what was going on since I didn’t have her cell phone number. I could only surmise she’d quit on me, giving new meaning to the word “temporary.” Raking my fingers through my hair, I blew out a loud frustrated breath. This day was going from bad to worse.

A sudden loud knock at the door sounded in my ears. “Who’s there?” I shouted out. I just hoped it wasn’t my father. I didn’t want him—or anyone for that matter—to see me like this.

“It’s me, Dee. I’ve got your things,” came a familiar voice from the other side.

Phew! Finally, she was back. Without saying a word, I leapt up from my chair and sprinted over to the door. Before I could get to it, the door swung open and a loud gasp filled the air.

CHAPTER 4

Dee

“Oh. My. God.” After saying the last word, my mouth stayed wide open in the shape of an “O.” A big “O.” I couldn’t get my legs to move or my eyes to blink. I just stood at the doorway, paralyzed, the large Bloomingdale’s shopping bag dangling from my hand while he barked at me.

“Jesus. Just don’t stand there. Hurry in and close the door.”

Holy moly! Standing before me was my new boss. The sex god, wearing nothing, but his boxer briefs. And there was nothing that stood between me and his Calvins. I could feel his heat as my eyes drank in his exquisitely sculpted body. He was spectacular with his clothes on, but even more breathtaking without them. Six-feet plus of pure manly perfection. Broad, sculpted shoulders…chiseled pecs…the six-pack of a male model…and powerful, muscular arms and legs dusted with a fine layer of dark hair. Oh, and that perfect pelvic V that drew my eyes to a bulge in his briefs that was far bigger than the one I imagined. Only one word came to mind—humongous. My eyes stayed glued on it. I was in state of shock. I should have waited for him to open the door. Maybe he was putting on some sort of cover-up. But stupid me used the office key Human Resources had given me and barged in. What was I thinking?

“Hurry,” he repeated, his voice urgent. Not giving me time to respond, he grabbed me by my elbow and yanked me into his office, slamming the door behind us.

Ruthlessly, he tore the shopping bag out of my hand. “Perfect,” he muttered, reaching inside for the T-shirt and jeans.

“They only had ripped jeans in your size. True Religion. I hope you don’t mind.”

Holding them up, he quirked a smile. God, it was dazzling, with two heart-shaped dimples that kissed his lush lips. My eyes stayed on him as he hastily stepped into the faded denim pants and pulled them up over his long legs before focusing on his groin as he zipped up his fly over his extraordinary endowment. My nerve endings buzzed with the whoosh of the zipper and I could feel my heart galloping. The sexy jeans fit him perfectly, hanging low on his hips, just below that those pelvic V lines and that happy trail grazing his lower abdomen. Wordlessly, I watched as he pulled the V-neck T-Shirt over his head and tucked it into his jeans, his mouthwatering biceps flexing as he did. God, he looked gorgeous. Swoon-worthy, may I say as my legs turned to Jell-O.

“Good job,” he said as he pivoted to retrieve his shoes—a pair of red Nikes nearby on the floor. I felt myself flush with pride—and arousal—as I admired his delicious ass. Well, at least I wasn’t on his shit list. Or about to get fired.

“What took you so long?” he snapped as he bent down to slip on the shoes.

A lump formed in my throat as dread rolled through my stomach. Maybe I jumped to a conclusion too fast.

“Well?” He looked up at me as he fiddled with the laces. “My presentation is in five minutes.”

“Um, uh, I got lost.” I refrained from telling him that I also made a stop at the lingerie department to pick up a new pair of panties to replace my soaked ones.

“Seriously? Everyone knows where the Galleria is.”

My mouth twitched while words stayed trapped in my throat.

“Dammit,” he shouted.

I held my breath and prepared for the worse. I was getting the ax.

“Get your ass…

Out of here… GULP!

“Over here and help me take out these damn knots.”

Phew! I breathed out a sigh of relief and hurried over to him. Squatting down, I joined him, so close that our knees touched and his warm breath skimmed my cheeks. He yanked at a pair of the shoelaces and I could hear him curse again under his breath.

“Stop it,” I reprimanded. “You’re making it worse.”

“Oh, so now you’re an expert on knots?” His voice dripped with sarcasm.

“Yes, I am. Now please let go.”

Reluctantly, he removed his hands, setting them on his thighs, while I went to work. The honest-to-god truth, I was an expert when it came to knots. I’d undone countless ones, from the simplest to the toughest that often took hours. And I was great with gnarly hair knots and tangled necklace chains as well. It was all part of my other job requirements.

Fortunately, Drake’s knots weren’t too bad. I felt his eyes on my hands as I maneuvered the balled-up laces, loosening and untangling them. It took patience and a fair amount of strategy. In no time, both knots were undone.

“Wow, you’re really good,” remarked Drake with a smile.

I returned the smile, though mine was fraught with smugness. “Let me tie your shoes for you the proper way so the laces won’t get undone or knotted up again.”

“You’d make a really good mother.” Drake laughed.

His laugh was naturally sexy. Deep and sexy. Hot tingles danced down my spine as I finished tying both shoes.

Drake stood up, lifting me up with him. His hands curled around my upper arms while we stood face to face. His eyes burnt into mine.

“Thanks. I’ve got to run. You’re welcome to come to the presentation.”

“It’s okay. I want to get acclimated.”

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

“Okay. I’ll be back in a half-hour. And we’ll talk about your job requirements.”

“Oh, there’s more to it than cleaning up vomit, shopping, and tying your shoes?”

“You’re funny.” And with that, he dashed out of his office.

CHAPTER 5

Drake

I survived Bring Your Kids to Work Day and my father told me Gunther Saxton was impressed by my presentation to the kiddies. Fortunately, there was no repeat of last year’s food fight, and the kids were so well behaved you would have thought we got them from Central Casting. We were one step closer to making the deal happen.

The rest of the day went by without a hitch. With pitch season around the corner and the pending acquisition of my father’s company by Saxton Enterprises, I spent most of my time out of my office…meeting with in-house character designers, storyboard artists, story editors, and animators as well as with ZAP!, the cutting-edge ad agency that was putting together a sizzle reel to show to network development execs. One thing worried me: while we had a full development slate, none of the shows we had in development felt like the next big hit. Both my father and Gunther were counting on me to find that needle in the haystack.

My temp, Dee, was doing a great job holding down the fort while I was in meetings. In fact, she was perfect, attending to my every need and whim, from keeping me on schedule to running to Starbucks to get me a much-needed Vanilla Ice Blended and warm chocolate chip cookie in the middle of the day. I, on the other hand, wasn’t doing such a great job suppressing my feelings about her. While her behavior toward me was very professional and not the least bit flirtatious, something about her fucking turned me on. My dick was twitchy, especially when I caught sight of her taking off her sweater and unbuttoning the top buttons of her blouse, which exposed just the tiniest bit of her lace bra and made me fantasize about what lay beneath. From the way they pressed against the silky fabric of her blouse, I could tell her tits were full and firm with nipples that I imagined were succulent and rosy.

I hadn’t been this turned on in ages. Maybe it had to do with my recent self-imposed period of celibacy, but I’d seriously never had so many fantasies about a woman. Most chicks were just one-night hook-ups that fit into the find, feel, fuck, and forget category. But Dee, ever since that barfing incident, had lingered in my head. I fantasized about her kneeling at my feet and giving me head, fucking her on the floor and over my desk, then banging her against a wall. She didn’t wear any kind of wedding band, so I assumed she was single. I refrained from asking her because I didn’t want to know she was off limits and have to say adiós to my fantasies. Plain and simple: I didn’t bang married ladies; that’s where I drew the line. Maybe I was a little bit of a manwhore (okay, understatement) and marriage-phobic, but I at least respected the institution. Enduring their share of ups and downs, including one horrific tragedy, my parents had stayed together for almost forty years and were still madly in love. Not a small feat by Hollywood standards. The number of celebrity divorces in this town had made my best bud Brock Andrews a millionaire. And somewhat of a celebrity in his own right.

Before I knew it, it was six o’clock. While I usually didn’t leave the office until seven and sometimes later, tonight I was meeting Brock at the LA Kings Valley Ice Center for our bi-monthly hockey game. I grabbed my laptop bag and headed out of my office. To my surprise, my new temp was still at her desk. Her eyes glued to her computer screen, she glanced up at me. She looked a little tired.

“Hey, you don’t have to stay late.”

She quirked a sweet little smile. “It’s okay. I was just studying the “To Do” list your regular assistant was kind enough to send. I’ll make sure I have your schedule for the rest of the week printed out and on your desk before you get in tomorrow.”

“Thanks. See you in the morning.”

“Night,” she replied, her eyes already back on the screen.

I lingered, tempted to ask if she wanted to come watch me play hockey.

“Hey, do you have plans for tonight?”

“Yes, I’m going out later.”

I hardly knew this girl, yet I felt a little dejected and rejected. I shouldn’t have been surprised by her response. Cute, single chicks like her didn’t stay home at night. If she didn’t have a boyfriend, I bet she had a hot date every night.

I inhaled a breath while she ignored me, then bid her good night one more time and split.

Friends since kindergarten, Brock and I had both been playing hockey for as long as we could remember and now belonged to an amateur team known as the Mighty Dicks. The name of the team suited us well; combined, we were a bunch of spoiled rich pricks, who were determined to win and had enough testosterone among us to melt the ice. Suited up in my padded uniform and a protective helmet, it felt good to be on the ice. After a stressful day, it was my way of chilling and using my big stick to score goals. It was also my way of releasing my pent up sexual energy. And I had a lot of it. Not so much because I hadn’t used my God-given big stick for over a month, but because ever since my sexy temp stepped into my office, I had the burning urge to bury it in her pussy and score a goal of another kind. My hormones were raging.

Tonight, we were playing the best team in our league. Our fiercest competition—the Manchots, which was French for penguins. The Canadian ex-pats, who composed this team, thought they were hot shots and born with pucks between their legs. So far this season, they were undefeated. Fuck them, I thought as the game went into sudden death overtime. My heart was racing, my focus on the puck. The puck flew across the ice to the other team, but one of our defensemen blocked it, hitting it straight to Brock, my fellow forward. Through our helmets, we made eye contact, and in a split second, the puck was mine. It was a long shot, but I had to take it. Without wasting a second, I whacked the puck with my stick and watched as it swept across the ice straight past the Manchots’ stunned goaltender into the net. The score: 2-1. Victory was ours! Cheers and man hugs all around.

Brock high fived me. “C’mon, man, let’s go out and celebrate.” And get laid. “I’ll buy.”

I thought about his offer. It had been a while since I’d been out on the town. Gunther Saxton, whose holdings included amusement parks, electronic games, and pre-school brands, had made it crystal clear to my father that if I was going to take over and run his animation company I needed to change my image. “Form equals meaning,” he’d stressed repeatedly. “I can’t have someone like your son running an animation company who’s out screwing every starlet and supermodel in LA. A family brand needs a family man. Someone who is settled down with a wife and kids.”

Every time he mentioned the wife and kids part I inwardly cringed. Settling down was the last thing on my mind. I was just not the marrying type, let alone the family man. And, of course, the mention of kids always reminded me of all the kids that might be mine as the result of being a sperm donor. I hated to think about the consequences if that secret ever got out. Whoof.

My past aside, the deal was majorly important to my father so I agreed to low key it for a while…stay away from the Hollywood scene and stay out of the tabloids. At first, it sucked balls, but I’d actually gotten used to it, and to my astonishment, I found myself not missing the meaningless hook-ups night after night or the superficial nightlife. Though this was the longest dry spell I’d endured in my adult life, I felt rested and productive. A sabbatical. Yet, despite my commitment to living a temporary celibate life until the deal was done, my buddy Brock managed to sweet talk me into going to a new Hollywood hot spot to celebrate our victory.

“Man, I think I’ve gotten too old for this shit,” I grumbled, taking in the five-people deep bar.

“Bro, you’ve got to get back in the game. Your dick can only last so long without being laid. It can even fall off.”

Mentally, I rolled my eyes. In his office, Brock thought with his brain; he was one of the sharpest, shrewdest attorneys in LA, specializing in high profile, sticky divorce cases and family law. But once outside his glass-and-steel tower, Brock thought with his dick. He didn’t just check out attractive women. He checked out women. Fat ones, skinny ones, tall ones, and short ones. Women of all color though the equal opportunity player had a predilection for leggy blondes whereas I was an ass-man. He approached the opposite sex no differently than one of his high-profile cases—no risk, no gain. Score a win. His eyes roaming, he was already on the prowl. Brock the Rock had earned his name.

“Maybe you’ll meet Miss Right here tonight,” he chuckled, giving me a man pat on my back. “And make your old man happy.”

“Yeah, right,” I retorted, the sarcasm dripping. All skin, sex, and heat, this was no place to meet your future wife. Nor was I looking for one.

“Check out that babe at eleven o’clock,” he said, pointing in her direction. “She’s hot as shit.”

My eyes followed his and landed on a tall, lithe blonde in tight-ass jeans standing at the bar. Yup. He was right. A margarita in her hand, she was definitely off the charts hot. The face and body of a goddess with radiant waist-length hair, mile-long legs, and spectacular tits that spilled out of her low-cut halter-top. But what really grabbed my attention were her defined, full lips. As she made eye contact with us, she took a long sip of her drink and then licked them. I felt my cock stir.

“Fuck,” muttered Brock under his breath. “I saw her first. She’s mine.”

In addition to speaking three languages fluently, Brock was an expert on the body language of women. He could read exactly what they wanted and how they wanted it. Then say what they wanted to hear. He was ready to conquer. And score. Flashing a seductive smile, the blonde turned around so her back was to us.

“Check out that piece of ass,” crooned Brock. “C’mon. Remember, I make the first moves.”

A short minute later, we were at the bar. Luck had it that there was an empty seat next to Ms. Blond and Gorgeous.

“Hey, beautiful. Anyone sitting here?” Brock asked, pulling out the barstool while I stood next to him. I was already feeling like his sidekick.

She turned to face us. Up close, she was even more striking. Her skin porcelain, her eyes sapphire, and her luscious lips lightly glossed. They reminded me a lot of my new assistant’s, especially the way the corners turned up like a Cupid’s bow. They were lips made for cock sucking. She smiled seductively again.

“It’s reserved for my sister. She went to the ladies’ room. You can have it until she gets back.”

“Great,” said my companion, scooting onto the stool while I leaned against the bar.

“Watcha drinking, angel?” Brock asked, already on the make.

“A pink margarita.” She took another sip.

Another almost empty margarita glass was on the bar counter where Brock was sitting. Probably the sister’s. A little bit of salt still coated the rim.

The blonde finished her drink, but before she could set the glass down, Brock took it from her.

“Can I buy you another?”

Oh, man, he was slick.

“Sure.”

“You know what, I’m going to order a pitcher.” Brock turned to me. “Is that okay by you, bro?”

“Go for it.” I really wanted a gin and tonic, but I wasn’t about to fuck things up.

While Brock got the attention of a bartender, the blond babe smiled at me and then returned her attention to Brock after he placed the order.

“Why don’t you introduce me to your friend, stranger?”

“Sorry. This is my buddy, Drake, and my name’s Brock.

“Hi,” she said breathily, sizing both of us up. That’s what chicks did. Mentally, they were calculating how much money we made and how big our dicks were. The more the better. I guess we passed the test because she didn’t brush us off. At least, not yet.

“I’m Lulu. So, what do you guys do?”

Yup. She was going for the jugular. Not wasting a second to see if we were worth her time. Or should I say, net-worthy. Brock responded.

“I’m a lawyer. And Drake’s in the entertainment business.”

Her eyes stayed fixed on Brock. “Cool. What kind of law do you practice?”

“Family law. Did you read about the woman who sued her sperm donor and won child support?”

My muscles clenched. Brock’s cockiness was bad enough, but every time he brought up this case (he had no clue about my little extra-curricular college activity), I saw my life savings pouring out of my bank account like water. Given all the women I’d likely impregnated, I could be cleaned out for life. And I’m sure my old man would cut off my inheritance. Maybe even boot me out of the company.

Her eyes lit up. “Yeah, that was all over the news. You represented her?”

“Yeah, that was me.” Brock flashed a big shit-eating grin. He could be such a pompous asshole. But I guess it took one to know one.

Lulu raked her manicured fingers through her mane. “Wow! You’re like famous.”

Rich and famous. Still smiling smugly, he did his Mr. Humble Pie bit. He really had his act down to an art.

“Yeah, kind of,” he replied, eyeing her cleavage. Subconsciously, she adjusted one of her spaghetti straps. When it slipped down her shoulder again, Brock nimbly slid it back up.

“Thanks,” she breathed out, batting her eyes at him. Oh yeah, she was on fire, and I was positive that whatever little lace panties she had on were melting. Things were looking good for Brock. The bartender returned with the pitcher of margaritas along with two salt-laced glasses, one for Brock and the other for me. As Brock filled Lulu’s glass and then his, the chair to his right became vacant and I took it, taking my glass with me.

“So, Lulu, tell me a little bit about yourself,” Brock lilted, setting the pitcher down in front of me. While most men wanted to talk about themselves, Brock was smart enough to know that women loved it when men took an interest in what they did. His favorite pick-up line was coming.

“Are you a supermodel or something?”

Flushing, Lulu giggled. “Hardly. I’m a Zumba instructor.”

“Well, you sure have a great body.”

That you can’t wait to fuck.

“I bet you have a lot of great moves.”

I could feel the heat rising between them. Sparks were flying.

She guzzled her margarita before saying, “Yes, you could say that.”

“I have a few too.”

That was for sure. His gaze traveled down her taut body. He was mentally undressing her. Eye fucking her. I just knew what was going on in his head. This beautiful babe butt naked, bent over with her sweet ass in the air. And him behind her, banging her hard. His own kind of Zumba. Or was that my fantasy? A familiar voice cut my ruminations short.

“Excuse me. You’re sitting in my chair.”

Holy shit! Could it be? I wondered as Brock stood up and I froze.

“Sorry,” my buddy apologized, spinning around.

Lulu jumped in. “This is my sister…”

I heard her name on her lips before she said it.

“Deandra. But I call her Dee-Dee.”

“Nice to meet you. I’m Brock and this is my friend, Drake.”

“Drake?” Her voice cracked with a mixture of shock and disbelief.

My heart raced as I cringed. My head bowed down. But beneath the bar, my cock bounced up.

Hesitantly, I looked up and faced her. She looked as sexy as sin, dressed in tight jeans that showed off her curves and a sheer short-sleeve blouse that fell off her shoulders. Her thick, wavy hair was loose and grazed her shoulders like a whimsical cape. The silence between us vibrated as loudly as the dance music that was blasting.

“Come on, beautiful, let’s dance,” said Brock, taking Lulu by the hand.

With a saucy smile, Lulu told her sister she could have her seat.

Hopping onto the stool, Dee immediately grabbed the margarita pitcher and filled her glass to the brim. I would have done it for her, but she didn’t give me a chance. I watched as she drained it, and as she took giant gulps, I contemplated what to say.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

After another gulp, she set her glass down. “The same thing you are.”

Looking for a hook-up? I refilled her glass and then poured myself an equal helping of the margarita. We were going to need it.

“And what would that be?” I asked after taking a chug of the intoxicatingly sweet, icy drink.

“You know, chilling. Checking out the scene.”

The scene was a blur to me. The only person I was interested in checking out was the intriguing, sexy woman sitting beside me. Wanting so badly to touch her, I fumbled for conversation.

“Um, how did you like your first day on the job?”

“Great. I totally enjoyed it.”

To say I totally enjoyed it, too, was the understatement of the century. At the memory of her making me come in my pants, my cock tensed. I squirmed in my chair, seeking relief.

“How ’bout another round?” I asked, noticing that her glass was verging on empty.

“Um, uh, sure,” she replied, lifting her glass to those kissable lips once it was refilled. Sipping the drink, she swiveled her neck and took in the crowd of dancers on the floor.

“Looks like your friend is really into my sister.”

Looking over my shoulder, I followed her gaze and found Brock and Lulu dancing up a storm. Brock was grinding her, and with her arms swinging high in the air, she was gyrating her hips to meet his every move. Brock loved to dance, and in no time, his hands were cupping her fine ass, pulling her closer until he was practically dry humping her. Let me tell you, Brock’s cock was dancing up a storm too. And Dee’s sister was enjoying every fucking minute.

“Do you come here often?” I asked.

“Hardly. This is a first. My sister insisted on taking me here to celebrate my first day at work in LA. I’m really kind of a homebody. What about you?”

“I get out and about.”

“I saw a lot of pictures of you online with supermodel types.”

I cocked a brow, unsure if the sudden pitchiness of her voice was to counter the loud, thudding music or the result of being buzzed. Or a combination of both.

“Oh, so that’s how you spent your time while I was in meetings all day?”

My eyes stayed on her as she took another long sip of the frosty pink drink and then licked her sensuous lips.

“I just wanted to have a better idea of whom I was working for.” She unexpectedly hiccupped, and something about the little hitch in her breath was so damn adorable, my cock twitched. She excused herself before babbling on.

“Who’s that redhead I saw in a lot of the photos?”

My breath caught. Krizia. Crazy, desperate Krizia. She’d been after me for years. “My parents’ personal publicist. It’s nothing.”

“Well, it looks like she’s really into you.”

“She’s a camera hog. She enjoys having her photo taken by the paparazzi.”

“Oh, so she’s like arm candy.” Studying my face, she knit her brows. “You’re not gay, are you?”

I practically laughed out the next sip of my drink, but swallowed just in time. “No, I’m not gay. What made you say that?”

Before she could answer, a familiar voice drifted into my ear. Brock. I spun around. A sheen of sweat coated his face, and an arm was wrapped around Dee’s sister. Getting laid was inevitable.

“Yo, Drakester, get your ass on the dance floor.”

“Yeah,” echoed Lulu. “You should ask my sister to dance. She’s an amazing dancer.”

I turned to face my companion. Even in the dim light, I could see her cheeks flushing. She nervously bit down on her lip.

“Don’t believe her. I can’t dance.”

When I turned to face my best bud again, he and Lulu were already locked in a heated kiss, her arms flung around his neck and his looped around her lower back—crawling to her ass. I hated being a voyeur. Impulsively, I grabbed Dee’s hand and coaxed her off the barstool.

“I don’t believe you. Let’s dance.”

“No, please,” she protested.

“C’mon. Boss’s orders.”

Grabbing her margarita glass with her free hand and downing what remained, she set it back down on the counter and hesitantly let me lead the way. She was buzzed; I was buzzed. The thudding music quickened my gait and anticipation zipped through my veins. Weaving in and out of the crowd, I squeezed Dee’s hand, not wanting to lose her.

As we stepped onto the dance floor, the music suddenly changed. Ed Sheeran’s “Thinking Out Loud” was playing. The lyrics made me even more aware of Dee’s soft warm hand in mine and think again of what that talented hand had done to me earlier in the day. It was time for a slow dance. Maybe it was all part of a plan.

CHAPTER 6

Dee

Lulu was telling the truth. I was a very good dancer, but in the arms of my sinfully sexy boss, I felt like was stepping all over myself. Maybe because I was so buzzed. And so turned on.

My hands rested on his broad shoulders while his arms draped around my back, holding me firmly and swaying me side to side as Ed Sheeran played on the sound system. With my five-foot-four body stuffed into my spikey heels, I was almost eye-level with him and close enough to feel his warm breath heat my cheeks. I soaked in his gorgeous face. His scorching blue eyes, manly straight nose, luscious mouth, and strong jaw that was laced with an oh so sexy fine layer of stubble. Call me drunk, but I was at a loss for words and knew that anything that came out of my mouth would be slurred or sound all wrong. I was hoping there would be no need for conversation. Wishful thinking.

“Your sister was right. You are a good dancer,” he began with a sexy smile.

Heating, I managed a small thanks. I refrained from telling him that I was just following his lead. He was a great dancer himself. Smooth, fluid, and definitely in control.

“You okay?” asked Drake, gripping me tighter and drawing me closer to him. So close my breasts grazed his steely chest, my fingers longing to run over every ripple of his defined abs. My nipples hardened and a spray of tingles showered me from head to toe. I stared into his blue orbs.

“Are you sure you’re not gay?” Why did I keep asking this question? Was I too blitzed to make intelligent conversation? Or was I simply looking for a reason to not be physically attracted to him?

He rolled his eyes at me and then a wicked smirk lifted his edible lips. “Geez. Do I have to prove it to you?”

On my next heartbeat, his lips came crashing down on mine in a fierce kiss ripped right out of a movie. In seconds, our tongues were dancing and my fingers were fisting his hair, pulling his face toward me and deepening the kiss…a kiss like none other.

God. It had been so long. He tasted warm and delicious, a mixture of sweet and salty from the margaritas. A bolt of electricity shot through me, igniting every cell in my body, causing an explosion of fireworks behind my eyelids. As he drew me tighter against him, his hardness pressed against my stomach, and I could feel the heat of it right through his jeans. My fingers clung to the roots of his silky hair, fearing that if I let go I would move my hand between his legs and do a crotch grab, that’s if I didn’t faint first. Or yank down his fly.

Finally, as the song ended, he withdrew his mouth from mine. The intoxicating taste of him lingered on my tongue.

“Are you satisfied?” he asked softly, his hooded eyes locking with mine.

I wanted his lips back on mine in the worst way. As if I was thinking out loud, his lips touched down again and this time my moans filled his mouth as I reclaimed it with equal hunger and need.

Another barrage of sparks bombarded me as I felt myself orbiting into the stratosphere. My head was spinning. Everything was spinning. Yup, I was leaving the planet.

CHAPTER 7

Drake

“If you’re happy and you know it, clap your hands.” Clap Clap.

I had practically carried my adorable temp off the dance floor and now she was seated at the bar next to her sister, singing at the top of her lungs. Brock and I flanked them, stomping our feet on the next verse. More and more off key, she sung on.

“If you’re happy and you know it, shout ‘Hooray!”

“Hooray!” shouted Brock and Lulu along with Dee. Drinking another round of margaritas, they definitely looked happy. With his free hand, Brock was touching Lulu in all the right places and Lulu was loving it.

I pretended to be into the drunken fun the three of them were having, but I was more sober and pensive than I made out to be. I’d learned a lot about Dee on the dance floor. Not only was she a great dancer like her sister said, she was also a great kisser. And I learned something about myself: I liked holding her in my arms and kissing her. Who was I kidding? I more than liked it. She felt and tasted delicious. In retrospect, maybe I shouldn’t have kissed her, but I couldn’t resist.

“Whoo hoo!” shouted Dee, several decibels louder and brandishing her arms.

“Is she always like this?” I asked Lulu.

Lulu burst into laughter. “Never. She rarely drinks. I think she’s sloshed.”

That was for sure. Still singing at the top of her lungs, Dee reached for the margarita pitcher, but I stopped her midway.

“Boo!” she pouted, ruffling my hair. “Why’d you do that?”

“Because you’ve had enough.”

“Please, pretty please. With a cherry on top?”

“I think she needs to go home.” But I was speaking to deaf ears. Dee’s sister was back to making out with Brock. I wasn’t sure how my temp had gotten here. But if she had driven, there was no way I was going to let her drive home in her inebriated state. And if she’d come with Lulu, there was no way I was going to ask her to take her home and ruin my best bud’s good chance of getting laid. And the third alternative—putting her in a cab or Uber worried me as she wasn’t coherent and could end up in some gang-ridden neighborhood. So it was up to me.

Waiting outside the club for the valet to bring around my car, I clutched Dee by the waist in an effort to keep her standing. Shit faced, she’d grown even loopier, becoming very talkative and bold. She was vomiting words and that’s all I hoped would spill out of her mouth. The thought of her puking inside my brand-new Maserati Gran Turismo scared the shit out of me.

“How are you feeling?” I asked, hoping my car would get here soon.

“Do you have a twin?”

Balls. She was seeing double.

“He’s as hot as you are. Is his cock—hiccup—as big as yours?”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “Shhh! Don’t tell him I told you, but mine is bigger.”

She glanced down at my crotch, her eyes sizing me up before darting to the “other” me. And then another hiccup. “I don’t believe you. I want you to prove it.” A hand flew to my fly, and as she groped my dick, my breath hitched with anticipation. Was she going to give me a hand job right here on the curb? As she began to fiddle with the tab of the zipper, the valet whipped around with my shiny black convertible. The top was down. My cock was up.

“C’mon,” I urged, ushering her into the car. “It’s time to take you home.”

“But I want to see your cock first. Please. Pretty please?”

“Later,” I replied as I buckled her in. Handing the valet a generous tip, I rounded the car and hopped into the driver’s seat. With a screech, I peeled off the curb.

Shortly into the ride, I managed to secure Dee’s address; her case of the hiccups didn’t make it easy. Fortunately, she didn’t live far away and given that there was little traffic, I could be there in about fifteen minutes. She was still talkative and tipsy. And totally adorable. She started singing again at the top of her lungs, totally off key and hiccupping non-stop.

“If you’re horny and you know it, unzip your fly…if you’re horny and you know it and you really want to show it…”

The hiccups kept coming. I wish she could get her mind off my cock. Though, to be honest, the thought of her lush mouth sucking it was making me hard again. My manhood throbbed.

By the time I reached Dee’s residence, she was totally conked out. I was relieved because it meant my car had been spared a barf wash. After parking it, I dipped my hand into her purse and retrieved her key chain. One of the many keys must be for her house.

Dee lived in a funky Los Angeles neighborhood known as Silver Lake. It was home to lots of artsy types and aspiring actors. Her house, a small quaint Spanish cottage that was probably built in the twenties, sat almost at the end of a long winding hillside road. The house next door, which seemed vacant, was for sale, and on the other side was a deserted lot. There were bars on the windows, reminding me that this wasn’t the greatest neighborhood for a single girl to live in. Or even a guy. Break-ins and car thefts were frequent. I put up my top and made a mental note to lock my Maserati.

After scooting out of it, I scooped my temp into my arms and had no choice but to throw her over my shoulder so I could unlock her front door. My other hand gripped her right below her perfect ass. I felt like Captain Caveman, one of the first animated series my father had created.

At the front door, I lucked out with the first key I tried. It opened easily with two turns and I carted Dee inside. Flipping on the lights, I soaked in my surroundings. I’d stepped right into her living room—typical of these vintage Spanish-style houses. My eyes darted from corner to corner. Her living room was smaller than the grand entrance of my parents’ house, and it was filled with boxes suggesting she’d either just moved in or was about to move out. The sparse furnishings were definitely flea market finds, my attention drawn to the whimsical paintings on the walls of big-eyed children. Knowing a little about art from my mother the collector, I decided whoever painted them was very talented.

A hoarse mumble cut into my thoughts.

“Need to call Tyson.”

Tyson? Who was that? Her boyfriend?

“Need to say goodnight.”

“Who’s Tyson?” I dared to ask.

“The love of my life.” The words came out in slurred one-syllables. My chest constricted. There was someone in her life. Boner downer. Glumly, I headed over to the couch and set her down.

Without warning, she grew agitated and began to cry. Desperate words spilled out of her quivering lips. “Need to call my baby…Say I love you from here to the moon…Give each other a big kiss.”

Ms. Happy and You Know It was a whimpering mess. I wasn’t too happy either. Red-hot jealousy shot through my veins and I wasn’t even the jealous type. I’d been played. Yet, despite my rising rage, her sobs were gutting me.

“C’mon. You need to go to sleep.”

On my next breath, I set her down on the couch and she curled into a fetal position. Her sobs continued to fill the room. “I miss my baby.”

There was no point in moving her to her bedroom, and I didn’t especially want to see the bed where she and this Tyson guy fucked. Searching the living room, I spotted an afghan on a rocking chair and retrieved it. Gently, I folded it over her heaving body as her sobs subsided. In no time, she was out like a light. A much as I wanted to kiss her goodnight, it was my cue to leave.

CHAPTER 8

Dee

A loud pounding sounded at the front door. It was nothing compared to the pounding in my head. Slowly, I peeled my eyes open, one at a time. It was as if they were super-glued shut.

The pounding at the door persisted. And then the doorbell rang again and again. The banging and chiming were making my headache feel worse, if worse was possible.

Slowly, I sat up and took in my surroundings. I was home, but I had no recollection of how I got here. The blinding sunlight that was filtering through the window was my only clue that it was early morning. I rubbed my throbbing temples and, after swallowing, discovered how parched my throat was. In a word, I felt like shit.

“Dee-Dee, open up,” shouted a familiar voice. “I can’t find my key.” It was my sister, Lulu.

Draping the afghan over my shoulders, I made it to my feet and staggered to the front door. At the sight of my sister still dressed in a halter-top and skin-tight jeans with her mane of hair in just fucked mode, the fog that clouded my mind began to lift. Panic set in.

“Brock was amazing!” she spewed as she made her way into the house we shared. “We fucked all night long. You wouldn’t believe all the insane positions. And you should see his apartment. It’s a penthouse on the Wilshire Corridor. I think he’s loaded in more ways than one.” Tossing her bag on the couch, she asked, “Did you get laid?”

Her question made my blood run cold. Oh God! Did I? I didn’t know. My mouth couldn’t form words.

“Brock’s friend Drake was really into you. That kiss must have made the Guinness Book of Records. The longest kiss ever!”

“We kissed?” My voice quivered.

“Twice,” replied my sister with a big grin.

Oh, Geez! How many margaritas had I drunk? What else had I done?

“How did I get home?”

“Drake gave you a ride in his car. You were pretty snockered.” She sauntered in the direction of the kitchen. “I’m going to make a pot of coffee, okay?”

“Yeah, that would be great,” I mumbled as I futilely searched my fuzzy mind for any clue of what had happened after Drake drove me home. Though I was still fully clothed, that didn’t prove anything. A shudder rippled through me as Lulu returned with two mugs of much needed coffee.

“So, did you get laid?” my persistent sister asked again, handing me one of the steaming mugs.

The tantalizing aroma of the strong brew awakened my senses and just one caffeinated sip erased the stale taste in my mouth. It did not, however, restore my memory of last night.

“I don’t know,” I murmured as she plopped down on the couch where I’d slept. And fucked Drake?

Lulu rolled her eyes. “Well, I sure hope you did. He’s hot as shit. Are you going to see him again?”

Fortifying myself with a deep breath, I just blurted it out. “Lulu, he’s my new boss.”

About to take a sip of her coffee, Lulu froze. “Whoa!”

“Yeah…whoa. How am I going to face him?”

Pensively, Lulu sipped her coffee and then looked up at me. “You’re just going to be yourself. Trust me, he really liked you. And if he did screw you, he’s going to like you more.”

I processed her words. So much of me wanted to crawl into bed and stay under the covers for the rest of my life. But I couldn’t afford to lose my job. I needed the money and temporary jobs were hard to come by.

“What time is it?” I asked with resignation.

My eyes stayed on her as she pulled her cell phone out from her jeans pocket.

“It’s five after nine.”

“Oh shit! I’m late for work. And I need a ride.” Wait! Maybe I should just call in sick. The thought of having to face my gorgeous boss after all that might have transpired last night sent a shiver down my spine. Dread filled every crevice of my body.

“Did you tell him about Tyson?” asked my sister as I trudged to the bathroom to shower.

Tyson…my true love. At her words, a heart-wrenching thought stabbed me. I hadn’t called last night to say I love you. And now it was too late.

As late as I was, I stopped at the coffee station before I headed to my desk. My mind was in a frenzy. What was I going to say to him? Thank you for kissing me, and by the way, did you fuck me? How was I going to look him in the face, oh that sinfully beautiful face, without imagining his lips on my mine as his tongue swept through my mouth and sent me orbiting? Anxiously, I slogged down the hall to my desk, pondering answers to these questions and more. The coffee wasn’t giving me any clarity.

His office door was closed when I got there. As I sat down at my desk and booted up my computer, I remembered he had a meeting this morning with some animation director. Maybe it would last all day.

I hadn’t even taken off my sunglasses when I heard his door click open. I felt my shoulders stiffen and my stomach tighten.

“Well, good-morning.” His voice was business-like.

“I thought you had a meeting out of the office,” I spluttered, not looking away from my computer screen.

“It got canceled.” From the corner of my eye, I watched as he rounded my desk. He was now facing me, seductively posing, with his strong, muscular arms folded across his broad chest. He was wearing his basic sexy uniform—a yummy T-shirt, low slung jeans, and Nikes. An unnerving smirk curved his lips. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine.” I’m dying here. I chewed on my lip. “About last night, I’m sorry—”

He cut me off. “There’s nothing to be sorry about. We’ve all gotten a little plastered.”

“N-no, really I’m sorry if I did anything out of line. I’d totally understand if you want to fire me.”

To my surprise, he laughed. “Trust me, you didn’t do anything too drastic. You’re actually quite a funny drunk and I have no intention of firing you.”

“Really?” I squeaked, still not knowing how far I’d gone with him.

“Really,” he smiled back and then winked. “I hope I convinced you that I’m not gay.”

What was he implying? I let him fuck me? Before I could get my mouth to move, my cell phone rang. “Excuse me. I hope you don’t mind, but I need to take this.” The phone kept ringing.

“Go ahead…by the way, nice shades.”

Fumbling, I reached into my purse and found my phone. Upon seeing the caller ID, my heartbeat quickened as I put the phone to my ear. As I listened to the voice on the other end, my thudding heart leapt into my throat and every muscle in my body clenched.

“Oh my God! I’ll get there as soon as I can.” Every nerve in my body was crackling with fear and I felt tears welling up in my eyes. I met my boss’s concerned gaze as a few escaped.

“What’s the matter?”

“Oh my God. It’s Tyson!”

His brows furrowed. “Your boyfriend?”

“No, my daughter. She’s in the emergency room!”

A look of shock washed over Drake’s face. His brows shot up. “What happened?”

“She was stung by a bee during recess and had a seizure.”

“Jesus.”

“I-I’ve got to get to the hospital. I need to call for an Uber.”

“Don’t bother. C’mon, I’ll take you.”

CHAPTER 9

Drake

I mentally hit my reset button. So, my new temp had a kid. A little girl named Tyson who was in kindergarten. I sure wasn’t prepared for the K-bomb. Or the explosion of questions that accompanied it. Was Dee married? Divorced? Separated? As much as I yearned to know, this wasn’t the time to probe. This was an emergency.

For the second time in less than twenty-four hours, my assistant was sitting next to me in my car. Taking the I-5, my Maserati wove through the five-lane freeway en route to Children’s Hospital where her daughter had been taken. I kept my eyes glued to the road but occasionally shot a look her way. The wild tipsy look from last night was gone, replaced by a somberness that bordered on fear. After thanking me for the ride, a tense silence prevailed over the whoosh of the wind and traffic. Speeding down Los Feliz Boulevard where I exited, I glanced into the rearview mirror.

“Shit!”

“What’s the matter?”

“There’s a cop behind me. He wants me to pull over.”

“Oh my God! NO!”

There was no way I could pull over on the busy thoroughfare so I activated my right turn signal to let the cop know I was turning onto the next residential street. He got the message and followed me.

Pulling up behind me, the cop got out of his car and approached me. “Sir, do you know you were going way over the speed limit?”

Before I could get out a word, Dee broke down in tears. “Oh, Officer, we’re so sorry. My daughter was rushed to Children’s Hospital, unconscious from a bee sting.”

A look of compassion washed over the officer’s ruddy face. “Ma’am, I totally understand. That happened to one of my kids from a peanut allergy. C’mon, just follow me and I’ll get you there in no time.”

With tears still dripping down her face, Dee clasped both hands to her heart. “Oh, thank you, Officer.” And I thanked him too.

Thanks to Officer O’Riley, we got to the hospital in five quick minutes. I clutched Dee’s icy hand as we raced to the information center. I didn’t think about it much; it just felt right. And she didn’t resist. Breathlessly, I introduced myself, and in no time, thanks to my VIP status, we were in the critical care unit where Dee’s daughter, Tyson, had been transported. A silver-haired nurse named Mary immediately met us.

“My daughter…can I see her? Is she all right?” Dee blurted out in a panic.

“She went into anaphylactic shock.”

“Anaphylactic shock?”

“A rare, life-threatening allergic reaction to a bee sting,” I offered solemnly, flashing back to my own childhood experience with a bee sting. While I didn’t quite go into shock, I broke out in hives, my tongue swelled, and I couldn’t breathe. Bees still freaked me out.

“Exactly,” replied Nurse Mary.

Dee’s eyes widened. “I had no idea she was allergic to bees. She’s never been stung before.”

“According to her teacher, she initially broke out in hives, but when her face began to swell and she complained she couldn’t breathe, she immediately called 9-1-1. The paramedics got there just as she lost consciousness and injected her with adrenaline to counter the severe reaction.”

“Oh my God! Is she still unconscious?”

“She returned to consciousness, but she’s sound asleep now.” The nurse smiled. “She’s a very lucky little girl. Everything seems stable.”

Dee let out a loud sigh of relief. The hold on my hand loosened, but she still clung to it like a lifeline. “Can I see her?”

“Of course, follow me.”

“I’ll wait here,” I murmured.

“No, please come with me. I’d love for you to meet her.”

“No, really, I’d rather not. I’m not good with kids. And maybe I’ll scare her.”

Dee relaxed for the first time and let out a small laugh. “Trust me, nothing scares her. Well, except maybe bees do now.”

I don’t know what made me do it, but I stayed with Dee and followed Nurse Mary down the hall to Tyson’s room. I kept my eyes straight ahead of me, not wanting to glimpse the critically sick kids in this ward. My philanthropic mother, God bless her, did a lot to cheer these children up, from putting on magic shows to sponsoring therapy dogs who put big smiles on their faces.

Tyson’s room was at the very end of the long corridor. I felt bad there were so many sick children in this world. I didn’t know how parents coped with that awful fate. A normal kid was a big enough responsibility. But a sick one? A disquieting thought hit me. I hoped that none of the women I’d impregnated had to go through that. Yet another good reason not to have kids.

As we stepped into Tyson’s small sterile room, Dee let out a gasp and ran to her side. The little girl was sound asleep, but hooked up to IVs and had a breathing tube in her nose.

“Oh my God. What are all these machines and tubes?” Dee asked as she caressed the child’s angelic face.

“They’re just intravenous fluids to regulate her heartbeat and circulatory system. The breathing tube is just an extra precautionary measure.”

“My poor baby.”

“Don’t worry, Mrs. McDermott—”

Dee stopped her short. “I go by my maiden name, Walker. So does my daughter.”

Unfazed, Nurse Mary continued. “Most likely by this evening, all the tubes will be removed. We’d like to keep her here overnight for observation.”

“Of course,” Dee said softly, still caressing her little one.

“I’ll be back shortly to check on her,” said Nurse Mary as she headed to the door and then disappeared.

My eyes stayed on Dee and her daughter. Despite my macho façade, the scene tugged at my heartstrings. There was something about her maternal love for this child that toyed with my emotions and made my bones weaken. I found myself inching closer to the two of them until I was standing beside Dee.

“She’s beautiful, isn’t she, my little mighty girl?” Dee whispered, never taking her eyes off her daughter.

“Yeah,” I swallowed. Up close, the child was indeed a little beauty with ivory skin, an upturned button nose, and two long, thick dark pigtails. And despite the breathing tube, her full ruby-red lips curled into a little smile. The rise and fall of her chest and her soft breathing mesmerized me.

“How old is she?” I asked, keeping my voice down. “Five?”

“She’ll be six at the end of the week. This Sunday.”

“Well, you definitely have a reason to celebrate.”

“That’s for sure.” Dee’s voice grew watery and before long she was sniffling again.

“What’s the matter? She’s going to be okay.”

Dee brushed away her tears with a hand. On the nightstand, I eyed a box of Kleenex and handed her one.

“Thanks,” she choked out after blowing her nose. “I’m just overwhelmed. If something ever happened to her, I don’t know what I’d do. She’s everything to me. My universe. If she died, I would die too.”

Her words left me speechless. What was I going to say? I understand. No, self-centered single forever me didn’t really understand this intense level of love and loss even though my parents had many years ago experienced an unexpected life or death tragedy that tested their mettle. And their love for one another.

“I should get back to the office,” I said, floundering for words.

“Do you mind if I stay here until she wakes up?”

“Take the day off.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive. I don’t have a lot going on. I’ll be fine.”

I wasn’t prepared for Dee’s reaction. She turned around and flung her arms around me, giving me a big hug.

“Drake, I don’t know how to thank you.”

Oh, I could think of a couple ways as I felt the beginnings of an erection beneath my jeans. She felt delicious, so soft, and feminine, and her vulnerability made her even more appealing. I’d never been so attracted to a woman. Not even to stunning supermodel-like Krizia. There was just something about her.

CHAPTER 10

Dee

Only a few hours ago, I was hung-over. A total trainwreck. This life-and-death encounter had sobered me up fast. In fact, I felt horribly guilty about getting plastered last night. I could have done something really dumb that endangered my life. As I watched Ty stir, I vowed never to lose my precious baby. And to never again do anything that could take me away from her. I didn’t want to be my mother, the drunkard who passed out nightly and abandoned us for days at a time during her binges. Even worse was the possibility that she’d end up with her father. I trembled at the thought.

The face of another man broke into my dark thoughts. Drake. My gorgeous new boss. Though I still wasn’t sure if he’d taken advantage of me, he’d been there for me last night and he’d been there for me today. Somehow his presence helped me weather this nerve-wracking storm. He comforted me, made me feel safe. And he’d put up with both my drunken stupor and my deep-rooted fears. Even my tears. When I hugged him, I felt myself melt into him and didn’t want to let him go.

While watching over Tyson, I called my sister to let her know what had happened. She was greatly relieved to hear that her treasured niece was going to be okay. Between Zumba classes, she was going to run to the house and grab a few of Ty’s favorite things as well as her PJs. I told her to also pack a small bag for me with a few necessities because there was no way I was going to leave my baby alone in the hospital. Not even for a night. Lulu promised she would be here later in the afternoon.

Soon after I hung up with Lulu, a hospital attendant stopped by carrying a huge basket with a large “Get Well” balloon attached to it. Inside, were adorable hand-drawn cards from Tyson’s kindergarten classmates. Each one put a big smile on my face, and I knew she would love them. I made a call to her teacher to thank her and update her on Ty’s condition. While I spoke with her, a warm feeling saturated me. I felt blessed I would be teaching art at this school in the fall and be among these lovely children and teachers. Mrs. Dunne was thrilled to hear that Tyson would likely be back in school sometime tomorrow. The hospital was sending us home with a couple of adrenaline-filled Epipens, one for me and one for her teacher, that could be used to inject her should she get stung by a bee again and have another severe reaction.

As I was reading through the cards, a familiar little raspy voice sounded in my ears.

“Mommy! I’m thirsty!”

Joy filled every molecule of my being. My little girl was awake. Leaping to my feet, I placed the basket of cards on the chair. Fighting back happy tears, I ran over to her and smothered her with kisses.

“Oh, cupcake, I’m so happy you’re okay.” I reached for the sippy cup on the nightstand and held it to her lips. “Drink slowly, my baby girl.” Sitting up, she guzzled the water.

“How do you feel, my love?” I asked as she took her last sip.

“Much better, Mommy.” She took a deep breath and exhaled loudly. “I can breathe perfectly fine. What are all these weird machines and what’s this yucky thingy up my nose?”

“They’re just some machines to help your heart beat better and make it easier for you to breathe. They’re going to come out soon.”

My feisty little girl screwed up her face. “No, now! I want to go back to school.”

My gaze turned to the basket of cards. I stood up and fetched it. I set the basket on the bed.

“Look at what all your friends made.”

“Cool!” She began leafing through the colorful cards and then started laughing. “Look! Chandra drew a picture of us.”

“Let me see.” Chandra was her best friend, whose house she had slept over. It was a stick figure drawing of two little girls holding hands, one with short curly hair, the other with long braids.

“It looks just like you! Oh and by the way, your teacher, Mrs. Dunne, sends you a big hug.”

“She told me that the bee that stung me is going to die. Is he going to go to heaven, Mommy?” Her eyes grew wide with worry.

My sweet little girl loved all creatures, great and small. She was perpetually rescuing ladybugs and stray animals, and loved to leave food for birds and squirrels. I told her the bee probably wasn’t going to die, but if he did he was going to go to honeycomb heaven to be with all his brothers and sisters.

The afternoon whizzed by. Nurse after nurse stopped by to meet my sweet, precocious daughter, who by now could recite the bee-sting story in full drama queen mode. With the television tuned to the Peanuts channel, we both had lunch, which was surprisingly good for hospital food, and devoured the extra Jell-Os with whip cream. Lulu stopped by with all the things I requested and brought along a cute stuffed teddy bear to add to Tyson’s collection; she loved it and named him Honeybear. My sister stayed for about an hour. Just after her departure, Tyson’s doctor stopped by to remove all her tubes, including the breathing aid in her nose. He put cartoon character Band-Aids on her arms where the IVs had been. Hanson Entertainment’s Danger Rangers, one of Tyson’s favorite shows. My mind drifted to Drake for a minute and a hot tingle shot through me.

“You know, I’m working for the man whose company makes Danger Rangers.”

“That’s so cool, Mommy. Do you think I could meet them?”

“I think I can arrange that, Mighty Girl.”

My heart skipped a beat as ticklish shivers skittered down my spine. Drake!

“Yay!” shouted Tyson.

I shifted my body so that I was facing Drake at the doorway. His sparkling blue eyes, which were close in color to Tyson’s, met mine and a dazzling smile lit up his swoon-worthy face. My heart thudded, and butterflies fluttered in my stomach.

“Um, uh, honey, this is Drake Hanson. The man I told you I work for.”

“Hi,” said Drake with a wave of his hand.

“Hi, Mr. Handsome!”

I flushed. Oh, God was he!

“I’ve brought along a few things I thought you might like.”

Drake stepped into the room and my eyes popped as a hospital attendant wheeled in a dolly piled high with toys, all inspired by Hanson cartoons.

“Wowee!” exclaimed my overjoyed little girl.

“Drake, you shouldn’t have.”

I was totally, utterly blown away by my boss’s kindness. For a guy who wasn’t crazy about kids, he sure had a weird way of showing it.

“Drake, seriously, I don’t know how to thank you.” For the second time today, I found myself uttering these words.

A devilish grin crossed Drake’s face. “I do. Have dinner with me.”

“B-but, I’m staying overnight at the hospital. I can’t leave Tyson.”

Drake flicked the tip of my nose, a small gesture that set every cell on fire. “You won’t have to. We’re not going anywhere.”

CHAPTER 11

Drake

It wasn’t hard convincing Dee to have dinner with me in the hospital cafeteria after Tyson fell asleep. She was starving and now that Tyson was well on her way to recovery, she felt comfortable taking a short break. As we stood in line waiting for our cheeseburgers and fries, I wondered if I should consider this our first date since I did in theory ask her out. Nah. It was just dinner. And I didn’t date.

The cafeteria wasn’t crowded so we found a table for two easily. Dee set down her tray, which also included a small Coke like mine, and I helped her into her chair. I took a seat facing her. We simultaneously bit into our burgers. I was starving too.

“Wow, this is so good,” she exclaimed.

I swallowed my man-size bite. “Yeah. My mother’s a stickler about good food.”

She looked at me quizzically. “Your mother is a chef here?”

I almost choked from laughter on my next bite. My mother in an apron behind a stove? I. Don’t. Think. So. We’d had professional chefs cook for us for as long as I could remember. We even had a sushi chef that worked for us on weekends or whenever my father entertained Japanese guests at our house. After taking a swig of my Coke, I responded, laughter still in my voice.

“Hardly. She’s on the Board of this hospital and is very vociferous. My father made a huge donation to build the Trauma Center that bears our family name so they bow down to her.”

Her face lit up with a mixture of awe and surprise. I don’t think she knew how rich our family really was thanks to the phenomenal success of Danger Rangers. A shrewd businessman and investor, my father liked to joke he made as much money in his sleep as he did awake.

Dee played with her straw, swirling it around in the soda cup. “Are you involved with the hospital too?”

“No, not really. Except on Christmas when my father dresses up as Santa and makes me be his elf.”

A winsome smile blossomed on her face. “You’re a little big to be an elf.”

My cock flexed. “I’d say I’m way big.”

She blushed and immediately took another big bite of her burger. God, she was cute even with the ketchup left behind on her lips.

“You’ve got ketchup on your mouth.”

“I do?”

She flushed another shade of red.

“Lean forward.”

She did as I asked and with an outstretched hand, I wiped the ketchup off her sensuous mouth with my index finger, sweeping it across her soft, Cupid-bowed lips, longer than I had to, remembering how good they felt against mine. I’d never kissed a girl so hard, so relentlessly. Did she remember? I sucked the ketchup off my finger as her eyes stayed on me. The flavor of her cherry lip-gloss mixed with the condiment and was delicious enough to bottle.

“Thanks,” she murmured.

“You’ve got great lips. They’re just like your daughters.”

“Thanks,” she said again softly, almost embarrassed. “That’s one of the few good features she got from me.”

“Oh, the rest come from her father?” I suddenly realized I was entering unchartered, potentially dangerous territory. Her face darkened.

“I suppose.”

“Does he know what happened?”

Dee’s jaw tightened and she fiddled again with her straw. “My husband is in prison. He doesn’t know anything about our lives.”

My brows shot up. Boy, I sure wasn’t ready for that one. I was strapped for words. “I’m sorry,” I mumbled, not knowing what else to say.

Dee took a sip of her soda. “Don’t be. He’s a piece of shit and deserves to be behind bars.”

“What did he do?” I ventured.

Dee narrowed her eyes and took in a deep breath. “He assaulted me when he found out I was pregnant. Social services made me press charges.” She paused for another breath. “I had to be hospitalized. I almost lost Tyson.”

“Jesus. Does Tyson know this?”

“Tyson doesn’t even know she has a father. I told her he died in a car accident just before she was born. I didn’t want her to know what kind of man he is. For all intents and purposes, he is dead to me.”

Rage filled her every word. I wasn’t sure if I should pursue the subject, but I persevered. “For how long will he be serving time?”

“Ten years. Maybe less if he gets paroled, but I doubt the badass will.”

I reflected on the fact that she hadn’t once referred to him as her ex. A question burned on my tongue. “Are you divorced?”

“We’re separated,” she answered bluntly.

“Have you thought about divorcing him?”

“Plenty. But the asshole won’t grant me one.”

“Why?”

“I think he just wants to make my life difficult and punish me for getting him sentenced. Revenge.”

“Isn’t there a law that would allow you to?”

“Wishful thinking. A felony used to be grounds for divorce in California, but it no longer is. He’s got a very shrewd lawyer named Luis Ramirez and is contesting my plea for irreconcilable differences. I can’t afford to keep paying an attorney to fight him.”

“That sucks.”

“Tell me.”

“Is it unlawful for you to see other guys?”

“The court said I can, but truthfully, I haven’t wanted to. I’ve needed to be protective of Tyson. I just don’t need another bastard to fuck up our lives. Or hurt us.”

I processed her words. Dee came with a lot of baggage. Ugly baggage. Plus, I was her boss. Temporarily, but still. A warning sign should have flashed in my mind, but it didn’t. Instead, that kiss, that incredible kiss from last night, was all I could think about. I was intrigued and attracted to her though most guys would be running the other way. I wanted to spend more time with her…get to know her better and her cute kid too.

Relationships weren’t part of my DNA. And getting involved with someone who worked for me, let alone was still married and had a kid, were hard limits for me. I finished my cheeseburger, unsure of what I was starting.

CHAPTER 12

Dee

Things returned to normal the next morning. Tyson was released from the hospital and was eager to go back to school and tell everyone about her hospital adventure. Since I was carless—my pickup truck was still probably at that damn club and might even be towed—I asked Lulu to swing by the hospital. To my surprise, she was driving my truck, which was fortunate because her Mini was way too small to accommodate all of Drake’s stuff. My sweet little girl planned to share the toys with her classmates and even left some behind for the children at the hospital.

“Thanks for picking up the truck,” I told my sister as I buckled Tyson into her car seat.

“Don’t thank me,” she replied, already in the front passenger seat.

“What do you mean?”

“Drake arranged to have it brought to the house.”

“Drake, the man you work for, Mommy, who gave me all these toys?” interjected my daughter.

“Yes, cupcake.”

“He’s the bestest man ever!”

My precious little girl was right. Drake was too good to be true. And as I got into the car, it frightened me as much as it excited me.

Drake was out of the office all day. His schedule included several meetings as well as auditions for a new animated series he was developing. I held things down in the office, answering emails, setting up pitches, and doing some filing. In between tasks, my mind drifted to him. It was impossible not to think about him.

I felt beholden to him for getting me through the Tyson crisis. In the course of twenty-four hours, he’d gone from being a jerk to being my hero. Though I still wasn’t sure if he screwed me and I wasn’t going to ask, his recent actions spoke louder than words. I tried hard to keep myself busy because every time I thought about him, my heart pitter-pattered and a cluster of tingles danced between my legs. He was gorgeous, funny, and successful. I’d never met a man like him nor had I ever been so attracted to anyone. But I didn’t have to do a lot of soul searching to know I didn’t stand a chance with him. I wasn’t his type and what hot, rich single guy would want a woman with a kid, who came with baggage that could sink the Titanic and was still married, to a felon no less. Fucking Kyle. I tried to bury him in the back of my mind, wishing I could bury him six feet under.

Facing my glum reality, I heard my cell phone buzz mid afternoon. A text. It was either Lulu because she was the only person in my life who texted me or my wireless carrier telling me I had a payment past due. I reached into my purse for my phone and my heart skipped a beat as I eyeballed the message. It was from Drake! How did he get my cell phone number? Had my sister given it to him? Or maybe he’d gotten it from Human Resources? With an unsteady hand, I read it.

Drake: I’m bored. This audition is dragging on. The actors can’t get their lines right.

Me: I’m sorry. Didn’t they practice?

Drake: Nah. Voice actors can be lazy.

Me: It must be fun. Have you ever tried?

Drake: Once. I played a leprechaun prince and had to contort my voice.

Me: What did you have to say?

Drake: I’ve screwed everyone in this kingdom, but I only have eyes for you, my frog princess.

I almost dropped my phone as I laughed out loud. I could also feel my cheeks heating and wet heat pooling between my legs.

Me: LOL! You didn’t really say that.

Drake: I did. Boy Scout Honor.

Me: LOL! You were never a Boy Scout.

Drake: That’s true. I was a Girl Scout.

I laughed out loud again. My boss was witty. It was time to show him again that I could be witty too. I could have made some transgender joke, but I went in a different direction.

Me: And what kind of girls did you scout for?

Drake: Cute brunettes with perky boobs and big fat ponytails.

A heat wave flashed through me and the flutters between my legs intensified. Holy shit! He was describing me! He texted again before I could respond.

Drake: What are you doing tonight? Big plans?

I hesitated to reply. Ty had convinced me to let her sleep over her friend Chandra’s house again, and with all she’d been through and her birthday around the corner, I couldn’t say no. I texted Drake back. With the truth. Pity party for one.

Me: Nada.

Drake: :-)

My blood bubbled. The cocky bastard was happy I was alone on a Friday night? Was there a flip off emoji I could send him? Before I could find one and lose my job, he sent me another text.

Drake: I’m coming over. I want you to listen to the auditions with me and help me cast the voices. I can’t think straight.

Neither could I. My boss had a dizzying affect on me.

Drake: And you’ll be paid overtime.

The extra money, despite how much I needed it, had nothing to do with my sudden temperature spike or giddiness. It was a work date, I told myself. Just a work date.

I got home a little after six. Lulu must be teaching an evening Zumba class as her car wasn’t parked in the driveway. I could never keep track of her frenetic schedule especially since it seemed to change weekly. In addition to her group classes at gyms all over the city, she was building a strong client base as a personal Zumba instructor.

Tossing my purse on the couch, I made a beeline for the kitchen, hoping to find a bottle of wine in the fridge. I was both excited and anxious about Drake coming over and hoped a glass of Two Buck Chuck would relax me. It’s business, just business I told myself, my nerves buzzing.

I stepped into the kitchen and froze. All the air left my lungs.

“What the hell are you doing here?” My voice was filled with shock and rage and I could feel fear pouring into my veins.

A beer bottle in his hand, he turned around and glared at me with his steel blue eyes. A wicked smirk crossed his lips. “Nice to see you too, darlin’. You’re lookin’ good.”

I met his predatory gaze. Kyle! He hadn’t changed much…still tall and sinewy, but his face was now lined and bearded, his russet hair longer and in some kind of man bun. Jetting from his befitting wifebeater, the sleeves of tattoos that had once so turned me on repulsed me.

He took a long chug of the beer and strutted my way. I was too afraid to move as he swaggered up to me. I could feel the heat of his breath on my cheek and smell the stench of the alcohol. He was for sure drunk. Drunk as usual.

Still holding the bottle, he leaned into me and, with his other hand, yanked hard at my ponytail, pulling my head back. “You let your hair grow. It looks good.”

My breath hitched. “I-I thought you were still in prison.”

He laughed. “Nope. Been there. Done that. Got out for good behavior. Just call me Mr. Goody Two Shoes.” He laughed again.

“How did you find me?”

He snickered. “Piece of cake. I have friends everywhere.”

“How did you get in here?”

He snorted. “Looks like someone left the backdoor open.”

Dammit. Lulu sometimes did that when she took the garbage out. “Why are you here?”

“I want you back.”

My blood turned to Freon as my heart raced in my chest.

“Kyle, it’s over. I want you to leave.”

His long, pointed tongue slithered across his upper lip. “I’m not going anywhere, babe, until I get a taste of you.”

I jerked my head away as his slobbering lips smacked down on mine. He nudged me to open my mouth for his tongue, but I kept my lips clamped. He slid the hand holding the beer between my legs, and began jabbing me with the bottle. Forcefully, harder and harder. He was hurting me. Moans and groans clogged my throat. And then I did it—I slapped him across his face. So hard the whack stung my hand. He pulled away.

“Why the fuck did you do that, bitch?” He rubbed the rosy handprint I’d left on his right cheek.

“Get the hell out of here.”

He snarled. “I’m not going anywhere until I get a piece of your ass and see my kid.”

My already rapid heartbeat quickened. I could feel my pulse in my throat. Fear surged in my blood vessels as I tried to think rationally. With his violent streak and drunken state, there was no telling how far he’d go.

“Tyson isn’t here. Now, leave!”

“Bullshit. Let me see her or I’m going to give it to you.”

“Kyle, if you don’t leave, I’m going to call the police.”

I impulsively turned on my heel, but as I took a step, he grabbed me, knocking me to the kitchen floor, flat on my back.

“Oh no you’re not,” he growled, pouncing upon me and holding me down with the weight of his body and the force of his hands. I writhed and wailed. “Let go of me!”

“Shut up, cunt!” he yelled with a sharp whack across my face that made me wince with pain. Tears stung my eyes as he squeezed me prisoner with his legs.

“Please don’t hurt me,” I begged, the tears now falling. I was trapped by him and helpless. Screaming for help at the top of my lungs wouldn’t help as no one lived on either side of our house and rarely did anyone walk by it.

Setting his beer bottle on the floor after another guzzle, he popped the button of his jeans and zipped down his fly. Thank God, he wasn’t commando. He rubbed his cock vigorously and I watched it swell beneath the fabric of his black boxer briefs. He breathed heavily against me.

“Remember good ol’ Joe Cocker?”

I never wanted to hear that name again. His pet name for his dick. I bit down on my trembling lip.

His mouth twisted into another diabolical smirk. “Well, if you don’t, let me refresh your memory.”

I shuddered as my breath caught.

“Open your legs for me, sweetheart, or I’ll open them for you.”

“No, please!” I sobbed out, my entire body shaking. I could already feel the pain of his penetration even before he entered me. How could I have ever fallen in love with this man? This monster.

“Are you wet for me?”

I couldn’t get words past my constricted throat. My lips quivered as sobs wracked my body.

“Answer me, bitch!” Without warning, his hand crashed across my face again, this time even harder, leaving a burning sensation in its wake. I cried out in pain. And then my eyes grew wide.

“Get the fuck off her.” Two large hands pulled Kyle off me by the edge of his wifebeater. Drake! My knight in shining armor. He shoved Kyle forcefully against the kitchen counter, one hand gripping his neck, the other his shoulder.

“Who the fuck are you?” Kyle choked out, turning red with rage as I scrambled to my feet.

“Your worst nightmare.”

“Drake, watch out!”

It was too late for a warning. In one swift move, Kyle grabbed an empty beer bottle off the counter and smashed it over Drake’s head. The glass bottle broke in half. I watched in horror as Drake, dazed, recoiled, stumbling on his feet and holding a hand to his head. Blood trickling down his face, he cursed under his breath and groaned.

Stepping backward, I ended up plastered against a wall as Kyle pulled up his worn jeans and took angry giant steps toward me. He pressed his hard, wiry body against me and poked his index finger into my throat, holding it there like a gun. A terrifying thought assaulted me. What if he actually had a gun? Terror filled every cell of my body.

“So, is that your motherfucking boyfriend?” he growled in my face.

“I’m more than her boyfriend,” came Drake’s enraged voice, “you fucking cocksucker.”

Before I could blink, Drake lunged toward Kyle, hurling him off me once more.

“You’re going to pay!” Spinning Kyle around, Drake punched him in the face with ear-splitting force and then gave a hard kick to his balls. Cursing, Kyle clutched his crotch.

“And here’s another one for good measure, fuckface.” With his powerful knee, Drake jabbed Kyle in the balls again. Groaning loudly, Kyle bent over in pain and then staggered out the backdoor. Rather than going after him, Drake took me into his strong arms.

“Are you okay?” he asked, tenderly brushing a strand of hair out of my eye.

Still shaking, I nodded and held him in my gaze. Kyle had cracked open Drake’s head and blood was pouring down his face from the sizeable gash above his eyebrow.

“You’re hurt.”

“I’ll live. Who was that motherfucker?”

I heaved a deep breath. “My husband.”

THANK YOU FOR READING THIS SPECIAL PREVIEW. FALL IN LOVE WITH DRAKE, DEE, AND A SPECIAL LITTLE GIRL, WHO WILL TICKLE YOUR FUNNY BONE AND STEAL YOUR HEART! ONE-CLICK THE COVER BELOW.

FREE! IN KINDLE UNLIMITED.

UNFORGETTABLE PREVIEW

NELLE L’AMOUR

ABOUT

12-CHAPTER PREVIEW OF NELLE’S BESTSELLING SERIES.

Brandon: I’ve just woken up from a life or death coma. And learned that not only am I Hollywood’s number one heartthrob, but I’m also engaged to America’s It Girl, Katrina Moore. She may be a blond goddess, but my mind can’t remember shit. And my cock doesn’t give a shit. Because my heart started beating for another the minute she came through the door.

Zoey: Screw Brandon Taylor. Recovering from his hit and run accident, my demanding, egotistical boss is more of a jerk than ever. And with those violet eyes, more ridiculously panty-melting beautiful. As his personal assistant, I have to attend to his every whim and need as well as contend with his stuck-up fiancée. Life isn’t easy for me. Despite my visible size, I’ve always been invisible. Maybe, the amnesiac is beginning to remember. A girl can dream. No man is more unforgettable…in every way.

Join Brandon and Zoey in a Cinderella fairy tale that’s guaranteed to make you laugh, cry, and swoon! From Los Angeles to the South of France, their unforgettable love story has it all—romance, passion, steamy hot sex, glitz and glamour, plus an adorable little dog and an unsolved murder that could unravel everything.

Copyright © 2015 by Nelle L’Amour

Kindle Edition

All rights reserved

First Edition: November 2015

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be re-produced in any form or by any means without prior written consent of the author, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

PROLOGUE

Zoey

Twenty years earlier

Mama. She’s beautiful. As beautiful as a princess. She has long, wavy red hair that dances in the wind. And whenever she waltzes around our house, singing so pretty, her hair prances too. She reminds me of Ariel, The Little Mermaid. Except my mama never ever swims.

After I saw that movie with Mama, I asked her why she won’t swim. She told me she once almost drowned in the ocean when she was a little girl. Like my mama, I’m afraid of the water. Even Papa, when he was alive, couldn’t get me to go in. I miss Papa and so does Mama.

Especially on days like today. I’m five! I’m a big girl now, says Mama. For my special birthday, she’s taken me to the Santa Monica Pier. I may be afraid of the big bad ocean, but I love the pier. And so does Mama. So many fun rides! And games to play too! And guess what! Now that I’m a big girl, I can finally go on the ginormous rollercoaster. Yippee! Mama and I sit together, and holding on to her floppy straw hat, she screams as much as me. Whoosh! It’s so fast! So much fun!

“Pretty please. One more time,” I beg when it’s over. One smoochie and she lets me do it again. I wish my cousin Jeffrey was here too, but Mama told me he came down with the flu and had to stay home with Auntie Jo.

“Mama, I’m hungry,” I say after we hop off the ride.

“Me too, baby girl. Let’s get some corn dogs.”

“YAY!” I love corn dogs.

Mama buys two corn dogs from a food stand, one for me and one for her. “C’mon, let’s look for dolphins while we eat them.” She takes my hand and we walk over to the edge of the pier. The blue-gray ocean is below us. I know that color from my Crayola box. We watch the high as the sky waves roll in. Mama tells me the water’s very rough today.

I take a big bite of my corn dog and then ask Mama, “Do you think we’ll see a dolphin?”

She smiles. “Of course, my precious girl. They’ll dance for your birthday. But I want you to hold my hand and not lean in too close to the railing.”

I giggle. “Mama, I won’t fall in!”

She squeezes my hand. Mama’s beautiful hands are soft like velvet. And they’re magical too. They make me feel safe and fix all my boo-boos.

I keep my eyes out for some dolphins. The sun is so bright it hurts them. Squinting, all I see are lots of squawking sea gulls.

In the background, I hear music. There’s a concert going on. They always do concerts on the pier in the Spring. I know that song! It’s Mama’s favorite. “Unforgettable.” She sang it all the time after Papa died. It reminds her of him. Mama smiles and sings along. I love the way she sings. She sounds like an angel.

In the middle of the song, a creepy man walks up next to me. He’s got an eyepatch like a pirate and a cigarette in his mouth. I thought people weren’t allowed to smoke on the pier. He blows out a puff and I cough. I want to tell him to put it out, but he scares me. I move closer to Mama and hope the man will get in trouble. If Uncle Pete were here, he’d arrest him and put him in jail.

I frown. “Mama, the dolphins are hiding today. Let’s do one more ride.”

“Patience, sweet girl.” Mama always says patience has its virtues, but I don’t know what she means by that.

I beg again for another ride and even say the magic word, “please.” Then, just after I take the last bite of my corn dog, I see one, leaping out of the water. And then, another and another! “Look, Mama! Dolphins!” Jumping up and down, I point at them.

But Mama doesn’t hear me. She’s slumped over the railing. She’s got an ouchie! And she’s bleeding! A whole big bunch!

She whispers my name. The blood is spreading all over the back of her pretty sundress. Why won’t it stop? I must help her!

“Mama! Mama!” I tug on her. But I can’t get her to budge.

I turn to the yucky man for help.

“Mister—”

A loud grunt and then he falls to the ground. Face up. There’s blood all around him. Everywhere! His shirt is all red. His eyes are still open, but I think he’s dead. I scream so loud my throat hurts. And then I see him. A scary man with a gun! He fires it one more time—at me—and then he runs away. He disappears into the crowd, but I’ll never forget his ugly face.

I turn back around. Oh no! Mama she’s gone! Spinning, I search everywhere for her and then I look down. I scream again. Louder.

“Mama!” She’s fallen into the angry ocean. It tosses her. Around and around and around. She’s drowning!

“Mama!” I cry out again, tears falling.

An arm reaches out to me. Her lips mouth three words: “I love you.” Then, her eyes close and she goes under.

“Mama! Mama!” I sob. “Someone help my mama! PLEASE!”

The pier is so noisy nobody hears me. She’s floating now. On her back, her hat by her side. Her coral hair is spread out like a sea fan. And there’s a little smile on her face. Maybe she’s all better.

“Mama! Can you hear me?” I shout out, hope in my voice. “Wake up! Pl—”

Before I can say the magic word, a gigantic wave crashes over her peaceful body. With a roar, it carries her away.

“Mama, come back!” I no longer see her. Or will I ever.

My tears salt the sea.

The words of Mama’s favorite song drift into my ears.

I’m crying so loud I can hardly hear them.

But I know this moment will always be unforgettable.

Brandon

Two weeks earlier

FUCK.

CLUNK.

SMACK.

BLACK.

CHAPTER 1

Brandon

Beeping sounds clog my ears.

A chorus of muddled whispers surrounds me.

My eyelids flutter.

A woman’s urgent voice: “Quick. Get this! He’s waking up.”

I peel my eyes open, one by one. Slowly. Painfully. As if they’ve been super glued shut. The bright light burns my retinas. Everything’s a blur. A haze of bodies scuttles about me. I blink several times. My vision becomes clearer, and then I’m blinded by the flash of a camera. Click. Click. Click. I blink again until I stop seeing spots. A new lens assaults me. What’s a hand-held camera doing in my face?

“Get in tighter,” orders the woman, her voice growing shrill. “I want a close-up.”

A pair of lips comes crashing down on mine before I can get my mouth to move. They hold me prisoner while camera flashes bombard me and the hand-held camera captures the unexpected kiss. The fierce lips pull away, but the camera in my face stays put.

“Get that away from me!” I croak, barely able to free my tongue from my desert-dry palate. My voice is a rasp and my throat sore as hell.

I swat at the cameraman with my hand that’s not hooked up to all kinds of freaky, beeping machines. Reality hits me hard. I’m in a hospital. And the pain hits harder. I’ve got a headache the size of Texas. Unable to deter my harasser, I throw the bedcovers over my head.

“We’ve got enough.” That woman’s authoritative voice again. “We’ll edit in post.”

Hesitantly, I lower the covers from my face. A stunning, willowy blonde with cat-green eyes hovers over me. Her billowy scarlet lips are parted in a pout and then they break into a wide toothy smile. The cameraman follows her.

She brushes her manicured hand along my forehead. “Darling, you’re awake. Finally. Smile for the cameras.” She mugs for the cameras while I rub the back of my scalp. A large scab brushes against the pads of my fingertips along with a bump as big as a walnut. I wince.

“That’s a wrap,” calls out a craggy man with a ponytail. “We’ll pick it up when he blows out of this joint.” My eyes fix on the small crew as they pack up their equipment and file out of the room. The attractive woman stays behind and lowers herself onto the edge of my bed. She cranks her body so she’s facing me.

“Who are you?” My voice is still strangled.

She flashes a ring with a diamond the size of a bullet in my eyes. The bling blinds me. I blink again.

She hesitates for a beat and then purses her full lips. “Your fiancée.”

A golf-ball sized lump lands in my parched throat. “Excuse me?”

She flings her full head of platinum hair. “Come on, now. You know who I am.”

“What’s your name?” I manage in my disoriented state.

Her feline eyes narrow. “Are you playing games with me, Brandon?”

She called me Brandon. Yeah, that’s my name. Brandon Taylor. I remember that. But I have no clue who this woman is, yet she claims we’re engaged.

With a groan, I sit up slowly. It’s an effort. My body feels like it’s been rammed by a bulldozer. Every muscle aches. And my head’s still pounding. I take in my surroundings. I’m in a sleek all-white suite with wall-to-wall flower arrangements. Their overbearing sweet smell assaults my senses. A wave of nausea sweeps over me.

“Can I have some water?” I ask, hoping the liquid will assuage the sickening feeling and knock some sense into me.

“Of course, darling.” The woman reaches for a sippy cup on the stand alongside my bed and hands it to me. I take a long sip through the straw. The cool beverage feels good. As it courses down my throat, it quenches my thirst. I take a few more sips and place the cup on my lap. To be more precise, on my cock. It’s soft as a pillow, but thank God, it’s still there. I remember my cock better than I remember my name. It’s a big, hard fucking machine. Or at least it once was. The drop dead gorgeous woman beside me, who says she’s my fiancée, does nothing to stir it. Not even one teeny-weeny testicular tingle. I shudder. I may be in big trouble.

“So tell me your name.”

“Katrina. Katrina Moore. Does it ring a bell?”

Her tone sounds like she’s testing me. I shake my aching head.

“Are you sure?”

It doesn’t ring anything, including my balls. My attention is diverted by a stocky man bursting through the open door.

“Hey, my boy. You’re awake!” He strides up to me and pats me on my back.

I gaze up at him. Tanned, teeth perfect and pearly white. Hair bottle-brown and greased back. Expensive Italian twill suit and flashy gold jewelry. Forty. Maybe fifty? Yet another unfamiliar face.

“And who are you?”

He shoots Katrina a questioning look. His left eye twitches. “Is he fucking kidding?”

She shakes her head. “I don’t think so.”

They hold each other’s gazes as if they’re silently communicating, and then the strange man casts his eyes back on me.

“I’m your manager. Scott Turner.”

I have a fiancée. And now I have a manager?

“What do you manage?”

“Jeez, Brand-man. Your career.”

“My career?” Reality to Brandon. Come in for fuck’s sake.

The woman named Katrina interjects. “He seriously doesn’t seem to remember a thing.”

My so-called manager furrows his dark brows. “He’s bullshitting us.”

Rage surges inside me. “I’m not bullshitting anyone. I don’t even know how I got here.”

With a smile, Katrina defends me. “Trust me, Scotty-Wotty, he’s not acting. He’s really lost his mind.”

Unconvinced, Scott twists his thin lips. “Does Kurt Kussler mean anything to you?”

“Who’s he?”

“He’s the character you play on TV. The number one rated show that’s made you Hollywood’s highest paid actor. And every woman’s wet dream.”

I’m an actor? A Hollywood heartthrob? All I know is right now I’m a nut job. “So, how did I get here?” My voice falters.

“You seriously don’t remember what happened?”

“Not a clue.”

Shifting, Katrina fiddles with her engagement ring. “Scott, I think it’d be better if he heard it from you.”

Scott’s expression darkens and then it relaxes. “You were struck by a car. It was a hit and run. You’re lucky I called it in. I saved your ass. You suffered a skull fracture, underwent surgery, and have been in a coma for two weeks. It’s been headline news. All over the Internet and TMZ. And don’t get me started on Twitter. You’ve got more followers than Justin Bieber.”

Justin Bieber? TMZ? Digesting his words, I stroke my jaw. A bristly beard scrapes my hand. I must look like a caveman.

Katrina cups my other hand, the one with all the IVs. “You had me so worried. I’ve been by your side praying you’d recover.” She plants a hot kiss on my cheek. It does nothing to arouse me. More worry washes over me as she runs her fingers through my hair.

“Darling, we’re going to have to get you cleaned up and into shape. You should be just fine by the time the wedding is televised.”

Impulsively, I yank my hand from hers. “What are you talking about?”

Her face lights up. “We’re getting married and the whole world is going to watch. On a special edition of my reality show, America’s It Girl. My ratings are going to go through the roof.”

A sinking feeling sets in. I don’t remember a goddamn thing. And you know what, maybe I don’t want to.

CHAPTER 2

Brandon

The next three days in the hospital are ones I’ll remember. I get my first taste of fame, and I’m not sure I like it. Once word gets out that I’m alive and well (except for my memory loss), every nurse, attendant, and doctor stops by my suite on Cedar’s VIP floor for my autograph. It’s like a circus. My hand is so sore I may need a sling.

Katrina shows up every day, in one designer outfit after another, and sits with me for an hour or so. Now that I’m out of my coma and on the road to recovery, she’s got better things to do. Like shop and work out. And, of course, plan for our wedding.

Each time she visits, she brings along a slew of tabloids to jog my memory. I am headline news. The front page of last week’s Enquirer is plastered with a photo of me in my coma all hooked up to gizmos and monitors and my teary-eyed fiancée by my bedside. Or should I say deathbed. The all-caps headline: “DOOMSDAY FOR BRATRINA!” Bratrina? What bonehead came up with that? I cringe.

Older issues from last month feature photos of Katrina and me in happier times…out to dinner…at a movie premier…at the beach. I read the articles and study the pictures. We look and sound like the hottest couple in Hollywood. But no matter how hard I search my brain, I can’t remember a damn thing. Nada. Zippo. Zilch.

“How did we meet?” I ask my fiancée on my third day of being conscious. Despite her goddess-like beauty and come-ons, America’s It Girl still doesn’t do a thing for me. Not even a little rise.

Sitting nearby on an armchair and thumbing through one of the tabloids, she looks up and rolls her eyes. I’m not sure if she’s frustrated with my memory loss or pissed off for the interruption.

“Through Scott. He’s my manager too. He hooked us up at the Chateau Marmont. Remember?”

A hint of sarcasm underscores her last word. I shake my head no. “And how long have we been together?” Despite all the articles I’ve read, the details of our relationship are sparse.

Crossing her long, toned bare legs, she quirks a small but seductive smile. “Almost two months. It was love at first sight. The minute we fucked our brains out, we couldn’t be apart.”

So, I fucked my way into her heart. But why can’t I feel anything for her there or elsewhere? Amnesia sucks dick.

“And when did I propose to you?” My eyes soak in her engagement ring with its sparkling mega-sized marquise diamond. Must have cost a bloody fortune, but I have no recollection of buying it. Scott, who handles all my finances, must have a record of it somewhere.

“Just before the accident.” She holds up the Star magazine she’s reading. A close-up photo of her, looking tearful, her ring in full view, dominates the front page. Headline: “Tragedy Strikes after Brandon Pops the Big Question!” I glimpse the publication date. If my calculations are right, it came out the Monday after my accident.

I snatch the newspaper from her and flip through it until I get to the cover story. Photos of Bratrina grace the pages. I quickly peruse the article. So, I proposed to her over a romantic meal at my Hollywood Hills house the night before the accident and purchased the gazillion carat ring at Tiffany’s. I have no memory of the event or, for that matter, of my house. I’m eager to see it. And to get out of this antiseptic hellhole where a doctor or nurse is either fawning over me or poking me every fifteen minutes for my vitals. I’m feeling pretty good. And now that I’ve shaved, look almost back to normal.

“And what happened after I proposed to you?”

“Take a guess, Brandy-Poo.”

Brandy-Poo? The sound of it gives me mental diarrhea. I don’t recall anyone ever calling me that in my entire life. Or at least what I can remember of it.

“We toasted with champagne?”

She throws back her platinum mane and laughs. “Don’t be ridiculous. We fucked our brains out. Right on your terrace.”

She scoots in closer and cups her hand over my crotch. And then squeezes it.

“I can’t wait to get some of you. It’s been a while.”

I go wide-eyed as she yanks down my cover. I’m clad in a hospital gown with nothing underneath. She hikes it up and there it is parked like a car. My enormous Rolls Royce of a cock.

Katrina licks her full upper lip. “Remember me?” she purrs as if she’s talking to my stationary organ. Without moving a muscle, I watch as she wraps her long fingers around the shaft. My goddamn cock just lies there as if it’s still in a comatose state. Brain to cock: Wake up. Nothing. There’s no connection. She begins to pump it with long, hard, vigorous strokes, but my cock doesn’t respond. It’s like the battery is dead. Frustrated, she strokes harder, faster. Not a peep from Mr. Willy no matter how much I will it to attention.

“Jesus, Brandon!” Katrina grumbles, pumping so hard it hurts. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

I must say I’m a little worried myself. Scratch that. I’m friggin’ freaking. My pulse leaps into overdrive, and one of the monitors I’m still hooked up to starts beeping madly. Where’s a damn doctor when you really need one?

“I-I don’t know,” I stutter, gazing down at my pathetic limp dick. “Maybe it’s all the pain meds I’m on.”

Katrina abruptly releases her hand. “Probably. I’m going to have a little chat with your doctors. The only pill you need is Viagra.”

My cock sags. Amnesia is bad enough. But erectile dysfunction?

Kill me now. I might as well be dead.

CHAPTER 3

Brandon

At the end of the long, frustrating week, I’m finally released from the hospital. The doctors have told me I have a classic case of retrograde amnesia—a common side effect of the traumatic brain injury I sustained from the accident I can’t remember. While it likely won’t be permanent, they cannot determine how long it’ll last. It could be weeks. Months. Even years. What’s important is that I stimulate myself with people and things from the past. My biggest concern: will they stimulate my cock? I haven’t even been able to wank myself off. My libido, thanks to the amnesia, is in limbo.

My house is a sprawling glass and concrete contemporary that sits high atop a private road in the Hollywood Hills. The views from the ubiquitous floor-to-ceiling windows are spectacular; I’m able to see all the way from the Pacific Ocean to downtown LA. They also overlook a spacious backyard, which boasts an Olympic-sized pool and a guesthouse. A three-car garage is attached to the main house and lined up inside it are a sleek black Lamborghini, a vintage green Jag, and a monster red Hummer. To say I’m awed by my wealth would be an understatement.

I roam the expansive one-story house, taking in my surroundings and hoping something will stimulate my memory while Katrina goes to the kitchen to make lunch. It’s decorated with slick, oversized Italian furniture, mixing rich woods with leather. Photos of me are everywhere. Many of them sexy poses, with my chiseled chest exposed. A large framed picture hanging on a wall captures my attention. It’s a blow-up of a recent cover of People Magazine. The headline: “Brandon Taylor: Sexiest Man Alive!” With my perfectly mussed up ebony hair, those piercing violet eyes, that cocky smile, and my strong stubble-lined jaw, I look pretty damn hot, if I must say so myself. A troubling thought flashes into my head. Yikes. Maybe I’m gay. That’s why I can’t get it up for Katrina. Nah. None of those good-looking docs at the hospital did a thing for me. And I can’t remember doing it with another guy. The unsettling thought goes away.

Katrina returns with a tray of gourmet sandwiches along with two flutes of champagne. Today, she’s clad in tight-ass jeans, a turtleneck halter, and sky-high mules that make her look like a total Amazon. Her bountiful boobs stay as still as mountains as she saunters my way.

“Your doctor says you need to eat and rest to get your strength back,” she says, setting the tray on the coffee table.

I can’t argue with her. At the reminder of my ordeal, I inwardly shudder. According to Katrina and my doctors, I was almost People Magazine’s “Sexiest Man Dead!” I’m still weak and have lost some weight. Maybe a little R&R will help restore my memory. And potency. The cock is like a muscle, right? I remember reading somewhere that muscles have memory. Well, score one for me. I’ve remembered something. But why won’t my cock do the same?

Katrina reaches for the two flutes of champagne and hands one to me. “To us,” she toasts, holding up her glass. I clink mine against it. The ping resounds in my ears.

“I only drink Cristal,” my companion says as she lifts the crystal glass to her lips. They look much fuller than they did a couple of days ago. I follow her actions and take a sip of the chilled bubbly. The cool sparkling liquid sails down my throat and triggers another memory. I’d rather be drinking a beer.

“Katrina, do we have any beer? A Heineken by chance?”

She rolls her feline green eyes. “Darling, beer is a four-letter word reserved for peasants. We’re royalty. How can you not love the world’s finest champagne?”

Stuck with the champagne, I take a seat on the oversized u-shaped couch. Setting her flute back down on the tray, my fiancée follows me, except she straddles my long legs and sits on my lap. Her toned arms fold around my neck. Her tits skim my chest, and through my cotton T-shirt, I can feel her plastic-hard nipples. I have no desire to touch them or see what lies beneath her top. The scent of her cloying floral perfume wafts in the air and nauseates me.

“Does it feel good to be home?” she purrs before nuzzling my neck. Goosebumps pop along my skin, but that’s all that’s rising. Her mouth moves to my lips and she kisses me fiercely. Biting my lower lip, she forces me to part my mouth and her tongue darts inside. She takes the lead, swishing it around. Nothing’s familiar. My eyes stay wide open while awaiting some feeling of arousal. Nada. Not even a little buzz.

She breaks away. Her manicured forefinger traces my wet lips.

“Do you like the way I taste?” she breathes into my mouth.

“Yeah,” I lie. She doesn’t taste good. A hint of tobacco mixes with mint and champagne. Is she a smoker? She shoves the finger into my mouth, adding a salty layer of flavor.

While I force myself to suck her finger, she works the button and fly of my jeans. Successfully, she frees my soft cock. My unblinking eyes stay trained on her as she grips the thick length in her hand and goes down on the wide crown. Her lips wrap around it and then she trails her mouth down the shaft. Her tongue licks the underside as she comes back up. Moving her hand to the base, she squeezes my cock, pumping it hard as her mouth, in tandem, glides up and down. I finally feel the beginnings of a hard-on, but just as fast as it swells, it completely deflates. Frustrated, Katrina lets go of my cock and sits back up. Her eyes flare with fury.

“Brandon, what is wrong with you? I spoke to your doctor and he said there should be no problem. Especially with the Viagra.”

“I don’t know.” Screw the Viagra. I do know. I don’t like the way she tastes or the way she smells. And her sharp teeth scraped so hard against my shaft I must have teeth marks.

“Fuck you!” She jumps off my lap and, to my shock, flings her glass of champagne across the room. The glass hits the massive stone fireplace and shatters into shards.

Temper much?

“You’re mental,” she rants. “You need help.”

And she needs anger management. Before I can respond, the doorbell chimes. Literally saved by the bell, I leap up from the couch to open the front door.

It’s Scott. I’ve asked him to come over so I can review my finances and recent expenses. Dressed in a three-piece gray suit, he’s carrying a briefcase. He follows me into the living room where Katrina is cleaning up the mess she made. Her eyes connect with his and a smile crosses her face.

“Oh, hi, Scott. You’re just in time for lunch. Want some champagne?”

Scott declines, but helps himself to one of the fancy sandwiches. Chomping into it, he lowers himself into one of my overstuffed side chairs. After setting down his half-eaten sandwich on the tray, he raises his briefcase to his lap and pulls out a thick file. “Your expenses over the last month,” he says, handing it to me.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Katrina sashay out of the living room, carrying the shards of glass on a plate. “I’ll be right back,” she calls out as she heads in the direction of the kitchen. She sure knows how to move her tight, perfect-shaped ass.

Once she’s out of sight, I open the file. Skipping over the pages and pages of hospital charges, which my insurance will cover, I start with the month before the accident. Man. I’m quite the big spender. Restaurant after expensive restaurant. Thousands and thousands dropped at Barneys. Numerous exorbitant charges at a florist I never heard of. A couple of trips to Vegas at the pricey Venetian.

“I like to gamble?” I ask Scott, stopping to look up at him.

His left eye twitches. He’s got some kind of weird eye tic. “Yeah. You’re a big gambler.”

News to me.

“And what about all these florist and Barneys charges?”

Scott smiles. “After meeting Katrina, you couldn’t stop buying her extravagant flowers and clothes. I’ve never seen anyone as smitten as you.” He takes another bite of the sandwich. “Katrina showed me the love letters you sent with your gifts. I swear, man, you’re a regular Shakespeare.”

I find it disconcerting that my fiancée would share something so personal with him. But then again, they must be close. Maybe she saved them. Reading them might help jar my memory and my amorous feelings toward her. With this thought in mind, I go back to scanning the multitude of expenses. Another entry jolts me—a hefty one hundred thousand dollar check made out to the Bella Stadler Academy of Acting. My eyes flutter. Bella Stadler…the name rings a bell. I ask Scott about it.

“Don’t you remember, Brandon? She was your acting coach. You give to her school annually. You’re a big supporter.”

Tugging at my bottom lip with my thumb, I dwell on her name, a memory trying to break through. It’s futile. I move on. A few minutes later I find what I’ve been looking for. A whopping one point two million dollar charge at Tiffany’s. Made on the day of my accident. Katrina’s engagement ring.

“Did I buy Katrina’s ring just before the accident?” I’m a little surprised I didn’t give her one over our engagement dinner the night before.

“After you proposed and she said yes, you wanted her to pick it out. I was there when you phoned in the charge. You were practically creaming your pants.”

“Wish I were doing that now,” I mumble under my breath before regretting I said anything at all about my condition.

Scott lets out a little laugh before clearing his throat. “Equipment trouble?”

None of your damn business, even though you’re my business manager is what I want to say, but I bite down on my tongue. Instead, I ask to see more of my statements. Without probing further, Scott reaches into the briefcase and hands me another thick file.

“This is your portfolio. You’re worth a billion dollars. You can thank me.”

Holy crap. I am. Or at least close to that I estimate as I leaf through page after page of my investments. I own a shitload of stocks and bonds along with a boatload of real estate around the world. This house alone is worth seven million dollars.

My wealth eats at me. A wave of anxiety courses through me. A new worry. “Scott, I need to ask you something.”

“Shoot,” he says, taking the last big bite of his sandwich.

“Do I have a pre-nup?”

He laughs back his mouthful of food. “Are you kidding me?”

My stomach twists. “What do you mean?”

“What I simply mean is you don’t have one. I tried to talk you into one, but you outright refused. Said you didn’t need one. That you had no plans to get a divorce. And even if you did, you’d want to do the fair thing.”

“Shit.” The word escapes my mouth.

“Man, don’t worry about it. Hey, in the worst-case scenario, if you have to give her half, you’ll still be worth close to five hundred mill. That’s not too shabby.”

A good point. I suppose I’m doing the right thing.

Katrina steps back into the living room. She looks spruced up, a fresh coat of crimson lipstick lining her lush lips. “What are you boys talking about?” she asks coyly.

I quickly close the folder. “Just some business stuff. Nothing terribly important.”

She plucks out a piece of lettuce from one of the sandwiches and nibbles on it like a rabbit. “Well, I’m going to leave you two alone to talk business. I’ve got to meet with my stylist to get my wardrobe together for this week’s show and then head over to Monique’s for my first wedding dress fitting. And then I have my spin class followed by yoga. And after that, I’m heading over to Posh for my regular mani-pedi, facial, and massage.”

Man. She knows how to fill her days. This girl’s high maintenance.

Scott blows her an air kiss. “Bye, babe. Try not to spend too much of my client’s money.”

Before disappearing, Katrina winks at him. “Very funny.”

Not really. My money is not yet hers to spend. I polish off my sandwich once she’s gone. A sports car peeling out of my driveway sounds in my ear.

Scott kicks back, plunking his feet on the coffee table. “Do you mind if I have a smoke?”

I don’t object. I watch as he pulls out a pack of Camel Lights from his breast pocket and lights up a cigarette with a gold monogrammed lighter. He inhales and then exhales, the smoke wafting in the air.

I cough and then my heart jumps. I suddenly remember something about myself. I hate cigarettes. The smell. The taste. Even the look and feel of them. The taste of Katrina drifts back into my head. I hope she’s not a smoker. There’s no way I can live with one.

Scott’s nasal voice cuts into my thoughts. “I brought something else over—the latest Kurt Kussler script.” He pulls it out of his briefcase.

“They’ve had you missing in action to cover for you,” he says as he hands it to me. “Everyone’s looking forward to having you back.”

I glance down at the episode title and shudder. “The Return of the Living Dead.” And then a bolt of trepidation zaps me. With my memory so out of whack, I wonder: can I still act?

CHAPTER 4

Brandon

I should spend the rest of the afternoon resting, but I’m restless. I wander around my house, searching for anything that’ll give me a clue about myself. My past. At least what’s happened over the last ten years of my life. My memories of my childhood and teenage years are intact, including my parents’ demise—that fiery car crash that consumed them both. I shiver, thinking my life almost ended in a similar way.

Frustrated, I go to my office and boot up my computer. The first thing I do is check my emails. There’s a ton of them in my inbox from names I don’t recognize, except those of a few big stars. I go through them quickly. All basically the same. People from all over the world sending their prayers and love, wishing me a speedy recovery. My heart swells with unexpected emotion. I can’t believe how many people care about me. I’m overwhelmed. I’ll respond to each of them later. Right now, I have something more important to do.

I google my name. Wow! A whopping 244,000,000 results! To my astonishment, my hospital departure is already headline news. A PerezHilton.com entry posted a few hours ago—“Bratrina Going Home at Last! When Will They Set the Date?”—glares in my eyes. Seriously, Bratrina? I can’t stand that name. And it includes a totally embarrassing photo of Katrina wheeling me out of Cedars. I cringe and jump down to the Wikipedia biography.

My eyes don’t blink as I scroll down the page and absorb what’s written about me.

Born: December 12, 1984 in Oceanside, California.

Parents: Edward and Phyllis, deceased.

Siblings: None.

Other family members: None.

I read on. I learn that I always wanted to be an actor and when my parents perished in that tragic car crash when I was seventeen, I took my small inheritance and split for Los Angeles where I studied at the renowned Bella Stadler Academy of Acting. While working as a lifeguard in Venice Beach and doing small theater bits, I was spotted by top Hollywood talent manager, Scott Turner, who’s been with me ever since.

Credits: A list of minor roles beginning at age twenty is followed by my breakout hit, Kurt Kussler.

Romantic Involvements: This section takes up half a page. In addition to Katrina, I’ve been linked to a slew of actresses and supermodels, most of whose names aren’t familiar to me. The list goes on and on. I’m a fucking player. And now I can’t fucking get it up.

Awards: Twice nominated for an Emmy Award for my portrayal of ex-CIA agent, Kurt Kussler. Recently nominated for a Golden Globe. My stomach tightens. I may be a good actor. Have I lost it? Will I disappoint?

Now that I know the basics about myself, I click on several more gossipy sites, including E! Online, TMZ, and more of Perez Hilton. The long and the short of it…this is who I am: Professionally: Dedicated. Talented. A-list Actor. Personally: Arrogant. Self-centered. Pompous. Player.

I’ve read enough. I’ve got it. Whether I like it or not. Now, onto my fiancée. I google her name. She has almost as many results. There’s a Wiki bio and a short IMDb piece, but most of the entries are from online social registries and tabloids that are filled with news of our engagement and her vigil while I was in the hospital. The number of google images is countless, running the gamut from glamorous award shows and galas to endless selfies and paparazzi pics, including several with me. To my amazement, she’s never caught wearing the same thing twice.

Katrina Moore comes from money. An only child, she was born and raised in Beverly Hills. She attended Buckley, an elite private school, and then went to live abroad for several years after graduating. Her mother, Enid, is a celebrated event planner and her father, Clayton, is a real-estate tycoon. However, a year ago, he got busted for tax evasion and a Ponzi scheme and was sentenced to serve five years at a white-collar penitentiary. The Moores were forced to sell their house and subsequently divorced.

Katrina is famous for being famous. She’s invited to every A-list Hollywood party, and she’s a muse to several major fashion designers. Using her clout, she developed a reality TV show called America’s It Girl, which she subsequently sold to a fledging cable network—Celebrity-TV (CTV). While the show initially enjoyed moderate success, ratings have lately floundered. There’s lots of talk about the show being canceled after only a year on the air, the producers and network equally fed up with Katrina’s spoiled brat behavior both on the screen and off it. She is notorious for her partying ways and her difficulty to work with on the set.

I wonder what attracted me to her and led me to choose her over all the other women I’ve dated. Yes, she’s stunning, but all my liaisons have been. What made her “the one?” Do we have a lot in common? Was the sex that great? As I’m about to read about her romantic involvements, my doorbell rings. I hurry to the front door.

With one eye, I peer through the peephole. A stocky, dark-haired man flashing a badge meets my gaze.

“Detective Pete Billings. LAPD. Open up.”

My heart beats double time. What does he want? And how did he get onto my gated property? I swing open the unlocked door.

“What can I do for you?” My voice is shaky but cordial.

“Can I come in?”

“Sure,” I say, ushering him into my house. He follows me into the living room with a loud shuffle of his feet. Wearing a rumpled trench coat, the ruddy-complexioned investigator looks to be in his fifties though his full head of unruly slate hair defies his age. His keen dark gray eyes take in everything.

“Can I get you something to drink? A soda? Water? Or a beer?” I ask, hoping I have some of each. He doesn’t seem the champagne type.

“No thanks,” he says, loosening the belt of his worn tan coat. “I just want to ask you some questions about your accident.” His sharp eyes wander around the room. “Nice place you have here. And I just want to tell you I’m a big fan of your show. Never miss an episode. Record them all. My wife loves it too.”

“Thanks.” Inside, I’m cringing. I seriously have no clue what my series Kurt Kussler is about. Later today, I’ll do more research, try to find a couple of episodes online, and read the latest script. I’m grateful the detective doesn’t dwell on the show and cuts right to the chase.

“Mind if I have a seat?” Without waiting for a reply, he plops down on the chair Scott was sitting in. I return to my spot on the couch.

“Do you remember anything about your accident?”

I debate whether to tell him about my amnesia. In the end, my gut tells me to tell the truth. At least partially. “Sorry, I don’t. I’ve blocked it out.”

The detective nods understandingly. “I’ve seen that happen a lot. Post-traumatic stress. But I want you to dig deep. A color. A shape. An odor. Anything come to mind?”

I squeeze my eyes shut. All I see is red-hot blackness while the lingering, putrid smell of smoke assails me.

“Nada,” I tell the detective as I reopen my eyes.

“You a smoker?” The detective casts his gaze down at the ashtray with the remains of Scott’s cigarette butt.

“No. My manager was here earlier. He smokes.”

“Scott Turner?”

“Yeah.” I wonder how he knows his name. On second thought, he’s a detective. A sleuth. He knows this kind of stuff.

He cocks a bushy brow. “Are you on good terms with him?”

“I suppose.” In retrospect, that sounds dumb.

“Did he exhibit any form of strange behavior before your accident?”

I search my mind, but it’s just one big blank. I can’t even remember my history with Scott. All I know is what he’s told me and what I’ve read. He’s had my back since the beginning of my career and made me a fortune. And I guess I owe him my life since he called in my accident.

I shake my head and reiterate that I don’t remember a damn thing.

“What about your fiancée?”

“You mean, Katrina Moore?”

“Yes. Is there anything you can tell me about her?”

“She’s been with me almost 24/7 since my accident.” Being a detective, he must know as much about her as I do. Maybe more.

“That’s some ring you got her.”

“Yeah,” I say hesitantly. He’s probably seen pictures of it in the tabloids or online.

The detective reaches into his coat pocket. “We found this at the scene of the crime.”

“Crime?” My muscles tense.

“Yes. We’re dealing with a hit and run.”

When he uncurls his stubby fingers, a small zip lock bag is in his palm. He removes the contents—a heart-shaped iridescent green pendant. About the size of a dime, the surface is badly scratched and the edges are chipped.

“What’s that?” I ask, glaring at it.

“I took it to a jeweler. It’s a piece of Murano glass from Venice. It could be part of a pair of earrings or cufflinks. Or it could have fallen off a bracelet or necklace. Does it look familiar to you?”

I study the object. It means nothing to me. I shake my head no.

“That’s too bad.” Returning the mysterious glass heart to the bag, the detective stands and shoves the evidence back in his coat pocket. “If you remember anything, give me a call.” He hands me a business card.

“Oh, one last thing.” His hand slides beneath his trench coat, and for the first time, I glimpse his holster and gun. Like the coat, the brown leather holster shows signs of age. A bulky envelope is tucked under the frayed strap. He slips it out and unfastens the clasp.

My eyes widen as he slides out the contents. A DVD boxed set of Kurt Kussler, Seasons 1-4. I’m on the cover, looking smug and pointing my right thumb and index finger like a gun.

“Would you mind signing this? It’s for the missus. She’s madly in love with you.” He pauses. “She’s been too embarrassed to ask my daughter to ask you.”

His daughter must be someone who works on the show. I laugh lightly. “Sure. No problem.” My eyes dart around the room for a pen. The burly detective comes to the rescue and hands me one.

“Thanks. What’s her name?”

“Jo. J-O. She’d really appreciate it if you wrote your signature line.”

Shit. I have no clue what it is. I nervously twirl the pen between my fingers.

“I have so many,” I say nonchalantly. Guess what? I am a good actor.

“You know…‘Get it. Got it? Good.’”

“To Jo…Get it. Got it? Good,” I say aloud with macho attitude, enunciating each word I inscribe on the cover.

“Wow. That’s just how you say it on TV,” says the awed detective while I sign my name with an xo. My bold signature comes easily to me as if I’ve been writing it my whole life. A bolt of optimism shoots through me. Maybe my memory is coming back.

“Thanks,” says the grateful detective as I hand him back the DVD set. “My wife is going to pee in her panties.”

I laugh again. This time loudly. I escort Detective Billings to the front door. Just before he leaves, he asks me one last question.

“I forgot to ask you. Do you have any enemies who would want to harm you?”

The question makes me uneasy. I search my muddled mind. “None that I can think of.”

“A disgruntled fan? An ex-girlfriend? A former assistant?”

I shake my head though from what I know about myself, I probably did piss off some ex-assistants. Enough to drive one of them to try and kill me?

The detective shoots me a crooked smile “Don’t forget—no pun intended—to call me if you remember anything.”

Fingering his card, I assure him I will.

I want to remember everything.

But right now, I want to find out everything there is about my alter ego, Kurt Kussler.

After taking a long, hot shower, I spend the rest of the afternoon googling Kurt Kussler and screening episodes of my TV series, starting with the first season. I found DVDs of them on my bookshelf. I’m totally engrossed. It’s an awesome show.

The rundown: Kurt Kussler is a top CIA agent who’s been hunting a notorious terrorist. The bad guy’s code name: The Locust. Kurt tracks him down and, in a showdown in Beirut, kills The Locust’s beloved brother, Ahmed. The Locust lusts for revenge. And at the end of Season 1, he kills Kurt’s beautiful pregnant wife Alisha by blowing up her car as she turns on the ignition. Kurt, who witnesses the murder, has a breakdown and leaves the CIA. But with the help of his assistant, Melanie, a fellow ex-CIA’er, he recovers and becomes a vigilante, hell-bent on eliminating his wife’s elusive assassin…who’s equally determined on eradicating him. The deadly cat and mouse game begins. And so do the stellar ratings.

The character I play is intense. Almost insane. On a mission to right the Mob-style execution of his wife, he takes out the baddest of badass bad guys with brutal force, no holds barred. Not to sound boastful, I’m a dammed good actor. Every word I deliver is memorable and I can really kick butt. The supporting cast is terrific too, especially Kellie Fox, the quirky redheaded actress with the retro cat-eye glasses, who plays the mercenary’s best friend and assistant, Melanie. Knowing enough about the show and my character, I dive right into the script Scott brought over. It’s a page-turner, and I find myself mouthing the words of my lines. I am Kurt Kussler.

Halfway into it, I hear a car pull into my driveway. I spring up from the couch and peek out the window. Who the hell is that? My front door unlocks.

CHAPTER 5

Zoey

“Freeze!” Brandon barks. “What are you doing here?”

Jeez. He’s in a good mood. Just kidding. I’ve been away for almost three weeks, and this is how he treats me? Okay. I didn’t expect him to run over to me in movie-time slow-mo and hug me, but I expected a little warmth. Something along the lines of “Hi. I’m so glad to see you.” Wishful thinking. Once an asshole. Always an asshole. Though a damn gorgeous one.

I stop dead in my tracks and soak him in. He looks fresh out of a shower. Just the way he did the first time I met him. His damp inky hair is perfectly uncombed, and a thick towel is wrapped around his toned torso, hanging sexily low on his hips. How could anyone look so ridiculously gorgeous after spending so much time in a hospital? Alright, he’s pale and a little thinner, but the weight loss only accentuates the definition of his lean, finely honed muscles. My breath hitches in my throat as my eyes travel from his devastating face to his broad chiseled chest, past his rippled abs and that perfect pelvic V, and then down his long, muscular legs to his perfectly formed bare toes. Every sculpted feature and limb sends a rush of tingles to my core. He’s still the epitome of pure masculine perfection. My legs turn to jelly. I’m not prepared for the panty-melting impact he has on me. I maintain a poker face, not letting him know how much he affects me. I’ve become a master of my emotions and reactions.

His long-lashed violet eyes laser into me. “Answer my question or I’ll call the police.”

His harsh, unexpected words sober me. Did he lose his mind in the hospital? Sustain some kind of head injury? I mean, he’s always been mental, but this is insane. My eyes meet his fiery gaze.

“Hel-lo-O. It’s me. Zoey Hart. Your assistant. Remember?”

Cocking his head, he looks at me confoundedly. “Huh?”

“You know. Your go-to girl. Go-To-Zo.” Maybe he doesn’t recognize me because I’ve lost a little weight. On second thought, fat chance.

“How did you get past the gate?”

“Do I look like the type who would jump it?” My sarcasm is lost on him. “Duh! I have the security code.”

His dense brows furrow. “How long have you been working for me?”

He’s got to be kidding. Maybe he’s just putting me on. “To be exact, two years, two months, and two days.” Over two insufferable years.

His eyes blink pensively. “Really?” The word is infused with doubt and surprise.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

“Kinda. I guess you know I had an accident.”

“Yeah.” The horrific memory flashes into my head. To be honest, I haven’t stopped reliving it. The bloodshed…his touch…the sirens…my words. For the second time in my life, death stared me in the face. A chill passes through me.

“Why didn’t you come visit me at the hospital?” His tone sharpens.

“Believe me, I wanted to.” Oh, God did I. More than you’ll ever know. “But your lovely manager Scott forced me to take a paid vacation for as long as you were there. He told me that if I didn’t obey his orders, he had the authority to fire me. I didn’t want to lose my job.” Or you. “So I did as he asked.”

Digesting my words, Brandon tugs at his lower lip with his thumb. He always does that when he’s thinking. It’s so damn sexy. My cheeks heat. I want to jump out of my skin. Jump him.

“Where were you?”

“He sent me to a retreat with no connections to the outside world.”

Brandon purses his lips. “I see. How did you know I was back home?”

“From one of the women who checked in this morning. That’s all she could talk about. Your release was all over the news and Internet. As soon as I found out, I packed my bag and checked out.” I pause. “Oh, and by the way, I called Scott from my car and told him I was coming back.”

Brandon’s jaw tightens. “Did he tell you I have amnesia?”

What? My eyes widen and my blood pounds in my ear. I blurt out an angry “no.” I’m so pissed Scott didn’t tell me I could kill him, but then again, I shouldn’t be so startled. The man despises me, and let me tell you, it’s mutual. Slimeball! Well, at least, that explains my boss’s strange behavior. I wonder if he’s forgotten what an asshole he is. That would be refreshing.

His voice cuts into my deviant thoughts. He apologizes for threatening to have me arrested and then asks me to join him for a drink in the kitchen to catch up. It’s not an invitation but rather an order. The amnesia has clearly not changed his bossy personality. Being his employee, I give in to his request but tell him I can’t stay long. I have a lot of catching up of my own to do. Including responding to the zillion tweets he got from fans while he was in the hospital. At the kitchen island, I sit cattycorner to him, drinking a bottled water, while he nurses a Scotch. My eyes stay on him. God, he’s gorgeous! I’m sure he hasn’t forgotten that.

“So refresh my memory, Zoey, and tell me, what exactly do you do for me?”

Ha! What exactly don’t I do for him would be a more apropos question. Let’s see…where should I start? After a big gulp of the water, I begin.

“I maintain your daily schedule, your Facebook fan page, and respond to your tweets, which, by the way, exceeded five million from fans around the world while you were in the hospital.”

“Wow.” He actually seems quite surprised. “What else do you handle?”

I spit out the rest of the list. “I get your Starbucks coffee every morning, make your travel and restaurant reservations, prepare your lunch, send out your two hundred pairs of jeans for laundering and take care of your dry-cleaning, stock your refrigerator, order your supplies, coordinate things with your entourage, and even help you with your lines. Oh, yeah. I almost forgot. I give you massages. I’m a certified massage therapist. That’s one of the reasons you hired me.”

His eyes dart to my hands, lingering on them. His eyes flutter as if he’s trying to remember them. And then he twists his luscious lips.

“How did you end up working for me?”

“I got the job through an agency that specializes in placing personal assistants with celebrities and VIPs.”

“What’s it like to work for me?”

The words tumble out of my mouth. “You’re a conceited, egotistical, arrogant asshole.”

His brows jump to his forehead. “Hmm. If I’m a total jerk, why do you work for me?”

The truth. Well, almost. “I need a job, and you pay me decently, plus you give me room and board along with a car allowance. It sure as hell beats being holed up in a dark, claustrophobic massage room.” I add in one other reason. “And despite what you may be thinking, I actually really like my job.” And could look at you all day long.

He studies me. I can feel his eyes raking over my body.

“How old are you?”

I think that question is banned by some equal opportunity employment act, but I tell him anyway. “Twenty-four.”

“Have I ever fucked you?”

What? That out-of-the-blue question takes me aback. Every muscle in my plus-size body tenses while my ovaries do a somersault. I somehow manage not to fall off my stool and find my voice.

“Your cock is the one thing I don’t handle.” I rebound nicely. “Unless you count all the times I’ve booked a hotel room for you and your hook-ups.” And dreamed about it.

My eyes flick to the bulge between his legs and then quickly return to his pensive face. I feel myself flush and my awareness only heightens the sensation.

“Do I share my social life with you?”

“Uh…no. I just know what I read online and in gossip magazines.”

A short silence and then he breaks it after a chug of his drink. “Do you know my fiancée, Katrina Moore?”

At her name, my blood curdles and my chest clenches. I gulp my bottled water and swallow it over the rising lump in my throat.

“I’ve met her a couple times,” I stammer. Two times too many. The second encounter flashes into my mind—at the hospital after Brandon came out of surgery. The bitch was with Scott and she told me three was a crowd. Especially with a heifer like me. Her insult stung me, and if the tears from Brandon’s life-or-death condition weren’t enough, I shed another round and fled. In retrospect, I wish I hadn’t. It was just too much.

Brandon’s voice hurls me out of the painful memory. “What do you think of her?”

Mama always told me if you have nothing nice to say don’t say it all. But growing up with my uncle and his family, I learned to speak my mind. So, this is hard. I take a deep breath. “She’s okay.” Fucking stuck up bitch. I hate her guts! “I guess I owe you a congratulations.”

“Thanks.” Brandon’s voice is distant. He polishes off his Scotch, and I take a last sip of the water. A blue feeling washes over me.

“Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to settle back into my quarters. I’ll have your Starbucks for you first thing in the morning—right after your swim.”

“I like to swim in the morning?”

“You never miss a day.”

“That’s good to know. Can I help you with your bags?”

Well, that’s a first. It’s just a simple roller bag that’s in the trunk of my car, so I politely decline.

Brandon’s eyes stay on me as I hop off the stool. “Good night, Zoey. I hope you can help me piece together the last ten years of my life.”

Silently, I pray and hope they include me.

CHAPTER 6

Zoey

It’s good to be back home. Three weeks at that new age spa was unbearable. It was closer to being in prison. Cell phone and computer usage was banned, and even if you managed to sneak some time with your devices, there was no cellular or Internet access. I bunked in a small room no bigger than a jail cell, and there was no air conditioning in the hundred-degree desert heat. And I’m the kind of person who’s always hot to begin with. I almost died doing hot yoga. I couldn’t even cool off in the pool since I’m not a swimmer. And don’t get me started on the food. The food Nazis forced me to do a cleanse. All I ate—or should I say drank—was vile-tasting green juice that looked like Nickelodeon slime. I learned a new four-letter word. KALE. I hate the way it tastes and hope I never see another one of those monster-ugly leaves ever again. Ugh! Cabbage with a bad perm.

Next to my “spa” accommodations, the furnished guesthouse I reside in is a palace. It sits on the edge of Brandon’s property just off the pool. With a bedroom, living room, and kitchenette, it’s small but functional. Mimicking Brandon’s main residence, the contemporary furniture is high-end Italian stuff—not exactly my taste, which leans toward funky, but I can’t complain since I live here rent-free. Plus, the multiple windows offer a view of the city that so many would kill for. On a clear day, I can see all the way to the ocean. As I stash away my garments, the sky darkens and the timed lights of the city kiss it a gentle goodnight. Twinkling like stars, they never cease to amaze me.

Just as I unpack my last bra, my cell phone pings. Sure enough. It’s a text from the slave driver. I haven’t been back for more than ten minutes and he’s already bugging me. So much for wishful thinking. Nope. Nothing’s changed. Scrunching my face, I read it.

I’m hungry. Pick up a burger and fries.

Fucking great. I was looking forward to curling up in bed and watching some TV before getting some work done, but now I have to run out to service his majesty. And it’s not like I can just go down the hill to close-by McDonald’s. Mr. Taylor is very particular about his burgers—and in fact, just about everything. The only burgers he’ll eat are from In-N-Out, so I have to schlep all the way down Sunset in rush hour traffic to get him what his heart desires. But wait! Maybe he doesn’t remember what he likes and I can go to McDonald’s. I almost give in to temptation but in the end decide weathering his bad temper isn’t worth it.

If battling the insane traffic is not enough, the drive-thru line at In-N-Out is thirty cars deep. Moving at the speed of a slow freight train, it takes me forty long minutes to get my order, and by the time I get to the pick-up window, I’m famished. I ask for another cheeseburger with everything on it but then change my mind. Thanks to the spa, I’ve lost some weight (the one and only benefit), and I’m determined to keep it off. So instead, I force myself to order a Protein Burger—a measly hamburger that’s wrapped up in a lettuce leaf and not sandwiched between one of those delicious toasted buns. My stomach rumbles. Trying to be thin sucks.

“What took you so long?” snaps Brandon as I strut into his living room. Now wearing perfectly ripped jeans and a white tee, he’s sitting on the couch fiddling with the remote.

“Can you show a little appreciation, please?” I snap back at him before handing him the bag with his burger and fries. “I got you a cheeseburger exactly how you like it with ketchup and grilled onions.”

Without thanking me, he reaches into the bag. I watch his toned biceps flex as he bites into his burger.

Bite me, asshole.

With my burger bag in hand, I march off.

“Where are you going?” he asks before I’ve taken two steps.

“To my living quarters. If you don’t mind, I’d like to eat my dinner in solitude.” And in peace and quiet.

He grabs a couple of fries. “That’s not going to work. We need to make this a working meal. I have a lot of catching up to do. Now take a seat.”

“Are you going to pay me overtime?”

“Yes.” His voice borders on a growl. “Now, please take a seat.”

Well, at least he said please. I search for a good place to sit, the farther away from him the better. I head toward a corner chair. His voice stops me in my tracks.

“No. I want you to sit next to me. There’s a lot to go over.”

Grrr. Reluctantly, I meander back to the couch and plop down on the leather cushion beside him, curling up in a cross-legged position. He stretches his long legs out on the coffee table in front of us. My knee brushes against his rock-hard thigh and my eyes glimpse the sizeable package between his legs. It’s quite a chunk of meat. My hunger consumes me. I take a bite of my pathetic burger.

“What exactly do you have in mind?” I ask after swallowing. The Protein Burger isn’t as bad as I thought. It’s pretty juicy.

“I thought we’d screen some episodes of my show, mainly from this past season.”

My insides light up. I love Kurt Kussler and could totally binge on it. I’ve been watching the series since the day it premiered. I’ve seen every episode a dozen times and, with my crazy memory, know many of them by heart. When I found out from the job recruiter that I’d be working for the superstar, I practically drove my car off a cliff. I should have. Little did I know at the time what I had in store.

“Sure,” I say casually, masking my excitement as he presses the remote with one of his long tapered fingers. Just like the rest of him, his hands are beautiful, sculpted works of art. The action-packed opening credit sequence set to the pulsing theme song instantly plays on the built-in big screen TV. A fast-paced montage of memorable clips culled from various episodes, each ending with Kurt in a sexy pose. Kurt Kussler is hot. So scorching hot. My heartbeat speeds up and a heat wave melts my entire being. I feel like the deconstructing Wicked Witch of the West. All hot molten liquid.

Brandon presses a button on the remote and the opening credits speed up.

“What are you doing?” I yell.

“Fast forwarding. We don’t need to waste time.”

“Stop! I love the opening credits.” I snatch the remote from him and slow down the credits to normal speed just in time to see Kurt do his signature line at the end. Lunging, he aims his big gun straight ahead and says:

“Get it. Got it? Good.” I say the words with him.

Brandon gives me an odd look as Kurt pulls the trigger and a loud BOOM! fills the room. I gasp. There’s something about Kurt holding that big gun and looking directly into the camera with those fierce violet eyes that makes my heart ricochet out of my chest every time.

“Are you okay?” asks my companion.

Is it that obvious I’m totally in love with Kurt Kussler? Just like every woman in the world. “Yes,” I pant out and then chomp into my burger to satisfy my carnal craving.

“Have some fries,” he orders after I gulp it down. He holds out the bag.

Without losing eye contact with the TV, I lose my willpower and dig in. God, they’re good. Crispy and lightly salted. Worth every sinful calorie.

The opening credits segue right into the episode. Holy moly! It’s one of my favorites. The one in which Kurt doesn’t know he’s standing right next to The Locust, Alisha’s killer.

Every inch of me clenches while my eyes stay glued to the TV. Oh God! The way he swaggers in those tight jeans! Snarls his lush lips! Smolders his violet eyes! Every word that comes out of Kurt’s mouth sets my body on fire. The suspense is killing me. I gasp when the disguised assassin almost runs him off a cliff. Kurt can’t die! And then toward the end, up comes my favorite scene of all—a flashback to Kurt and Alisha’s nuptials. The perfect church wedding, the beautiful, happy couple surrounded by loved ones. My heart pounds madly. I just hope the sound of the TV drowns it out so Brandon doesn’t hear it. I glance at him. He’s into it as much as I am. I can tell by the intense, unblinking expression on his face. I return my attention to the TV. Thanks to my eidetic memory, I know every line.

The Pastor: “Do you, Kurt Kussler, promise to love and cherish this woman for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?”

Kurt: “I do, sir. I will love, cherish, and protect her forever.”

Oh my God! The passion in his sultry voice! The love and lust in his eyes!

The pastor asks Alisha the same question. She holds Kurt in her impassioned gaze, whispers her vow, and finally says, “until death do us part.”

I softly say the words with her. Tears well up in my eyes. Knowing the cruel fate that awaits Alisha, her vow gets me every single time. By the time they embrace (oh, what a kiss!), tears are streaming down my cheeks and I’m heaving.

Brandon turns to me. “Jeez Louise. What’s the matter?”

My tear-stained lips are quivering. Words are trapped in my throat. Snot is dripping from my nose. I’m a blubbering mess.

Finally, I get my mouth to move. “It’s so sad. I can’t take it,” I splutter as the show fades to black and the closing credits come on. “He’s going to lose her!”

Brandon turns the TV off and hands me a paper napkin. “Here. Blow your nose.”

I gratefully take the napkin from him and put it to my face. I honk into it.

“Thanks,” I stammer, totally embarrassed.

“It’s just make-believe.”

I sniff. “I know, but still…”

Brandon’s eyes don’t leave mine. “You like my show?”

Duh! “I love it! I love you!” Gah! “I mean, I love Kurt Kussler.”

His brows lift. “Really?”

“Totally,” I say convincingly, moving past my slip-up.

“What makes him appealing?”

He seriously doesn’t know? He must have major brain damage. “Isn’t it obvious?” I ask, my tears subsiding.

He draws in a sharp breath. “With this damn amnesia, nothing’s obvious.”

Obviously. So, I tell him.

“First of all, he’s sexy as sin—”

He cuts me off. “You think I’m sexy—”

I cut him off. His pending question unnerves me. “No!” Big fat liar. “Kurt’s sexy as sin.”

The conceited egomaniac looks a little deflated. “What makes him sexy?”

“He may think with his cock like most men, but he’s ruled by his heart.”

Clueless Brandon screws up his face. “What do you mean by that?”

“He’s damaged but so passionate. I mean, just look at his abiding love for his wife, Alisha. He won’t stop until he finds her killer.”

Brandon is all ears, listening intently. I continue.

“Every woman wants a Kurt Kussler to love, protect, and cherish her.”

“Yes, don’t we all.” A sardonic breathy voice enters the room. I look up. My stomach churns. It’s Katrina. The temperature in the room drops ten degrees as the willowy blonde stomps toward us in her gazillion dollar stilettos.

“Well, if it isn’t little Miss Chubster.”

My boiling blood heats my skin. “Hi. Nice to see you again too.”

I remember the first time I met her. I thought she was here for a business meeting with Brandon and Scott. She acted like I was invisible and then had the nerve to tell me to take her Mercedes for a car wash. As if I were her servant. I told her to take a hike—no pun intended—and pissed her off royally. Until I started seeing pictures of them together online and in various tabloids, I had no idea they were romantically involved. And truthfully, knowing Brandon’s reputation as a player, I thought it was just another casual hook-up. His latest conquest. You can only imagine my shock when I learned of their engagement—the news broke just hours after Brandon’s horrible accident. It was bad enough that the gorgeous man I worshipped was lying in a coma but then to find out he was engaged sent my emotions into a tailspin. I cried for hours, knowing that even if he lived, I was losing him to America’s It Girl.

Fraught with jealousy and loathing, I meet her predatory gaze.

She smirks and then snubs me. “Brandy-Poo, are you ready to go out with Mommy and me?”

Brandon’s eyes blink several times. “What are you talking about?”

“Seriously, don’t you know we have a reservation at The Ivy to go over wedding plans? We made it weeks ago.”

Brandon looks perplexed. “I’m sorry. It’s one of those things I don’t remember.” He turns to me. “Zoey, did you write it down somewhere or put it on my calendar?”

“This is the first time I’m hearing about it.”

“Maybe, I forgot to tell her,” mumbles Brandon in my defense.

Katrina huffs. “Honestly, darling, you really should look into getting a competent assistant. This one’s a bigger waste of space than the space she occupies.”

I’m seething. Bitch! I bite back my tongue. Katrina again ignores me and plants a kiss on Brandon’s forehead.

“Well, darling, don’t just sit there. Throw on a jacket. I don’t want to keep Mommy waiting.”

Slowly, Brandon stands up. His eyes penetrate mine. “Set some time in my schedule to review more episodes tomorrow.”

“Sure,” I murmur. I stay seated while Brandon dons an outrageously sexy leather bomber jacket. It’s just what Kurt Kussler would wear.

Emptiness fills me as I watch Katrina shuffle Brandon out of the house. And then a wicked thought brightens my spirits. Maybe the bitch and the asshole deserve each other. My moment of satisfaction is fleeting. Who am I kidding? I wish it were me.

CHAPTER 7

Brandon

Located on nearby trendy Robertson, The Ivy is a bustling but charming restaurant that feels more like an eclectic cottage with its vintage floral décor and jugs of colorful fresh roses on every table. According to my fiancée, this is one of our favorite places to “see and be seen.” It’s a popular LA hangout with A-list celebrities, agents, and other movers and shakers. I, of course, don’t remember ever being here.

Katrina’s mother is already seated at a corner table in the front room. Upon sighting us, she waves a bony hand, the other curled around the base of a fluted glass. Holding my hand, chicly dressed Katrina leads me with long strides in her direction. All eyes on us, whispers of Bratrina stir the air.

Katrina rounds the table and gives her equally chic mother a double-cheek kiss. “Hello, Mommy.”

“Darling, I’m so glad you could make it, and of course, this must be Brandon.” Enid formally introduces herself and extends her hand.

I assume we’ve never met and shake it, careful not to crush it. I help Katrina into a chair across from her mother and then I slip into the one next to hers. Enid is effervescent.

“I hope you don’t mind, but I ordered a bottle of champagne. Cristal, only the finest. I thought we’d start off the evening with a toast.”

Like mother, like daughter. “Sure,” I say, studying her cosmetically enhanced face. Her jet-black hair is pulled back in a tight chignon, her skin so taut it may split into puzzle pieces.

“Wonderful.” She raises her glass and we follow suit. “To the most unforgettable wedding ever!”

We clink our glasses and then sip the bubbly. I’m not in the mood to drink champagne, but I go with the flow. Enid guzzles hers, then refills her glass.

“Why don’t we order first and then we’ll talk about the wedding. I have so many fabulous ideas, especially since the wedding is going to be televised.”

I take another sip of the champagne and clear my throat. “Um, uh, excuse me, Enid. But can we talk about that? I was thinking something smaller, more inti—”

With a sharp turn of her head, Katrina cuts me off. “Brandon, there’s absolutely nothing to discuss. Everything’s set. It’s going to be a live televised event. Period. Millions of people around the world will see it on TV and on the Internet. It’s going to make me a global name and send my ratings into the stratosphere.”

This just doesn’t sound like the kind of thing I’d agree to. I may be a very public TV star, but I’m a private kind of guy. That I do know about myself. My gaze stays on Katrina. “Did we ever discuss this?”

Throwing her head back, she lets out a haughty laugh. “Of course, darling. It was practically your idea. You were all over it. You were even the one that said, ‘Eat your heart out, Kim Kardashian.’”

I don’t even know who Kim Kardashian is. I’m growing frustrated with this amnesia thing. It’s getting old fast and causing me one problem after another. I’m really not comfortable with the idea of getting married on TV, but this is clearly not the forum to challenge it. I’m not going to get anywhere with headstrong Katrina or her outspoken mother.

We order dinner from an apron-clad young waiter. Recognizing me immediately, his eyes light up. “Wow! You’re Brandon Taylor. Kurt Kussler rocks!” He steps back from the table and imitates me. Aiming his fingers like a gun, he says, “Get it. Got it? Good.”

I’m getting sick of hearing this line. I’m sure this dude is an aspiring actor, and in a breath, he confirms my hunch. “Hey, listen Mr. Taylor, I hope you don’t mind. But can I give you my headshot before you leave and maybe you could show it to your producer and consider me for a guest-starring role? Even a cameo? I’m a method actor and studied at the Bella Stadler Academy. You won’t be disappointed.”

Bella Stadler. I studied with her too and have learned I’m a big supporter. But, in the back of my mind, I feel there’s something more. It’s like a memory is trying to knock down the door. Think, Brandon, think.

“Yes?” The waiter’s eager voice interrupts my ability to concentrate.

“Sure,” I tell him, feeling sorry for yet another hopeful in this town, waiting tables while waiting for a break.

The thankful waiter’s face brightens and then he takes our orders. Having just eaten that giant burger, I’m not hungry and just order a small salad. Katrina and her mother each order a platter of poached asparagus (sauce on the side) and then decide to splurge on a shared shrimp cocktail. No wonder the two of them are whippet thin.

While we wait for the food to arrive, Enid starts in with her ideas for the wedding.

“You know, I really wanted to do it in Venice like George and Amal, but too many of my friends have travel plans to go to Italy over the summer.”

“George who?”

She tuts. “George Clooney.”

What? Forever bachelor George Clooney got married? Where have I been? I’ve really missed a lot. Enid rambles on while I bemoan my fate.

“I, however, came up with a perfect local venue. The Four Seasons Hotel. You’ll get married in the divine garden and then we’ll have the reception in the ballroom.”

Katrina’s face lights up, more animated than I’ve ever seen it. “Mommy, tell him the theme we’ve chosen.”

“Theme?”

“Of course, darling. All my events have themes. And yours will be Cinderella—a celebration of my little girl finally marrying her Prince Charming. Happily ever after at last! I’ve already ordered dozens of pumpkins to carve and fill with exotic flowers along with gilded cages that we’ll fill with little white mice as table centerpieces. And Monique is designing The. Most. Divine. Dress. Ever. Along with a pair of magnificent glass slippers. Katrina will be the envy of every woman in the world.” She laughs lightly. “Even her own mother.”

“Oh, Mommy,” Katrina coos after taking another sip of champagne. “Tell him about the best part.”

“The cake? It’s going to be a six-foot high buttercream recreation of the Disney Magic Kingdom Castle.”

“No, Mommy, I mean how we’re going to get there.”

Enid dramatically throws up her hands and rolls back her eyes. “How could I forget? The two of you will be arriving at the hotel in a custom-made pumpkin carriage drawn by four white Arabian horses. Miniature replicas are accompanying the two thousand invitations I just sent out.”

What? The invitations are out. There may be no turning back now. I gulp.

Enid gives me the once over. “We should talk about what you’ll be wearing, Brandon.”

I bet I’ll be dressed in some ninny prince suit that looks like it comes straight out of the Disney store. I don’t even want to know. “When is all this happening?” I ask, evading the subject.

Katrina chimes in. “Why in four months—at the end of May sweeps—Saturday, May twenty-third. It’s going to send the ratings of my show into orbit. America’s It Girl is going to become a universal sensation!”

One last question. “And who’s flitting the bill for all this?”

Smiling coyly, Katrina answers. “Well, since the budget for my show is only $20,000 per episode and poor Daddy is in jail and can’t even come to his own daughter’s wedding, you are.”

“I am?”

“Of course, darling. I discussed it all with our mutual business manager Scott while you were in a coma, and he agreed to everything. You’ll never miss the ten million dollars.”

Dinner arrives. Maybe, I would have been better off staying asleep in a coma. At least past our wedding date.

CHAPTER 8

Zoey

The only good thing about Brandon going out to dinner with Katrina is that I have some time to catch up on the gazillion tweets I have to respond to on his behalf. It’s like every woman in the world wished him—Get Well. I love you! <3—while he was in the hospital. I send the same response back to each of his infatuated fans: Thanks, baby! Feeling good. Luv you back! <3 I can only imagine their expressions when they get a tweet back. Total swoonsville!

I skip over the ones congratulating him about his engagement or asking when he’s getting married. Don’t know. Don’t care. And the truth is I don’t want to be reminded.

Two hours into tweeting, my iPhone pings. A text from Mr. Swoonworthy himself.

Did u say u give massages?

I reply.

Yes.

He responds.

I want one now.

Sheesh. It’s almost ten o’clock. I was about to call it quits with the tweeting and get ready for bed. Maybe I should tell him to give himself a testicular massage and then jerk off. That’ll probably have the same relaxation benefits. He sends me another text.

Well…???

In my mind’s eye, I can see the anger on his face. The furrowed brows, the pinched lips. Let him pout. I don’t respond. He wastes no time texting me again.

Do I need to fire u?

GAH! He wouldn’t. He would! Fucking spoiled asshole.

FINE. Shouty caps. I hope he gets the message. I’m not a happy camper.

Ten minutes later, I’m in his living room after schlepping over my massage table and my special aromatherapy oil. Brandon’s on the couch reading what must be a Kurt Kussler script.

“Why aren’t you ready?” I snap.

He looks up from his script. “Should I strip down?”

His words send goosebumps all over me. I’ve never seen him in the buff though I’ve used my imagination when it comes to his ass and equipment. Pure manly perfection!

“No,” I reply, trying to sound as calm as possible. “It’s in my contract. I don’t do you naked. You’ve got to put on some underwear.”

“I don’t do underwear.”

My eyes unconsciously shift to his crotch. That big cock of his (at least I think it’s big) is one zip away. I wonder how really big it is. Nine inches? Ten?

He interrupts my mental calculations. “Fine. I’ll find a pair of boxers. I must own some.”

“Perfect.” I pause. “By the way, in case you don’t remember, I only do vanilla massages.” Unfortunately.

His brows shoot up. “What do you mean?”

“I’m not going to rub your cock and give you an orgasm.”

His brows furrow. “That’s too bad.”

A flutter of heat stirs between my legs. “What do you mean by that?” After asking the question, I’m sorry I did.

He looks at me earnestly. “My cock’s pretty stressed out.”

No more questions. “Ask Katrina to de-stress it.” My voice is thick with sarcasm.

His mouth twists. “Yeah, right.”

I detect attitude. “By the way, how was your dinner with her mother?”

“Stressful. That’s why I need a massage.”

Don’t ask. The less I know the better. “Get ready. I’ll set up my massage table in the meantime.”

Five minutes later, he’s back, clad in adorable purple and white polka dot boxers that hang sexily low on his hips. My heart beating fast, I soak in his bare-chested body. My eyes travel down his gorgeous chiseled chest and land on his crotch. His cock is just a handful away. One could just reach inside the slit of his boxers and own it.

“Get on the table, face down,” I tell him, trying to act professionally. These lewd thoughts are disturbing me. But it’s hardly the first time I’ve had them.

He does as requested, setting his head on the headrest attachment. His long, muscular legs reach almost to the very end of the padded table. I admire his beautiful sculpted back and his broad swimmer’s shoulders. The burning urge to run my hands over every glorious ridge and contour has my heart racing with anticipation.

“Good. I’ll be right back. I’m going to put on some relaxing music. It’ll help you loosen up.”

I tread over to his sound system and make a selection. A vintage compilation of Kenny G’s Greatest Hits. “Loving You” is first up. The sound of the saxophone is slow, smooth, and soothing. Pure perfection. On the way back to the table, I dim the lights and light a scented candle. The atmosphere is just right for a sensuous massage. Or a sensuous fuck.

“Are you ready?” I ask him when I return to the table.

“Yeah. More than ready.”

“Are you cold? I can drape a sheet over you.”

“No. I’m hot. Just get to it.”

Mr. Hot and Bossy. Ms. Hot and Bothered. I bend down and reach into my tote bag for the bottle of aromatherapy oil I’ve brought along. Standing up, I squirt a generous amount on my hands. I place the bottle on the nearby coffee table before rubbing my palms to warm it.

I start with his neck and upper back. That’s where most people feel the most tension. I press my strong, oiled-up hands on his taut flawless flesh and start to knead his muscles, making deep circular motions with my thumbs. My hands melt into his body.

He curses under his breath. “That feels amazing. Where’d you learn to do that?”

“I went to a special training school. I told you I’m a certified massage therapist.”

“Mmm. What smells so good?”

“The oil I’m using. It’s therapeutic. Inhaling it will help you relax faster.”

As I continue to work his back, he takes in a deep breath through his nose and then lets it out with a sensual, drawn out sigh that makes my skin prickle. It’s just like the sound of a man having his cock sucked.

“You’re very knotted up,” I say, working him harder and deeper.

“Tell me about it.”

“Why?” I ask.

“A lot of reasons. The amnesia, the wedding, going back to work. Plus, I have some other major shit I’m dealing with. A crisis.”

“You do have a lot stuff going on,” I agree, wondering what his personal crisis is all about. Something other than his amnesia-induced identity issue?

Applying more pressure, I knead his knots, but they’re not loosening up. “You’re carrying a load of stress in your upper back. If it’s okay by you, I need to straddle you so I can go deeper.”

“Be my guest.”

As the next instrumental piece starts up, I climb onto the table and mount him, my legs straddling his narrow hips. It’s a good thing I’m wearing stretchy yoga pants. Not the most ass-flattering thing I own, but they’re comfy and functional.

The sexy sound of the sax mingles with the soothing lavender scent of the massage oil as I press my fingers deep into his tissues and make circular motions. His skin feels like warm velvet and glistens from the sheen of the oil. My fingertips burn at the touch of his flesh. I’m working up a sweat. As I work him deeper and deeper, leaning into him and using my elbows, my breasts brush against his shimmering flesh. My nipples harden beneath my sports bra. His massage—or should I say my massage?—is arousing me, sending pulsing sensations to my sex. With every rock of my hips, the cluster of nerves between my legs rubs against him, buzzing with my hunger for him. I’m a hot, wet mess. I suppress a moan of my own while he groans.

“Oh, yeah.”

He sounds like a man on the verge of a major orgasm. His low, sexy rumble rouses me further, creating a tremor of excitement in my core. Making my way down his chiseled back, I have the sudden impulse to drag my tongue along the curve of his spine and taste him, then press my lips against his delicious skin and kiss him everywhere. My body is burning with lust. It takes all I have to concentrate on the massage.

“I feel so much better,” he mumbles, his voice muffled.

And I feel flush with fever. Delirious with desire. I’ve gotten out all his knots, but now I’m the one who’s tense, twisted, and on edge. Touching him has made me want to touch myself. And quell the pulsing ache between my thighs.

“Should I turn over?”

“Not yet,” I breathe out, trying to compose myself. “I want to massage your feet.”

I unstraddle him—far from a graceful move—and stagger to the end of the massage table. My heated body is still aflutter. “Bend your right leg.”

He complies wordlessly. After squirting more of the massage oil on my palms, I take his foot into my hands. Painfully aware of my body’s sensations, I admire the length and shape of it—so elegant and manly, and the skin is soft, not calloused. I dig my thumbs deep into the sole, pressing hard against various pressure points.

He hisses.

Good. He’s releasing stress. I rub and tug each of his beautiful toes. The truth: I’d rather be sucking them while bringing myself to a toe-curling orgasm with one of my talented hands.

“Jesus Christ,” he murmurs while I squeeze his little toe.

Silently, I repeat my motions with his other foot. His moans and groans grow louder, and he cusses again under his breath. Foot massage, formally called reflexology, is very powerful. It’s called reflexology because the nerves in your foot connect to all the nerves in your body. What you feel in your feet can be felt elsewhere. There’s even one spot that connects to your genitals. Women, in particular, have reported achieving orgasms when that trigger spot is massaged.

I ask him to flip over. With a groan, he twists onto his back.

Kenny G’s moving rendition of the Titanic theme song filters into my ears and my eyes widen. Make that pop out of their sockets. Holy smoke! His eyes closed, he’s got a Titanic erection. I underestimated it. It’s fucking monstrous! And it’s straining against his boxers, begging to burst through the slit. My breath catches in my throat; my heart beats like a jackrabbit’s. My pussy pulses madly. I’ve seen plenty of hard-ons, but nothing like this. I have a decision to make—let it sail or let it sink. I opt for neither.

The melody of the haunting song plays on. I’ve forgotten how much this song affects me. Auntie Jo and Pops took me to see the epic movie with Jeffrey opening day for my tenth birthday. Little did they know it would end with a drowning. Like Mama’s. In the ocean no less. I bawled my eyes out and made myself sick. So sick I had to stay home from school the next day. The unsung lyrics play in my head:

Every night in my dream

I see you, I feel you.

A surge of emotion overwhelms me. Tears well up in my eyes. I think of Mama. I think of him.

My eyes stay locked on his colossal cock. I want to touch it. Hold it. Stroke it. Possess it. Fill the deep need that’s stealing my breath.

Unable to control myself, my hand descends toward his mega erection. The heat of it, radiating right through the fabric of his boxers, draws me like a moth to a flame. I touch down lightly on it for a heart-stopping second. It stirs, and a soft, throaty “mmm” exits his lips. At the sound of the rumble, my hand jumps off as if it’s been singed. A twinge of guilt is followed by a twitch of his dick.

“Brandon, we’re done.” I barely manage the words. The tangle of emotions I’m feeling is strangling me while the erotic sensations are debilitating me. I’m shaking all over, from my head to my toes. I can’t go on like this.

His eyes blink open. He bolts up to a sitting position and faces me. His lids are hooded, his expression dazed and confused. “What do you mean?”

My eyes quickly shift from the outrageous bulge between his legs to his dreamy face, which looks even more beautiful in the warm glow of the flickering candle. His lush lips are slightly parted and his violet eyes flutter, adjusting to the light. My heart hammers painfully in my chest for the stunning man I can’t have. Touching him has touched me in all the wrong places.

“I mean, time’s up. In our contract, we agreed to a one-hour maximum massage.” I glance down at my watch. It’s way past eleven. “I’ve actually given you extra.” More than you’ll ever know.

“Oh,” he mutters. “I don’t remember that clause.”

Thank goodness for his memory loss. He has no clue I’m bullshitting him. My contract actually calls for me to be at his beck and call 24/7—even on Sunday, my one day off. I’m at his command. But right now, I need to get away from him. Desperately. The combination of touching him physically and this melody touching me emotionally has wreaked havoc on my body. I feel lightheaded and weak, short of breath. I cling to the corners of the massage table, thinking I may faint.

“Brandon, I’ve got to go,” I breathe out. “You need to get off the table.”

Brandon repositions himself, draping his long legs over the edge. Unable to move, I stare at him, memorizing every beautiful feature that basks in the candlelight. The Titanic love song, still playing, tears at my heart, tears me apart. I fight back the tears that are threatening to spill.

“Zoey, help me off the table.”

I don’t move. I don’t respond.

“Zoey…”

I will my unsteady legs to move. Every little step is an effort.

“Just stand up slowly,” I tell him softly, face to face, almost eye to eye. I avert casting my gaze downward.

He stays put. His warm breath heats my cheeks. His gemstone eyes glisten and hold me captive.

“Are you okay? You look like you’re about to cry.”

“I think I’m allergic to that oil I used.” I fake a little smile before a telltale tear escapes.

He tenderly brushes it away with this thumb. “Thank you, Zoey.”

A thank you?

“You helped me with one of the issues I was dealing with.” He looks down. “Enormously.”

My eyes flick to his enormous erection. No way can Brandon Taylor, the sexiest man alive, be suffering from erectile dysfunction. He’s sex on a stick.

Trembling, I look back up at him and mumble one word: “Sure.”

“Do you want to share some wine with me?”

My heart skips a beat. He’s never asked me to share anything except those fries earlier tonight. I glance down again at the mega-tent between his legs and decline. I don’t trust myself. I don’t trust him.

“Brandon, I think what you need is a hot bath.”

His smoldering eyes stay glued on me. “Then, draw one for me.” Another order.

“No.” My voice is shaky. “I don’t do baths.”

“I suppose that clause is in your contract too?” A layer of sarcasm laces his voice.

“Correct.” Another white lie, though personally I’ve never taken one since Mama’s drowning.

Silence. The Titanic theme segues into “Going Home.” My cue.

“Well, I’d better be going.” While I put the bottle of oil back into my tote, he stays put on the massage table.

I move back to the table. I need to fold it up. Except he’s still on it. His bulge hasn’t budged either. “Um, uh, would you please—”

He cuts me off and clasps my hands in his. He raises them close to his lips, so close I can feel his warm breath skim my knuckles. Every nerve inside me is buzzing. His eyes stay on my hands and then they hold me fierce in his gaze.

“Zoey, your hands are magical. And they’re beautiful.”

“Thanks.” My voice is so small I can barely hear myself. It doesn’t help that my racing heart is pounding loudly. I’m sure he can hear it.

“That massage really helped me.”

“I’m glad I could help.” I learned in my massage classes about the power of touch. It can arouse feelings. Even bring back memories. In fact, just a single caress can become a symphony of passion, an unquenchable desire to possess.

“You’ve made me feel something I haven’t felt for a long time.”

My chest is tightening. And my heart’s beating so hard it may burst right through my bra. I force myself not to look down at his straining erection. “Feeling is the gift of touch,” I say softly.

Suddenly, his eyes flutter madly. Like he’s having some kind of seizure.

“Brandon, are you okay?” I ask anxiously. Maybe it’s associated with his head trauma.

A smile curls on his luscious lips. His violet eyes light up. “Yes! I’ve remembered something.”

A sinking feeling eats at me. I’ve aroused both his cock and his memory. He remembers how much he loves Katrina.

“What?” I ask with hesitation.

“The day I hired you.”

My eyes widen with surprise. “You do?”

“Yeah. Like it happened only yesterday. It was raining and you crashed your car into my garage.”

I screw up my face. He’s right! I’ve tried not to think about that little incident. Sometimes forgetting is better than remembering.

“I was a nervous wreck.” Just like I am now. A hot wet bundle of nerves. I was in love with his character, Kurt Kussler, but I wasn’t prepared for the shock of meeting Brandon Taylor in person. He was even more gorgeous than I’d imagined. The most gorgeous man I ever met.

Brandon chuckles. “You were quite amusing.”

“I was?” My hands tremble in his.

“Yeah. When you got out of the car, you dropped your purse. All your tampons came flying out. I had to help you pick them up. If I recall correctly, they were the easy-to-insert brand.”

Mortification races through me. I chew on my lip. That episode plays in my head like a scene out of a sitcom. Yeah, I was a total spaz. That’s because I was shaking all over. And it didn’t help having Mr. Gorgeous squatting next to me and trying to look up my skirt. Making me wetter than the pouring rain. And then our fingertips accidentally met, and it was as if a bolt of lightning had zapped me.

I’m not going to tell him about the effect he had on me. “I was freaked out. It wasn’t exactly a joy ride driving up to your house in the pouring rain with all those narrow, winding, dimly lit streets and those crazy drivers whipping down them.”

“I would imagine you’re very good at them now.”

“I’m very good at a lot of things, Mr. Taylor.”

He smiles seductively. “I’d say you are. Are you sure you don’t want to have some wine?”

The word “yes” is burning on the tip of my tongue, but just as I’m about to say it, his cell phone rings.

“Would you mind getting me my phone? It’s on the coffee table.”

He lets go of my hands. Wordlessly, I retrieve it and hand it to him. He hits answer.

“Hi, Katrina.”

My stomach twists.

He listens intently and then says, “Love you too.”

The three little words have a massive effect on me. The ache in my chest overtakes the ache between my thighs. It hurts to breathe. With an avalanche of tears forming behind my eyes, I pass on the wine.

“I’ve gotta go.” I rush the words.

“No, Zo. Don’t go!”

Leaving my massage table and a miffed Brandon behind, I hurry back to my little guesthouse. I don’t even say goodnight.

CHAPTER 9

Brandon

Thank you, boner gods, Lords of the Universe, for restoring my potency. I wasn’t sure I’d ever get it up again. I’d done some online research and it didn’t look good. Lack of libido was a common aftereffect of a traumatic brain injury and could last longer than amnesia. While I’m not pleased the last ten years of my life are still stuck in some neverland, I’m ecstatic my cock’s memory has come back. But now, I have a new problem.

Damn my assistant. She took off like the wind, leaving me horny as sin. My cock’s so hard it hurts. And don’t even get me started on my swollen balls. They’re probably so sore because I haven’t had an orgasm for ages. I still can’t remember the last time I did.

In retrospect, I should have knocked down the door of her guesthouse and given that girl what she deserved. A good spanking. Slapped some sense into that ripe ass of hers. Reminded her who’s the boss. But instead, I’m doing what the cock tease told me to do—soaking my body in my whirlpool tub.

My cock sticks up in the waist-high water like a rocketing torpedo. I stare at it. It’s big. Really big. Bigger than I remember. It belongs in a cock museum. Or The Guinness Book of Records—“The Monster of All Cocks.” I could seriously be a porn star.

The jets of bubbles gurgle in my ears, and curls of steam shoot up from the hot, sudsy water. Yeah, thank God, I can get it up again. I was worried. Worried sick. While a big flaccid dick gives a man confidence, a big erect one gives a man power.

Except my smartass assistant gave me a serious case of blue balls. She knew exactly what she was doing. And I think she did it on purpose to show me she has bigger balls than me. From the minute she showed up, she’s been fucking with my head. No pun intended. I don’t need this. With my damn amnesia, my head’s fucked up enough as it is.

My memory’s coming back slowly but surely. So, now I remember what a monster boner feels like. Or should I say, a neglected one. My raging cock is mad as hell. Berating me. “I woke up. Now, asshole, you better wake up and take care of me.”

Katrina’s going straight to her condo after she and her mother have cordials at the Polo Lounge. And that little minx assistant of mine would rather see me suffer than comply. Tomorrow, first thing in the morning, I’m going to ask Scott to bring over her contract. I bet wanking me off is written in stone. But then again, what does it matter? I’m engaged. For some reason, I keep forgetting this or at least wanting to forget.

My throbbing cock shouts out to me again. Christ. It’s threatening to fall off. I have no choice. I’ve literally got to take matters into my own hands. Desperate for relief, I wrap my fingers around my thick shaft and begin to slide my hand up and down. Harder and faster. I shut my eyes tight and imagine her magic hands following mine, picking up speed, pumping me just right. Oh, yeah! So fucking good! And then she grips the base, squeezing it while her mouth descends on the crown. She parts her full lips and covers it. Sucking and humming. The erotic sounds in my head mix with the gurgling bubbles, creating a heady symphonic combination. She goes down on my length, taking me to the hilt, and in a heartbeat, she’s bopping up and down in sync with my hand movements. I hear myself groan. She’s bringing me to the edge. Pressure is building in my groin. My cock is pulsing. Ecstasy is just a few strokes away. “Come for me, Brandon.” Her raspy voice sounds in my head, coaxing me to climax. I pump harder. Faster and more furiously. My breathing grows labored. Colors swirl behind my eyes and every muscle tenses with anticipation. Yes! I’m about to have an orgasm of epic proportions. Finally! But just as an eruption is about to rock my world, another voice interrupts my fantasy.

“Brandon, what are you doing?”

Katrina.

My cock sinks like the Titanic. I wince. The pain. The humiliation. It’s like I’ve been attacked by a weapon of mass destruction.

I snap my eyes open. She glowers at me.

“Oh, so I’m not good enough for you?” With a fling of her head, she stalks off.

Jeez. You’d think she’d be happy to see my cock at attention. Take advantage. I mean, she’s been begging me to take Viagra. Complaining about my ED. Shit. Maybe she’s the source of it. The truth: It wasn’t her hands and mouth I was fantasizing about.

They belonged to someone else. My infuriating assistant.

Zoey.

What the hell is wrong with me? I stare at my deflated cock. I’m engaged to a woman who loves me and I’m fantasizing about another who loathes me. Maybe I am the biggest dick in the world.

CHAPTER 10

Zoey

Fighting back tears, I head straight to the bathroom. I rinse my oily hands and then shower. Letting the needles of water pound on me, I stay in longer than I should, given LA’s current drought conditions. I need to wash him away. Get him out of my skin. After the lengthy shower, I towel dry myself and throw on my pajamas. Running a comb through my wet chestnut locks, I take a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My reflection makes me more depressed. I’m nothing like Katrina. I’m not supermodel beautiful nor will I ever be. At best, I’m cute with my button nose, big chocolate brown eyes, and my dimples—that is, if I ever smile again.

I look glum. The shower has done little to quell my emotional or physical pain. Giving Brandon massages has always been a struggle. When I touch him, I want to touch myself. I feel things in forbidden places. “Feeling,” said one of my massage instructors, “is the other side of the coin for touch.” But tonight was different. I aroused him. And he aroused me in another forbidden place. My heart. It was my own fault. I let myself get carried away by a fantasy. But now reality has set back in. I’m just his Plain-Jane assistant and always will be. Men like Brandon Taylor don’t go for girls like me. I’m a far cry from his type. And besides, he’s engaged…in love with someone else. America’s It Girl, no less.

Forget about him! Get him out of your head! No matter how many times I’ve said these words both aloud and to myself, I can’t. On the wall, facing my bed is a life-sized framed Kurt Kussler poster. Brandon—or should I say, Kurt in his signature pose—all six-feet-two of his superstar gorgeousness. His fingers, aimed like a gun, point at me. Get it. Got it? Good.

Brandon gave me the poster the first Christmas on the job. Please don’t think it came with any meaning. It’s what he gave to all his employees as well as fellow cast and crew members, and I was the one who had to get them gift-wrapped and delivered. All two hundred fifty of them. That was a bitch. And it wasn’t easy to get Brandon to sign each and every one of them. In one of his bad moods, he stopped after the first fifty and made me forge his signature and sign the rest. I never bothered with mine.

So the poster’s nothing special, yet it’s special to me. I wake up to it and go to sleep with it. Brandon’s in my dreams every single night. Even before I close my eyes, he’s in my mind, watching me finger myself to a state of delirious bliss.

Sitting up in my bed, I shift my vision to my hands. I study them. Brandon called them magical and beautiful. The truth is they are. They don’t even look like they belong on my body. Unlike the rest of me, my fingers are long and slender. Elegant. I inherited them from Mama. They’re definitely my best feature and the most useful. They’ve been many places.

My eyes return to the poster. My pulse quickens. My skin heats. How could one man affect me so much? The ache in my clit is greater than the ache in my heart. I can’t take it or shake my basest desire.

Desperate, I thrust my hand beneath the waistband of my pajama bottoms to that place that’s crying out to be touched. I stroke my sensitive tissues. They’re so hot and wet. I close my eyes, but Brandon’s beautiful face occupies the space in my head. What would it feel like if he touched me? Spreading my legs, I imagine his hand between them as my fingers move to my throbbing clit. I rub it vigorously, making ragged circles like a finger-painting child. My breathing grows heavy, my temperature rises, and my heartbeat accelerates. I circle harder, faster, and as I get closer to a climax, I break out into a sweat. Vibrations flood me. Behind my eyelids, violet lights strobe as I work myself more urgently. I fantasize his mouth all over my pussy, sucking, licking, flicking. Talking dirty to me. Telling me I’m sexy. Telling me: “You’re mine.” He plunges two fingers into me, his warm tongue still loving me, fucking me with relentless licks and flicks. And then in my head, I hear him whisper, “Come for me, baby,” and I fall apart at his command. Shatter into a million little pieces. My whole body trembling with spasms, I collapse back against my pillow and keep my eyes closed and my hand beneath my pajamas until I catch my breath and my heartbeat calms down. Slowly, I remove my fingers from my still pulsating pussy and peel open my eyes. My magic hands can fix my aching clit, but they can’t soothe my aching heart. Rage fills me.

Goddamn fucking poster. Jumping out of my bed, I march over to it and yank it off the wall. Mustering all my strength, I fling it across the room. It crashes on the hardwood floor with a clamorous thud. Tears blur my eyes. Shit. What the fuck did I just do? I should have just taken it off the wall and turned it around. I stumble over to it and crouch. I’ve all but destroyed it. The metal frame is dented, and the glass is shattered. Shards surround me. A fat tear falls through a crack and lands on the poster. And then I notice that except for the blistery mark my tear makes on Kurt’s lips, the poster itself is intact. I run my quivering fingers over the splintered glass, almost caressing it, and then, one by one, I gather up the shards.

“Ow!” I yelp. One of the sharp pieces digs into my middle finger—the finger that just brought me to orgasm. I watch the blood trickle down my digit to my palm. The pain is nothing compared to the pain I feel in my heart.

I used to think a girl can dream. But now that Brandon’s engaged to Katrina, it’s futile. But why am I still fantasizing about him if he’s not available? They say you want more of what you can’t have. The truth cuts me like a piece of glass: Brandon Taylor will never be mine. My heart’s bleeding too.

CHAPTER 11

Zoey

My routine with Brandon returns to normal the next day. While he swims early morning laps, I fetch him his Starbucks—an iced Grande Caffè Americano—and a hot Venti version for me. When I get back to the house, he’s already at a poolside table, wearing a thick terrycloth robe and his favorite pair of Ray-Bans. His jet-black wet hair is slicked back and his face glistens in the sun.

Setting the coffees on the table, I take the empty seat opposite him and hand him a manila folder with his schedule. He likes it printed out. I act very business-like—as if my emotional and physical breakdown didn’t happen last night. My minimal acting skills have come in handy. I refrain from asking him anything more about his dinner with Katrina and her mother or the rest of his night. To my relief, he offers no information. I’m glad the bitch is nowhere in sight, and I don’t press him for her whereabouts. If she’s not rotting in hell, I don’t want to know.

I latch onto my coffee and take a sip through the plastic flap on the lid. The rich, steamy brew seeps into my veins. Brandon eyes me. My skin prickles. It’s like ultra-violet rays are shooting out of the dark lenses of his shades and penetrating me.

“What happened to your finger?”

I’m in shock he’s noticed the Band-Aid on my middle finger.

“Nothing,” I reply, trying hard to eradicate last night’s breakdown though my finger’s still throbbing. “Just a paper cut.”

“You should be more careful.”

His voice is cold, almost reprimanding. I didn’t expect him to say, “Can I kiss the boo-boo?” but yes, be a bit more compassionate. He’s for sure in one of his bad moods.

His gaze stays fixed on my finger. “It’s still bleeding.”

I glance down. He’s right. Blood is oozing through the Band-Aid. It’s a bloody mess.

“Don’t move,” he tells me. “I’ll be right back.”

I sip my coffee and in five minute’s he’s back, holding a box of bandages and a tube of Neosporin. Setting the first aid treatments onto the table, he unwraps my nasty Band-Aid. I grimace. My jagged cut looks worst than I thought. Fiery red and inflamed.

“A paper cut?” he asks.

I splutter. “It was a thick piece of paper.”

Unsure if he believes me, I hold out my quivering finger while he squirts some of the anti-bacterial ointment onto the wound and re-bandages it. One Band-Aid over my fingertip, another around it.

I wiggle my stiff finger. Not too much motion. But he’s made it feel better. “You’re good at first aid.”

He quirks a cocky smile. “I was a lifeguard. I know how to do these things.”

“Thanks.”

Not acknowledging my small grateful word, he lifts his sunglasses on top of his head, and after a sip of his iced coffee, studies his schedule. His brows knit tightly.

“Why aren’t we reviewing more episodes of Kurt Kussler together? I thought that was the plan.”

“I think you’ve gotten the gist of it. I have many more important things to handle.”

“Like what?” he challenges me, his voice as brisk as it is confrontational.

“You’ve got to do a gazillion press conferences. Everyone in the world wants to see you’re alive and well.”

“Write up some pithy lines for me. Let them know Brandon Taylor aka Kurt Kussler is ready to kick some butt.”

“What should I say about your pending wedding to K-Katrina?” It’s so hard for me to say her name. In fact, I almost say Kuntrina.

Brandon’s face tenses. “Just tell them we’ve set a date in May. To be announced shortly.”

So, that’s what their dinner was probably about. My heart sinks to my stomach. Suspicion confirmed. They’re madly in love. I glumly mumble, “Sure.”

Sipping his coffee through the straw and oblivious to my gloom, Brandon continues to review his schedule. “Who’s this one o’clock lunch with?”

Sheesh. He is really fucked up. “Blake Burns. He’s the Head of Production for Conquest Broadcasting. All shows report to him—so technically, he’s your boss.”

“Oh,” he mutters. “Do I need to dress up?”

“No. You can go very casual. I’ll lay out a pair of freshly laundered jeans and a tee.”

“Do you want to come along?”

My stomach does a little flip. This is the first time he’s ever invited me to lunch with a network executive. Probably just more of his fuckedupness.

“I can’t. I have a lunch date.”

“You’re taking a lunch break?” he asks incredulously, cocking his brows.

I almost want to toss my coffee at him. “Seriously, Brandon. A girl’s gotta eat.” Even a dieting one.

He narrows his eyes at me. “Is it with a guy?”

I hesitate for a moment and then respond, “Yeah. A really cute one.” And then a smug smile flashes across my face. “My boyfriend.”

“Oh,” he murmurs with a downward twist of his luscious lips.

Got him!

“Have I ever met him?”

“No. You’ve never wanted to, but you should.” My smile stays on my face. Amnesia comes with its benefits.

With his brows furrowed, he takes another long sip of his iced coffee and then sets the tall cup down. “I want you to google Blake and put together a file before I leave.”

“No prob.”

“And be sure to be back here by two.”

Frowning, he stalks off. Score one for me. He fell for my white lie. On second thought, it wasn’t a lie at all.

I’m so excited about seeing Jeffrey Billings, my brother and best friend in the whole world. With our crazy schedules, it’s been next to impossible to get together. I’ve agreed to meet him at Toast, a lively, trendy restaurant on nearby Third Street.

Wearing a hot pink crew neck sweater, he’s easy to spot. I run up to him. Seated at an outdoor table, he jumps up and gives me a delicious bear hug.

“Honey, you look faa-bu-lous!” he drawls, eyeing me from head to toe. I’m wearing a tight T-shirt, a short belted skirt, and sandals. The skirt used to sit tightly on my thick waist but now it hangs loosely on my hips.

“Thanks,” I say, sitting down. “I’m on my skinny side of fat.”

“I’d say you’re on your fat side of skinny,” he counters, returning to his chair.

I laugh. Either way you look at it, I’m still not thin by Hollywood standards; in this town, an eight is a plus size. I guess I’m now what you’d call curvy. But one thing for sure, Jeffrey can always put a big smile on my face. He’s done it for years, even in the darkest times. Though by birth he’s my first cousin (Mama was his father’s twin sister), he’s always been more like a sibling. We lived nearby in Culver City and went to the same school, and when Mama died, Pete and Jo, his wonderful, big-hearted parents, took me in and made me feel like the daughter they never had. I was only five at the time so Jeffrey and I grew up together. Having a gay playmate was almost like having a big sister. We played Barbies together, and when his mom, who I’ve always called Auntie Jo, took us shopping, he picked out all my clothes and knew how to make an outfit from Sears look like a million bucks. And he threw me the best birthday parties ever—always with the most over the top themes—that somehow succeeded in making me not miss having my real parents (especially Mama) there to celebrate with me. It’s no surprise he became an event planner—and it’s even less surprising he’s LA’s top one.

“Did you go on a diet?” he asks, still in awe of my appearance.

“It was more like a cleanse. I was forced to go to some holistic spa for a few weeks while Brandon was in the hospital. The food sucked. If I ever see a chia seed again, it’ll be too soon. And alcohol was strictly forbidden.”

“Oooh!” Jeffrey sympathizes. “That’s horrible.”

“And on top of that, they forced me to work out. I’ve never sweated so much in my entire life.”

“Well, at least it paid off. You look amazeballs. Wait till Chaz sees you. He’s going to friggin’ freak.”

Chaz Clearfield is Jeffrey’s significant other. A successful fashion designer. “Is he stopping by?”

Jeffrey glances down at his vintage Mickey Mouse watch. “He should be here any minute. He’s been at Nordstrom’s firming up an order.”

“Yay!” I adore Chaz almost as much as I adore Jeffrey. They’re perfect together.

“And look! There he is.”

My eyes dart to Third Street where Chaz is dropping off his Jeep with the valet. He spots us immediately and joins us.

“Hi, beautiful,” he gushes, giving me a double-cheek kiss. And then he does a double take. “Oh my God. What did you do to yourself?”

He takes the chair next to mine. Jeffrey fills him in on my spa vacation after ordering iced teas for all of us from our waiter. The chilled beverages come quickly, and I take a sip of mine while Jeffrey blabbers on. Chaz is all ears.

“Zoeykins, you need a whole new wardrobe. You absolutely must come down to the showroom and pick some things out.”

He’s right. My clothes are all baggy on me. While I’m definitely still not the perfect Size 6 (nor will I ever be), I’ve definitely dropped a size from my normal Size 12.

“Wow! I’d love to—that is, if I can get away long enough from the tyrant.” Who, thanks to his amnesia, hasn’t noticed my new trimmer body, I add silently.

“How’s Mr. Beautiful and Bossy doing?” asks Jeffrey, who’s heard all my horror stories.

I roll my eyes. “You don’t want to know. It’s worse than before. I think he’s bi-polar. Plus, now I have to contend with barbs from his stuck up fiancée.”

“You should slap that rude bitch,” quips Chaz.

My eyes widen. “You know Katrina?”

“Spare me, yes. That bitch tried to stop my friend Jennifer from marrying Blake Burns.”

“The network Blake Burns?” Who Brandon is having lunch with this very minute.

Chaz nods. “Yup. That one.”

“Holy guacamole!” I exclaim after he tells me how she stalked and drugged him and then had the audacity to show up at their wedding and object to their nuptials. Yikes! She’s not just any bitch. She’s a veritable psycho bitch. Devious and toxic. Does Brandon know this? Should I tell him?

Jeffrey takes a sip of his iced tea. “If you ask me, honey, your psycho boss and the bitch are a perfect match. Don’t you just love that name—Bratrina?”

We all burst out in laughter. Maybe Jeffrey’s right.

The waiter returns and takes our orders. Wanting to keep my weight down, I ask for a half-order Chinese Chicken salad with the dressing on the side.

“Zoester, go for the full-size,” insists Jeffrey. “I promise you won’t gain a pound.”

He doesn’t have to twist my arm. I’m starving. I go for it.

Over a sinful piece of double fudge chocolate cake, which we share (I can’t resist), I mention that Brandon has amnesia. I got so caught up with all the Katrina dirt I forgot to share that.

“I know,” says Jeffrey.

I gulp down my mouthful of chocolate sin. “You do?”

“Pops told me.” Jeffrey’s dad, Pete, who we both call Pops, is a homicide detective for the LAPD. In addition to being my loving surrogate dad, he was the one assigned to investigate my mother’s brutal murder. The senseless death of his beloved twin sister enraged him. He swore he would hunt the gunman down and personally give him his due. No matter how hard Pops worked the case or close he came, Mama’s killer was never found. To this day, it haunts me that he’s probably still out there. My stomach churns. I can still see his face. For a split second, I’m five again and he’s pointing a gun at me. I shudder. Jeffrey’s voice hurls me out of the terrifying memory.

“He’s investigating Brandon’s hit and run accident. Given that he’s a huge star, there’s a possibility some crazy stalker tried to deliberately run him over.”

A shiver slithers down my spine. “You mean like a m-murder?” The word is hard for me to say.

Biting into another serving of the chocolate cake, he nods and then swallows. “He may want to talk to you.”

“Ooh!” coos Chaz, a total gossip hound.

There’s one last chunk of the cake remaining; Jeffrey insists it’s mine. I politely decline. I’ve lost my appetite. The thought of someone trying to kill Brandon, my Kurt Kussler, sickens me.

CHAPTER 12

Brandon

The Conquest Broadcasting Executive Dining Room is a formal restaurant filled with tables draped in white linen and Hollywood types, mostly men, dressed in either expensive designer jeans or suits. Blake Burns, whom I recognize thanks to Zoey, is impeccably dressed in the latter. He could be a movie star himself with his dashing good looks and athletic build. I’m shown to his table by the maître d’; along the way many people reach out their hands to shake mine and welcome me back. It’s hard to believe an asshole like me is so well liked.

Blake rises as I approach his table and then rounds it to give me a man hug. “Welcome back, man. You gave us a fucking scare. How’re you doing?”

Taking facing seats, I tell him I’m doing well. I decided on the way here that I wasn’t going to tell him about the amnesia. What point would that serve? I found out enough about him and Conquest Broadcasting from the file Zoey put together to fake an intelligent conversation, something that shouldn’t be too hard to do since I’m an actor. About my age, Blake, I learned, is the heir apparent to heading up all of Conquest Broadcasting after his father retires. He began his career as a male model, did some acting, and then decided he preferred being behind the camera. Upon joining his father’s company, he started up a successful porn channel, SIN-TV, which was spun off into an even more successful women’s erotica channel by his talented colleague and wife, Jennifer. The woman whose life he saved. Blake Burns, unlike Kurt Kussler, is a real life action hero.

A silver-haired waiter, in the standard white jacket and black bow tie uniform, brings us menus. “Good to see you back, Mr. Taylor,” he says warmly as he hands me mine. I guess I’m a regular around this place. Blake and I peruse the menus and order, each deciding on the Conquest Club Sandwich with a side of potato salad and some Cokes. I’m hungry as a bear. The sodas, in old-fashioned Coca Cola bottles, arrive quickly.

“Everyone was freaking out we were going to lose our number one star,” begins Blake.

“Nah, I’m the man of steel. Invincible,” I counter with a chuckle.

“That’s what I tell my wife and she actually believes me.”

I laugh again. I like Blake. He’s a real guy. A straight shooter.

He takes a chug of his Coke. “We honestly didn’t think you’d make it to the Golden Globes. Congratulations on your nomination. We’re all rooting for you.”

Thank God, I googled myself. I would have had no idea that I was nominated for Best Performance by an Actor in a Dramatic Series. I humbly thank Blake.

He takes another swig of the soda. “Are you ready to get back on the set? It was quite a challenge writing you out of the show. We almost had to shut down production. Run a couple of repeats.”

“Can’t wait. It’s a killer episode. I’ve got my lines down.” I don’t tell him that I’m still trying to figure out my character and the show. And that I haven’t finished reading the most recent script, let alone rehearsed it.

“Awesome.”

Our lunch arrives. Blake and I both dig into the overstuffed sandwiches.

“Hope you can come to the focus groups tonight,” he comments, after swallowing a biteful.

I saw those on my schedule, but forgot to ask Zoey what they were all about.

“Definitely.”

“Great. We’re testing out the idea you had for the season finale. We want to make sure it works. It’s quite a twist.”

My stomach bunches. I have no idea what it is. I’m eager to find out.

“By the way, we want to show the season finale at MIP.”

MIP? “Cool.”

“We think it’ll generate a lot excitement with our international broadcasters and licensors. You know, you’ve become a commodity…a brand.”

“And what would that be?”

“Hot sexy action hero. Women love you and men want to be you. Your Q-Score is through the roof.”

“What’s a Q-Score?”

“Remember?”

No.

“Your popularity rating. You are the number one actor in the world. You’re even more popular than Brad Pitt and Tom Cruise.”

“Holy shit!”

“Holy shit is right. We’re going to beef up our marketing and merchandising efforts. There’s a Kurt Kussler movie in the works as well as a series of books, and Megatoys approached us about developing a line of Kurt Kussler action figures. Who knows, a Kurt Kussler animated series could be next. My wife Jennifer, who’s a guru when it comes to kids’ programming, thinks that’s a great idea.”

“Wow!” I lift my Coke bottle to my lips and take a long sip while he tells me I have a hefty profit participation in all ancillary merchandising. I make a mental note to share this information with my business manager Scott. Feeling comfortable with Blake, I change the subject. Maybe he can offer me some insight into my personal life. “Do you know my fiancée Katrina Moore?”

Blake’s blue eyes darken. He pinches his lips and then responds curtly, “Yeah. What about her?”

“Do you know we’re getting married live on TV? It’s a ratings stunt for her reality show.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Brandon.”

“Getting married live on TV?”

“No, getting married to Katrina.”

I’m taken aback, but before I can ask him what he means by that, he apologizes.

“You know what, man. Forget I ever said that. It was totally out of line. I wish you and Katrina much happiness, and if we’re invited, Jen and I will try to attend.”

I ponder his interesting choice of the word “try.” Wouldn’t most people say, “love to attend” or “would be honored to attend?” Maybe, I’m reading too much into it. I mean, they’re a super busy power couple and probably have tons of equally important overlapping events. I let it go. But not soon enough.

“Well, there you are!” That voice. I recognize it immediately and so does Blake. His face goes ashen. I look to the right, and there she is striding toward us in her six-inch stilettos and a thigh-high pencil skirt. Katrina! With her bouncing hair, pearly white smile, and long-legged gait, she exudes sex and confidence. Every eye is on her.

“What are you doing here?” asks Blake before I can. His raging eyes narrow and his fists ball so tightly his knuckles turn white.

“I thought I’d stop by and say hello to the two of you.”

“How did you know I was here?” I ask as she slinks into the vacant chair next to mine.

“You shouldn’t be so careless, darling. You left your schedule at the pool.”

Before I can reply, Blake jumps in. He’s still glowering at her. “How the hell did you get on the lot?”

She tuts. “Blake, darling, does Mommy have to wash your mouth out with soap?”

Blake is clearly seething. His lips flatten into a thin, angry line.

“How did you?” I repeat. Security at the gated entrance is extremely tight. It doesn’t matter who you are.

“Easy peasy, as Blake would say. Money talks, people walk.”

She must have bribed the security guard. I bet Blake is going to fire his sorry ass.

My eyes fix on her as she bats her cat-green eyes at him. “It’s been a long time, Blakey, hasn’t it?”

Blake inhales and on the loud exhale, he says icily, “So, Kat, you’re a big star now.”

Blakey? Kat? Do they know each other intimately? Former fuck buddies? This is not the time to ask. I keep my big mouth shut.

Katrina sneers. “I would have been a bigger star if you’d picked up my show instead of that rinky-dink cable network.”

“It wasn’t a good fit.”

“I’m sure it was a better fit than your wife’s skanky little pussy.”

Blake’s cheeks flare and I can feel my own reddening. I can’t believe what I’m hearing.

“Jesus, put a lid on it, Katrina. What’s wrong with you?”

With a smirk, she slides out of the chair and saunters off. “See you later, Brandy-Poo.”

I’m mortified. How could she embarrass me like that in front of my boss? The second most powerful man at Conquest Broadcasting.

“Man, I’m sorry for that. I don’t know what got into her. Maybe she had too much to drink.” Which I know isn’t true because there was no trace of alcohol on her breath, and she sure as hell couldn’t walk in those heels sloshed.

“Don’t worry about it.”

I can’t help myself; I need to know. “Did you and she have some kind of thing?”

Blake tightens his lips once more. “My father always says: ‘Sometimes the past is better left behind.’ I’ll leave it at that.”

The irony of his words gets under my skin. If only I could remember mine. In the meantime, I’m going to find out what their story is.

CHAPTER 13

Brandon

I’ve barely stepped inside my house when Katrina comes sprinting up to me. She’s dressed in a very skimpy bright red bikini that exposes her voluminous tits and her long, toned legs that seem to extend to her armpits. Her eyes are bloodshot and her face is streaked with tears. Looks like she’s been crying.

She flings her arms around my shoulders, clinging to me, pressing her firm breasts against my pecs, so I can’t take another step without taking her with me. In her mile-high mules, she’s eye level with me.

“Let go of me, Katrina.” My voice is gruff. I’m still reeling from her mortifying behavior in front of Blake Burns.

She runs one hand along the side of my jaw and bats her eyes. “Oh, Brandon, you have the right to be mad at me. The way I behaved today was so out of line. I’m so, so, sorry. Can you ever forgive me?”

She holds me in her feline gaze imploringly. I draw in a sharp breath through my nose and exhale. “We need to talk.”

She nods. And then a seductive smile slithers across her billowy lips.

“Let’s take it outside.” Her cloying floral cologne is smothering me. I need some fresh air.

“Can I pour myself a glass of champagne first?”

“Fine.” I stab the word at her while she ambles to the kitchen with the grace of a gazelle. Her platinum mane cascades down her back and bounces along.

Five minutes later, we’re seated on my terrace, my back to the guesthouse where Zoey resides. The January air is balmy. I cut to the chase.

“So, what’s the story with you and Blake Burns?”

Seductively folding one bare leg over the other, Katrina takes a sip of her champagne. “I never really wanted to tell you about him, but I suppose I have no choice.”

“Level with me, Katrina.” My voice is authoritative. I’m all ears.

She sets the crystal flute on the small table between us. And with a lick of her upper lip, she begins.

“Blake and I have known each other almost our entire lives. Our families were best friends, and we went to the same schools right through high school. During a vacation in Capri, we fell in love. And I never stopped loving him. I thought I was destined to marry him and so did Mommy. It was a match made in heaven. Like royalty. We were practically engaged.”

Her eyes narrow. “Then that repulsive peon, Jennifer McCoy, stepped into the picture, and when he chose her over me, it totally broke my heart.”

My eyes bore into her. “Are you saying you’re still in love with him?”

She flings her head and huffs. “Hardly. I hate his guts for what he did to me. And I hate his wife even more. The bitch did something really evil and manipulative that I can never forget. Or forgive.”

“Like what?”

Her face darkens and her voice grows cold with fury. “I can’t talk about it, but let’s just say it’ll follow me everywhere.”

She brushes her long manicured nails across a faint scar below her collarbone that shimmers in the late afternoon sun. I’ve never noticed it before on account of the high necklines she favors. It looks like the remnants of a former tattoo. A five-letter name. I can vaguely make out the first letter—a “B.” “B” like in B-L-A-K-E? While curious, I fold my arms in my lap and let her continue.

“So, darling, when I found out you were having lunch today with Blake, I couldn’t resist.”

Despite her explanation, another surge of anger blasts through my chest. “It was an important business lunch, Katrina. You had no right to be there. Your behavior and the things you said totally mortified me.”

“I couldn’t help it. I was just acting out my anger.” Her pouty expression begs for sympathy. “I hope you can understand.”

No, I don’t understand, but the past is the past. Not dwelling on the irony of that thought, I blow out a breath. “Just don’t let anything like that ever happen again.”

“Is that a threat, Brandon?” Her voice is pitchy, as if she’s challenging me.

“No, it’s an order.”

Tears cluster in her cat-green eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m working on my anger issues with my therapist.”

“That’s good.” My voice is monotone.

“Can you forgive me?” She returns to the champagne.

“Yes.” I don’t tell her that I’m not going to forget about this incident. Forgetting anything is the last thing I want to do in my amnesiac state.

“Thank you, darling.” A few fat tears roll down her high cheekbones, taking some of her mascara with them. My eyes stay on her as she rises and repositions herself in front of me. Squatting down, she works the button of my jeans and then yanks down my fly. My big flaccid dick sits parked between my legs.

“What are you doing?”

“I want to make it up to you,” she purrs.

I don’t stir. And then without warning, she dumps the remainder of her champagne on my shaft, soaking my cock, my balls, and my jeans. I jolt from the sudden cold sensation.

“Jesus, Katrina. What the fuck?”

“Do you still love me?” She rolls her tongue around the circumference of my dripping wet crown.

My breath hitches. I seriously don’t know the answer to that question. And it’s like my drenched cock is rolling its eyes and saying: Don’t look at me. I have no clue.

“Show me you love me,” she lilts, gripping the base. Her billowy lips descend on my length and then make their way back up. She repeats the movements, picking up speed. My soft cock doesn’t respond. I just want to tuck it back into my jeans and get away from her.

“Dammit, Brandon. What’s wrong with you?” she growls before going down on me again.

Squeezing my eyes, I groan loudly and almost leap up from my chair. “Christ. What the hell are you doing?”

An unexpected answer. “I’m delivering your sides—the lines you need to rehearse for this week’s upcoming shoot.”

My eyes pop open. Shit. Zoey.

She slaps a folder down on the table. “I’m sorry to interrupt something so important.”

“Zo—”

She cuts me off. “I’m off to a meeting with my dad. I’ll have my phone with me so call or text me if anything else ‘important’ comes up.” In addition to air-quoting the word important, she puts a sarcastic emphasis on the last two words.

“No, wait.” My voice takes on urgency that borders on panic. Like I’m silently saying, “Please don’t leave me alone with Katrina.” My cock smarts.

Too late. She stoically marches off after her eyes clash with my fiancée’s.

Sliding my sore cock back into my soaked jeans, I jump up from my chair to tell her what happened, but lithe Katrina springs to her feet simultaneously and shoves me back down.

She snaps at me like a rabid beast. “We have business to finish up here.”

I leap back to my feet and this time I shove her out of the way.

She gasps. I curse under my breath. Zoey’s gone. I grab the file on the table.

“I’m heading back in. I’ve got lines to figure out.” And that’s not all I need to figure out. My mind’s confused; my heart’s confused; and my cock’s confused.

“Fine.” Katrina flings the word at me and then dives into the pool.

CHAPTER 14

Zoey

A trip to the precinct is just what I need to banish the image of Brandon and Katrina. Right before I caught Bratrina in that lurid sex act, I got a call from Pops, asking me if I had time to come in for some questioning. The timing was perfect.

I haven’t been here in ages. The last time I was here was when I was in high school. When the kids in my civics class found out that my father worked for the LAPD, they all wanted to see what that was like. After learning this, Pops arranged a field trip to the precinct with my teacher. My classmates loved every minute. Especially the part when they got to look through a one-way mirror and watch Pops question a suspected murderer—a wealthy woman whose millionaire husband had mysteriously been poisoned. Pops was so good at squeezing information out of the suspect. My very own Columbo! All of us gasped when the suspect broke down in tears and finally confessed everything. It was just like a scene out of CSI—of course, the husband was having a secret affair, and the vengeful wife wanted him dead to inherit all his money.

The downtown precinct is bustling with a colorful cast of characters, and phones don’t stop ringing. I walk up to the bulletproof front desk window and tell one of the busy clerks on duty that I’m here to see Detective Billings. Her name, Alma Lopez, is on her badge. I give her my name and tell her I have an appointment. She scans her computer and calls my father to let him know I’m here.

“You’re Zoey Hart, Pete’s daughter?” she asks, filling out a visitor’s badge for me.

I smile at her. “Yes.”

Her eyes brighten. “The one who works for Brandon Taylor?”

“Yeah.” There’s little enthusiasm in my voice.

Alma grows animated. “Oh my God! You’re so lucky! I’m so jealous! What’s it like to work for him?”

Taking the badge from her, I paste it on my short-sleeved tee. “Trust me, you’re much better off working here.”

At that moment, Pops bursts through the door, chomping on a fat sandwich. As usual, his shirt is rumpled with the sleeves rolled up, and there’s a mustard stain on it. Jacketless, his holster is crossed over his torso. My adoptive dad may be a loveable schlub, but there’s something so powerful about him carrying a gun. After my mother’s horrific murder, I felt he could protect me. I only wish he’d found her killer. It’s still an unsolved case that haunts us both.

“Pops!” I run up to him and give him a hug.

“Hi, babycakes,” he says with food in his mouth. “Glad you could come by. Come on back.”

Five minutes later, I’m in his office. It’s rare for any LAPD detective to have his own office, but the force felt he deserved one. Pops has been on active duty for almost forty years—the longest serving member of the department. A legend. No one has cracked as many cases as he has or brought so many heinous criminals to justice. He keeps saying he’s going to retire, but both Auntie Jo and I know that’s never going to happen.

The office is small and windowless, lit by unflattering fluorescent lighting. Some of his awards hang on the grungy walls, but they’re mostly covered with a messy array of cases in progress. His simple wooden desk is piled high with thick folders. Next to his computer is a large framed family photo—the four of us, Auntie Jo, Pops, Jeffrey, and me. And there’s also a photo of him and Mama when they were kids. Despite being twins, they look as different as night and day. Mama, frail and pale with a mop of flaming red hair; Pops, big-boned and swarthy with a crown of jet-black locks. He’s told me so many hilarious stories about their New Jersey childhoods. Poor elegant Mama was always trying to turn him into a proper gentleman, but she could never even get him to tuck his shirt in. I wish she were alive to see him now.

After that melancholy thought, I inwardly laugh. Things haven’t changed. Pops is as disheveled as ever. The clutter on the walls and on his desk goes with his personality. Buried on his messy desk is a paper plate with the other half of the pastrami sandwich along with a bottle of root beer. He sinks into his faded pleather desk chair while I take a seat in one of the two worn out upholstered chairs facing him. His office furnishings are rather decrepit, but budget cutbacks have prohibited replacements. And truthfully, knowing Pops, he wouldn’t replace them if he could.

“Late lunch,” he says, taking another chomp of his sandwich. “Want the other half?”

I’m tempted. The juicy Pastrami sandwich looks and smells so good, but I force myself to pass.

“You not feeling good or something? You look like you lost weight.”

My dad, the detective, is very perceptive. “I’m fine. I’m just watching it.” God, I’d love a bite. But I know I won’t be able to stop with just one.

Pops puts down his half-eaten sandwich. “Thanks for coming by. You know I’m investigating the Brandon Taylor hit and run.”

I nod. My stomach twists at the mention of his name. “Jeffrey told me you met with him.”

“Yeah, he couldn’t have been nicer.”

Ha! He must have met the wrong person.

“He even autographed the box of DVDs I brought along for your mother. She’s in seventh heaven.”

Jeez. How embarrassing! I suddenly feel bad I never got her a signed set. She begged me for one so many times. I just never felt comfortable asking. Leave it to my outspoken, fearless father. A total charmer.

Pops takes a long swig of his soda and then sets the bottle down. “Unfortunately, he wasn’t very helpful. The poor bloke’s got post traumatic stress and can’t remember a thing. Lucky he didn’t get killed in that accident.”

“Jeffrey told me you’re treating it as a possible homicide.”

“I have no choice. He’s a major celebrity. Something in my gut tells me someone wanted him dead.”

A shiver creeps up my spine. As many times as I’ve wanted to kill him for driving me crazy, including today, the thought of Brandon Taylor dead rattles me. Pops’s gut feelings are always spot on. A troubling thought crosses my mind. My stomach knots up and my pulse accelerates.

“Pops, am I a suspect?”

Pops laughs his hearty laugh. “Of course not, babycakes. You’re the one who found him. If you hadn’t, he would have bled to death. Plus, if you recall, you were running errands at the purported time of the accident. All the shop owners have confirmed that as well as Brandon’s gardener, who, by the way we questioned, and is not a suspect either.

Though I’ve tried to block it out, I flashback to that fateful day. Driving home from my final stop, the drycleaner, I was halfway up the private road to Brandon’s house when I spotted his lifeless body sprawled on the ground. Blood was pouring from his head. Wearing his running clothes, he was already swimming in a crimson pool. My car came to a screeching halt and so did my heart. In a panic, I leapt out of my car and rushed over to him. At the time, I had no idea what had happened—I thought perhaps he’d taken a terrible tumble—but I knew he needed help. Fast! With trembling fingers, I called 911. I cradled him in my arms as I awaited the paramedics. Tears filled my eyes. Fear filled my mind. Grief filled my heart. I talked to him. Told him to hang in there. Told him it wasn’t his time. And then I spilled my heart out. My tears trickled onto his soft face and I…

My father’s husky, Jersey-accented voice catapults me back to the moment. “You okay, babycakes?”

I nod though I feel shaken. “Yeah, I was just thinking about that day.”

“It must have been hard on you.”

“Yeah, it was.” He has no idea.

“Do you remember anything unusual about it?”

I shake my head. “It was just like any day. Brandon went for a jog. I was doing errands.”

Pops takes a deep breath. “Can you think of anyone who would want Brandon Taylor dead?”

I rack my brain and shake my head again.

“A crazy fan? An ex-assistant? An employee? Someone who works on the show?”

“No, Pops. To the best of my knowledge, everyone worships him and he’s never been stalked.”

“What’s his manager Scott Turner like?”

“A total slime bucket.”

“A murderer?”

“No, Pops, he’s slimy in that icky slick Hollywood kind of way, but that’s about it. He’s been with Brandon since the beginning of his career. He’s the last person who would want Brandon dead. He’s all about Brandon. And Brandon, in return, treats him well.”

“How much do you think he makes?”

“Not sure, but probably a couple hundred thousand dollars a year. Plus, he gets hefty bonuses. Last Christmas, he bought himself a brand new Corvette thanks to Brandon.”

“What about Brandon’s fiancée, Katrina Moore?”

The mention of her name makes my stomach churn, and once more the repulsive image of her sucking him off flashes in my mind.

“She’s a piece of work, but again no murderer. I mean, she’s marrying a superstar. The sexiest man in the world. Something every woman in the world dreams of. If that was me, I sure wouldn’t want him dead.”

If that was me. I inwardly sigh. I don’t hold a candle to Katrina. She’s Hollywood royalty. Supermodel beautiful. America’s It Girl. She may be a bitch to me, but she’s the perfect woman for Brandon. Second thoughts bombard me—maybe, I should implicate the bitch. Get rid of her!

My father bites into the other half of his sandwich. “Sure you don’t want some?”

It looks so damn delicious. I’m mentally drooling, but I pass once again. Where there’s a will, there’s a way.

My father swallows, but not before getting another mustard stain on his light blue shirt. Smiling with amusement, I hand him a paper napkin.

“Thanks, babycakes.” He swipes at the yellow blotch. “Your mother’s gonna kill me.”

I laugh while he asks me another question.

“Do you know Katrina well?”

I tell my dad just well enough to know she’s a bitch. Like Pops, I’m a straight shooter. I tell it like it is. Although I can’t say the same when it comes to my feelings about my boss.

He chuckles. “Was she involved with Brandon for a long time before getting engaged to him?”

“To be honest, I met her only once—shortly before Brandon’s accident—and then again at the hospital. Except for having me make restaurant and hotel room reservations for his hook-ups, he’s never shared his social life with me. I’ve usually found out about whom he’s seeing from the tabloids and online celebrity gossip sites.”

“Was Katrina one of his hook-ups?”

I shrug, gazing longingly at the sandwich. “I don’t know. People Magazine said it was love at first sight and a whirlwind romance.”

Pops takes another messy bite of his thick sandwich. “You know, you can’t always believe what you read.”

Pops is right, especially when it comes to the tabloids, which survive on blowing up celebrities’ lives even if it means feeding the gossip-hungry public utter bullshit. People Magazine is different. You can believe what you read in it, and I defend the periodical’s honor to my dad, the penultimate detective.

Pops chuckles again. “Your mom swears by People.”

I smile. That’s Auntie Jo for you. Like my brother Jeffrey, she’s a total celebrity hound. Brandon is number one on her list. She almost fainted when she saw that he was named People’s “Sexiest Man Alive.”

Pops wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, missing a crumb of bread on his upper lip. I reach across the desk and flick it off with a finger.

“Thanks, babycakes.” He washes the sandwich down with more of the root beer. “Have you ever watched her show?”

Opening my mouth, I point my index finger at it and feign barfing. “Once was enough. Ugh! It almost made me throw up. The only talent she has is being famous for being famous. Her spoiled rich girl antics make Paris Hilton look like Goldilocks.”

Pops picks up a piece of greasy pastrami that’s fallen onto his desk and stuffs it into his mouth. I wish I’d gotten to it first. My stomach rumbles.

“You know she’s not actually rich,” he says matter-of-factly.

My salivating eyes widen. “What do you mean?”

“She’s ten million dollars in debt. Maxed out on all her credit cards.”

“Wow! But aren’t her parents rich?”

“They used to be, but they’ve recently gone through tough times. Her father is serving time in prison for tax evasion and fraud. All his assets were seized by the feds. And his ex-wife Enid recently declared bankruptcy.”

I didn’t know this. “Did you learn anything more about Katrina?”

“Yes. She was sent to a mental institution right after high school.”

I’m surprised and not surprised. She is after all a psycho bitch. “What for?”

The hospital wouldn’t release any information to me. They gave me that damn doctor-patient privilege bullshit.”

“Maybe Chaz can give you some info. He told me Katrina stalked Blake Burns, the television executive, and drugged him.”

My father’s burly brows shoot up. He grabs a pen and writes himself a note on a yellow pad of paper. “I didn’t know that. I’ll definitely talk to him.”

“I’m sorry, Pops. I should have told you this earlier. I just found it out today.”

He scratches his full head of ebony hair. Lucky Pops, with his Irish ancestry, has not a single gray hair among them and he hasn’t lost a single strand. “So maybe she’s crazy enough to murder someone?”

“Honestly, Pops, I kind of hate her, but she’s definitely not a murderer. She’s totally in love with Brandon Taylor.”

“Do they fight?”

“I suppose they fight. All couples fight. And if you read the tabloids, celebrity couples seem to fight more than others.”

“Has she ever assaulted him?”

Other than groping him with her hands or attacking his cock with her mouth? Bile rises to my throat. I swallow it down before I say no.

With a deep breath, I compose myself. I need to end this line of questioning. I don’t want to think or talk about Katrina anymore. She makes me sick.

“Pops, you must know they’re getting married on national TV. On a special edition of her TV show in May. The wedding is going to make her a bigger household name than she already is. Send her ratings through the roof. And probably make her a shitload of money. And even if it doesn’t, why would she want to kill a man who can take care of her financially? Brandon’s loaded. He can wipe out her credit card debts and enable her extravagant lifestyle. I bet she’s already spending gobs of his money. Seriously, Pops, she’s as much a murderer as I am.” (Though truthfully, we’d both love to kill one another.)

Pops polishes off his sandwich and takes another glug of the root beer. “You’re probably right. I’m barking up the wrong tree.”

I smile. “Pops, has it ever crossed your twisted mind it was just someone driving through the neighborhood who accidentally ran Brandon over and then freaked out and took off? There are a lot of crazy drivers in the Hollywood Hills, and that’s not counting the ones who drink and do drugs all day long.”

Pops rakes his stubby fingers—the ones that have fired a gun—through his thick shiny hair. “You’re probably right. It’s just gonna be hard to find that person. Right after the accident, a city street sweeper came by and erased all tire tracks and footprints. We couldn’t even find a single hair to connect us to the suspect. We only have one clue.”

“Something captured on a surveillance camera?” Or someone.

Pops shakes his head. “I wish, but there are no surveillance cams on Brandon’s private road until you get to his house.”

“What about in the neighborhood?”

A look of frustration washes over his face. His shoulders slouch. “There was a power outage that morning. Some motherfucker moving van took down a power line, and everyone within three miles lost power.”

That happens frequently in The Hills. The outages can sometimes last for hours…until the DWP fixes the problem. Brandon’s house was probably affected that day as well though I wasn’t aware of it. I rode with him in the ambulance to the hospital and didn’t get back home till late in the night. The sound of the blaring siren resounds in my head, arousing more vivid memories. Unconscious, with his head bandaged, his face drained of all color, and his breathing labored beneath an oxygen mask, Brandon didn’t look like he’d make it. A lapsed Catholic, I prayed for him and hoped God heard my words and witnessed my tears. Losing him was unfathomable.

“Babycakes, I want to show you something.”

Pops’s voice once again jolts me out of the excruciating memory. Just like the day Mama was murdered, it’s unforgettable. I think I’ll relive it forever and ever. Forcing it to the back of my mind, I focus my eyes on my father as he yanks open a creaky desk drawer. He reaches into it and retrieves a small zip lock bag. He slides it open and shakes out what’s inside. I study the heart-shaped green object that’s now sitting in the palm of his wide hand.

“We found this close to the crime scene.”

At the words crime scene, a chill sweeps over me. Pops explains to me that even if Brandon’s accident wasn’t a premeditated murder, his hit and run could be tried as a felony because of the severe nature of his injury—punishable with a big fine and up to five years in prison. Personally, I think that’s too lenient; whoever ran over Brandon should get a much longer term.

“Do you have any clue what this is?” he asks, glancing down at the evidence. “All we know is that it’s a piece of Venetian glass from Italy.”

“It looks like it could be part of an earring or some kind of pendant. Why is it so chipped and scratched?”

“Probably, it was brushed along the street by the sweeper or it got stepped on before anyone noticed. Does it look at all familiar to you?”

I shake my head. “I don’t recognize it.”

“Is it something Katrina would wear?”

I roll my eyes at him. “Pops, I thought we were done with her. But if you really want to know, I don’t think she’d wear anything that didn’t come from Tiffany’s or one of those other fancy shmancy Beverly Hills jewelry stores.”

Chewing on his bottom lip, he rubs his dimpled chin with the thumb of his other hand. He always does this when he’s thinking or onto something. “I have a hunch that whoever ran over Brandon Taylor was wearing this.”

I play devil’s advocate. “A lot of super rich women jog up and down Brandon’s street. The housewives of Beverly Hills. It could have simply fallen off one of them. And with all their money, they may not have noticed or cared.”

“Yup. That’s a definite possibility.” I sense a tinge of frustration in my father’s voice, but know he’s not going to give up. Even though it’s now considered a cold case, he’s never stopped looking for Mama’s murderer.

I play detective. “Were you able to get any fingerprints off it?”

“No luck. The surface is too scratched.”

“That’s too bad.”

Pinching his lips, Pops puts the evidence back into the plastic bag and after sealing it, returns it to the drawer. He glances down at his watch. A wedding gift from Auntie Jo, he never takes it off. They’ve been married thirty years. The frayed brown leather band shows its age.

He pushes himself away from his desk. “Gotta go. Your mother’s made her famous pot roast and I promised I’d be home by six.”

He shrugs on his signature last century trench coat and rounds his desk as I stand up. He gives me a bear hug.

“Put some meat on those bones, babycakes. Come by one night; your mother will fatten you up.”

I laugh. The last thing former size-twelve me needs is fattening up.

“Give my love to Jo.” I pause. “And tell her I’ll work on getting her onto the set so she can personally meet Brandon Taylor.”

Pops’s face lights up like a Christmas tree. “Oh boy, you’re gonna make her night. She’d love that! That woman is totally in love with him.”

Every woman in the world is in love with Brandon Taylor. Except he’s giving his heart to only one. A sharp pang of jealousy stabs me. I hate her.

CHAPTER 15

Brandon

Goddamn LA traffic. What I thought would only take twenty minutes takes me almost an hour. The bumper-to-bumper rush hour traffic on La Cienega is a nightmare, and there’s a fender bender that slows things down even more. I seriously want to shoot the two bickering idiots who collided. There’s a reason for road rage.

When I get to the Conquest lot, I pull my Lambo into my VIP reserved parking spot and jog over to the building where the focus groups are being held. I forgot how big the lot is—practically the size of a college campus—and it takes me more time than I thought to get there. I’m late for the focus groups. Glancing down at my watch, I come to the conclusion I’ve already missed the first one with men. Dammit!

I fly into the observation room and apologize for my tardiness. Despite my lateness, all the attendees are thrilled to see me and are totally understanding. Thanks to a file Zoey left me, I recognize all their faces and know their names.

Seated on an oversized leather couch with his long legs outstretched on the coffee table and a sandwich on his lap, Blake smiles.

“No problem, man. Grab a sandwich and take a seat. Libby’s about to start the women’s group.” He chomps into his sandwich.

Before I can join him, the others in the room all jump up and successively give me man hugs.

“So good to see you, Brand-O,” says Doug DeMille, the show’s slick Executive Producer.

“You wouldn’t believe how many emails and letters we’ve gotten wanting to know when you’d be coming back,” chimes in Trevor Reeves, the suited-up Blake wannabe VP of Drama.

“It sucked dick having to write you out of the script,” quips Mitch Steiner, the show’s scruffy head writer.

I laugh at his light-hearted gripe and head over to the platter of sandwiches on the credenza. I help myself to a tuna on rye and grab a Coke. Setting the paper plate and soda can down on the coffee table, I take a seat next to Blake.

“How’s it been going?” I ask him after taking a bite of the tasty sandwich.

“Great. The men’s group was really receptive to your story idea.”

I still don’t know what the hell that is, but I don’t ask him. I look through the wall-to-wall one-way mirror and focus my attention on the women’s group in progress. There’s a total of nine respondents, various ages and ethnicities. I’d say the youngest is in her twenties, the oldest in her fifties. From what I’ve learned, Kurt Kussler has widespread appeal, the core viewers being 18-49. At the head of the table sits a bright-eyed woman with a mop of copper curls, likely in her twenties. Addressing the group of women, she must be Libby, the group moderator.

“Remember, there are no right or wrong answers. What matters are your true and honest opinions.”

Her voice is warm but authoritative. While she continues to explain focus group rules and regulations, Blake tells me the group is composed of “heavy” Kurt Kussler viewers.

“What does that mean?” I ask after swallowing a glug of Coke.

“They watch the show three or more times a week.”

My eyes widen with shock. “But it airs only once a week.”

Blake fills me in. “These women record and watch it over and over. They also download old episodes. They can’t get enough of Kurt Kussler.”

Holy shit! I guess they can’t, I muse as Libby segues into the first discussion question.

“Okay, ladies, what do you think of the show Kurt Kussler?”

Despite being told to talk one at a time, the women break out into pandemonium. I hear a cacophonous chorus of “Oh my God! The best show ever! I love it!”

Reminding the women not to shout out all at once, Libby launches into a series of questions about what they like and dislike about the show.

The long and short of it:

Likes: Everything. Especially the lead character Kurt. They love the action-packed stories and all the flashbacks of him and his late wife Alisha. They also adore the secondary characters, especially Kurt’s faithful assistant Mel.

Dislikes: Kurt’s nemesis, The Locust, whom they love to hate. And the fact they have to wait a week for the next episode. A couple of women complain about my recent absence on account of my accident. They’re all relieved to hear that I’m okay and will be in all the new upcoming episodes.

After a quick sip of her bottled water, Libby tells the group they’re doing a great job and focuses her questions on the character I play.

“Okay, ladies. Let’s talk a little bit about the character, Kurt Kussler.”

Again, another outburst.

“Oh my God, sex on a stick!”

“I love him!”

An older woman fans herself. “Holy hotness Batman. He’s so amazing!”

“Totally!” gush several respondents in unison.

“What about Brandon Taylor, the actor who plays the part?” asks Libby.

Yet another uncontrollable outburst. A few of the women look like they’re going to swoon.

“Oh my God. I’d kill to meet him!” pants one.

A shiver skittles up my spine. I’m sure she doesn’t mean that literally, but the words of Detective Billings circle in my head. Would some crazy fan actually do that?

Another woman suspiciously stares at the one-way mirror. “Is he sitting behind that mirror watching us?”

Before Libby can respond, the women start shrieking. I swear they sound orgasmic. They wave and blow kisses. One even jumps out of her seat and presses her lips against the glass. She’s practically in my face. I feel myself flushing. On my next breath, they’re all out of their seats and peeking through the window in search of me.

Blake laughs. “Guess they’re infatuated with you.”

Obsessed is more like it. They’re like a pack of wild dogs in heat.

Convincingly denying my presence, Libby tells the ladies to sit back down and brings order to the unruly group. She continues to probe about my character’s appeal and then moves into a discussion about the other characters. After talking about Kurt’s late wife Alisha, she focuses on my assistant, Melanie, who I call Mel.

“I love her,” says one respondent.

“She’s so cute and funny,” says another.

“And she cares so much about Kurt,” adds yet another.

“I feel sorry for her,” comes the voice of the youngest respondent.

“Why is that?” asks Libby, totally poker faced.

“Because she’s madly in love with Kurt.”

“Do the rest of you agree?” Libby throws out the question to the group.

“Totally!” the respondents shout out in unison.

“Does Kurt know Mel is in love with him?”

The women chime in one after another.

“Maybe.”

“Not sure.”

“Yes. But he’s too in love with Alisha and feels guilty.”

“That’s what I think. He’s suppressing his feelings.”

It takes no prodding for the other respondents to agree. I listen carefully to what the insightful women are saying. The image of my own assistant Zoey unexpectedly flashes in my head, and it puts a smile on my face. The smile quickly fades. I’m sure she hates me. I treat her like crap.

Blake’s voice snaps me out of my thoughts. “Here comes the big question.”

Libby: “Okay, listen up. How would you feel if Kurt and Mel got together?”

“You mean, like fell in love with each other?” asks one of the respondents.

Libby nods. “Yes.”

The women once again break out into orgasmic shrieks. They talk over each other, but I understand every word.

“Oh my God! That would be amazing!”

“I would love that!”

“How ’bout like yesterday!”

“I’m dying for them to kiss!”

“That would be so hot! Mel deserves happiness. So does Kurt.”

“Why can’t it be me?”

After a few more similar responses, Libby wraps up the group. She thanks the helpful participants and then hands out envelopes with their compensation. While the envelopes get passed around the table, she reaches beneath it and retrieves a large box. She stands up and sets it in the middle.

“I have one more thing for you…Kurt Kussler sweatshirts.”

The women shriek yet again and go at the box of sweatshirts like vultures. Thanking Libby, virtually every one of them slips their sweatshirt on before departing.

Two minutes later, a beaming Libby steps into the observation room.

“Great job, Libby,” Blake commends.

The show execs second the motion.

Her smile widens. “Thanks. I think you got the answer you were looking for.” Her eyes zero in on me. “Brandon, viewers love your idea.”

My ears perk up as she continues.

“Of having Kurt finally realize he’s in love with his assistant Mel.”

So, that was my story idea. I wonder what inspired it. Before I can utter a word, Executive Producer Doug opens his mouth.

“So, Brandon, are you still up for writing the season finale? You said you wanted to.”

I did? I gulp. “Yeah, sure. It’s my idea.”

Blake smiles broadly. “That’s great. We’re going to run it as a two-hour special and promote the shit out of it.”

Christ. What have I gotten myself into? I don’t think I’ve ever written one word of a script. How am I going to do this?

Doug picks up on my anxiety. “Brandon, don’t stress out. We’re all going to work with you.” He turns to Mitch. “Mitch and his team will be there every step of the way.”

Mitch gives me a thumbs up. Maybe I should ask him to write the script, and I’ll dot a few i’s and cross a few t’s.

Trevor, the network executive, looks up from his cell phone. “I already texted the Publicity Department.” He smiles triumphantly. “They’re on it. Your writing debut will be headline news in tomorrow’s trades.”

“Great,” says Blake.

Not great. I’m doomed. There’s no backing out. I call on my acting skills and bullshit a couple of ideas I have for the episode.

“I’m going to end the episode with a passionate kiss between Kurt and Mel.” I pause searching my mind for more. Bingo! “And one of them will have their life in jeopardy.”

“The Locust?” asks Trevor.

“Fantastic! A killer cliffhanger!” exclaims Blake before I can respond. “Our viewers are going to love it! The ratings will go through the stratosphere, and they’ll be salivating for more.”

Kiss-up Doug pats me on the back “Brandon, I’ve got to hand it to you. At first when I heard your idea, I had my doubts, but now I’m totally convinced. I have to ask you—what inspired that twist?”

I stare at him blankly and stammer, “I don’t remember.”

I truly don’t. Damn my amnesia. Maybe I discussed my storyline idea with Zoey and she knows. Mental note: Talk to her.

Blake packs up his briefcase. “Listen, everyone, one last thing…I don’t want any of you to share what’s going to happen on the season finale with anyone. And I mean anyone. Especially your co-workers. I want this to be top secret. It stays in this room. You’ll each be receiving a non-disclosure agreement from Legal tomorrow. Trevor, take care of that.”

Blake’s soldier readily agrees.

Well, I guess that means I can’t discuss my script with Zoey. That sucks. She could be helpful since she knows the show so well. Read over what I’ve written and make suggestions. Even fix lines and typos I miss. Take dictation. My stomach tenses at the daunting task that lies ahead. Will the action hero make it as an action writer?

With this ponderous question weighing on my mind, I follow Blake to the exit door. As I’m about to split, Libby corners me.

“So glad to finally meet you. Give my best to Zoey.”

My brows shoot up, “You know her?”

“Yes. My brother Chaz is dating her brother.”

“I didn’t know that.” The truth is I don’t know much about Zoey at all.

“I’m surprised she never told you.”

I heckle. “Maybe she mentioned it once, but I must have forgotten.” That’s likely the truth too.

Blake, checking his briefcase before he leaves, chimes in. “Libby and Chaz happen to be my wife’s best friends.”

Confused, I say, “Five degrees of separation.” Part statement, part question.

Libby corrects me. “In this town, it’s more like two.”

I laugh lightly. She’s right. Given her connections, I bet she knows my fiancée. I give it a shot.

“Do you know my fiancée, Katrina Moore?” I ask after Blake and the others take off.

She snickers. “Sure. Everyone knows your fiancée. She’s America’s It Girl.”

“I mean, do you know her personally?”

She gathers up her belongings. “I have to go. I want to start writing up the focus group report while the findings are fresh in my mind.” She extends her right hand, the one that’s not holding a giant tote bag. “Really, so great to finally meet you, Brandon. And way to go on the season finale story direction. I can’t wait to see the episode.”

I shake her hand. My mother always said if you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say it at all. Libby totally avoided my question. There’s no doubt in my mind she has nothing nice to say about Katrina. Does anyone?

Five minutes later, I’m back outside. The night air is crisp and I walk briskly back to my car. Ideas for the season finale are already spinning in my head. The idea of Kurt Kussler finally acknowledging his feelings for his assistant Mel feels right to me. With all the emotional and physical obstacles my alter-ego faces, I just don’t know how he’s going to get there. I only wish my assistant Zoey could help.

CHAPTER 16

Zoey

I have a terrible case of the uglies. I’m not talking a bad hair day, major zit, or bloat. I’m talking hate, jealousy, and anger. I hate Katrina. I’m jealous of her. And I’m angry with myself for feeling the way I do.

It’s seven o’clock. Brandon must be back on the Conquest Broadcasting lot watching the Kurt Kussler focus groups. After my meeting with Pops, I came home and put together a file of the people who would be attending from the network and show. Rather than reviewing it with him face to face, I texted him and told him that I was leaving it on the coffee table. He texted back with one word: Fine. While I should have been relieved, disappointment rippled through me. I was expecting him to ask me to meet with him. Wishful thinking. I’d set myself up for a letdown. An emotional slap in the face. Reality stung. He was probably too busy fucking Katrina. Finishing what they’d started in the afternoon.

That tormenting image moves to the back of my mind as I picture the focus groups. I wish I could be there and hear what viewers think about Kurt. I did a focus group once when I was a masseuse—to test out a new line of aromatherapy oils and lotions. It was a lot of fun. I got to give my opinions and I even got paid one hundred dollars. Plus, the beauty supply company gave all the participants a bagful of their expensive products.

I imagine what it would be like to be in the Kurt Kussler focus group. While I change into some comfy sweats, I play a silly game in my head: Intimate Focus Group of One.

Moderator: “What do you think about the character, Kurt Kussler?”

Me: “Oh my God. He’s so sexy. Every word that comes out of his mouth makes me swoon.”

Moderator: “Be more specific. What exactly do you like about him?”

Me: “His sultry voice. His gorgeous body. Those piercing violet eyes. The way he moves. His fearlessness. His passion.”

Moderator: “Is there anything you don’t like about him?”

Me: “I can’t think of anything.”

Moderator: “What about the actor playing the part?”

Me: “You mean Brandon Taylor?” (I say his name to myself dreamily.)

Moderator: “Yes. What do you think about him?”

Me: “He’s perfect…I mean, for the part.”

Moderator: “Is there anything you don’t like about him?”

Me: “Just one thing. He can never be mine.”

While the moderator laughs at my response in my head, hopelessness sweeps over me. I curl up on my bed with my Kindle and some erotic romance I downloaded before my spa “vacation.” I can’t get past the first paragraph. My mind jumps back to that unfortunate encounter. All I can think about is what I saw. Fucking Katrina turning on the tears and then sucking Brandon off. Believe me, I know fake tears and Katrina’s were the premium crocodile type. But Brandon fell for them and then fell for her blowjob big time. The scene, culminating with his ecstatic groan of relief and his impassioned expression, plays again and again like it’s on a loop.

Stop it, Zoey. Stop it! You’re a chunky, lowlife assistant who gets lost in the crowd. Brandon has never looked at me as anything more than his go-to girl. His personal slave. Sure, the slave driver’s been a little nicer, but that’s likely because he’s lost his mind. Maybe he’ll remember…

One hour later, I’m still on the first page of the book. Make that the first sentence. I just can’t focus. I need to clear my head. Maybe chill outside…inhale the cool evening air…and watch the lights of the city twinkle like stars.

Once outdoors, I pick a chaise by the deep end of the pool and stretch out. The mid-January night air is chilly, easily in the forties, and I’m glad I threw on my treasured Kurt Kussler sweatshirt. It was another Christmas gift from Brandon—again nothing special since he gave one to everyone in the world. But no one wears Kurt Kussler on their heart the way I do. My ventricles thrum.

I inhale an invigorating deep breath of the crisp, quiet air. On the exhale, all the tension of the day dissipates. A much needed peacefulness washes over me. Brandon’s property is a little bit of heaven so high above the hustle and bustle of the City of Angels below. Lit with soft pastel lights, the heated pool shimmers, throwing off a cloud of steam, and blends in beautifully with the canvas of the twinkling LA skyline. Numerous photographers and set designers have begged to shoot up here, but Brandon always makes me turn them down. He enjoys his privacy.

Talking about privacy, it looks like I have company. A tall, lean figure in a long white robe slinks around the pool, moving like a lioness. Katrina. Unaware of my presence, she shrugs off her robe at the edge of the deep end. My eyes stay riveted on her. I’m in awe of her beauty and her grace. The full moon illuminates her flawless porcelain skin, long sinewy muscles, and broad sculpted shoulders. She’s wearing a sleek white tank bathing suit that’s cut to make her impossibly long legs look longer and to bring out every sensuous curve of her perfectly proportioned body. The slender five-foot nine beauty looks like a goddess. The perfect mate for a sex god like Brandon. I watch as she gathers up her golden mane into a high ponytail, lowers her goggles over her eyes, and then lifts her long, toned arms above her head into a diving position. Without hesitation, she springs off the side of the pool, headfirst into the water. Her arched form is perfect, elegant just like her, and she meets the water with only the tiniest of splashes. She immediately segues into a graceful yet powerful breaststroke, lifting her head minimally for a breath of air. Swimming lap after lap, she looks like a siren. I can’t take my eyes off her.

About twenty swift laps in, she catches sight of me on a breath. She swims my way to the edge of the pool. Lifting her goggles atop her head, she rests her elbows on the ledge and meets my gaze. A wicked glint lights her cat-green eyes.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t the gopher.”

I simmer. “My name is Zoey.”

“Just hanging out?”

“Yeah, just hanging out.”

“You should come in for a swim. The water is warm and delicious. And God knows, you sure could use the exercise.”

The insult stings, but I bite back my tongue. “I’m not dressed for a swim.” And it’s not my thing.

“Just take off your clothes and go for a skinny dip. Or should I say fatty dip.” She laughs at her own cleverness.

Rage whips through my bloodstream like an angry cobra. I want to sink my fangs into her. But I can’t. She’s my boss’s fiancée.

“Katrina, I’m going to head in.”

Her face darkens. “Please don’t. We need to have a little chat.”

“There’s nothing to chat about.”

Her eyes narrow into poisonous arrows. “I don’t like you hanging around Brandon so much. I want you to stop it.”

“That’s my job and I don’t take orders from you.”

“Well, you better get used to it because soon I’m going to be the boss of this house.”

I’ve had enough. “I’m leaving.”

Katrina scowls at my defiance. “Show a little respect, Zo-eeeey.”

“Excuse me.” I push myself off the chaise to a standing position.

“Don’t leave me.”

I don’t respond and start to walk away.

“Excuse me. Do you have a hearing problem? I said not to leave.”

On my next step, I feel a cold clamp clutching my ankle. I look down. It’s Katrina. I try to free my foot from her grip, but her hand grasps it tight like a shackle.

“Let go!” I yell, struggling to free myself.

“Bitch! You’re not going anywhere.”

Tightening her grip, she yanks my ankle so forcefully I lose my balance, and on my next breath, I’m flying into the deep end of the pool. I hit the water hard and open my mouth to scream, but as I go under, the warm salt water rushes in, choking me, burning my throat. Tumbling in all directions, I somehow manage to rise to the surface.

“Enjoy your little swim,” snickers Katrina as she hoists herself out of the pool.

Flailing, I plead, “Don’t leave me.”

She looms above me and scoffs. “Funny, that’s just what I said to you.”

My head goes back under. Water rushes through my mouth and my nose, this time filling and searing my lungs. I frantically wave my hands and kick my legs in all directions. I rise to the surface again, only to see Katrina loping toward her robe. Terror fills me.

“Katrina,” I shout out. “Come back! I can’t swim.”

She ignores me. Panic sets in.

Oh, God! I’m drowning! I’m going to die the same way my mother did.

The weight of my soaked sweatshirt—and pure panic—pulls me under again. I try breathing through my nose, only to have more water break in and enter my lungs. The terrifying cycle repeats itself. I manage to surface, but it’s only a few seconds until I’m back under. More water gathers in my lungs, permeating and burning every crevice.

Gasping for air, I resurface, my head barely above the water. I struggle not to sink back under, but I’m literally and figuratively in over my head. I shout out another desperate plea for help. I glimpse Katrina, smirking. Tears of despair gather in my eyes.

In full-blown panic mode, my mind races. Think, Zoey. Think! If I could only grab on to the edge. It’s my only hope. But all my thrashing is pulling me farther and farther away, closer to the middle of the pool. I feel helpless and hopeless. And I’m growing exhausted.

This time when I go under, I squeeze my eyes shut. Maybe it’s just a nightmare. A bad dream. This can’t be happening to me. No, it can’t be! It’s not my time. I try to wish it away. But as more water seeps through my lungs, my horrid reality sets back in. I don’t know how to swim. The pool is my nemesis. I’m a drowning fool.

When my head slices through the water, I blink open my eyes and see Katrina hovering over me. A smug smile plays on her lips.

“Katrina, please! Help me!” I choke. Tears pour from my stinging eyes.

She sneers. “You are so pathetic.”

I grow desperate. “Help! Help! Help!” Maybe God will hear me and rescue me.

He doesn’t because after my next fading cry for help I’m under again. My lungs are aching. It feels like my chest is going to burst because the air wants to come out so badly. But I don’t want to let it go. It’s the only air I have. For the first time, I notice swirls of colorful lights beneath the water. Suddenly, I feel like I’m suffocating, drowning in a sea of Kool-Aid. And then, a peacefulness washes over me. I’m floating. I belong to the water now. To my astonishment, I see my mother’s serene face, her long Celtic-red hair fanned out all around her. She’s floating toward me, her slender arms extended with those beautiful fingers beckoning me. I reach out for them. Oh, Mama! You’ve come back for me. We’re together again!

“Baby girl, I’m going to take you to Papa.” Her melodic voice ripples in my ears.

A vortex of white light shrouds me and then I sink into a black abyss.

CHAPTER 17

Brandon

After the focus group, I drive straight home. Before I dive into the season finale, I need to finish reading the script that’s shooting this week and go over my lines. In just two days, I’ll be on the set again, something that both excites and unnerves me.

I pull my car into my garage and head into my adjoining house. I step into the kitchen and go straight to the fridge. I swing open the door and pull out a beer. Then, I meander to the living room. The sides that Zoey printed out are still on the coffee table where I left them. Twisting open the bottle cap, I sink into the couch and take a swig.

I haven’t seen my assistant since the Katrina incident. After coming back from her meeting with her father, she avoided me like the plague and figured out a way to get all my requests done without having to see me. Maybe I should have asked her to undress me, but the smart-mouth would have probably told me: “Taking your clothes off is not part of my contract.” Nah-nah-nah-nah! The truth, disrobing me probably isn’t one of her job requirements. Whoever negotiated this contract should have their ass fired.

My eyes shift to my sides. An uplifting thought crosses my mind. It’s almost a light bulb moment. I can ask her to rehearse my lines with me. She told me she does that as part of her job. Setting the beer down next to the sides folder, I slip my phone out from my jeans pocket and text her.

I need u to help me with my lines. I’m home.

I hit send and wait for a response. Nada. The little tease is playing games with me again. Tick. Tick. Tick. My patience is wearing thin. I text her again.

COME NOW!

My cock twitches as I type those two shouty words. And my pulse quickens. Why does this girl affect me? Considering Katrina and the gorgeous women I’ve been associated with in the past, she’s definitely not my type. Plus, she’s got the bristly personality of a porcupine. I’m always waiting for her to shower me with quills. Yet, inexplicably, I’m attracted to her—her lush curves and her sharp wit. Her fine ass and sass trump Katrina’s fine bones and class.

Once again, she doesn’t respond. From where I’m sitting, I can glimpse her little house and the lights are out. Maybe she’s sleeping and doesn’t hear her phone. Or has it turned off. Or maybe she’s out with her boyfriend again. The unsettling thought rattles me. Mental note: Talk to her tomorrow and make it crystal-clear she must tell me where she is and what she’s doing at all times. Maybe throw in some restrictions. Like you can’t see your boyfriend while working for me.

It’s late. Taking another chug of beer, I remove my sides from the folder and begin to study my lines. Repeating them over and over. Forget it. I take a deep, frustrated breath. I’ve gone over this scene a dozen times today, and I’m just not feeling it. And it’s shooting in just a couple days. It’s a flashback—a heavy-duty love scene between Kurt and his late wife Alisha. It takes place in their shower. It’s not like there are many lines. More moans and groans than words. But I can’t seem to instill the few lines I have with any real emotion and make them convincing. I sound passive when I should sound passionate. Apathetic when I should sound orgasmic. Have I lost it?

Rehearsing the lines again, I have a small memory breakthrough. I hear the husky voice of my acting coach, Bella Stadler, telling me to draw from experience. Bring what you’ve lived to every part you play. If you need to feel sad and cry, think about your pet dog or a loved one that died. Thinking about putting down my lab Buddy or my parents’ fatal car crash is not going to help me. This is a love scene, a very sensuous one. From what I’ve read, me-the-player never did love…well, up until Katrina. I’ve loved her enough to ask her to marry me and exchange “until death do us part” vows, but still cannot remember a damn thing about our history or relationship. Thanks to my amnesia, it’s a void in my life. I feel nothing toward her. Dig deep, I tell myself. I try to remember. America’s It Girl doesn’t do it for me. Nothing comes to mind.

Halfway into my next line, screams for help steal my attention. I listen carefully. A woman’s voice; the cries grow louder. They’re coming from the pool area. It must be Katrina. She told me she loves to take late night swims. My panic button sounds. Something’s wrong. Very wrong. Dropping the pages of the script, I fly out of my house.

Adrenaline is pumping through my veins. I arrive at the pool in no time. Breathing hard, I need to reset my mental button. Katrina is there, but she’s not the one in trouble. It’s Zoey. Her body is floating across the surface of the water. I brush past my dumb-founded fiancée and, fully clothed, jump in. With a few adrenaline-powered strokes, I reach my assistant and immediately flip her onto her back and then manage to drag her through the water to safety. Cradling her in my arms, I hoist her lifeless body out of the pool onto the cement deck. In a rapid heartbeat, I’m by her side on my knees. All color is drained from her angelic face; she’s as limp as rag doll.

“Zoey!” I shout out. No response. “Zoey!” Then it hits me.

Panic grips me by the balls. “She’s not breathing!” I say aloud while a half-amused Katrina with her arms folded casually looks on.

“Puh-lease. It’s just an attention-seeking act,” she snips.

I think my fiancée is wrong. Not wasting a second, I begin to administer CPR. Having been a lifeguard before I was an actor, it’s something I know and remember how to do. Parting Zoey’s bowed, bluish lips, I immediately cover them with mine and breathe into her mouth. Mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. The kiss of life.

“C’mon Zoey, breathe,” I plead as I take a brief reprieve to catch my own breath. Renewed with oxygen, my mouth goes back down on her hers. I resume breathing into it. My sinking heart almost beats out of my chest.

“C’mon, Zoey,” I pray silently.

Nada.

CHAPTER 18

Zoey

“Zoey.”

It’s God. His warm lips are breathing life back into me. His strong hands pump my heart rhythmically.

“Breathe, Zoey, breathe!” The heavenly voice is louder, more desperate. He pumps me harder, faster, his soft lips touching down on mine once again.

“C’mon, Zoey!

All life is ebbing out of me. I’ve gone to a higher place.

“Jesus Christ!”

He’s called out his name. I’m with Mama. I’m His.

***END OF PREVIEW***

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THAT MAN 1

NELLE L’AMOUR

ABOUT

THE USA TODAY BESTSELLER! “Funny, sexy perfection. Equal parts Tangled and Beautiful Bastard.” Be prepared to laugh, cry, and swoon!!

There’s a new beautiful player in town…

Blake Burns, the sexy head of SIN-TV, who goes through women like some go through water. Until he meets Jennifer McCoy, his outspoken new assistant and development executive.

Newly engaged Jennifer has no idea that her devastatingly gorgeous new boss is the man she kissed, blindfolded, in a game of Truth or Dare. That kiss, that man, that beautiful stranger she cannot forget.

Blake hasn’t been able to stop thinking about that kiss either…and he’ll do anything to win Jennifer—even if it means being a beautiful bastard and breaking all the rules.

Copyright © 2014 by Nelle L’Amour

Kindle Edition

All rights reserved

First Edition: April 2014

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be re-produced in any form or by any means without prior written consent of the author, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

To That Man in my life—my husband who still loves me no matter how much time I spend writing.

CHAPTER 1

Jennifer

“Truth or Dare, Jen,” challenged Chaz, my one and only gay boyfriend. “Have you had multiple orgasms with Bradley?”

Bradley Wick was my fiancé. We’d gotten engaged a few nights ago though the ring was still coming. My friends had spontaneously taken me out to Greystone Manor, one of Hollywood’s hottest clubs to celebrate. The group at our VIP table included college classmates and my very best friend in the world, Libby Clearfield, Chaz’s twin sister. Leave it to Chaz to get us into this impossible-to-get-into celebrity hangout. Libby’s brother was one of LA’s up-and-coming fashion designers. Doors opened to Chaz. The world was his oyster.

Chaz repeated the question as if I had deaf ears. My circle of friends oohed and aahed. I felt myself flush. Turn the color of the strawberry margarita I was drinking. The answer to that question was on the tip of my tongue. A single word. “Dare.” I wasn’t telling. Truth: I’d never had an orgasm with Bradley. Not a single one.

Chaz’s boyishly handsome face lit up. He seemed pleased with my response. The disappointed sighs from the others at the table made it clear they were way more interested in hearing about my sex life than in watching me make a total fool of myself. Whatever. I was a fair player and was going to have to live up to the challenge.

“Okay, so what’s my dare?” I asked Chaz.

A wicked glint flickered in his chocolate-brown eyes. “You have to kiss the man over there.”

What? “Which man?”

“That man sitting at that table for two in the corner.”

My gaze followed his gesturing finger across the opulent, crowded club to a corner table close to the dance floor. I eyed a man seated by himself, his back to me. One arm was angled upward, so he was probably drinking a cocktail or eating something. The dark suit he was wearing looked expensive, and though it was hard to gauge how tall he was, his erect posture and broad shoulders suggested he was likely over six feet and built. His thick dark hair, styled in that trendy mussed up way, brushed his collar. I summed him up in an instant. Some filthy rich player looking for a hook-up. Okay. I could handle him. It was just a dare. A silly game. And I was sloshed.

I rose to my feet. And so did Chaz.

“Let’s make this a real challenge,” he crooned with a fiendish grin. In a flash, he yanked off his Burberry plaid tie, and the next thing I knew, it was tied tightly around my eyes. I was unable to see a thing.

My table of friends went crazy, with shit-faced screams of approval. Okay. So, blinded, I was going to have to make my way across the bustling nightclub to that man’s table, find him, and then kiss him.

“On the lips,” instructed Chaz.

Gah! What had I gotten myself into? “No way,” I pleaded, my voice hoarse from all the alcohol. I’d lost track of how many margaritas I’d consumed.

“Way!” shouted the group in unison.

To my absolute horror, Chaz spun me around several times. When he stopped, I was dizzier than a lush on a three-day binge. I swayed on my feet and had no clue about my bearings. Loud, pulsating techno music thrummed in my ear.

“Will someone at least tell me which direction to head in?” I asked, teetering between laughter and anxiety. I’d had one too many drinks. Had I not, I would be running out of this joint, blindfold and all.

Gripping my shoulders, Chaz pointed me in the direction of my target. I took small hesitant steps in my heels, my friends guiding me with roars of laughter. “That’s it . . . to the right . . . no to the left . . . you’re getting closer . . .”

If I wasn’t so smashed, I would have felt enormously embarrassed, stumbling and fumbling through this chic club, blindfolded. Along the way, I felt up some big-boobed girl, knocked over a bottle of something super expensive, and bumped into a server carrying a tray. Actually, this wasn’t too bad given how accident-prone I was. Most of these encounters were met with giggles, but there were also a few what-the-fucks. Though blindfolded, I could feel people staring at me. My skin prickled. I knew now what a blind person felt like going through life. A bolt of compassion shot through me.

“Just two more steps to the right,” I heard Chaz shout out.

With my arms outstretched, I did as he directed, and suddenly my fingers were tangled in a thick wad of silky hair. It must be him. He didn’t flinch or say a word.

“Kiss him, kiss him!” I heard my friends chanting in the distance.

Oh, God. What was I going to do? I couldn’t let them down or I’d never live it down. I’d come this far. Without overthinking, I blindly ran my hands over my victim’s face. His skin was soft with a fine layer of silky stubble, and his features were distinct and defined—a straight, manly nose; a strong, slightly clefted chin; and above it, a set of lush, velvety lips. I lingered on his lips, tracing them with my fingertips, building up the courage to touch down on them with my own.

“I hope you don’t mind, but I’m playing a game of Truth or Dare, and I have to kiss you.” God, how ridiculous I must sound and look with my blindfold.

I took my victim’s silence as a sign he was willing to play along. Okay, here goes. Clutching his angular jaw between my hands, I bent down to kiss him. But before I could latch my lips onto his, he rose and, in one swift move, crashed his lips onto mine.

Oh. My. God. A heat wave shot through me. It was one of those kisses like in a movie. Fierce, delicious, passionate. Opened mouth and oh so consuming. And he tasted divine—the sweet taste of champagne lacing his breath. He bit my upper lip, forcing me to part them, and plunged his warm, velvety tongue inside my mouth. His tongue instantly found mine and they entwined, dancing like they’d been together forever. He tugged hard on my ponytail, yanking back my head, and coiled it around his hand, tearing at my roots. The delicious pain mixed with the delicious pleasure of his kiss, sending a rush of erotic sensations through me. Every nerve ending was a sparking fuse. My breathing grew shallow. Already lightheaded, I was now borderline delirious. I’d never been kissed by a man like this before. I didn’t want him to stop. What was wrong with me? I’d just gotten engaged.

In the background, I could vaguely hear my friends cheering and whistling. “Go, girl!” For sure, head cheerleader Chaz.

My inner voice told me to stop, but no matter how much I willed it, I couldn’t get my lips to part from his. In fact, I deepened the kiss, pulling him closer to me by the collar of his shirt. The material felt expensive, like the gazillion thread Egyptian cotton kind. Everything about this man tasted and felt divine. He squeezed my ponytail tighter. I moaned into his mouth and he moaned back. God, the throaty sound of him was sexy!

And then suddenly, as fast as he had plunged his tongue into my mouth, he withdrew it. In tandem, he let go of my hair. I gasped, desperate for more.

“Wait!” I cried out, my hands grappling for him. Instead of finding him, I found myself knocking over a chilled glass. My heightened sense of smell told me it was his champagne.

“I’m sorry,” I croaked, struggling to tear off the tight, blinding tie. “I’ll buy you another.” Finally, I undid the tie. I blinked once. He was gone, and I was painfully all alone. Where did he go? My eyes frantically searched the pulsating crowd, darting left and right, but he was nowhere to be found. Even if he was facing me somewhere, staring into my eyes, I wouldn’t know it because I didn’t know what he looked like.

My friends were now all standing and applauding me. I’d lived up to the dare. Kissed a strange man on the lips. Oh, those lips!

Dazed, I staggered back to the group and dared not tell them how much I’d enjoyed it. And wanted more.

CHAPTER 2

Blake

My office intercom buzzed. It was my latest secretary, Mrs. Cho. Ms. Jennifer McCoy was here for her job interview. I glanced down at my Rolex. It was only eight thirty. She was fifteen minutes early. Hmm. A punctual one. I quickly read over her impressive resumé one more time. B.A. in English and Psychology, Magna Cum Laude from USC, and a Masters with Honors from the university’s prestigious film school. I did the math in my head: 4.0 GPA, age twenty-four.

I don’t know why I was interviewing her. My dad, Saul Bernstein, the feared and revered head of Conquest Broadcasting, had told me I had no choice; she was already a hire. Impressed by her credentials, he had promised her an entry-level job upon graduation at Peanuts, our children’s network. Unfortunately, Dad had recently decided to sell the network to a German conglomerate because it wasn’t generating enough revenue; the kids biz was just not what it used to be—a cash cow like Power Rangers was hard to come by. A man of his word, my father didn’t want to let her down—or lose a valuable asset. After scouring the company for an entry-level programming job, he decided she would be a good fit with SIN-TV. And a good fit with me.

“Send her back,” I told Mrs. Cho. Let’s see if Ms. Brainiac had a sense of direction and could find my corner office.

While waiting for her, I yawned. Kirstie and Kristie had both showed up at the club last night and caught me kissing that strange, blindfolded girl. Fucking my fault. I’d unknowingly made a date with both of them; sometimes I did that. Well, they didn’t seem to mind. They were identical twins—fashion models with the same agency—and were used to sharing things. So, they proposed a little ménage à trois in my private fuck pad at the club. Usually I enjoyed a gaggle of arms, legs, tits, and pussies, but last night I wasn’t in the mood. I couldn’t stop thinking about that damn girl who’d kissed me blindfolded. There was something about her. I don’t know if was her fearlessness or the sweet scent of her—a blend of cherries and vanilla that lingered on my collar—or those sexy little sounds that gurgled in her throat. It definitely wasn’t her looks—she was petite and brunette—not my blond supermodel type. Yet, I was instantly attracted to her, and the minute I tasted her, I wanted more. Like taking a bite of a chocolate truffle and then wanting to devour all of it because it’s so irresistibly melt-in-your-mouth good. She had no clue while I devoured her mouth, my cock was straining against my pants, yearning for more.

“What were you doing with that girl?” asked Kirstie, her voice snippy.

I explained I was just playing some kind of game with some chick I didn’t know. And would never see again. They turned to each other, did that twin telepathic thing, and then responded in tandem with one snarky word: “Right.”

I paid the price all right. Once in my fuck pad, the dynamic duo decided they wanted to play a game with me too. Kirstie blindfolded me with my tie, and Kristie pulled down my slacks and boxers. While one got down on her knees and sucked my dick, the other mouthed my balls from behind. I got hard okay. Fast and furiously. But it wasn’t the cock-sucking blond duo that was making me hard. It was that girl. That crazy blindfolded girl. In my mind’s eye, I imagined her on her knees doing all these things to me with her lush mouth and that deft velvety tongue. Me, fondling her, pulling at her ponytail, talking dirty. Her, sucking, licking, moaning. Fuck. Why didn’t I pull off her blindfold? Why didn’t I find out who she was? I groaned. Chances were I’d never see her again. Stupid fucking me. I’d let one get away. I’d been prey to a game, and I’d lost. I never lost. No, never in my almost thirty years on this planet. I sucked in a gulp of air. My cock was heavy and beginning to pulse, and my nuts were contracting. The telltale signs I was on the brink of a major orgasm. My body stiffened, and I arched my head back. “Oh, yeah!” I cried out, but before I could come, all mouth contact was gone.

“Bye, Blakey,” cooed the twins. I heard the door slam shut before I could remove my tie from my eyes. Fuck them! The brats had blue-balled me. Wrapping my fingers around my aching cock, I finished what they’d started. As I stroked up and down my rigid length, her sweet voice resounded in my head. “I have to kiss you,” and at those words, my cock exploded in my hand. For the first time in my life, the memory of a kiss had brought me to the point of no return. I had to find her, see her again. I clambered to pull up my pants and after tucking my cock inside, I dashed out the door. Back inside the club, my eyes circled the crowded, pulsing room, then darted left and right. She wasn’t at a table, at the bar, or on the dance floor. Maybe she went to the ladies’ room. I waited patiently for her return, my roaming eyes on the lookout. “Blurred Lines” was blasting, and clubbers were wildly singing and dancing along. Ten long, desperate minutes passed. Fuck. That girl was gone. Out of my life.

My mind returned to the moment. Where was this new girl? She definitely must be lost. I set my eyes on my computer screen and scanned the latest ratings report. Our prime time and late night ratings were through the roof, but as usual, our daytime ratings were lackluster. I just didn’t get why our porn lineup in the morning wasn’t getting eyeballs. Big dicks fucking preened pussies wasn’t cutting it. Something was missing.

“Mr. Burns?” A sweet voice at my doorway diverted my attention, and I looked up from the screen. In tandem, my eyes blinked, my body jerked, and my cock tensed. Subtly for her not to notice.

Though her neat auburn bun, prim tweed suit, and tortoiseshell glasses made her look like some bookworm who should be working at a corporate law office, I swear I’d recognize that face anywhere—with its dewy-skin complexion, delicate bone structure, and those expressive, turned-up lips. Someone pinch me. I must be dreaming. But there she was. That girl I’d kissed last night. In fact, her lips were still swollen. Holy fucking shit!

“Hi, I’m Jennifer McCoy.”

It took several long moments for my brain to communicate with my mouth. I cleared my throat and licked my lips. “Please come in and take a seat.”

Unlike last night when she was blindfolded and took short hesitant steps, she strode into my office with a strong confident gait and lowered herself onto one of the two armchairs facing me. She placed her shoulder bag and briefcase on the floor next to her and crossed her shapely, long legs. I had the burning urge to uncross them.

“So, Ms. McCoy—”

“You can call me Jennifer.”

Okay, let’s start over. “So, Jen-ni-fer, you come highly recommended by my boss, Saul Bernstein.” God, I loved saying her name. It sucked the air out of my lungs.

She flashed a small smile. Two little dimples winked at her kissable lips. My cock twitched and I continued.

“However, I’m not sure why someone with a passion for children’s television would want to work for a porn channel.”

Without flinching, she held my gaze steady. “Adults are no different than children. They need to be entertained.”

That was a fact. And that’s why we referred to our network and programming as “adult entertainment.” I wasn’t done testing her. Or studying her—especially her eyes. Her blindfold had hidden them from me last night, and after she’d disappeared, I kept imagining what they looked like. I thought they might be brown or blue and deep-set. But they were wide-set and green—the greenest eyes I’d ever seen on a human being. When she blinked, it was if they were two leaves fluttering in the wind. I caught my breath.

“Well, it’s one thing to tell a producer of a cartoon that he—”

“Or she,” she interrupted.

“Or she needs to make the shaggy dog bark louder, but it’s another to tell the producer of a porn flick that his female star who’s being shagged needs to scream louder.”

“Not a problem,” she said flatly.

“Well, then, let’s pretend I’m the producer, and I’m not quite sure what you want. Can you please demonstrate?”

“Sure.” She cleared her throat and then took off her glasses, setting them on my desk. Fuck. Her eyes were beautiful.

My gaze stayed fixed on them as she flung her head back, and a look of torturous pleasure washed over her face. It was identical to the expression on her face last night as I held her head back and fucked her mouth with my tongue. She squeezed her eyes shut.

“Oh, baby, yes! Make me come! Oh God! Oh, yes, Yes, YES!” Each breathy “yes” was louder than the one before, the last one a roar so loud I thought the whole office would hear her. Holy shit. This girl was a fucking tiger. Beneath my desk, my cock was applauding. Was this how Ms. McCoy, M.A., came, or was she just a great actress? If the latter, this girl should be starring in porn flicks, not giving script notes.

“Was that loud and clear enough?” she asked matter-of-factly, staring me in the face. A slight blush colored her cheeks.

I felt heated. Flushed and flustered. And I could feel my cock uncomfortably strain against my fly. Fuck this girl. I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to work with her, but I had no choice.

Collecting myself, I said, “So, I assume you’ll be able to work long hours. Be on the set if necessary to oversee a shoot. Even at wee hours in the morning.”

“I’ll do whatever it takes to do a great job.”

How about a blow job? Or a hand job? I bit down on my tongue.

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

She scowled at me. Damn. She was sexy when she did that.

“What kind of question is that? What does that have to do with this job?”

“I’m just curious. Is that a crime?”

“Well, it borders on sexual harassment, and the answer is yes. I have a boyfriend. In fact, a fiancé. He’s a dentist.”

Her tone was defensive. Like she was off limits. I glanced at her left hand. There was surprisingly no ring on her fourth finger. I let it go and instead handed her a thick file.

“What’s this?” She opened the file and gazed down at the stack of papers.

“Your first assignment. This file contains our latest ratings reports. I’d like you to review them and then tomorrow present a full analysis of why our daytime ratings are sagging.” I checked my agenda in Outlook. “Why don’t we say at ten a.m.”

She closed the file and then retrieved her shoulder bag and briefcase. “I’ll get right on it,” she said, rising to her feet.

My eyes glanced down at my desk. “Don’t forget your glasses.”

She twitched an embarrassed little smile. I handed them to her and brushed my fingers against hers.

“Thanks,” she said, nervously setting them back on her face. “And thanks for hiring me. You won’t be disappointed.”

With that, she marched toward the door and disappeared. My cock flexed. I hoped she was right. The word “disappointment” didn’t exist for Blake Burns.

CHAPTER 3

Jennifer

I spent the rest of the morning going through orientation. I met with Human Resources to fill out some paperwork and then moved on to some down-the-hall conference room where another straight-laced HR person explained company benefits and policies to a group of new hires like me. One thing she made loud and clear was that the Conquest Broadcasting Company (CBC) did not look favorably upon fraternization though it wasn’t banned; what was important was that you reported any such liaison to HR so they could evaluate if it was affecting your job performance. I had nothing to worry about. I was engaged to my college sweetheart, Bradley Wick, DDS. The love of my life. The lecture was long and boring, and before long, my mind was wandering. My heart hammered. I was once again reliving last night’s kiss with a total stranger. Those beautiful lips crashing on mine, sending me orbiting into space. My body heated with hot tingles everywhere. I couldn’t let it go. Or stop thinking about that man. I gave myself a hard mental kick as the HR rep told us we’d now be going on a tour of Conquest Broadcasting.

Occupying the lot of a defunct movie studio in Culver City, the complex was vast, almost as big as a college campus. In addition to the towering building where I would be headquartered, there was another rambling building that housed a cafeteria, gym, and state-of-the-art theater for screenings. Scattered across the campus were numerous soundstages where they shot television series, including some for SIN-TV. I instantly recognized the set for one of the network’s porn game shows—Wheel of Pain. I’d forced myself to watch it once. Big-boobed women and their endowed partners were strapped together on a wheel and had to fuck while the wheel spun around. As the wheel turned, the contestants were subjected to all forms of torture like ice cubes, insects, and nauseating speeds. Whoever lasted the longest was the winner and won money and a trip to Vegas. What sicko came up with this concept? Watching it once in my lifetime was one time too many. I was glad the job of overseeing current programming belonged to someone else. Thank God, I didn’t have to deal with this show or the rest of the pornographic crap that filled the lineup.

After orientation, I settled into my new office. Adjacent to my new boss’s corner suite on the main floor, it was the size of a closet consisting of the following: a utilitarian blond wood desk with a computer and phone, a matching bookshelf and credenza that housed a small outdated TV, and a pair of basic armchairs. It was sterile and claustrophobic, but at least, there was a window overlooking the parking lot. I sat down behind my desk and assembled the few possessions I’d brought along. On it, I set a framed photo of my parents and another of my fiancé Bradley and me taken at one of his dentist conventions. Opening the top drawer, I lined up the three T’s—toothpaste, toothbrush, and Tampex—along with a box of SpongeBob Band-Aids. Accident-prone me went through Band-Aids as fast as some people went through tissues. I stood up and strode over to the bookshelf next to the door. I placed the two other possessions I’d brought along on the top shelf—my cherished Merriam-Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary and vintage Roget’s International Thesaurus—both gifts from my dad, a retired English professor. Heading back to my desk, I promised myself I would try to personalize my new office. Maybe buy a few framed posters and hang them up on the sterile white walls. Yeah, some art would liven the place up and give it a little personality.

At noon, I met up with my best friend Libby in the commissary. She and I were roommates and had been since our college days at USC. One year ahead of me, she had landed a position at Conquest Broadcasting—as a Research Analyst in the Consumer Insights division—and had been the one who encouraged me to apply for a job here. She’d raved about the creative working environment, the benefits, and the cutting-edge personnel. And the great low-cost food at the cafeteria.

Over delicious cheese burritos, Libby fired away, never one to hold back.

“So, is Blake Burns as big an asshole as everyone says he is?”

I was taken back by her question, expecting something more along the lines of “How’s your day going?”

I hesitated before answering. The answer was a loud “yes,” but Mr. Burns had had an unexpected effect on me. While I had googled him and knew he was good-looking with that thick mass of dark hair, I just didn’t expect him to be that good-looking. Okay, breathtaking. Tall, built, and the face of a movie star. He was not my type—the brainy preppy type—but the way his sapphire eyes held me in a fierce gaze did something to me. I was a heated up, nervous wreck throughout the interview, and thanked my lucky stars I’d taken some drama courses so I could get through it.

“So . . .” Libby’s inquisitive voice brought me back into the moment. I loved Libby to death, but I needed to be careful with my answer. Tell Libby, tell the world. My curly redhead friend was a gossip, though loveable one, and proud of it.

“Actually, he was very nice and very professional.” Arrogant asshole. “He’s given me a very challenging first assignment.”

“Like what?” asked Libby, her hazel eyes wide. She forked a chunk of her burrito and put it to her mouth.

“I have to analyze ratings and SIN-TV’s morning lineup.”

Libby swallowed and scrunched her face. “The ratings suck in that daypart. I keep telling Blake we should do some focus groups to find out what’s going on. But he’s very anti-research. He believes one should program by instinct, and his instincts are never wrong.”

I digested Libby’s information. My instinct told me that Mr. Burns’s instincts were wrong. I quirked a sly smile at my friend. “Well, we’re going to change that.”

“How?”

“Right after lunch, I’m going to start figuring that out,” I replied before taking the last bite of my burrito.

CHAPTER 4

Jennifer

I had to admit. It was a good first day at work. Conquest Broadcasting was a great company. I just wasn’t sure about working for its porn channel, SIN-TV. Is this where I really belonged? Developing this cock-driven programming? Working with my arrogant, know-it-all boss who kept checking in on me all day? Could I make a difference? After spending all afternoon in my office poring over the ratings to the point of getting bleary-eyed, I’d begun to think maybe I could.

At six o’clock, I gathered up the ratings files I needed to finish reviewing and stuffed them into my briefcase along with my laptop. The Coach leather briefcase had been a graduation gift from my parents, and I treasured it. My next stop was dinner. I was meeting Bradley at a restaurant close to his office. Much of me wanted to cancel our dinner date as I was eager to get home and continue studying the ratings package and even watch some more of SIN-TV to get a better handle on the programming. But I couldn’t disappoint Bradley. He had made a reservation and said he had a surprise for me.

With my briefcase in hand and my shoulder bag slung over my shoulder, I stepped out of my office. During orientation, I was told to be sure to lock my door every night; the company had recently experienced a barrage of break-ins, with the thieves stealing anything from computers and televisions to office furnishings and personal possessions.

As I curled my fingers around the handle and began to close the door, a familiar voice called out to me.

“Good night, Ms. McCoy. Looks like you have your work cut out for you.”

It was my boss. Blake Burns. Flustered, I turned my head at the sound of his sultry voice, and my mouth dropped open. A loud gasp of pain escaped my throat. Stars swarmed my head, and a sudden rush of nausea rose to my chest. It took me a sickening moment to realize what I’d just done. I’d accidentally slammed the heavy door on my middle finger. The throbbing was so intense I couldn’t think straight or get my mouth to close.

“Are you okay?” The words whirled around in my head. I couldn’t get my brain to communicate with my mouth to respond. As the nausea intensified, a black fog descended on me, and my legs turned to jelly. “Geez” was the last word I heard as I felt myself going down. Before I hit bottom, two strapping arms wrapped around me and then everything faded to black.

When I fluttered my eyes open, there was Blake, looming above me, his dreamy blue eyes moving slowly over my face. The throbbing in my finger brought me back to reality. Fuck. I must have fainted, and now I was stretched out on the leather couch in my new boss’s office. He had propped a pillow under my head. How embarrassing was this? What a dumb thing to do on my first day of work.

“Are you okay?” he asked before I could utter a word.

I nodded.

“Are you sure? You blacked out.”

I nodded again. “The door to my office slammed on my finger.”

“Let me see it.”

I lifted my hand. My finger was swollen and quivering, the cuticle torn. He gently took my hand in his. I felt chilled and still sick to my stomach from the excruciating pain. His touch warmed and comforted me.

He examined my finger. “Jesus. You really did a number, tiger.”

He called me tiger? I twitched a little smile as my stomach twisted. A new throbbing sensation—between my legs—gripped me.

“Do you want me to kiss the boo-boo?”

Oh, God! Why was the word “yes” on the tip of my tongue? I slowly sat up.

“I don’t think so,” I murmured.

His lips curled into a devilish smile. Holy shit. It was the cutest, sexiest smile I’d ever seen on a man, his adorable dimples bracketing his lush lips like two little hearts.

My chill gave way to a feverish sensation. I felt my body heat and my face flush. Why was he affecting me this way? “I’ve got to go. I have a dinner date with my fiancé.”

At the word “fiancé,” his dense, dark brows furrowed. Subtly but enough for me to notice. I pulled my hand away from his and rose to my feet. A wave of dizziness swept over me. I didn’t know if it was from the intense pain emanating from my finger or the feverish effect this man was having on me, or a combination of both. My body swayed, and blackness clouded my vision. Shit. I was about to pass out again. As the world spun around me, he caught me in his arms and lowered me back onto his couch. He brushed away a wisp of my hair that had fallen onto my forehead. Butterflies fluttered in my stomach.

“Ms. McCoy, you’re in no condition to go anywhere. Stay put. I’ll be right back with some ice for your finger.”

“Okay,” I squeaked. Boss’s orders.

My eyes stayed fixed on him as he jogged out of his office in his charcoal gray suit. The color of the suit perfectly complemented his almost ebony hair, and its tapered shape was tailor-made for him. I soaked in his broad shoulders, tight ass, and long muscular legs Wow! What a body, I thought as I glanced down at my throbbing finger. I grimaced. The torn cuticle had begun to bleed.

He was back in no time, with what looked to be a cotton napkin filled up with ice.

“How’s my patient doing?” he asked, lowering himself next to me onto the couch. His hard thighs brushed against mine. The closeness of him disseminated warmth through my system, and his manly scent—a blend of sweetness and spice—assaulted my senses. I felt delirious.

“Fine,” I muttered as he took hold of my hand again and gently pressed the ice pack on my finger. I noticed he’d wrapped up the ice cubes in his personal, monogrammed hankie. BB. Blake Burns. Just saying his name silently to myself sent a barrage of sparks to my core.

“The ice should help take away the pain and reduce the swelling.”

My finger already felt better. In fact, all of me felt better. Except my brain with the initials BB branded on it was still mush.

I turned to face him and managed one word. “Thanks.”

His gaze met mine, those beautiful orbs of blue burning a hole right through me. That dazzling smile spread across his face. “You should be more careful, Ms. McCoy. I value my employees.”

I shrugged sheepishly. “I’m sorry. I’m very accident-prone. My roommate even calls me ‘Calamity Jen.’”

He broke into a sexy rasp of laughter. “That wasn’t on your resume.”

His laughter was catching. “I was born an accident.”

“What do you mean?” A bemused expression washed over his handsome face.

“My parents were told they could never have children. So, they didn’t bother using protection. Lo and behold, at the age of forty, my mom got pregnant. And voilà, here I am.”

He smiled. “Some accidents are meant to happen.”

His words sent a jolt of heat through me. “Well, I’d better go. I don’t want to be late for my fiancé.”

The word “fiancé” made him frown again. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

I nodded. Removing the ice pack from my finger, I handed it back to him. “Thanks. My finger feels a lot better.” I glanced down at it. It glowed red from the ice, but was definitely less puffy. Plus, the bleeding had subsided, and it was no longer trembling.

He examined it with me. “It still looks pretty bad. You should keep it covered.”

I watched as he emptied the ice cubes inside his hankie into a ceramic bowl on his coffee table. Folding the damp hankie into a triangle, he gingerly wrapped it around my injured finger and formed a makeshift bandage.

I laughed at the silly bandage. “My fiancé’s going to get mad at me. He thinks I’m careless and don’t think before I act.”

“Tell him a big bad wolf tried to bite off your finger.”

I laughed again. “That’s a good one. I’ll bring back your hankie tomorrow.”

“Don’t bother. Keep it for future accidents.”

“Very funny.” Gathering my purse and briefcase, I stood up and headed toward the door to his office. As I was about to leave, Blake called out to me. I pivoted around to face him. He was slouched seductively on the couch, his long legs splayed.

“Hey, Calamity, stay out of trouble.” His mouth twisted into that sexy fiendish grin, and he winked at me.

The wink made me tingle all over. “Right.” I flung the word at him and scurried off before my knees buckled beneath me once again.

CHAPTER 5

Blake

Immediately after work, I met my best bud, Jaime Zander, at my sports club, Equinox, for a game of racquetball. Jay-Z, as I affectionately called him, was a creative genius. He ran a very successful advertising agency—ZAP!—and had created the award-winning advertising campaign that’d launched SIN-TV. “Television so hot, your screen will sizzle.” In the process, we’d become friends, having discovered that we shared many of the same interests, including kinky sex. He had a few years on me, but that didn’t impact our friendship. The big difference was that he was now married and the new father to a set of twins. And I was still single. A player like he’d once been before meeting his gorgeous wife Gloria, the founder and CEO of Gloria’s Secret, the world’s largest retailer of lingerie.

Usually, I squashed him. But tonight I was distracted, off my game. I missed several easy-to-get shots and ended up losing to him big time in our series of rallies.

Removing my goggles, I wiped sweat off my brows with my wristband. My breathing was shallow. I was beat and defeated.

“You’re buying tonight, Blakester.” An enormous shit-eating grin crossed Jaime’s heated face. Tradition had it the loser always bought a round of drinks at the bar that was part of the upscale sports complex.

Over two overflowing mugs of Guinness, Jaime and I caught up on business. His agency was handling the video presentation for the upfront—the highly anticipated May event at which we presented our slate of new programming to advertisers.

“Why won’t Gloria buy time on the network?” I asked. I so wanted Gloria’s Secret to be one of our advertisers. I’d given Jaime my business; it was only fair Gloria gave me hers.

“You know Gloria. It has to be a good fit.”

Like my cock? I mused. I dared not say this, knowing how fiercely possessive Jaime was of Gloria. He couldn’t even take a joke.

Jaime took a swig of his beer. “She’s only interested in the female 18-49 demographic.”

Anchoring an elbow on the table, I ran my hand though my hair in defeat. It wasn’t happening. Hardly any women watched SIN-TV. After another gulp of the foamy beer, I abruptly changed the subject—kind of. It was still about Gloria.

“How did you know that Gloria was different from the other babes you’d been with?”

Jaime shot me a perplexed what-the-fuck look. “I just knew. When I met her, I swear my heart got a hard-on.”

“Was she your type?”

“Hardly. I usually went for petite brunettes.”

Gloria was a blond Amazon. A towering, golden goddess.

“What made her different?”

“The challenge. She was hard to get.”

Newly engaged Jennifer was impossible to get. “Doesn’t being married cramp your lifestyle?”

“Being married is my lifestyle. I wouldn’t have it any other way. I look forward to going to sleep with Gloria and waking up to her. I love every minute I spend with her and the twins. They’re the loves of my life.”

A smile lit up Jaime’s face. It always did when it came to Gloria and the twins.

“Doesn’t the sex get old?”

“Not with Gloria. It only gets better.”

“How did you know you loved her?” Kill me now. I was beginning to sound girly.

“On a plane ride. Extreme turbulence. I knew if we went down, I wanted to go down with her. I couldn’t live without her.”

Jaime had almost twice lost Gloria. Nine months ago, she nearly died giving birth to their beautiful twins. Before that, they’d both almost lost their lives when this crazy Russian creep threatened them at gunpoint at a gala. I happened to have been there last year. It was total life and death insanity.

Jaime furrowed his brows. “Blake, why are you asking me all these questions?”

I took another gulp of my beer. “Just curious.”

“Bullshit. You’ve met someone.”

I felt my cheeks heat and guzzled the rest of the beer.

“Come on, man. Out with it. Who is she?”

“Just some girl I met last night.” With a shrug, I tried to sound nonchalant while Jennifer’s face filled every crevice of my brain. My cock tensed just thinking about her. Her lips on my mine. Those fiery green eyes. That cute little ass, pert breasts, and those long legs that seemed to stem from her rib cage. I had bopped by her office a dozen times today under the pretense of seeing how she was doing. The truth: I just wanted to see her. She must have thought I didn’t trust her or was a micro-managing stalker. I wasn’t about to tell Jaime that she was my new hire. That I was her boss.

“What’s she like?”

“She seems nice.” Shit. Nice wasn’t part of my vocabulary. I didn’t do nice. I didn’t like nice.

“Nice?” Jaime burst into a fit of laughter and almost choked on his beer. “That’s so not like you.”

Jaime was well aware of my reputation for hooking-up with starlets and models. They were a dime a dozen in Los Angeles. Kirstens, Kristies, Krystals, Kieras. I couldn’t keep them straight. Most of them, looking to make it in the business, didn’t mind my modus operandi:

Find.

Feel.

Fuck.

And forget.

Especially about a relationship. But I couldn’t forget Jennifer. She wouldn’t let me. I was going to see that pretty face every day for as long as she worked for me.

“Did you at least get her number?” asked Jaime, catapulting me out my mental ramblings.

Yeah, I have her number.” I twisted my lips. “There’s one little problem. She’s engaged.”

“Does she have a ring?”

“Not yet.”

Jaime polished off his beer. “Then she’s fair game. And since you’re buying, we’re having another round.”

“What’s my next step?” I asked as the playful waitress took our order.

“It’s no different than business or a game of racquetball.” Jaime slid his index finger across his neck like a knife. “Eliminate the competition.”

CHAPTER 6

Jennifer

“You’re late.” Bradley’s voice was gruff. A punctual person, he had a no tolerance policy for tardiness.

“I’m sorry,” I said, scrambling into the chair across from him. “There was a lot of traffic on the freeway.” I didn’t tell him about my finger-jamming incident.

The restaurant Bradley had chosen was a Thai one located in Toluca Lake close to his Burbank office. There had been no fast or easy way to get there from my new Culver City office, especially during rush hour. All throughout the stressful bumper-to-bumper drive, my finger throbbed, and I regretted I hadn’t canceled our date. The only thing good about my achy finger was that it made me think of my new boss, Blake. He had been surprisingly sweet and caring. So different from the arrogant asshole he came off as during my job interview. Maybe working for him wouldn’t be as bad as I thought. But it was definitely going to be a challenge because he was so demanding. And so damn handsome. Okay, devastating.

While Bradley studied the menu, I took in my surroundings. The restaurant was small, uncrowded, and dimly lit. It reeked of garlic. Bradley liked eating here because it was vegan. He’d recently become one, convinced this lifestyle would prevent deadly heart disease and gingivitis. As long as I’d known him, he’d been a hypochondriac, and being a dentist, he was very germ-phobic. The latter was the main reason he abstained from oral sex and always wore a condom.

“How was your day?” I began after ordering an iced green tea from the Asian waitress who stopped by our table. Still stressed out, I really craved something alcoholic (thank goodness, vegan wine existed), but the restaurant didn’t have a liquor license. It was just as well since I wanted to be clearheaded for my first work assignment. Bradley ordered his usual—a high protein soy milk shake with wheatgrass. He was not a drinker.

Without wasting a second, Bradley launched into his day. An endless minute to minute monologue about his patients and their problems—from the elderly man who accidentally threw his dentures into the garbage disposal to the woman who cracked her front tooth on her boyfriend’s penis ring.

I half-heartedly listened, nodding and intermittently responding with one-word comments, like “wow,” “interesting,” and “eew.” My mind was preoccupied with my work assignment and pleasing my new boss, Blake. The image of his face filled my head. God, he was good-looking with his crooked dimpled smile, smoldering eyes, strong stubbled jaw, and that head full of dark, almost black hair. So different from Bradley, who was clean-shaven with an average build, collegiate style, neatly groomed brownish hair (on the receding side) and a wide, toothy smile. He had the biggest, whitest, straightest teeth I’d ever seen. They seriously belonged in a tooth museum.

The return of the waitress interrupted our one-way conversation. Bradley ordered curried tofu and a side of garlic eggplant. Still a little nauseated from my finger-jamming incident, I wasn’t very hungry and ordered a small organic vegetable salad. The Serenity Salad. I felt anything but serene.

“So how was your first day at work?” Finally, he had asked something about me.

“It was fine. I have a big project, so I can’t stay out too late.” Bradley had no clue that I’d accepted a job with SIN-TV after Conquest Broadcasting’s children’s channel was sold. I was afraid to tell him. Afraid he would judge me. And think I was some kind of slut. Afraid he would leave me.

“How’s your boss?”

“He’s nice enough.” And sexy as hell.

The waitress returned with our orders. Bradley dug into his curried tofu while I picked at my salad. It was difficult to hold my fork. My finger, now uncovered, still throbbed, making it impossible to get Blake out of my thoughts.

“And how was your celebration dinner last night?” he asked after shoving a forkful of the saucy bean curd into his mouth.

“It was great,” I mumbled, that kiss jumping into my brain and wreaking havoc on my body. “Wish you’d been there.”

Unfortunately, Bradley had been unable to attend due to a last minute emergency with one of his patients. One thing about my fiancé . . . he was committed and passionate about his work.

“Sorry I missed it. And sorry I couldn’t have given you this in front of all your friends.” He slipped his hand into the breast pocket of his navy blazer and held out a small silver box in his palm. It was labeled Zales. My heartbeat sped up.

He snapped open the lid, and my eyes widened. Inside was a diamond ring. My engagement ring.

“Do you like it?”

“It’s beautiful,” I stuttered, utterly disappointed. The square diamond was small and dull. Bradley came from money, not billionaires, but nonetheless money. I’d shown him pictures of rings I liked, none of them extravagant, but not one was like this one. The prospect of being engaged to him and becoming Mrs. Bradley Wick was suddenly more real than it had ever been. He took my shaky left hand in his and slipped the ring onto my ring finger. It fit perfectly.

“Thank you.” Thank you? Wasn’t I supposed to gasp? Or get goose bumps? Maybe even swoon?

“It’s official now.” He smiled broadly, revealing that perfect set of pearly white teeth and then leaned across the table to plant a kiss on my lips that I was neither prepared for nor wanted. My eyes stayed open. As his lips pressed against mine, the kiss of another man dominated my thoughts and my senses. I’d kissed another last night. A mysterious stranger. And I’d more than liked it. As Bradley’s tight-lipped kiss infused me with the taste of curry and garlic, I longed for those other lips. Those hot, hungry champagne-laced lips and that velvety tongue that had tangoed with mine. Bradley smelled of antiseptic; that man had smelled of sex. My breath hitched in my throat. What was wrong with me? I was engaged to the man who I’d known throughout college, but I longed for another. A man I didn’t know. A faceless man whose lips I craved.

With guilt stabbing at my heart, I pulled away from Bradley. He went back to his tofu dish, scraping his plate clean, while I barely made a dent in my salad. I just didn’t have an appetite.

The waitress came by one more time to clear our plates. I told her I’d take the rest of my salad home. Bradley hated waste. When she asked if we wanted dessert, I quickly passed before my fiancé could say a word.

“I should get going. I’ve got a lot of work to do. And I want to make a favorable impression on my boss.”

Bradley nodded in approval. “Totally understand.” Yes, a good work ethic was important to Bradley. That’s one of the things about me that had attracted him to me in the first place. I was a conscientious student who always completed my assignments on time and went beyond the necessary to get an outstanding grade. We were both anal like that, although Bradley’s anal qualities went beyond mine, almost to an extreme. He was a creature of habit and precision—which manifested itself when the check came.

He carefully scrutinized it and then pulled out his trusty pocket calculator from his slacks pocket to compute the 17% tip. Nothing more. Nothing less. He then whipped out his impeccably neat wallet and took out his credit card. He placed it precisely in the center of the bill holder and handed it to the waitress when she returned to our table.

“Do you really like the ring?” Bradley prodded after the waitress slipped away.

I nodded, faking a small smile.

He flashed his pearly whites. “I know the stone is a little small, but right now I want to put as much money as I can into my practice.”

“Of course,” I agreed, hiding my disappointment.

The truth: Brad was thrifty—to the point of almost being a cheapskate. I think it was connected to his parents, who despite their wealth, lived very modestly, and to his anal behavior. He never valeted his car, parking it blocks away to save money, and liked to shop at bargain outlets. The 99 Cents Only Store was one of his favorites. And apparently so was Zales, and not Tiffany.

I glanced down at the ring. As dull a diamond as it was, it glimmered in the candlelight. Yet, I didn’t feel a glint of excitement. Not even the tiniest. The candle burnt out and I wondered—had my love for Bradley burnt out? Up until now, I was in denial. And now, we were officially engaged.

CHAPTER 7

Jennifer

During the workweek, Bradley and I had agreed not to spend the night. He liked to go to sleep early to be bright-eyed for his early morning patients while I was somewhat of a night owl. My late-night activities, which ran the gamut from watching TV or reading a book on my Kindle to raiding the refrigerator, kept him up. Moreover, he firmly believed we should wait until we got married to live together.

So, after dinner, Bradley and I each went our own way. He stood with me outside the restaurant while I waited for the valet to bring me my car. Bradley had parked his several blocks a way to save money. When my little red Kia arrived, he pecked my cheek and told me he loved me. “Love you back,” I said as I scooted into the driver’s seat. Driving off, I turned on my radio. Alicia Keyes was singing, “This Girl is on Fire.” My heart clenched in my chest. This girl wasn’t.

The house I shared with Libby was a small two-bedroom Spanish cottage in a modest neighborhood known as Beverly Hills Adjacent. It was the last house on the street, situated between an empty foreclosure and a deserted parking lot. Wearily, I pulled into the driveway.

I had the house to myself. Libby was working late conducting focus groups. Usually when she had groups at night, she didn’t get home until ten. I wasted no time changing into my comfy-cozy SpongeBob pajamas and curling up on the couch with a cup of chamomile tea and the stack of ratings. Shoving my glasses onto my head, which I needed for distance only, I pored over the numbers.

My mind, however, kept wandering, and the numbers before me became a blur. I couldn’t get that kiss out of my head. Those lips consuming mine. That tongue. Entwined with mine, swirling and twirling.

A sick feeling fell over me. I took another sip of my tea. It was just a fluky thing. A silly dare. A silly game. It should mean nothing to me. But it had undeniably aroused feelings and sensations in me I’d never felt before. My heartbeat quickened, and tingles danced between my legs as I kept thinking about it. I closed my eyes and pretended I was kissing that man again, rolling my tongue with the imaginary yet very real one in my head.

The familiar ring of my cell phone hurled me out of my fantasy. I reached into my shoulder bag parked on the couch next to me. My heart jumped when I saw who was calling on the screen. My boss! Blake Burns. Was he calling to check up on me? To test me?

“Hello,” I said nervously. The way the word came out sounded almost like a question.

“Hi.” His voice was relaxed and sultry. It gave me goose bumps. I didn’t know what to say next. Fortunately, he spared me from responding.

“I was just calling to find out how you’re doing. When I thought about it, I thought maybe I’d overloaded you on your first day at the job.”

“No, everything’s fine,” I stammered. “I’m used to reviewing numbers. I did a lot of that at USC.”

“Good. I’ll look forward to your analysis tomorrow. By the way, I’d prefer an oral presentation.”

The way he breathily drew out the word “oral” made my whole body tremble. The phone shook in my hand.

“Not a problem.” My voice shook too.

“Then let me not keep you from your work. Good night, Jennifer.”

Click. The phone went dead before I could bid him the same. I immediately returned to the stack of papers and studied the numbers. A pattern was emerging. Men 18+ were in full force in prime time and piqued in the early morning hours. And then, there was almost a total fall off. The great majority of men watching SIN-TV in the daytime were over the age of sixty-five. The morning lineup fell short in the key advertiser demographic—adults 18-49.

The sound of the front door opening diverted my attention. I looked up. It was Libby with her large canvas messenger bag hooked over her shoulder and a huge stack of folders in her hand. Despite such a long day, she looked vibrant. Ready to party.

“Hi,” I said, in awe of her stamina. “How did your groups go?”

“They were really interesting,” she replied, throwing her bag and folders onto the coffee table and then flopping down on an oversized armchair catty-corner to me, her muscular legs dangling over the arm.

“How so?”

“I was testing a pilot called Her Space about astronauts’ wives with women for the CBC drama department. Almost everyone complained it wasn’t sexy enough.”

My ears perked up. “What did they expect?”

“Something more erotic. A few women even used the words ‘erotic romance.’”

My mind was racing. “Is there a huge audience of women in the morning?”

Libby nodded. “Yeah. Daytime TV is all about women.” She swung her legs off the arm of the chair and stood up. “I’m going to the kitchen. I need a glass of wine. Do you want one?”

“Sure. Thanks.” Enough with the tea. As my roommate drifted out of the living room, my brain percolated with ideas.

Libby returned quickly with two wine glasses filled almost to the brim. She handed one to me and sunk back into the armchair.

“To your new job,” she toasted. We clinked our goblets together and put our lips to the rims in unison. I took my first sip of the too-familiar, cheap white wine. Good old Trader Joe’s Two-Buck Chuck.

I swallowed and felt the chilled liquid course through my bloodstream. “Lib, have you ever done any focus groups for SIN-TV?”

With a smirk, my bestie shook her head. “Not one. Like I told you at lunch, Blake Burns doesn’t believe in research. He believes in programming from his gut.”

Dick is more like it. I took another sip of the wine. “Well, I think it’s time for an attitude change. I’m going to convince him to do some focus groups with women. I have a theory, and I’m going to prove it.”

Libby let out a snarky little laugh. “I’m at your service if you get him to agree. Good luck with the arrogant, self-centered, know-it-all egomaniac.”

I burst into laughter. Wine that didn’t make it down my throat came flying out of my mouth, spraying Libby.

My roomie snorted with laughter too. I don’t know if it was the wine or I just needed a release, but I kept laughing until tears poured from my eyes. With my other hand, I swiped them away.

Libby’s watering eyes grew wide; she caught her breath. “What the fuck? Is that what I think it is?” Her gaze zeroed in on my ring finger.

“Yeah. Bradley finally gave me a ring.”

“Let me see it.”

I stretched out my arm so the ring was almost in her face. She examined it. The brutally honest research analyst could not mask her dislike. “It’s not round like you wanted or—”

I cut her off before she made another negative comment. “I know. Bradley’s a little strapped right now. He’s putting his practice first.”

“Personally, I think he should be putting you first,” she quipped. “Have you set a date?”

“Not yet.”

“Don’t rush.” Her voice was dripping with sarcasm. My bestie couldn’t hide her feelings. She had never cared for Bradley, and the feeling was mutual. Free-spirited Libby was the antithesis of my uptight fiancé. They pushed each other’s buttons. Moreover, she knew sex with him was as she bluntly put it: “boring.”

The truth: I wasn’t eager to lock a date. What was wrong with me? I wondered. Bradley was a mother’s dream. A good-looking dentist from a good family with a good future ahead of him. We’d been friends before we were lovers, but lately I felt like we were two strangers. Instead of spending more time together, we were spending less and less. I longed to tell Libby how I felt, but I feared she would try to convince me to leave him. I couldn’t do that. We’d been together over five years, and he’d helped me get through the aftershock of the attack I’d endured as a sophomore. He cared about me and I cared about him. So I thought.

Libby took a big gulp of her wine and twisted one of her long red curls. “So, now it’s officially official. You and Bradley are getting married.”

I nodded. “Yeah.” My voice wavered. “You’ll be my maid of honor, right?”

“Of course.” Her voice oozed with warmth, and a smile played on her freckled face.

No matter what she thought about Bradley, Libby was always there for me. And always would be. I twitched a small smile back and thanked her.

Setting her almost empty wine glass on the coffee table, she rose to her feet. “I’m going to call it a night. Maybe try to Skype with Everett.”

Everett Pierce was her long-distance boyfriend. They’d met at USC, but now he was doing post-graduate work in linguistics at Oxford. Even with texting and Skyping, the eight-hour time difference made communication challenging. Libby missed “Ev,” especially frequent sex, but she threw herself into her work to compensate for it. They were thankfully going to see each other over Christmas on the East Coast where Everett’s family lived. Libby needed to get laid.

She gave me a hug. “See you in the morning. Congrats on everything.”

I mumbled a throwaway “thanks” and returned to the SIN-TV ratings. I had found a hole in the ratings. A big one.

And I had also found one in my heart.

CHAPTER 8

Blake

“Hi. I studied the ratings and I think I’m onto something.”

Her voice startled me. I was sitting on my leather couch, about to hit the play button on my remote to watch the dailies of our series, Private Dick. It was one of our most popular late-night shows, but virtually no one watched it when we re-aired it during the day. I glanced at my watch. Nine forty-five. I wasn’t expecting her so soon. She was fifteen minutes early for our meeting. At the sound of her voice, I gazed up. She was standing at the doorway to my office, the files I’d given her tucked in her hands. She was clad in an almost knee-length plaid pleated skirt and a white silk blouse with little pearl buttons. Most would describe what she was wearing as prim and proper, but I found it oddly sexy. It left a lot to the imagination. Beneath her garments, I could visualize her soft curves and the swell of her breasts. Did she wear lace or was she one of those Hanes types of girls who wore cotton briefs and a simple no-wire bra? While I was a total lace-man, the image of her in that boyish cotton underwear turned me on. I yearned to rip open her blouse, hear those pearly buttons bounce to the floor, and pull down her skirt. My cock flexed beneath my pants.

“Did I catch you at a bad time?” she asked, her voice a little timid, perhaps because I’d not acknowledged her.

I shifted on the couch and let out a nervous little cough. Behave, Mr. Burns. That’s what I often called my cock. Call it respect for my mega-fucking machine.

“No. Come in and take a seat.” My eyes stayed riveted on her as she strode into my office and headed toward an armchair across from me.

“No, please sit next to me,” I said before she could plunk her sweet ass on the chair. “I’d like you to watch something with me.”

“Okay,” she said hesitantly, rounding the coffee table. She lowered herself onto the cushion next to me.

“A little closer, please.”

She scooted next to me, and for a brief second, her thigh brushed against mine. She quickly pulled it away. The delicious cherry vanilla scent of her hair filled my nostrils and made me slightly lightheaded. Still holding the remote, I hit “play.”

On the large plasma TV on the wall facing us, the latest episode of Private Dick began to play. Oral Covert, the undercover agent with the twelve-inch dick, had confronted his chief suspect, a hooker named Daisy who was hiding something. She was also his on and off love interest.

“Get over here, you slut,” he growled, lowering his pants. The actor who played the part was capable of few words, but this line came easily to him. His favorite weapon—his big gun—sprung from his pants. The camera panned his extraordinary length. Nice.

The busted hooker, dressed in a bustier, fishnets, and mile-high leather boots that led to her pussy, flung her mane of flaming red hair and licked her pillowy lips. The camera zoomed in on the latter. I could feel my cock tense as it did. Nice work again.

Oral grabbed her by the hair and shoved her to her knees. Mental note: Add a gasp in ADR. “Just give it to me, cunt, if you know what’s good for you,” barked Oral. In a heartbeat, Daisy’s lush lips were wrapped around Oral’s foot-long cock, taking it to the hilt. He began to fuck her mouth vigorously. In and out. Faster and faster. As moans and groans filled the room, I felt Jennifer squirm next to me.

“Does this turn you on?” I turned to ask her.

The scrunched up expression on her face was one of pure revulsion. “It’s vomiticious.”

My brows lifted to my forehead. “Vomiticious? What does that mean?”

She gazed at me. “It means it makes me want to vomit.” To illustrate, she opened her sweet glossy mouth, stuck out her tongue, and shoved a finger inside it. God, she was cute when she did that gagging gesture. It made me want to insert my finger into her mouth and have her lips clamp down on it and suck on it. I was consciously aware of my cock straining against my fly.

“Come on,” I challenged. “I don’t believe you. What girl wouldn’t be turned on by twelve inches of pulsing, hot flesh in her mouth?”

“You are so clueless.”

What the fuck? Seriously. One day on the job, and this little know-it-all was calling me clueless? Moi, who had started SIN-TV and made it the phenomenal success it was? I had to be doing something right. Impulsively, I hit the “off” button on the remote. The picture on the screen faded to black. They’d still been at it.

“Can you please explain what you mean?” My voice had taken on a sharp tone. Yet, she did not seem the least bit intimidated by me.

She folded her arms tightly across her breasts, her hands tucked beneath them, and one long leg over the other. “It’s simple. Men think with their cocks; women think with their hearts.”

“Oh, is that something they taught you in Psychology 101?”

Making a face, she seemed a little affronted by my patronizing attitude but continued her lecture.

“Men are all about conquest; women are all about romance.”

I was all ears.

“And that brings me to why your slate of programming is not performing in the daytime. I analyzed your ratings package very carefully. The problem is simple: the daytime audience consists mostly of women. There are millions of women—moms and caretakers at home—looking for an escape. But they’re not going to watch hard core porn; they’re looking for something different—”

I cut her off. “Like what?”

“Erotic romance. Romantic, emotional, sexy shows with characters they can connect to. Programming that offers a sexual escape—an aspirational fantasy—with a happily ever after ending.”

I continued to listen intently without interruptions.

“There’s a huge opportunity to do something breakthrough. To develop programming that will appeal to women who read books like Fifty Shades of Grey and so many others like that.”

I’d, of course, heard about that book, but had never read it. I also knew that Universal was turning it into a major motion picture. “So what exactly are you proposing, Ms. McCoy?”

“I think we should option some of these popular books and develop a block of sexy telenovelas—thirteen-part limited series. Most of them are independently published, so I have a hunch we won’t have to go through big agents or pay significant money for the rights. Maybe we can even form a partnership with Amazon—I’ve read they really want to get into television production. We can offer the authors an attractive backend position because I think there’s a huge international market for these extended mini-series as well as tremendous licensing and merchandising opportunities.”

The word “merchandising” was like music to my ears. To be honest, SIN-TV hadn’t fared that well in that lucrative arena. SIN-TV baseball caps were our bestseller, but they didn’t generate substantial revenue. “What kind of merchandise?” I asked eagerly.

A knowing smile spread across her face. “It’s endless. Signed posters, graphic novels, sexy lingerie, sex toys.”

I remained speechless as she rattled off more possibilities. Even DVD’s, original soundtracks, and home furnishings. She was right. The possibilities were endless.

“And I think there are a lot of advertisers that will jump on board and support this block of programming. It’s the perfect demographic—Women 18-49.”

Gloria’s Secret’s demo. Is this something that would appeal to Gloria?

“How do you know you’re right? That your idea will work?” I finally asked.

“I’ll prove it to you. Let me set up some focus groups.”

I made a face. Man, I hated focus groups. I hated research dictating to me what I should and shouldn’t do. No one knew better than me how to program SIN-TV.

She held my wry gaze steady. “Well?”

“Fine.” I stabbed the word at her. “Set them up as soon as possible.”

A small but triumphant smile curled on her lips. “I’ll get right on it.” She unfolded her arms from her chest and began to collect her files.

“By the way, how’s your finger?”

I gazed down at it, but it wasn’t the SpongeBob Band-Aid that caught my attention. Instead, it was the ring on the fourth finger of her other hand—a piece of shit diamond, but nonetheless a diamond. Fuck. She was officially engaged to the dentist.

“It’s fine,” she replied but I hardly heard her. I chewed down on my lip.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“I’m fine.” Liar, liar, pants on fire, my sister used to shout at me. My balls were on ice; my cock was in meltdown. It felt like a punch in the gut. Why the hell did I feel this way? I hardly knew her. She was just an employee. A recent college grad.

“Call me if you need anything,” I heard her say as she pranced out of my office.

Arching my head, I slumped against the couch and blew out a huff of air. I needed her lips back on mine. And wanted them in more places than one.

CHAPTER 9

Blake

At six o’clock, my father stopped by for our weekly tête-à-tête. Usually, we met on Thursdays, but later this week, he had to be in New York for a mogul conference. He was impeccably dressed in a custom-tailored pewter suit that complemented his full head of wavy silver hair. My lucky old man hadn’t lost one hair from that head of hair of his. And at sixty-five, he was still in great shape, working out with a trainer at the company gym daily. I was hoping his luck would be passed on to me.

As always, we sat outside on my terrace, sipping brandies and smoking cigars. It was our little tradition. Our way of catching up on both business and personal matters.

“So, how’s the new girl?” my father asked after a drag of his Montecristo No. 4, a Cuban cigar Denzel Washington had given him at the Emmys. His voice was gravelly, and he’d never lost his “New Yawk” accent despite living out here for over half a century. My father was well aware of my history with development assistants—D-Girls—as they were commonly called in the industry. I’d been through them like water. No one lasted beyond three months. They couldn’t handle me. The joke around the office was that I burned them out. (Get it?)

Taking a puff of my cigar, I thought about Jennifer McCoy. She’s sexy, feisty, and fucking with my head. And driving my cock crazy. “She’s okay,” I said flatly.

“She’s got a sharp mind, that little fox. I was very impressed by the questions she asked during the guest lecture I gave for one of her courses. I told her to consider Conquest when she graduated, and when she sent me her thesis, I was totally blown away.”

“What did she write it on?” I asked.

“The Sexual Appeal of SpongeBob SquarePants.”

My brows did a pull-up. SpongeBob NoPants would have made more sense.

My father took another puff of his cigar. “Has she come up with any programming ideas?”

I took a sip of my brandy and then told him about her idea of targeting women with erotic programming during the daytime. I told him I was dubious.

To my surprise, my father nodded with approval. “Mommy porn. That’s fucking brilliant, son. Totally fresh and out of the box.”

“What should we do?” I asked tentatively.

He blew out a ring of smoke. “My instincts are telling me to let her run with it.”

“She wants to do focus groups to prove her theory.”

My father smiled and nodded again. “Good idea. It’s about time you did some.”

Unlike me, my father was very methodical and relied heavily on research to make decisions. Usually, they were never wrong, and he sometimes joked he should have done some research before hiring me. A man who had loved only one woman—my mother—he was not too keen about my reputation as a player or my gut-way of making programming decisions.

My father flicked the ashes of his cigar into the ashtray on the small glass table between us. “Put the groups on the fast track. And I want you to keep me informed about the findings.”

I took a drag on my brandy-laced cigar and spewed one word: “Done.” Arguing with my father had no upside. He was the boss. Period. The warm brandy seeped through my veins, making a delicious contrast to the chill of the early December air. Even in LA, it got cold, at least at night.

After polishing off the brandies and smoking our cigars down to the label, we retreated back into my office. My eyes widened. Jennifer McCoy, her briefcase in hand, was standing in the doorway. She had on a navy coat, looking ready to go home. She seemed surprised to see my father and adjusted her glasses.

“Oh, hello, Mr. Bernstein. I’m sorry if I’m interrupting your meeting.”

A warm smile lit my father’s strong-featured face. “Not at all, Jennifer. My son was just sharing some of the excellent ideas you have for SIN-TV.”

The expression on her face said it all. Her eyes rounded; her mouth fell open. She had no clue I was Saul Bernstein’s son. And I had planned to keep it that way for as long as possible. To my amazement, she kept her cool. What an actress!

“Thank you, Mr. Bernstein,” she said smoothly. “I hope you’re right.”

My father winked at her. “I have a very good feeling about you, Ms. McCoy.”

She tweaked a smile. Man, she was cute when she smiled. I wanted to wink at her. My father continued.

“And I look forward to having you at our home on Friday night.”

My eyes bounced from my father to Jennifer. What-the-fuck was written across my eyeballs.

Unbeknownst to me, my father had invited her to our weekly Friday night Shabbat dinner. The night all things should be peaceful. But at our house, all hell usually broke loose. I did a quick silent prayer. Everyone behave. Please behave.

On Friday at six in the evening, the usual suspects were gathered at my parents’ dining room table. It was elegantly set with fine linens, crystal, china, and silver. My father sat at the head and my striking platinum-haired mother at the other end. I sat catty-corner, next to my father. The remaining chairs were occupied by my overweight older sister Marcy and her husband Matt, both gynecologists with a thriving joint Beverly Hills practice . . . their children, my six-year-old twin nephews from Planet Hell . . . and last but not least, my feisty eighty-five-year-old grandmother Muriel, who lived independently in the guest house on our property. Our house, located in the prestigious, gated Beverly Park area of Beverly Hills was huge—a twenty thousand square foot palace that included a screening room, full gym, and ten bathrooms. Many often mistook it for a hotel. It sat on six acres of land. In addition to the guesthouse, there was a swimming pool, tennis court, and a studio where my mother made pottery. Our A-list celebrity neighbors included Eddie Murphy and Sylvester Stallone as well as billionaire Haim Saban, the creator of the Power Rangers, a show I loved watching as a child.

There was one empty chair next to mine. It was reserved for Jennifer. She was unusually late. The Shabbat antics had already begun. The twins were whining about watching television; my sister was yelling at them, and my brother-in-law was yelling at my sister. Oblivious to it all, my grandmother was already on her second (third?) glass of wine. Technically, one was supposed to wait to drink the wine after the Shabbat candles were lit and the prayer for the wine was said. But Grandma always said in her Yiddish accent, “Vy vait? Vait shmait!” At her age, she could not be challenged.

“Vhere’s your new girlfriend?” she quipped, after another loud gulp of wine.

I jerked slightly. “She should be here soon, and she’s not my girlfriend.”

“Vhatever,” responded Grandma, going right back to her wine. “You need to get married.”

Grandma was always on my case to settle down. My mother shot her a harsh look she simply dismissed with a wave of her veined hand and a roll of her crinkly gray eyes. Fortunately, I didn’t have to respond. I was saved by the bell. Literally. The chime of our front doorbell sounded. It must be Jennifer. My guess was confirmed when a minute later, she was escorted to the dining room by our longtime housekeeper, Rosa. Our eyes immediately made contact.

“I’m so sorry I’m late,” she apologized, her voice on edge. “I got a little lost coming up here.”

Indeed, it was not easy to get to our house. The gated community was very secluded, and one wrong turn off poorly lit, twisty Benedict Canyon could easily land you miles away in The Valley.

My father stood up. A warm smile beamed on his distinguished face. “Welcome to our home, Jennifer. No apologies necessary.”

My eyes soaked her in. Not wearing her glasses, she looked absolutely stunning in a knee-length, navy blue A-line dress with matching pumps that subtly showed off her curves and slender limbs. Why did she always leave so much to the imagination? It fucking drove me crazy.

Her eyes wandered around the antique-and-art-filled grand dining room. By the expression on her face, I could tell she was in awe of the grandeur of our house. I felt myself cringe, embarrassed a little by the blatant wealth of my family. It couldn’t be helped. My father, who had come from meager means, had worked hard to build Conquest Broadcasting into a global empire, and this house, along with others we owned around the world, was the prize for all his hard work. Whether I agreed with him or not over programming and business decisions, my old man was a force to be reckoned with—and to be admired.

Composing herself, Jennifer took reserved steps toward my mother. In her hand was a bouquet of pink lilies. Their intoxicating scent filled the room.

“These are for you, Mrs. Bernstein.”

“They’re beautiful,” exclaimed my mother. “Thank you so much and please call me Helen.”

Rosa immediately took the flowers from Jennifer, retreated to the pantry, and returned with them arranged in a vase. She set the arrangement on the credenza and then headed back to the kitchen.

“I guess that’s my seat,” Jennifer said nervously, eyeing the empty chair next to mine. My father escorted her to it. The heavenly cherry vanilla scent of Jennifer’s hair mixed with that of the lilies and made a heady combination.

“Hi,” I said softly in her ear.

She gazed at me and blinked her beautiful long-lashed green eyes. With a nervous little smile, she whispered “hi” back. The tension between us was palpable. And so was the electricity.

Returning to his seat, my father introduced my family to Jen. “Jennifer’s one of our rising stars at Conquest.”

Her face flushed the color of the lilies she’d brought.

“You’re too skinny,” shouted out my outspoken Grandma.

She’s fucking perfect, I thought to myself.

My father continued. “It’s customary in our household for the guest of honor to light the Shabbat candles.”

Jennifer flinched. “This is my first Shabbat. I don’t think I know how.”

Despite her protest, my father urged her to come to the head of the table to light the candles. My father was not a man who took “no” for an answer. And Jennifer smartly knew that.

“I’m not very good at lighting matches,” she stammered, taking the matchbox into one hand. Opening the box with her other, she pulled out a match and hesitantly slid it against the striker. Nada. She tried again. Nada. Strike after strike was met with failure. The twins began to crack up and count her misfires. Moving on to another match and then another, Jennifer grew flustered and flushed with embarrassment. Either Calamity Jen was going to burn down the house or burn herself to a crisp. I rose from my chair and semi-circled behind her.

Wrapping one arm around her tiny waist, I curled my fingers of the other around the dainty wrist striking the matches. Her backside pressed into me, and I could feel the rise and fall of her chest. Her long ponytail tickled the sensitive crook of my neck, and that divine cherry vanilla scent of her hair trickled up my nose. Mmmm. She smelled delicious enough to eat. I could feel the beginnings of a hard-on beneath my slacks.

“On my count of three, get ready to light the match,” I breathed into her ear, resisting the urge to suck and nuzzle it. “One . . . two . . . three.” Aiding her, she struck the match and successfully lit it. “Yay!” cried the obnoxious twins. I gently led her shaking hand to the two Shabbat candles that stood tall and erect in the Baccarat crystal holders before us. One after another, the wicks caught fire, and I felt my body heat up with hers. My cock was on fire too.

“Thanks,” she mumbled humbly, setting the matchbox and used match down on the table. It was customary for the woman who lit the candles to cover her eyes with one hand and usher in Shabbat with sweeping gestures of the other and then recite a blessing in Hebrew. Readjusting my hands, I helped her do this and said the prayer since she didn’t know it. My large splayed hands covered her small ones. I loved the way they felt in mine. She trembled against me, and I wondered if she could feel my arousal. And my heat.

Symbolically, Shabbat was the union of man and woman—a spiritual wedding. God taking his bride. That’s what I’d learned when I was studying for my Bar Mitzvah. I’d never given thought again to this concept until this very minute . . . with Jennifer McCoy almost in my arms. I had the burning urge to cover her long, graceful neck with kisses but settled for breathing hotly on the nape. After everyone said the prayers for the bread and the wine, I forced myself to break away from her. My cock stiff, we both returned to our seats. Shabbat dinner was about to be served.

Shabbat dinner was always an extravagant multi-course meal. It began with the challah, a delicious egg bread, being passed around the table and was followed by Grandma’s melt-in-your-mouth matzo ball soup, and my mother’s scrumptious brisket—a secret recipe she guarded with her life. The tantalizing aroma of the meal to come wafted in the air.

“What’s your favorite TV show?” asked one of the twins while Rosa circled the table and served the soup.

“SpongeBob,” replied Jennifer, smiling.

What was with her and that stupid cartoon character? My brows furrowed, but she’d definitely earned brownie points with the obnoxious twins. My nephews’ faces lit up like light bulbs.

“Cool beans! That’s our favorite too!”

“Maybe you can watch it with us after dinner,” chimed the other little devil.

My sister shot him a dirty look. “You know darn well we don’t watch TV on Shabbat, Jonathan.”

The little boy frowned. He tore off a large piece of his challah in frustration and hurled it at his mother. It hit her in the face.

“Do something about him!” she yelled at my brother-in-law after stuffing the fragment into her mouth.

He shrugged, too busy eating his soup.

Fuming, my sister leaped out of her chair and dragged Jonathan out of the dining room. The little brat screamed. I almost felt sorry for him.

“Meanie,” shouted the other twin, clanging his soup spoon on the table.

Grandma dramatically pounded her heart. “Oy! Such tsuris! Your mother’s become such a klafte.”

Klafte was the Yiddish word for “bitch.” I inwardly cringed. I was thankful that Jennifer didn’t understand a word of Yiddish but regretful that she had to put up with our Shabbat shenanigans. I turned to look at her. To my surprise, she seemed amused.

“What’s this?” she asked me as Rosa ladled the steamy broth into her bowl, followed by two big dumpling-like balls.

“Matzo ball soup. It’s delicious.”

My eyes stayed focused on her as she scooped up a matzo ball into her spoon. She pursed her lush lips and blew on it and then she put the delectable ball to her mouth. Her lips parted and then descended onto to it. I desperately wanted her lips on my balls and fantasized what they would feel like in her mouth. So good. So fucking good. Heat pooled inside them. I squirmed in my chair, rubbing my cock and nuts on the cushion.

“Mmm,” moaned Jennifer as she consumed the matzo ball.

“Mmm,” I repeated, my balls mentally rolling around in her mouth.

And then she swallowed. Her eyes closed in ecstasy. I hastily took off my jacket. Had Rosa turned the heat up?

She complimented my mother. “Helen, these taste soooo good.” Her deft velvet tongue traced her upper lip.

Holy shitballs! I wanted to zip down my fly. My cock was raging. This girl had given me a major fucking hard-on. There was no way I could sit here any longer without coming in my pants. I jumped up from my chair.

“I’ll be right back.” I hurried out of the dining room before anyone could see the pitched tent between my legs and practically ran to the nearest guest bathroom. I couldn’t get my pants down fast enough. My full-on erection sprung from my boxers. Without wasting a second, I fisted my fingers around it and stroked it hard, up and down. Faster and faster. Harder and harder. In my head, I imagined Jennifer’s sensuous mouth wrapped around it, following my hand, as I raced toward orgasm. Groans escaped my throat; my cock was on fire; I was desperate to come. I squeezed my eyes shut and picked up my pace. I was close. So, so close. My face contorted; my heart raced like a Ferrari, and my cock filled up like a glass of champagne. And then with a jerk and a grunt, I exploded. All over my hands. Such a massive release of power. I sighed with relief and opened my eyes. Standing at the doorway was Jennifer, her body a stone statue and her mouth a frozen wide “O.”

Holy, holy fuck!

CHAPTER 10

Jennifer

I couldn’t get my feet to move or my mouth to close. In need of a good pee from the soup and the nerve-shattering ride up the canyon, I had followed Helen’s directions down a long, art-filled corridor to the nearest guest bathroom. The door, while closed, was unlocked. I turned the knob and swung the door open. My eyes turned as round as marbles while my heart leapt to my throat. Oh my God! My boss was in the middle of jerking himself off. His eyes squeezed shut, he was totally oblivious to me. I should have run, but it was if my feet were super glued to the pink marble floor and my eyes chained to his pink marbled cock.

I let out a gasp, but his groans and pants washed it out. The expression on his face was one of pure tortured ecstasy. And the one on my face was of pure, total shock. I couldn’t get my eyes off his cock. Holy cow! It was huge! A pink, veined, rigid monstrosity that seemed to have a life of its own. I’d never seen anything like it before. Bradley’s cock was the only other cock I’d personally ever seen, and it sure it didn’t look like this.

My mouth fell to the floor and a bolt of heat tore though my body as I watched Blake come in his hand. A loud feral grunt accompanied the explosion—a burst of creamy cum that seeped through his fingers. With a sigh, he opened his eyes. With one word, they met mine. “Fuck!”

Grabbing a wad of toilet paper, he scrambled to clean himself up while I stood there like a shell-shocked idiot, wordless. He hastily tucked his still semi-erect cock back into his boxers and pulled up his pants.

“I’m sorry,” I finally murmured as he fastened his belt buckle. Mortification raced through me. Doofgirl. Why hadn’t I knocked first? The door after all was closed.

Blake’s face was flushed. Probably the same shade of red as mine. He managed to get his mouth to move again.

“It’s just a cock. A wedge of flesh. You might as well get used to it because you’ll be seeing plenty of them in your new job.”

Okay, a cock is a cock is a cock. But this was no ordinary cock. It was totally beyond, in a league of its own, and it belonged to my boss. How could I ever face him again? Maybe I should just count myself lucky that he didn’t ask me to help him tuck it back in, though the thought of touching that pulsing pillar sent a chill of tingles skittering down my spine.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, almost as if it were an afterthought.

“Um, uh, I have to go.” Sheesh. I sounded like a five-year-old.

“Right.” He quickly washed his hands over the elegant porcelain sink. For the first time, I noticed how spacious and beautiful this guest bathroom was with its hand-painted chinoiserie wallpaper and rich bronze fixtures. My eyes stayed on him as he dried his hands with a monogrammed hand towel that was draped over an ornate bronze rack. God, his hands were beautiful with their long, manicured tapered fingers.

“I’ll see you back in the dining room,” he said as he headed toward the door. To my surprise, as he brushed past me, still motionless, he gave my ponytail a playful tug. “Wait till you taste my mother’s brisket. It’ll make you hungry for more.”

With that, he left me alone to pee and to ponder as I sat on the toilet why the tingles that had traveled down my spine were now gathered in the area between my thighs.

The rest of the Shabbat dinner transpired without a major incident. Blake was right—his mother’s tender brisket was delicious and could turn an herbivore into a carnivore as his father joked—but it took all my effort to eat it. I’d totally lost my appetite. My stomach was twisted and my heart was hammering. All I could think about was another hunk of meat—Blake’s mind-blowing cock and the explosive orgasm I’d witnessed. Why the hell hadn’t I just dashed out of the bathroom? Why had I voyeuristically watch him come? And soak up every orgasmic second of his orgasmic display? Maybe, this new job was doing a head job on me—no pun intended. Or maybe . . .

“My son tells me you’re getting married,” thundered Blake’s father, hurling me out of my perturbing mental ramblings.

“Who’s the lucky man?” chimed in his mother. “And what does he do, dear?”

I set my fork down. I could feel Blake’s eyes on me. “He’s someone I met at USC, and he’s a dentist.”

“I hate dentists!” shouted out one of the twins.

Blake’s sister shot him a dirty look. “That’s not a nice thing to say, Jackson.”

“Well, it’s true. They’re super mean, and they won’t even give me a lollypop.”

I stifled a laugh. I’d always hated going to the dentist as a child, and now I was ironically marrying one.

Depleting her God-knows-what-number glass of wine, Blake’s grandmother got in her two cents. “Dentist shmentis. Bubala, with your looks, you could do a lot better. Get yourself a nice rich man with a big shmekel like that Christian Grey—or my grandson.” She winked at Blake, who had turned crimson at the mention of the word shmekel, whatever that meant. Likewise blushing, I squirmed in my chair and accidentally brushed my thigh against his. He didn’t flinch.

Helen’s lovely blue eyes, identical in color to Blake’s, widened. “Mother, you’ve read Fifty Shades of Grey?” Her voice registered extreme shock.

“Puh-lease. I’ve read them all. At my age, you have to get it anyvay you can. Blakela, sveetheart, you should make TV shows of those books.”

Blake’s father looked my way. “Congratulations, Ms. McCoy. You’ve just found your first viewer.”

With a smug, triumphant smile, I turned to face Blake. He smirked.

“Good luck, Ms. McCoy. But I’m still convinced your idea is absurd.”

“We’ll see.” The ratings war was on. May the best man—or woman—win.

CHAPTER 11

Jennifer

I had the worst night’s sleep. I tossed and turned, unable to get the image of Blake Burns’s giant glistening cock out of my mind. The same burning questions scrolled through my brain. Why did it have to be so big? Why the hell did I just stand there and watch him jerk himself off? How was I going to face him at work and not think about it? There was only one cock I should be thinking about—and that was my fiancé’s, Bradley’s. But truth be told, I never thought about his cock outside of it being inside me. Which lately wasn’t often.

Just as I finally dozed off, a cheerful singsong voice awakened me. My eyes popped open.

“Rise and shine. Come on, Jen. Get dressed. You promised to do the Santa Monica Stairs with me this morning.” Already dressed in sweats and running shoes, Libby yanked down my coverlet before I had a chance to sit up. Consumed by my first week at work, I’d totally forgotten I’d committed to work out with her at this popular beachside hot spot.

I slowly rolled out of bed as Libby scurried out of my room. “I have coffee and bagels ready. Hurry.”

After a quick stop in the bathroom to pee, brush my teeth, and tie my hair up in a ponytail, I returned to my room and hastily donned my workout clothes. An oversized SpongeBob tee, a ratty USC sweatshirt, and a pair of black running shorts. As I tied my running shoes, I hoped this workout would release some of the tension consuming me.

Taking Libby’s Mini Cooper, we were able to find parking easily on the street in the tony residential neighborhood that surrounded us. The day couldn’t have been more beautiful—the sun was brightly shining and the temperature was unseasonably mild—likely in the low seventies. The fresh, salty scent of the ocean air was invigorating.

There were two narrow side-by-side stairs separated by about fifty feet. The ocean view at the top was spectacular though one couldn’t see to the bottom of the shrub-lined steps. Both stairs were already packed with people of all ages and builds. Many were galloping up and down them while others were taking two steps at a time. Only a few were leisurely taking their time. Never having done them before and not having worked out for a while, I was sure I’d be in that last group, slowly taking one step at a time. To my relief, Libby chose the less daunting of the pair—the one with widely separated wood plank steps.

After stretching my calves, I followed Libby as she sprightly skipped down the stairs. It took all my effort to keep up with her, made harder by the crowd, her conversation, and the fact that I’d forgotten my glasses. I kept my eyes on my feet, striving not to miss a step, while my roommate babbled away.

“How was your dinner at Saul Bernstein’s house?”

“Good.” Panting profusely, a one-word answer was the most I could muster. Mind-blowing was more like it.

“Was it big?”

“Yes.” Oh, God was IT big!

“What did you have for dinner?”

“Brisket.” An eyeful of Blake.

“Did Blake come?”

“Yes.” Oh did he!

“Did he bring one of his bimbos?”

Her jarring question made me almost miss a step. Gripping the railing, I found my balance and breathed out no.

“It’s no secret he’s got a new hook-up every night. Girls in the office call it his O.K. Corral because everyone’s name starts with a ‘K’.”

I felt my chest tighten. Why did this little tidbit bother me? At least, “J” came before “K.” A half-heartening thought.

We reached the bottom of the steps and began our ascent back to the top. I was totally winded and going back up was exponentially harder. By the time we got halfway up, I was a sweaty panting mess. There must have been close to two hundred steps, but their steepness made it feel like I’d climbed for an eternity. Totally out of breath, I told Libby I needed to take a break. She rolled her eyes and told me while I was resting, she was going to do the other, more challenging set of cement steps. While she jogged over to them, I bent over, clamping my knees, and inhaled a big gulp of the fragrant air to revitalize myself. I wasn’t a quitter. Fortified, I marched down the wooden steps once more.

Going down them wasn’t too bad, but coming up was pure hell. The temperature felt like it’d risen ten degrees—although it could have just been me—and my calves were burning. I pulled my sweatshirt over my head and tied it around my waist. Focusing on each step, I kept my head bowed. At the halfway mark, I smacked straight into someone heading down. He was none too pleased.

“Hey, watch where you’re going.”

Oh my God. That voice. I lifted my head and gawked. It was him. My boss. Blake Burns!

“Hi.” An embarrassed but adorable smile spread across his face.

I quirked a little smile back. In tandem, we did a mutual once-over. His eyes traveled down my body, mine his. I’d never seen him out of a suit. Now, before me stood a god—six-foot three of sheer sculpted leanness in short white athletic shorts and a SIN-TV tee. A fine layer of hair coated his arms and legs, drawing attention to every finely honed muscle. His beautiful face glistened with sweat, and his eyes sparkled blue. My already rapid heartbeat sped up, if that was possible, and my already heated body rose another ten degrees, if that was possible.

“Go down with me and then we’ll come up together.”

His words twisted in my head. “Go down on me and we’ll come together.” Geez, what the heck was wrong with me?

“Sure,” I said without thinking. I certainly was not looking forward to having to make the climb back up yet again.

As we descended, he brushed against me, sending a rush of goose bumps to my heated body. “How come I’ve never seen you here before?” he asked. “I come here every Saturday morning.”

“This is my first time,” I spluttered, concentrating harder on each step.

“It’s a kickass workout,” he said upon reaching the bottom of the steps.

“For sure,” I panted as we pivoted around to hike back up. The steps had gotten even more crowded, making them a bigger challenge.

My calves—and lungs—were killing me, but I said nothing as I struggled to keep up with his pace. This man was fit.

Then suddenly without warning, an intense cramp gripped my right calf. I gritted my teeth and winced. Doubling over with pain, I stopped dead in my tracks.

Blake steadied me with his strong hands before I collapsed onto the step. “Are you okay?” There was genuine concern in his voice.

“I have leg cramp,” I gasped. “I don’t know if I can make it up.” I clutched the railing.

“Hold on to me.” Having no choice, I wrapped my other arm around his broad shoulder. He was all glistening skin and powerful muscles. Clinging to him, I took a step but almost crumpled to the ground on a loud groan. The pain was agonizing. I took another step with my good leg and then tried hopping up the next step. Forget it. The step was too steep, and I didn’t have the muscle-power to get up it. I fought back tears as insensitive pedestrians, determined to get in their workout, brushed past me and told me to get out of the way.

“This isn’t working,” growled Blake. In a heartbeat, he scooped me up in his sculpted arms and threw me over a broad shoulder. There was a new spectacular view—his gorgeous, tight ass.

Gripping the area just below my buttocks, he bounded up the stairs effortlessly. My breasts pressed against his rippled back, and beneath the damp fabric of my tee, I could feel my tender nipples peek. A trail of tingles traveled down my spine and spooled between my legs. When we got to the top, he carried me across the street where there was a sidewalk and no crowd. He gently set me down on the warm cement.

Squatting beside me, he asked, “Which leg?” His eyes burnt into mine.

I grimaced. “The right one.” Keeping my good leg bent, I stretched it out.

Wordlessly, he began massaging my calf. As he kneaded my flesh, I closed my eyes and let out a deep sigh of relief. The firmness of his soft, manly hands felt divine.

“How does that feel?” he asked.

“Sooo good,” I responded, my voice breathy.

“Do you want me to go deeper?”

“Oh yes!” Yes, yes, yes.

He readily obliged, digging his deft fingers deeper into my muscles, and then worked both hands up my thigh to the edge of my running shorts.

He was dangerously close to my sex. I was drenched and heated as it was from the steps workout, but as he stroked the tender, damp flesh of my inner thigh, the area between them grew hotter and wetter. I was practically on fire.

“How does that feel?” His voice was soft and sultry.

My eyes blinked open. I caught his smoldering eyes in mine. I couldn’t get my mouth to move.

A smile curled on his lips. “Well, I hope it feels as good for you as it does for me.”

His words swirled around in my head and then they hit me like a tidal wave. My eyes jumped to the crotch of his shorts. Holy shit! He’d gotten aroused. My heart galloped at the sight of the bulge, knowing from last night what was beneath.

“I think I’m okay now,” I sputtered. That was so far from the truth. I was a hot, sweaty bundle of nerves.

He helped me up. “Let’s see if you can walk.”

I took a few steps forward and then turned back. My calf no longer throbbed, but the throbbing between my legs was so intense I couldn’t walk straight.

“Does your leg still hurt?” asked Blake, his eyes riveted on me.

“Nope. I’m good to go.”

“Are you sure? You look like you’re walking a little funny.”

“Really, I’m fine. Just a little stiff.”

He smiled wryly. “I’m a little stiff too.”

A breath hitched in my throat. I gulped it down and kept my eyes on his face.

He held my gaze in his. “I always get breakfast at this great place on the beach after doing the steps. Come with me. We’ll make it a business meal.”

I needed to get away from him. ASAP. “Sorry, I can’t. I’m with someone.”

His brows furrowed—that special way they did whenever he heard words he didn’t want to hear. “Oh, your fiancé?”

I nervously shook my head. “No, he’s at work. Saturday is one of his busiest days. A girlfriend.”

His frown morphed quickly into that dazzling, dimpled smile. “Text her and tell her you’ll see her later. I’ll drive you home.”

My eyes met his in a standoff.

“Just. Do. It.”

I pulled out my cell phone from my shorts pocket.

Five minutes later, I was cruising down the Pacific Coast Highway in Blake’s convertible, soaking in the magnificent view of the ocean and one equally magnificent profile. Not once did my eyes look down.

Back on the Beach was the perfect name for the restaurant Blake took me to. Located adjacent to the popular Annenberg Community Beach House pool that was now closed for the winter, the restaurant literally sat on the sand and enjoyed unobstructed views of the white-crested waves. We had a choice of eating indoors or outside, but there was no decision to make. With the perfect summer-like weather, we opted for a table outdoors. The place was crowded, filled with both couples and families. Close to the seating area, was a small playground where children could play. A cheerful, tanned waiter, who looked like he could be a surfer, came by with coffee and then asked for our order.

Ravenous, I ordered a mushroom and cheese omelet while Blake ordered huevos rancheros. It was a hearty breakfast that included three eggs, salsa, and beans—so different from the flaxseed protein shakes that Bradley always ordered. Blake consumed his food with gusto. My eyes trained on the way his mountainous biceps flexed when he lifted his fork to his mouth, and his lush lips sensuously wrapped around his Mexican-styled eggs. God, he was gorgeous!

“Where are you from?” he asked me, after swallowing a biteful.

A safe enough question. “Boise.”

“Ah, a Midwesterner. I should have known. What brought you to California?”

I cut into my omelet. “FYI, Idaho is not the Midwest. And the answer to your question is I needed to get out of my shell. And USC has one of the best film and television schools in the country. I won a merit scholarship.”

“Why did you want to get into television?”

“Because I’ve always loved TV. It was my means of escape. I lived a very sheltered life; my overprotective parents homeschooled me.”

Blake took another bite of his eggs. “I’ve never understood people who homeschool their kids.”

“My parents had me late in life. After believing they could never have kids, I was a miracle baby. They wanted to keep me insulated from the world—out of harm’s way.”

“So, no peril or heartbreak for Calamity Jen.”

With a nervous little smile, I moved my omelet around my plate with my fork. “What about you? Where’d you go to school?”

“UCLA.”

“What did you major in?”

He licked his lips. “Anatomy.”

My eyes rounded. “You wanted to be a doctor?”

“No. I wanted to fuck.”

I flushed with unexpected laughter.

“I was a terrible student, but my female professors liked me and gave me passing grades.”

“Did you screw a few?” I couldn’t believe I was asking my boss such an audacious question.

He grinned wickedly. “I screwed them all.”

My eyes widened, but why should I be surprised? This guy was born a player. He was pure walking sex.

“How come you and your father have different last names?”

“During college, I did some modeling. My agent thought Blake Burns would sell a lot more products than Blake Bernstein. The name stuck.”

My eyes widened again. “You were a male model?”

He nodded sheepishly. “Yeah. My roommate made me try out for one of those I-want-to-be America’s Next Top Model reality series. I did it just to piss off my father because the show was another network. Well, to make a long story short, I won.”

“Wow! Did you like modeling?”

“Just the fucking supermodels part.”

A nervous little laugh slipped out of my mouth. He was definitely into supermodels. I took a sip of my coffee and probed further.

“So, how did you end up working for your father?”

“I got bored with the modeling pretty quickly. And the acting. But what I discovered was that I liked being behind the camera more than in front of it. And I saw that sex sold. More men than women watched that top model show. It gave me an idea. Why not create a television network that sold sex? Give the Playboy Channel a run for its money.”

“And—”

“So, I pitched the idea to my old man. SIN-TV. The Sex International Network. And he went for it.”

What a great story. Okay, maybe I didn’t agree with all his programming choices, but he was a visionary. I had to admire him.

“What’s it like working for your father?” Saul Bernstein struck me as warm but very demanding man.

“Better than I thought. It’s made us closer. He’s grooming me to one day run the entire company.”

“Interesting.” So, one day, my boss Blake Burns would be the head of Conquest Broadcasting. I was much more impressed than I let on. Of course, some gorgeous supermodel would be by his side while he ruled the media world. I took another sip of my coffee and inwardly sighed.

We shared a stretch of silence and finished our breakfast. My eyes soaked in the undulating roll of the waves and the surfers who were riding them as well as the close-by seagulls searching for a few breadcrumbs. But mostly, I couldn’t stop staring at Blake as he ate. His sapphire-blue eyes glinted in the sunlight, and his damp dark hair shimmered like satin. Every sculpted muscle was a work of art. He was beautiful. He caught my eyes on him. Setting down his fork, he reached across the table and brushed away a tendril of hair that had fallen onto my face from the ocean breeze. “So, when are you and your fiancé getting married?”

His out-of-the-blue question took me by surprise. I swallowed hard. “We haven’t set a date yet. Maybe in the summer.”

“Are you in love with him?”

I scrunched up my face, but inside my heart rattled. “What kind of question is that? Of course, I’m in love with him.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I care about him. I put his needs before mine.”

Blake gazed at me intensely, his eyes like lasers. “And he does the same for you?”

My mouth parted, but words stayed trapped in my throat. The truth: it was mostly about Bradley. His career, his interests, his desires. I was always giving into his ways—eating at vegan restaurants that made me want to puke, attending dental conventions that made me want to fall asleep, and spending the night at his place with its dreary brown wood furniture I wanted to burn. Damn it. I even fucked him the way he liked it. Always the same old boring way. Missionary.

“Bradley loves me.” My tone was sharp and defensive.

“Is he good in bed?” His deep blue eyes held me fierce. He was unnerving me.

“I’m not going to answer that question.” I spat the words at him. The truth: I wasn’t sure. He was the only man I’d ever been with. His dick was smallish. He came quickly, and I’d never had an orgasm with him. He was nothing like the men in those erotic romance novels I’d read. But I knew they were just fiction. Men like Christian Grey and Gideon Cross didn’t exist in real life.

Blake grinned smugly. “You did answer it. But as my dad always says, good is the enemy of better.”

He was having a very uncomfortable effect on me. As I pondered his words, my heart beat rapidly, and I felt flutters rise between my legs.

“Come over here, tiger.” He signaled with his index finger for me to lean into him. With my lips slightly parted, I did as he asked.

“You have some egg on your mouth.”

“Oh.” I flushed with embarrassment. Before I could flick it off, his long forefinger made contact with my face and languidly traced my lips before brushing it off. My flesh tingled all over from his tender touch. My eyes never left him as he sucked the bit of egg off his fingertip. A satisfied smile spread across his face.

“Has anyone ever told you that you have very kissable lips, Ms. McCoy?”

I jolted with shock. A heat stroke was a very real possibility. “No,” I croaked, my voice just above a whisper.

“Well, I’m telling you.”

With that and the check, breakfast with my boss came to an end.

CHAPTER 12

Blake

After breakfast, I asked Jennifer if she wanted to take a walk on the beach with me. I enjoyed being with her. It was rare for me to have a real conversation with a girl and couldn’t remember the last time I did. But after I told her she had kissable lips, she clammed up and told me she needed to get home.

Fuck. She didn’t even thank me for the compliment, I thought as we cruised along the Santa Monica Freeway in silence. Maybe she didn’t take it that way though the rest of our morning had gone so well. The top of my Porsche was down, and the radio was blasting. From time to time, I stole a glance at her. Her ponytail was whipping against her face, her eyes squinting, as if deep in thought. She kept her gaze straight ahead and occasionally looked out her side of the car. My cock was still twitching from the boner I had under the table. I was inexplicably attracted to her. It had taken all I had not to kiss those kissable lips and let her know I was the man she’d kissed in that game of Truth or Dare. I was now playing my own version of that game. The truth if I was asked: I had a burning urge to pull off the road and ask her to blow me. And if someone dared me, I’d do it.

With no traffic on the freeway, it took a short twenty minutes to get Jennifer’s house. I pulled up to the curb outside a small Spanish cottage. There were two cars parked in the drive away—a Mini Cooper and a Kia. Obviously, she shared it with someone. Her fucking fiancé? My skin bristled, but then I remembered he was at work. So, someone else.

“Thanks again for breakfast,” she said as she unfastened her seat belt. Her nonchalant tone irked me.

“My pleasure. We should do it again.” And let me savor every part of you.

The corners of those kissable lips curled up. “Maybe.”

Man, I hated that word. I was a man used to hearing yes and who never took no as an answer.

Before I could jump out of my car to help her out, she opened the passenger door and let herself out.

“See you on Monday.” Her voice sounded cheerful but businesslike. She pivoted toward her house. Unbeknownst to her, I kept my eyes on her tight little heart-shaped ass and her thin, toned legs. She had a sexy little bounce to her stride. My dick hardened.

I lowered the volume of the radio. “Hey, what are you doing tonight?”

She looked over her shoulder. “What I always do on Saturday nights. I’m seeing my fiancé.”

The f-word. I clenched my fists into hard balls while my dick softened.

By the time she disappeared into the house, I’d totally lost my erection. But the ache in my balls was palpable.

With the Lumineers singing “Ho Hey,” I peeled off the curb with a screech.

Whatever stupid game I was playing, I was losing. Jennifer McCoy did not belong to me.

Five minutes later, I made a sharp U-turn. Blake Burns did not lose at games. It was time to check out the competition. I pulled up to her house, jumped out of my car, and then knocked at her door.

She came to the door quickly. Opening it, she was already freshly showered and sporting a short terry cloth robe. Her damp, shampooed hair hung loose, spilling over her shoulders. Fuck. She smelled delicious—all cherry vanilla—and beneath that robe, I knew she was pure silky flesh. Man, how I wanted to tear that robe right off her and take her in my arms.

“Blake!” She seemed shocked to see me.

I cupped my jaw with my hand and feigned pain.

“Is something wrong?” She sounded concerned.

I nodded with a grimace. Man, I was good. I deserved an Emmy. My modeling/acting days were good for something besides supermodel hook-ups.

“I have a fucking toothache,” I moaned, rubbing my cheek.

“Oh my goodness. Come in. I’ll get you some Advil.”

“Thanks,” I said, stepping inside. “It started at breakfast but just suddenly flared up.”

“You poor thing. Make yourself at home. I’ll be right back.”

Poor me settled into an armchair while she darted off. Before I could study her house, she was back with a couple of those red pain pills and a tall glass of water.

“Thanks,” I said, taking them from her. I downed the Advil with a couple sips of the water.

“You should see your dentist right away.”

“I can’t. He doesn’t work on Saturdays.”

“Then you should see my fiancé. He’s a great dentist.”

Bingo.

I moaned again. “Do you think he could squeeze me in?”

“I’ll call him right now and make sure he does.”

Reaching for her cell phone on the coffee table, she speed-dialed a number.

I continued to feign pain while I listened to her conversation. She was obviously talking to the receptionist. She told whoever it was that a friend of hers from work had an emergency. Her brows furrowed while she waited for a response and then she broke into a smile.

“Great. He’ll be there soon. Can I say hi to Bradley?”

Pause.

“Oh, all right. Just give him my love and tell him I’ll see him tonight.”

I inwardly cringed as I watched her end the call. Placing the phone back on the coffee table, she found a pen and a cocktail napkin. She jotted something down on the paper napkin.

Smiling, she handed it to me. “My fiancé can squeeze you in. His name is Dr. Bradley Wick and this is where his office is.”

I eyed the address. Fuck. I had to go all the way to The Valley.

“Thanks.”

“Good luck. You’re going to love Bradley.”

There was only one thing I was going to love about Bradley Wick, DDS. And that was making him disappear.

My bud Jaime was right. Eliminate the competition.

I mentally gave myself a high five. Operation Dickwick was about to begin.

CHAPTER 13

Blake

It would figure that Bradley’s office was in the fucking Valley. Burbank, no less. With the traffic and construction on Laurel Canyon, it took me almost an hour to get over the hill and then across the 101 to the Barham exit. It was hotter than balls outside so I had to drive with the air conditioning on and the top up; my Satellite radio didn’t make the journey any better. I fucking hated going to The Valley. But I was going to make this trip worth it.

Seething, I pulled into the driveway of a white colonial-like building complete with Tara-like columns located off Pass Avenue. While located close to the media district, there was nothing chic about the building or the address. I whipped my Porsche into the first available spot in the small parking lot—right next to the spot reserved for Dr. Bradley Wick, DDS. Wouldn’t you know it—he drove a Prius. A white as bleached teeth 2012 model. I hated guys who drove Priuses. Have you ever noticed they’re a breed? All self-righteous, environmentally conscious, and fucking anal. Do-gooders who never broke a rule. The type who was always the teacher’s pet or the perfect Boy Scout. I already had a handle on Dickwick.

The waiting area of his office was for sure a reflection of his penis—I mean, Prius. Small, compact, and energy efficient since it seemed to have the barest amount of air conditioning allowed by human labor laws. An oppressive cheapskate. Except for an unattractive matronly woman on her way out, I was the only patient. No wonder he could fit me in so easily. Business was not as good as Jen made it out to be. I signed in with the buxom redheaded receptionist, who made goo-goo eyes at me, and then took a seat in one of the burnt-orange tweed armchairs that looked straight out of an Office Depot fire sale. Cupping one hand on my stubbled jaw to feign pain, I randomly picked up one of the anally arranged magazines on the coffee table. Dental Life Today. Man, he was a dweeb.

I tossed the magazine back onto the table (deliberately making a small mess) and pulled out my iPhone from my shorts pocket to check my messages and texts. Only one warranted my attention. The one from Jennifer.

Blake~I hope your toothache feels better. Bradley is an amazing dentist~Jen.

I shot her back a smiley face emoticon. Dr. Wick was about to find out that I was an amazing patient. When the receptionist called out my name, my secret evil plan sprung into action. Phase One of Operation Dickwick was about to begin.

“Mr. Burns, Dr. Wick can see you now. Just go through the door and head down the hallway to Room 3.”

“Thank you,” I moaned with faux-pain. I felt her lustful eyes on me as I headed through the door. Don’t hate me. I couldn’t help that I had that effect on every woman.

The examination room was nothing to write home about. I anchored my body into the leatherette examination chair, stretching my longs legs out in front of me. I had to admit it was quite comfy, and took in my surroundings. A sink, x-ray machine, and the usual array of scary looking dental instruments on a cart next to me. Littering—I mean lining—the walls were numerous awards and diplomas he’d earned throughout his wretched life—from being named “Little Mr. Good Behavior” at nursery school to his honorary degree from USC’s prestigious dental school. Jesus fucking Christ. There was an even a Boy Scout award along with a photo of him wearing all his badges.

Another photo grabbed my attention. It was a recent one of him at some dental convention, posing with an ugly plaque. Los Angeles’s Most Promising Young Dentist 2013. He looked even dweebier than I’d imagined. And what was with that fucking smile? Was Dickwick some kind of walking advertisement for his practice? I’d never seen such monstrous teeth on a human being. Well, maybe a horse.

My eyes shifted to another photo taken at the same event. My skin bristled and my toes curled. Standing next to Dickwick was a beautiful young woman. Jennifer McCoy. About the same height as Bradley in her modest heels, she was wearing a simple ivory sheath and a smile. A small smile but nonetheless a smile.

I wanted to rip the photo off the wall with my teeth. Maybe I could dump it in his toxic wastebasket. There was time. He still wasn’t here. Just as I was about to slide off the dental chair, I heard footsteps at the door. In walked 36-24-36 in a mini-skirted white uniform and shiny white platforms. This must be Bradley’s nurse or dental hygienist, I thought as she bounced my way. And I’m not talking about her gait.

“Hi, I’m Candace, Dr. Wick’s hygienist,” she cooed. Her cartoony voice went with her name—saccharine and seductive. She had all the makings of a porn star. Blond, buxom, beautiful. She clipped one of those blue paper bibs onto the neckline of my tee. Her tits were so big they grazed my chest.

“Dr. Wick will be here shortly,” she breathed against my neck. Her overpowering sugary scent was nauseating.

“Well, hello, hello, hello.” A chirpy, nasal voice sounded on cue.

He was in my face before my head could swivel around. Dr. Bradley Wick, DDS . . . a twenty-six-year-old replica of his former Boy Scout self. But instead of a blue shorts uniform with all his do-gooder badges, he was now wearing a white, monogrammed lab coat over a cheap-looking gray suit and tie—the kind they advertise at the Men’s Wearhouse for ninety-nine dollars—and his hairline was receding. I eyed him up and down. He couldn’t be more than five foot nine. For sure, Jen couldn’t wear stilettos with him without towering over him. His small hands and feet told me something else was small too. My poor Jen! My elimination mission had, in an instant, become a rescue mission.

He glanced down at the clipboard anchored in his hands. There was a piece of paper with scribbled notes attached to it. “Hmm . . . so, I understand you have a sudden toothache.”

I did the moaning, hand-to-cheek thing again and nodded. God, I was good. My modeling/acting days had really paid off.

“Call me if you need me, Doctor,” Candace said breathily before sashaying to the door. She sure knew how to move that piece of ass.

Dickwick’s eyes fixed on it. Despite being engaged to Jennifer, he looked like he wanted to take a bite. I suppose most men would. Oddly, even though my type, she rang no bells for me. Not even a tiny testicular tingle.

“Thank you, Candace.” That big horsy smile spread across Dickwick’s face. A shudder ran through me. Shit. Did he use those teeth on Jennifer? I had the sudden urge to knock them out.

His grating voice hurled me out of my mental—or should I say dental?—ramblings. “Refresh my memory . . . how did you find me?”

“A referral.” I groaned out the words.

“From whom? I’d like to reward whoever it is with a free oral exam.”

The words “oral exam” made me cringe. Is that what he did with Jennifer’s pussy?

I breathed out her name. “Jennifer McCoy.”

His eyes widened. “Really? How do you know her?”

I knitted my brows. That was interesting. He had no clue who I was. Jennifer had obviously never mentioned my name to him. Cautiously I said, “We work together.” And soon, Dickwick, we’re going to fuck together.

“Ah, so you work for Conquest Broadcasting too. In the children’s programming division?”

Hmm. Is this what Jen had told him? Wondering why she would hide working for SIN-TV, I merely nodded.

“Wonderful. Let’s get started.”

Placing the clipboard on the sink counter, Dickwick prepped for my examination. I watched as he donned a paper mask along with a pair of latex gloves and telescopic glasses. He leaned into me.

“Open wide.”

Is that what he said when he wanted Jen to suck his little dick?

Mentally slapping myself, I parted my lips and opened my mouth as wide as it would go.

Holding a mouth mirror, he peered inside it. “Where exactly is the problem? I don’t see any inflammation.”

A pool of saliva gathered in the base of my mouth as he continued to explore. I grabbed that little spittle vacuum and pressed my lips on the tip to suck up the excess spit. For some crazy reason, I imagined Jen wrapping her lips around my cock and making me come in her mouth.

Poking my gums with the fingers of his free hand, he catapulted me out of my fantasy. I relaxed my jaw.

“It hurts like hell in the back by my molars. Can you feel any swelling?” I asked before opening my mouth wide again. My evil plan was now officially in action.

He reached two fingers—his index and middle ones—into my mouth. I let out a loud, faux moan of pain and then I did it. I chomped down on his fingers as hard as I could. So hard that my cuspids tore through his plastic gloves, and I could taste the copper of his blood on my tongue.

“OWWW!” he screamed out at the top of his lungs. Music to my ears.

Well done, Agent Burns, I mused as he yanked his hand out of my mouth and stared down at the blood-filled glove with disbelief. Well, at least I had spared him his two fingers. Well, barely.

“Why the hell did you bite me?” Pain and terror filled his eyes as he struggled to pull off the bloody glove.

“I’m sorry. It was an accident. You hit the sore spot. It was just an involuntary reflex.”

“Fuck,” he moaned as he peeled off the glove. Bright red blood was dripping down both fingers, covering the back of his hand and making its way to the edge of his sterile white lab coat sleeve. Panicking, he reached for some gauze and held it tightly to his wounds.

“Man, I mean Doctor, I’m really, really sorry,” I apologized. That you won’t be sticking those two pathetic fingers up Jennifer McCoy’s pussy anytime soon . . . or anywhere near it,” I silently added with a wide mental grin.

The blood seeped through the gauze. He looked horrified. “I’m sorry,” he stammered. “You’re going to have to come back or see someone else. I think I need to go to an emergency room. I may need stitches.”

“Want me to drive you? It’s the least I could do. I drive fast.” Like a maniac.

Pressing the gauze to his fingers, he dashed out of the room before I could say another word.

A cocky smile lit up my face. Did I ever mention I was a biter as a child? My biting skills had only gotten better with age. I couldn’t wait to use them on the warm, silky flesh of the delicious Jennifer McCoy. And make my mark.

Mission accomplished.

CHAPTER 14

Jennifer

I spent Saturday afternoon with Libby at Chaz’s downtown studio—a large, high-ceiling, exposed beam loft located in the heart of the Fashion District. Chaz had invited us to pick out dresses from his All That Chaz line for the exclusive art gallery gala he’d invited us to later in the evening. It was an opening for a painter who went by one name that rhymed with his—PAZ. He’d scored the invitation through the co-owner of the gallery, who was one of his major clients. After much leg-pulling, I’d convinced Bradley to come along. He hated these kinds of things, so I promised him we wouldn’t have to stay long. His idea of an exciting night out was a boring night in—ordering takeout from his favorite vegan restaurant, watching reruns of nineties shows on Netflix, and going to sleep early with a quick fuck thrown in. We were barely engaged but acted more like an old married couple.

Sunlight beamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows. As I ploughed through the racks of dresses, each one more dazzling than the one before, my mind was distracted. I couldn’t stop thinking about my boss. I could barely eat my breakfast this morning. I was too roused up from his sensual massage that affected him as much as me, and when he told me my lips were kissable, I almost jumped out of my skin. The drive home was painful. I couldn’t wait to get out of the car. The whole way, I had to keep my legs crossed to quell the throbbing between them, and my eyes anywhere else but on him. Oh, that heart-stopping, gorgeous face with that cocky dimpled smile and those piercing ocean-blue eyes that burnt holes through me. If it wasn’t for the seat belt, I might have jumped him and gotten us into a major accident.

Visions of him naked danced in my head. Those long muscled legs and chiseled arms. His broad shoulders. I hadn’t actually seen his chest or ass, but in my mind’s eye, they were sculpted male perfection just like the rest of him. And then there was his cock. That magnificent tower of sexual power. Fuck. I couldn’t get him out of my mind. My pulse was in overdrive, and the lingering ache between my legs wouldn’t go away.

When he’d texted me earlier to thank me for the referral to Bradley, my whole body lit up. Not just my eyes. I’d longed to hear his voice, that sultry, manly voice. How badly I’d wanted to call him back. I’d fought back the urge by convincing myself he might still be in a pain and not be able to talk. Despite his cockiness, I’d found myself caring about him as much as I wanted him in forbidden places. There was something seriously wrong with me. Here I was engaged to be married to the man I’d been with for over five years, and I was melting over another I’d known for less than a week. A deep pang of guilt knotted my stomach and sent a shiver down my back. Was fantasizing a form of cheating? I couldn’t focus on picking out a dress.

“Darling, let me help you find something,” offered Chaz, coming to my rescue. “You seem distracted.”

That was a fact.

I continued to listlessly scour through the dozens of dresses. “They’re all so short, Chaz.”

He rolled his eyes at me. “That’s the point, Jenny-Poo. They’re fuck-me dresses. You know, you seriously need to change your look. Sometimes you dress like someone’s mother.”

I cringed. He was right. I was not very adventurous when it came to fashion. And I definitely didn’t dress with sex appeal in mind. I lifted a sparkly pink number off the rack. My size—four. “What about this one?”

“One of my faves, but not right for tonight. An art gallery opening requires an LBD.”

I arched my brows. “An LBD?”

He shook his head with amused disbelief. “A little black dress, honey.”

I watched as he shuffled through the dresses until he landed on one to his liking; he yanked it off the rack. A smile lit his face. “Perfection. This one is calling your name.”

He held it up in front of me. It was itsy bitsy and strapless. Folding it over his arm, he pivoted on his heel and told me he’d be right back. In a flash, he returned with a pair of sparkly black stilettos with spiky six-inch heels that looked like they could stab someone. “They’re your size. Try these on with the dress.”

“Where’s the try-on room?”

Chaz grinned sheepishly. “Darling, this is not a department store; it’s a friggin’ studio. The try-on room is right here. Off with your clothes.” A sweeping hand gesture accompanied his command.

Hesitantly, I stripped off my sneakers, jeans, and crew neck sweater. Clad in just my cotton bra and panties, I was practically naked. A wave of embarrassment swept over me, but then I reminded myself Chaz was gay and more like a brother. And he probably saw a lot more flesh with his daily slew of fitting models.

I slipped on the dress and the shoes.

“Oh my God. That’s so amazeballs on you!” It was Libby, with a handful of little black dresses strewn over her arm.

“Really?”

“Girlfriend, take a look at the new you.”

Libby led me to a nearby full-length mirror. Unsteady in the killer heels, I held on to her shoulder. Chaz pranced behind us, belting out “I’m Too Sexy.”

Removing my glasses, I gawked when I saw my reflection. Wow! The LBD accentuated every little curve in my body and made my long legs look impossibly longer with the six-inch heels on my feet. I did look unbelievably sexy.

“Bradley better have you on a tight leash tonight,” teased Libby.

“Nah, sis. This girl needs to get unleashed.”

Chaz’s words whirled around in my head as I stared at myself in the mirror. But it wasn’t my reflection that filled my head. It was the image of Blake Burns.

The art gallery was located not far from our house on chic Melrose Avenue. While we could have easily walked there, I was glad Chaz was picking us up in his Jeep. The thought of walking in my six-inch heels scared me. Given how accident-prone I was, the possibility of tripping and breaking my ankle was a reality.

While the event began at six o’clock, we showed up at seven—fashionably late as Chaz put it. We were not the only ones. We stood in a long line of expensive cars—Mercedes, BMWs, and Ranger Rovers, not to mention a few Bentleys, Rollses, and limos—waiting our turn for a valet to take our vehicle. Paparazzi were lined up outside the gallery.

“Look! There’s Jennifer Lawrence!” I cried out as I watched her gracefully step out of a stretch limousine, followed by her handsome date.

“Ooh! I’m so in love with her,” cooed Chaz as he inched up the car.

Oh my God! Brangelina!” exclaimed Libby, who was a total celebrity hound.

Wearing contact lenses at Libby’s insistence, I found the gorgeous Hollywood power couple in the crowd. Paparazzi were stepping over each other to take photos. Wow! This wasn’t any ordinary gallery opening. It was the kind that made headline news on Entertainment Tonight. My heartbeat sped up with apprehension and anticipation.

We dispersed as soon as we stepped foot inside the bustling gallery. I didn’t even have a chance to grab a flute of champagne when a familiar angry voice assaulted me.

“Where the hell have you been? I’ve been here for an hour.”

I spun around. Facing me was Bradley, sticking out like a sore thumb in khakis and a navy Brooks Brothers blazer, in this uber-cool sea of black. While I felt out of my league, I felt grateful to be wearing Chaz’s chic little black dress. It was perfect.

“We just got here,” I muttered.

“Well, I want to leave soon.”

My heart fell to my stomach. Why couldn’t he for once do something I wanted to do? And didn’t he even notice my new dress?

“Okay. Let me take a quick look around and we’ll go.” Damn. Why didn’t I tell him I wanted to stay? Take in the art and hang out with Libby and Chaz.

“Good. I’m going to look for some herbal tea. By the way, the food here is awful and I’m starving. We’ll pick up something on our way home.”

Lowering my eyes, I noticed that two of his fingers were thickly bandaged. “What happened—”

He stalked off before I could ask. A white-gloved server passed by me, holding a tray of skewers. The alternating cubes of grilled meat and veggies looked and smelled delicious. As Bradley faded into the crowd, I grabbed one and savored it. I was starving too. For some nourishment. And affection.

Dozens of intriguing paintings lined the walls of the spacious gallery. I was eager to check them out, but first helped myself to a glass of champagne from another passing server. I took a sip of the bubbly. The zing took the sting out of Bradley’s words. Sometimes, he could be such a jerk. With my champagne in hand, I padded over to the painting nearest to me.

I studied it. It was a self-portrait of the artist PAZ, whose full name was Payton Anthony Zander. Upon entering the gallery, I’d been handed a short bio. He had painted hundred of oils, but his career was tragically cut short by a self-inflicted gunshot at the age of forty-five. A suicide. Such a shame because the artist was truly talented. I admired the rich Van Gogh-like brushstrokes and the juxtaposition of bright colors. I moved on to the next painting. Another portrait entitled Portrait of Delilah at Noon. It was a portrait of the late artist’s beloved wife and muse. An abstract nude. Her captivating, dark-eyed beauty lit up the canvas. Sadly, her infidelity and their subsequent divorce had driven PAZ to his untimely death.

A warm breath curled on the nape of my neck. “What does this painting do for you, Ms. McCoy?”

Startled by the familiar velvety voice, I spun around and almost spilled my champagne. Oh my God! It was Blake Burns. In my six-inch heels, I was nearly eye level with him.

“What are you doing here?” I gasped.

“The artist’s son, Jaime Zander, is my best friend. I want to introduce you to him. He’s the head of the advertising agency that’s doing our upfront presentation.”

“I’d love to meet him,” I stammered, soaking him in.

God, he looked delicious! In head-to-toe black: tight-ass jeans that hung low on his hips, an unzipped leather battle jacket that broadened his already broad shoulders, and a tee that clung to his defined pecs. Sexy black leather boots finished off his ensemble. I quickly shifted my vision back to his face, staying away from anything below his waist. His eyes burnt into mine.

“So answer my question about the painting.”

I swiveled around to take another look. My eyes absorbed the subtleties and innuendos. “It moves me. I can tell the artist was extremely in love with his former wife. There’s so much passion in his strokes.”

“Very impressive and perceptive. You must have taken quite a few art history courses in college.”

“I only took one.” My voice was shaky. “So, what does the painting do for you?”

“It makes me hot.”

A sudden chill ran down my spine and that familiar tingling sensation gathered between my legs. I was heating up. Stay cool. I turned around to face him.

“Do all naked women make you hot, Mr. Burns?”

“Only beautiful ones.” He eyed me from head to toe. “And I must say, Ms. McCoy, you happen to look extremely beautiful tonight.”

“Thanks,” I stammered, all hot and bothered. I moved on to the next painting with Blake hot on my trail.

This painting was an early portrait of the artist with his wife. Her bare, contoured back faced me; the artist’s hand was tugging on her waist-length ebony ponytail, pulling her head back. It was called The Kiss. I stared at it wordlessly, mesmerized. A rush of emotion poured through my veins. My eyes teared up. I’d never been so profoundly affected by a piece of art. It was not what I saw that moved me, but what I didn’t see. His lips consuming hers. The fire. A flame of passion and desire. I could feel what Delilah was feeling all the way to my toes. My chest rose, my heart thudded, and my breath caught in my throat. All time stood still.

“Do you like this painting?” Blake’s soft voice brought me out of my trance-like state and back to the moment.

“I love it.” My voice was thin and watery. I knew what this kiss felt like. I’d experienced it. Only once. Blindfolded. With a beautiful stranger.

Blake’s warm hands splayed across my bare shoulders. His breath heated my neck. I was paralyzed. And then he whispered in my ear.

“It’s special, isn’t it, Jen—”

“Blake, I’ve been looking all over for you.”

A shrill, unfamiliar voice cut him short. Blake’s hands jumped off my shoulders. We pivoted on our heels at once. Facing us was a drop-dead gorgeous blond goddess, dressed in a low-cut, body-hugging black mini dress that revealed her melon-sized boobs, clearly fake, and mile-high shapely legs that were anchored in stilt-like shoes. She looked familiar to me—maybe a supermodel or actress.

Blake’s face flushed slightly as he gulped. “Kitty—”

“It’s Kat,” she hissed.

Blake harrumphed. I held back laughter. My urge to laugh was short-lived.

Kitty-Kat narrowed her predatory cat-green eyes at me. Her long, lacquered nails morphed into claws. I shuddered. I could mentally feel them dragging down my flesh. She hissed again. “Blake’s with me.”

She intimidated me. But worse, a bolt of jealousy shot through me. This was Blake’s type. Tall, blond, and gorgeous. Even in my sexy LBD and heels, I paled next to her.

“Well, I should be going.”

A triumphant smile snaked across Kitty-Kat’s full crimson lips. Blake looked flustered.

“Tiger, wait. Don’t go.”

Just as I was about to flee, Bradley returned with an iced tea in his hand. His eyes darted from me to Kitty-Kat to Blake.

“Why it’s you again,” he sneered.

“This is my boss, Blake—”

Bradley cut me off. “Oh, your boss? The one who practically bit off my fingers.”

I chewed my bottom lip, on the verge of laughter. What was wrong with me? I should be feeling sorry for my poor fiancé. Blake shot me a wry look and shrugged.

“It was an accident.”

Steam was coming out of Bradley’s nostrils. I could practically see it. His lips snarled, his shoulders hunched, and his hands fisted. He had a major anger management issue and could easily be roused.

He grabbed my hand and jerked me away. “I’ve had enough. We’re out of here.”

Wordlessly, I let Bradley drag me through the crowd, the tumbler of champagne still in my hand. I felt like hurling it at him. Only steps away from the entrance to the gallery, I turned my head to look back.

Blake Burns had not moved. His eyes bore into mine, and I realized they had never left me.

CHAPTER 15

Jennifer

The ride back to Bradley’s place was steeped in cold silence. Bradley was in one of his moods. His hands were tight on the wheel of his Prius, and his lips were pressed tight in a thin, tense line. Whenever he got into one of these bad moods, which lately was often, he preferred to listen to talk radio than to talk to me.

Nearing his Sherman Oaks condo, we made one stop on Ventura Boulevard at one of his favorite takeout restaurants. Vegan Delight. I waited in the car, with the engine running and radio still on, while Bradley plodded into the small storefront, located in one of the city’s many ugly strip malls. He didn’t even bother to ask what I wanted to eat. Which was okay by me because I didn’t have much of an appetite.

The program playing was one of those call-in shows. My ears perked up at the newest caller. Her name was Rose from Cerritos, and she was having fantasies about her boss. What should she do?

The host listened attentively as she ranted on about her wildest fantasies. Tearing off his clothes. Sucking his dick. Fucking his brains out. Her voice grew tearful as she revealed how much she secretly loved him, having no clue if the feeling was reciprocal, especially since he was married. Poor Rose. She was sobbing. I so felt for her. My stomach twisted painfully as the image of my own boss, Blake Burns, flashed in and out of my head. That gorgeous face! That hard, sculpted body! That magnificent cock! I craved them all. Stop it, Jennifer. But no matter how much I mentally slapped myself, I couldn’t stop thinking about him and imagining . . .

Just as the host was about to give advice to Rose, the car door swung open. Bradley scooted inside with a bagful of takeout. He turned the radio off and backed up the car. The pungent smell of curry and garlic filled the air, and I began to feel nauseated. As Bradley took off, I lowered my window and inhaled some fresh air to clear my passageways. And to clear my mind of the fantasies dancing inside it. When we pulled up to Bradley’s condo, Blake Burns had just ripped off my dress in my fantasy world. I had totally lost track of place and time.

In a haze, I followed Bradley into his condo. He flipped on the light, illuminating a roomful of monotone brown furniture that looked like it came out of a furniture-for-rent catalog. Actually, it did.

Bradley set the food down on a Formica counter that divided the kitchen and the living room.

“I’m going to put my pajamas on,” he mumbled, already heading to the bedroom down the hallway. “Help yourself to some food.”

Listlessly, I ambled over to the counter and removed the three containers of food from the brown paper bag. I tore open the lids. Upon eying the vomiticious (yes, that made-up word again) concoctions of strange looking vegetables disguised in assorted brown sauces and inhaling their unpleasant, incongruous aromas, I decided to pass on dinner and plunked down on the massive brown corduroy couch. It faced the built-in plasma TV—the one thing in the condo Bradley had splurged on. Bradley loved to watch TV—especially reruns of the nineties shows he’d grown up with. Home Improvement was his very favorite. He’d seen every episode dozens of times, yet each time he watched one, he bellied over in laughter as if he’d never seen it. Our mutual love for television—especially the shows from our childhoods—had been one of the things that had brought us together and bonded us, but his obsession with them was now a door that shut me out of his life.

In a flash, Bradley was back—in his crisp blue and white striped Brooks Brothers pajamas (last year’s splurgy Christmas present) and with a carefully arranged plateful of Vegan Delight. He plopped down next to me, with the plate on his lap and his legs stretched out on the oak coffee table facing us. With one hand, he shoveled forkfuls of the saucy mush into his mouth, while the other, with the bandaged fingers, deftly channel-surfed until he landed on Teen Nick. His eyes lit up and a wide grin spread across his face.

“Yabba! My favorite episode of Kenan and Kel is on.” He noisily masticated his hodgepodge of food.

Big whoop. I inwardly sighed. Kicking off my heels, I bent up my knees and curled my arms around them. Yet another romantic Saturday night with Bradley. My mind wandered. What were Libby and Chaz doing? Were they still at the art gallery? And what was Blake doing? The thought of him hanging with that blond buxom predatory beast sent a shiver to the base of my spine. Why should I care? He was my boss. He was entitled. I was engaged. Period. I glanced down at my engagement ring, the luster lost in Bradley’s dimly lit shades-of-brown living room.

Halfway though the episode, Bradley’s landline rang. The phone was located on the counter where he’d set the bag of food. Setting his now empty plate on the coffee table, he jumped up to get the phone. Eager for a distraction, I studied Bradley as he took the call. The expression on his face and tone of voice alternated between extreme pleasure and extreme distress. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said, ending the call, oblivious to my eavesdropping. After filing to the kitchen to get a glass of water, he returned to the couch.

“A patient?” I asked.

He nodded. “Yep. She’s in desperate need of a filling but can only come into the office tomorrow morning due to her job. Hope you don’t mind.”

A Sunday? I half-smiled. “Sure, no problem. A patient’s needs come first.”

And lately they had. Broken promises. Broken dates. He’d even missed my engagement party. I mentally pinched myself, reminding myself that Brad was consumed with building his dental practice. Building our future. We were just going through a challenging phase. That’s all. I lovingly gave his hand a squeeze. To my surprise, it was cold and clammy.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

Bradley didn’t answer. I turned to look at him. He was green and shaking like a leaf.

“I think I have food poisoning,” he muttered, leaping to his feet.

I trailed behind him as he raced to the bathroom.

Crouching to his knees, Bradley began to retch into the toilet. The stench sent my own wave of nausea to my chest.

“Are you okay, sweetie?” I rubbed his back.

“Don’t touch me,” he hissed.

Taken aback, I abruptly withdrew my hand and stepped back. I was just trying to help. Put his needs before mine. Isn’t that what lovers did? Be there for one another. Like my parents did time and time again.

Another loud belch sounded. He was puking his guts out.

“What can I do to help?” Desperation filled my voice.

“Nothing,” he choked. “This is all your fault.” Belch.

“My fault?”

“If we hadn’t gone to that goddamn art gallery opening, none of this would have happened.”

“What do you mean?”

“We could have stayed in and ordered from Mr. Vegan.”

I was wordless. We’d had takeout food from Vegan Delight countless times before, and neither of us had ever gotten food poisoning. This was just a fluke thing. And maybe it wasn’t food poisoning. Instead, a stomach virus. It was going around. Several co-workers at my office had, in fact, come down with it.

Another loud heave hurled me back to the moment. My fiancé, Bradley Wick, was puking his guts out, and there was nothing I could do. Because he didn’t want my help or my love. I felt helpless, hapless, and hurt.

Finally, after five long, wretched minutes, Bradley staggered to his feet. His thinning hair was matted to his head, and his chalky face was spattered with sweat. He flushed the toilet, and then stumbled over to the sink where he rinsed his mouth with one of the dozen mouthwash products he had neatly lined up along the tiled counter. And then he vigorously brushed his teeth. After brushing, he splattered some cold water onto his face with his good hand.

“You need to sleep on the couch tonight.” His voice was hoarse.

“Okay.” As hurt as I felt, I was relieved.

We exited the bathroom and parted ways.

“Wake me up, if you need me.”

Without responding, Bradley shuffled down the hallway to the bedroom we’d shared every Saturday for the past few years. But not tonight.

In the darkness, I found my way back to the couch and turned off the TV. The peaceful quiet and stillness of the night enveloped me. I was still in my little black dress. Starting at my shoulders, I traced my fingers over the silhouette. I moved them slowly down to the rise of my breasts, where they lingered making wide circles. My nipples hardened and heat soared in my core. My hands continued to slide down my torso until they splayed on my bare thighs. They slid up and down my smooth limbs, and I felt myself succumbing to my arousal. My breathing shallow, I lowered the side zipper of my strapless dress and let if fall to the floor. Stepping out of it, I was naked except for a black lace thong that Libby had given to me for my last birthday.

Spreading my legs apart, I dipped my right hand under the band of lace. My fingers latched on to my wet folds, caressing the hills and valleys. And then they found their way to my aching clit. My breathing grew heavy, my body feverishly hot. My left hand joined my right, and I shoved two fingers into my hole. Thrusting them up and down the slick, heated walls. Fast and hard as I rubbed my clit in tandem.

My eyes squeezed shut, I arched my head and bit down on my lips to suppress moans that might awaken Bradley. I was on the verge of an orgasm.

A heart-stopping second later, I came with powerful waves of pleasure. The image of Blake Burns’s beautiful face filled my mind and the image of his beautiful cock filled my core.

Still trembling, I collapsed onto the couch and pulled the chenille blanket over my head. Sweet dreams knocked at my doorway to pleasure. With Blake Burns’s magnificence embedded deep inside me, I fell blissfully asleep.

When I awoke Sunday morning, I was blissfully still wet. And didn’t give a damn when I heard Bradley sneak out the back door.

CHAPTER 16

Blake

Monday mornings always began with a staff meeting at nine a.m. I was taken aback to already find Jennifer in the conference room at eight forty-five. With her lustrous hair loose and minus her glasses, she looked as beautiful as she had on Saturday night.

Tensing, I settled into my seat at the head of the large conference room table and bid her good morning. “How was the rest of your weekend?”

“Great.” She beamed.

Fuck. She had sex with Dickwick.

“How ’bout yours?”

“Great,” I mimicked. Actually, it fucking sucked. Kat, pissed off by Jennifer, had thrown an embarrassing tantrum at the gallery and then followed me home, demanding retribution sex. None of my hook-ups got to spend the night with me. A rule was a rule. And she was the last person I wanted to spend any time with. I almost had to call the police to get her out of my building. Then yesterday, I’d had a touch of that flu that was going around the office and stayed in bed all day. For the first time since my balls had dropped, my cock didn’t come out to play all weekend.

“Did you stay for a long time at the gallery?” She held her mesmerizing green eyes in mine. Her gaze was inquisitive.

“Not really.” I felt my cock jump. Why did she do this to me? I hadn’t stopped thinking about her all weekend. Even lying in bed yesterday fighting off a tinge of nausea, I thought about her and got a boner.

“Oh. Did you and your date go somewhere afterward?” Her voice was tentative, like she was afraid to hear the answer.

Before I could respond, the rest of my staff filed in. Everyone took seats around the large conference room table. My eyes circled the perimeter. Only one person was missing—Myles Harding, my head of current programming.

“Where’s Myles?” I asked my secretary, Mrs. Cho.

“He no come in today. Flu major case.”

Damn. That meant there would be no one to supervise the season finale episode of the Wheel of Pain tonight.

I looked at Jennifer. “Are you free tonight?”

Her eyes lit up and then she nodded.

“Great.”

An eager smile flashed across her face.

“I need you on the set of Wheel of Pain to cover for Myles.”

Her smile morphed into a frown. She murmured one little word: “Oh.”

“Ms. McCoy, my father always says the cream rises to the—”

She cut me off. “I’ll be there.”

“Excellent. After the staff meeting, please meet with me in my office so I can brief you.”

Jennifer nodded. Nervously.

Well, at least I’d have some one-on-one time with her. Though not the kind I craved.

Sitting on an armchair in front of my desk with her legs crossed and a notebook on her lap, Jennifer took notes while I explained what she needed to do at the taping. It was more like babysitting—just making sure the contestants behaved and followed the rules of the game and the crew stayed on schedule. I also told her to look out for any technical issues and to be sure there was a lot of camera coverage.

“Our audience especially likes close-ups of big titties, pans of hot bodies, and lots of angles when it comes to fucking—especially head shots.”

She looked up at me, puzzled.

I laughed silently. I’d missed my own double entendre. “I mean facial expressions—both ecstatic and tortured.”

“Okay.” She squeaked out the word.

Fuck, she was cute. “Don’t worry about moans, groans, or screams. We can always add canned sound effects in post.”

“Post?”

“Post-production. Editing, sound, and special effects. And then the final mix.”

“Of course. I learned about that in grad school.”

“Do you have any questions?”

Chewing her lip, she shook her head. She looked anxious. Like a frightened little kitten—hardly the tempestuous tiger I’d interviewed only a week ago.

“And one last thing. The producer, Don Springer, can be a bit of a prick. Don’t be offended by him. And importantly, don’t let him go too far with the stunts. This is supposed to be a fun game show, not a death match.”

She nodded like one of those bobble head dolls.

More uncomfortable silence.

“You can leave now,” I finally said.

Because I can’t take sitting here with my cock roasting. It had taken all my effort to be businesslike. The whole time I had been mentally undressing her and imagining what it would be like to fuck her over my desk. And hear her roar my name.

As she rose to her feet, I checked my calendar to see what the rest of my day was like. Fairly light, but at twelve thirty I had lunch with Jaime Zander to talk about the upfront presentation. The sound of her sweet voice drifted in my ear like a magic carpet.

“Thank you, Mr. Burns. for this opportunity. I won’t let you down.”

My cock sprung up. Another opportunity clicked in my brain.

“What are you doing at lunch?”

“I’m Skyping an author who lives in France at noon. I can’t cancel it.”

“I understand, but I want you to join me as soon as you can at Factor’s. I’d like you to meet my friend, Jaime Zander. He’s doing our upfront presentation.”

Her face brightened. “I’d love to. I’ll get there as fast as I can.”

“Perfect.” Perfect indeed. Hopefully, she’d get there a little late so I could have a little bro time with Jay-Z. I was eager for him to meet her.

“See you later.” She pivoted on her heel and headed out of my office with that sexy little bounce. My eyes never left her ass.

Factor’s was a popular deli on Pico Boulevard close to both Conquest Broadcasting and our main competition, FOX. It was no secret in this town that my father and Rupert Murdoch were archrivals, going head-to-head in the ratings. This season, the CBC was again killing it. The only thing Rupert ever beat my father at was the number of wives he had. He’d recently divorced his third.

Jaime was already seated at our favorite table in the corner. But I had unexpected company. His twins were there too. Both in high chairs. Their stroller was folded up and leaning against the back wall.

“Hope you don’t mind,” he said as I lowered myself into a chair opposite him. “Gloria’s out of town on business, and I had to take the little munchkins in for their ten-month check up.”

Man, they were almost a year old. It felt like just yesterday they were born. “No problem, but I can’t write them off,” I joked.

“Fuck you.” Jaime laughed. “Shit. I’d better watch my mouth. They’re going to be talking soon.” He turned to the babies and gave them each a big, juicy kiss on the head.

“Sorry, guys. Daddy’s a very bad boy.” He put his index finger to his mouth. “Shh! Don’t tell Mommy.”

The babies giggled.

It was my turn to laugh. I had to admit—it was endearing to watch Jaime interact with his little ones. He clearly adored them. An unexpected frisson of jealousy shot through me. Oddly, I’d never thought about having a family and kids or the concept of fatherhood.

Jaime handed me a menu and smiled. “You don’t have to worry. I’m buying. You’re the client.”

The truth: Jaime and I had the kind of relationship where no one counted. He enjoyed treating as much as I did. After perusing the menu, we ordered our usual from Marge, the buxom, bottle-blond waitress who’d been here forever. Two hot pastrami sandwiches on rye, a side of fries, and two Doctor Brown cream sodas. And for the babies, a couple of water bagels and a side of sliced carrots. They were already fingering some Cheerios that Jaime had brought along. Milk bottles and assorted plastic toys were also scattered on their high chair trays. In no time, they would be playing with cell phones, I mused as Marge came right back with our sodas.

“So how’s it going with your ‘girlfriend?’” Jaime asked, making mock quotation marks with his index and middle fingers.

I twisted my lips. “Not well.” I launched into my Operation Dickwick story.

“Are you fucking kidding me? You almost bit off his fingers?” By the end, Jaime was laughing so hard he was crying.

I felt my cheeks flare. In retrospect, it was a really dumb-ass thing to do.

Jaime took a sip of soda straight from the bottle and calmed down. “Man, you’re doing it all wrong, Blakester. The way to a girl’s G-spot is through her heart. You’ve got to romance her. Compliment the way she looks. Buy her presents. Come to her rescue.”

I digested Jaime’s words. I’d done all those things. Well, except for the presents. Maybe I had to work at it harder. Except there was still that one little problem . . .

“Jay-Z, she works for me. I’m her boss.”

Jaime’s eyes widened with surprise. “That does make it a little harder.”

A little harder? He had way too many Cheerios on his brain.

“Do you have a company fraternization policy?”

I told him that Conquest Broadcasting frowned upon inter-office relationships but didn’t forbid them as long as employees maintained transparency with Human Resources. Most of them, however, had ended up in disaster—with one or both of the individuals quitting their job or getting fired. There was too much riding on the line. Jennifer McCoy had a bright future ahead of her. I didn’t want her to get fired. And I didn’t want her to quit. The bottom line: I didn’t want to lose her in any way possible. I wanted her to be mine.

“I hope you don’t mind. I invited her to lunch because I want you to meet her,” I said as Marge returned with the rest of our order. She plunked our sandwiches and the fries down on the table and then attended to the twins.

“Here you go, cutie-pies.” She set the bagels and plastic bowls of stewed carrots on their high chair trays. The twins flailed their little arms with excitement and instantly reached for the bagels.

With the babies contently chewing on their circles of dough, Jaime and I dug into our thick pastrami sandwiches. Man, it was good. Worth the coronary it might give me. On my next bite, my heart skipped a beat. Jennifer was heading toward us. A smile lit up her face and her eyes sparkled. I swallowed quickly.

“Hi,” she said brightly when she got to our table. Our eyes made contact. I could feel a current of electricity pass between us.

Jaime rose from his seat, and I introduced them.

He shook her hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Jennifer. Blake has told me so much about you.”

Behave, Jay-Z. Just like me, he could be a cocky bastard. I was half-expecting him to say something like, “Your tits are even more perfect in person.” I held my breath. Thank fucking God, he didn’t. He was behaving like a gentleman.

She smiled again. “Same here.” Her eyes shifted to the twins and her warm smile broadened. “And who do we have here?”

“These are my twins—Paulette and Payton.” Jaime’s eyes glinted with paternal pride. Payton was the spitting image of Jaime with his dimpled chin and crown of golden brown curls. Paulette, in turn, looked just like Gloria with her full ruby lips and platinum locks. Both had Jaime’s denim blue eyes.

“Oh my God. They’re adorable!” She waved at them. “Hi.”

Indeed, they were in their matching circus-print rompers and flaunting big dimpled smiles. Balls. And so was she. I admired how at ease she was with Jaime and the babies.

“Have a seat,” I told her, gesturing to the one to my left.

“If you don’t mind, I need to run to the ladies’ room. I’ll be right back.”

“She’s hot,” Jaime mouthed as soon as she was gone.

“I know.” My stomach knotted. “It fucking kills me she’s with that douchebag.”

“Hang in there. I saw the way she looked at you. Trust me, she’s hot for you.”

“From your lips to God’s ears as my father would say.”

Jennifer returned quickly. She scanned the menu while Marge hovered over her. “I want the most unhealthy, least vegan thing you have.”

“A hot pastrami sandwich,” Jaime and I shouted out in unison.

“Sounds good. I’ll have one and could I also please have a cherry Coke.”

God, she was refreshing. A real girl who ate real food. So different from my Botoxed supermodel hook-ups who ate nothing but a bunch of lettuce leaves.

I reminded myself this was a business lunch. I turned to Jennifer.

“Jennifer, tell Jaime about your idea for the daytime.”

I listened without interrupting while she explained her vision of airing telenovelas based on popular erotic romance novels. She was articulate, concise, and passionate. A perfect pitch. I was impressed. But as good as her pitch was, I was sure my best bud would find it absurd.

When she was done, a smile whipped across his face. Holy shitballs. Just like my father, he went for her idea. “That’s brilliant. You have to pitch my wife Gloria.”

Jennifer lifted a brow. “Gloria?”

“Jaime’s wife is the founder and CEO of Gloria’s Secret,” I chimed in, practically creaming in my pants at the thought of Gloria buying ad time on SIN-TV despite my skepticism and displeasure over the fact that Ms. McCoy had won another victory.

Her face glowed with excitement. “Wow! I’d love to. I’ll put together a PowerPoint.”

“That’s an excellent idea. I’d like you do that quickly.” My tone was very businesslike and masked any feelings I had about her.

“I’ll start on it the minute I get back to the office. But the presentation may have to wait until after the first of the year. We’re doing focus groups, and I’d like to include the findings.”

Damn those focus groups. They could ruin everything. Then again, they could prove that I was right. That there was no place for women’s erotica on SIN-TV.

Jaime took a slug of his Dr. Brown. “I’m sure that would be just fine. Gloria loves focus groups, and right now, she’s crazy busy with Christmas just around the corner. And then we’re all going to Hawaii over the holidays.”

Jennifer was beaming. “Great. I look forward to meeting her.” She stole one of our fries. “Jaime, did Blake tell you? I was at the opening of your father’s painting retrospective.”

“No, he didn’t.” He shot me a sheepish look.

“I was going to introduce you to her, but she split early with her boyfriend.” I put a special snarky emphasis on the word “boyfriend.”

A small frown tugged at her lips. “I’m sorry I couldn’t stay longer. But I just want to tell you I was blown away by your father’s paintings. He was so talented.”

Jaime broke into wide but slightly melancholic smile. He loved his father dearly and was devastated when he took his life. Jaime had made it a lifetime goal to exhibit his father’s paintings and share his talent with the world.

“Thank you. That means so much to me. Did you have a favorite painting?”

Jennifer’s green orbs glimmered. “Yes, I loved The Kiss.”

The Kiss. That kiss. My blood flooded with lust. I so fucking wanted those edible lips back on mine.

“That was my favorite painting too,” I chimed in softly, remembering the way she’d looked the other night in her little black dress and the profound way that painting had affected her. I had been on the verge of spinning her around, taking her in my arms, and crashing my lips on hers—giving her another kiss she’d never forget—when damn Kat showed up and ruined the moment. And then fucking Dickwick came along.

Jennifer turned to look at me. Feeling her eyes on me, I met her gaze. Neither of us blinked. I would have given a million bucks to know what was going on in that pretty head of hers. Only one thing was for sure: sparks were flying. I could see them. Maybe Jaime was right. She did have a thing for me. Before either of us could say a word, Jennifer’s sandwich arrived along with the Coke. I watched as she took a long sip of the bubbling soda through the straw. She closed her eyes and moaned, “Mmm.” My cock flexed beneath the table. She was having that effect on me yet again.

“Eat your sandwich before it gets cold,” ordered Jaime.

Her mouth came up from the straw. She did as bid, taking a hearty bite of it.

“This is delicious, but I’ve oddly lost my appetite.”

I’d lost mine too. I was only hungry for her. I wanted to consume her, every bit of her. Savor every ounce of flesh. Run my tongue from those lush lips all the way to her sweet pussy. Swirl it around. Lick and lap. I just knew it would taste of cherries and vanilla.

The memorable ring of Jaime’s cell phone hurled me out of my fantasy. He had it set to the song, “Toi et Moi,” a duet sung in French by Charles Aznavour and Céline Dion. This song obviously had a special meaning to him, but he’d never told me the significance, even when I’d asked him. His eyes lit up when he gazed at the caller ID.

“It’s Gloria. I have to take this . . . Hi, angel.”

“Angel” was Jaime’s term of endearment for his wife. While he chatted with her, everything about him changed. His voice softened, his eyes grew hooded, and smiles replaced smirks. He went from businessman and friend to husband and lover. A cocktail of envy and unease seeped through my veins.

“I’m here with Blake, the babies, and his new development executive. She’s come up with an amazing idea for a block of programming targeted at women. You have to hear it. You’re going to love it.”

He gave us a thumbs up, indicating that Gloria would indeed be open to a pitch. Jennifer shot me triumphant smile, which I returned with a smirk. Sandwiched between his twins, Jaime turned to each of them. “Mommy wants to tell you how much she loves and misses you.” He held the cell phone to each baby’s ear, one after the other. Their chubby-cheeked faces lit up upon hearing Gloria’s voice.

“Give Mommy a smoochie.” Jaime placed the phone to each of the twins’ pursed mouths. They each made a loud, smacking sound. I swear, it was the cutest damn thing I’d ever seen. He put the phone back to his ear and wrapped up the call. His final words: “I love you, angel.”

I. Love. You. Three little words I had never said to a woman. That’s because I’d never loved one. Yes, I’d fucked many. But I’d loved none. I turned to observe Jennifer.

She wore a wistful smile. I’d heard her say them to her fiancé. Had he said them back? Of course, he had. Countless times. The thought made me hate him more. And then, the hatred gave way to hallow sadness. My defenses went up. Maybe I just lusted for Jennifer. Wanted her because I couldn’t have her. Because she belonged to another.

Jaime’s voice propelled me out of my sudden gloom. “Hey, guys. I have to run to the little boys’ room. Would you mind keeping an eye on the babies for a sec?”

“Of course,” responded Jennifer instantly.

“Thanks.” Jaime jogged to the back of the restaurant. I guess he really needed to take a leak. The babies turned their little heads and tracked him. Wouldn’t you know it, the minute he disappeared, the two of them simultaneously burst into loud wails. Fuck.

“The poor little things. They have separation anxiety.” Leaping out of her chair, Jennifer unstrapped Paulette from the high chair and lifted her into her arms. Big crocodile tears poured down her sweet, angelic face, her rosebud lips quivering. Walking around in a circle, Jen gently shook the wailing baby and planted little kisses on her silky scalp. There was something about her holding and kissing the baby that aroused me. My skin prickled and my cock twitched.

“Shh. Daddy’s going to be right back. C’mon, let’s play a little game.” Managing to hold the baby in one arm, she put her other hand to her face and played peek-a-boo. To my amazement, Paulette’s wails morphed into whimpers, and before long, a smile splayed on her face. Meanwhile, Payton’s wails grew louder and his face beet-red.

“Blake, hold her.” She handed me the happy baby.

“What should I do?” Panic gripped me. I’d never held a baby. Not even my sister’s twins.

“Bounce her up and down. Make funny faces. Even sing to her. Think of something.”

My mind raced, and then the memory of an episode of House flashed through my mind. Bouncing the baby lightly with my knees, I pretended to be a series of animals. “Look, Paulette. I’m a horse.” I made a funny neigh, putting everything I had into it, just the way House had. And then I pretended I was a sheep and baahed. The baby was in hysterics. The laughing kind.

“You like that, baby girl, don’t you?” Her laughter was infectious. It made me laugh too.

I did another and another. Man, I was a fucking genius. A natural born children’s entertainer. There was no sound more horrible than a baby crying. But there was no sound more beautiful than a baby laughing. Well, maybe with one exception. A woman coming.

My gaze shifted to Jennifer. She had managed to calm down Payton. Smiling, she looked my way.

“It’s really a shame. You could have had a career in children’s entertainment.”

I snorted. “Yeah, right.”

“Right.”

We held each other’s gazes. The air between us sparked with electricity and warmth. I could have stared at her all day.

“Sorry I took so long.” After ten long minutes, Jaime was back. Guess he had to take a dump too.

“Everything okay?” he asked, taking Payton from Jennifer.

“They were little angels,” she replied as he strapped the little guy back in his high chair. Taking Paulette from me, she followed suit. I’d learned something about my little tiger today. She was a natural born mother.

For the first time in my almost thirty years, the idea of having children was appealing to me. The thought of having them with Jennifer made my heart do little flips. I could picture a den full of little cubs.

A minute later, Jennifer’s cell phone rang. She pulled it out of her bag and answered it. “Oh, hi, Bradley.”

In a nano-second, my fantasy blew up in smoke.

Operation Dickwick was back in business.

CHAPTER 17

Jennifer

More than anything, I wanted to impress my boss, Blake Burns. And prove to him I was right about the programming slate I wanted to develop. Immediately after lunch, I started on my PowerPoint, gathering images and reviews of various books in one folder and available sales data in another. I was so excited about pitching Gloria Zander. Her lingerie chain, Gloria’s Secret, was one of the largest retailers in the world. Her support of my proposed SIN-TV daytime block could make a big difference in terms of its viability and success.

By late afternoon, my heart was no longer into it. It was somewhere else. My mind had wandered. I couldn’t stop thinking about Blake. Lunch with him and Jaime had been so much fun. When I saw him playing with little Paulette, my heart totally melted. It had shown a whole other side of him. Okay, let’s cut to the chase. Despite his annoying skepticism, I had a full-blown crush on my boss. The way a school girl has on a teacher, though being home schooled, I could only imagine what that felt like.

Heart flutters? ✓

Shortness of breath? ✓

Lightheadedness? ✓

Tingles? ✓

Fantasies? ✓

Yes, all of the above. I even had his monogrammed hankie still tucked away in my purse.

I could tell Blake liked me. We shared some kind of chemistry. I aroused him and he aroused me. The thought made me quiver. Enough. Taking a much needed break, I opened my Hollywood Reporter. My eyes widened and my heart stuttered. Staring me in the face was a photo of Blake and one of his blond bimbos taken at a recent movie premier. A bell went off in my head. Ding! Ding! Ding! Reality check: this man was a player. Someone who hung out with gorgeous supermodels and starlets. And who had a new one in his bed every night of the week. He probably was just taunting me. It was all some kind of egotistic power trip. But why was I so foolishly letting him get to me? I was engaged. And hello . . . he was my boss. I had a career at stake. And a fiancé who was committed to me though we were going through a rough patch. The bottom line: I had to stop thinking about him and just focus on my job. And my upcoming wedding. I tossed the trade magazine into my waste paper basket and went back to my PowerPoint.

Six thirty rolled around. The taping of Wheel of Pain started at seven. Not wanting to be late, I shut down my computer and packed up my bags. On my way out of my office, I stopped by my bookshelf and pulled out the dictionary my father had given me. I looked up the word “infatuation.” “Foolish, short-lived affection for another person.”

I half-smiled with relief. My infatuation with Blake Burns would soon pass. Yet, while I walked over to the soundstage where Wheel was taping, my emotions were in a tailspin.

I wasn’t looking forward to overseeing this raunchy game show.

Blake had given me a list of things to watch for. And he’d made me watch two insufferable episodes. It was more than watching sex. It was a mixture of watching humiliation and human suffering. He’d also instructed me to not put up with any bullshit from the producer, Don Springer, who could be an asshole. That part of the job I thought I could handle.

When I arrived at the studio, the three competing couples, already undressed, were testing the Wheel of Pain. The Wheel resembled a small Ferris wheel with an attached capsule that was big enough to accommodate each of the couples in a variety of positions. Two cameramen were operating cranes while a third one was experimenting with a hand-held camera. Other production personnel were scattered across the set.

My eyes gravitated to a man who was pacing the floor and shouting orders. Curse words spilled from his mouth. I was sure he was the producer. Don Springer.

In his late forties, he was bronzed, balding, and beer-bellied. He wore a tight black open shirt with straining buttons, and jeans that sat low below his paunch. A thick gold chain hung around his neck, and a large diamond ring adorned his pinky. He was in a word: a sleazebag.

My belly bubbling with nerves, I sauntered up to him and introduced myself.

He gave me the once-over with his dark beady eyes. “You look familiar, sweetheart.”

I cringed at the word “sweetheart.” “I’m sure we’ve never met.”

“I never forget a beautiful face. Or body.” His eyes lingered on places he had no right to be. And then he took a sharp sniff. Drugs?

“That smell. I know it. You smell like cherries and cream.”

He was inhaling the scent of the Gloria’s Secret shampoo I’d used forever. Very Cherry Vanilla. Without responding, I stepped away and glanced down at my watch. “We should get going so we don’t go into overtime.” Overtime drove up the cost of production, and Blake had warned me Don was notorious for this.

“Oh, so you’re a network cop. If you know what’s good for you, sugar, don’t fuck with me.” Snarling, he stomped off.

I felt shaky and was having second thoughts about being able to handle Don Springer. My confidence was more than a little shattered. I took a deep breath. You can do this, Jen. Yes, I can, I convinced my conscience. After another calming breath, I quickly checked the buff male contestants to make sure they were wearing condoms. A law had recently passed in California making their use mandatory in adult entertainment; for this reason, a lot of productions had moved to Vegas where they weren’t an issue. My eyes got a cockful, but to my relief, their condoms were in place. God, I so didn’t want to be doing this.

Eager to get away from Springer and the contestants, I headed upstairs to the director’s booth. Blake had told me this was the best place to watch the taping as I could see what was being captured by all the cameras. The room was small with a console and a dozen monitors. I took a seat behind the console waiting for the director. To my shock, in walked Don Springer. Unbeknownst to me, he was directing tonight’s final episode.

“I hope you like company,” he sneered, lowering himself into the swivel chair right next to mine. Unfortunately, there was no other place to sit. He deliberately brushed his hard thigh against mine, and I jumped. Hastily, I rolled my chair away from him.

“Don’t be such a prude, sweetheart.”

“My name’s Jennifer, and please act professionally.”

He snickered. “I’d like to take whatever pickle you have up your hole and fuck you up the ass.”

My body quivered. Part of me wanted to run. What was I doing here? I was so out of my element. I should be overseeing children’s game shows, not this pornographic crap.

Don’t let him intimidate you, I told myself. “Please, Mr. Springer, let’s get on with the show.”

“Or do you like it this way?” He gave me the finger. I inwardly shuddered and said nothing. To my relief, the taping began. I pulled out a notebook and pen from my briefcase to take notes.

The game show was simple. The three naked couples competed in rounds of sex trivia questions that ranged from spelling words like connilingus to naming what country has the highest rate of gonorrhea. The couple with the most points at the end of each Q&A round got to ride the spinning Wheel of Pain and fuck until they could no longer take their tortuous reward. Whatever couple lasted the longest on the Wheel by the end of the game won $10,000 and a trip to Vegas. I couldn’t believe people would actually subject themselves to so much torture and humiliation, let alone bare themselves and fornicate publicly. Equally horrifying to me was the millions of men who watched this shit. Though the Wheel of Pain’s ratings were the lowest on SIN-TV, it still attracted a sizeable audience. Why did Blake have to make this kind of programming? And why did he make me oversee it?

My stomach churned as I watched the show being taped. I wanted to close my eyes and cover my ears, but I had a job to do. A boss to please. The fornicating couples were as repulsive as the physical gags, which included having green slime poured over them, ice cubes dumped on them, and lastly, to my utter horror, a beehive tossed at them. Equally repulsive was Don Singer.

“Camera Three, move in tighter on the spick’s cock. Just fucking do it.”

“Camera Two, for God fucking sake, get a wide shot of the bees.”

“Camera One, stick it in Carla’s pussy. Now!”

“Give it to him harder, you horny fucking fat bitch!” he yelled as Carla rode Carlos, both screaming and writhing as bees repeatedly stung every inch of their naked bodies. Including their genitals. A wave of nausea rolled through me. I actually had to turn away.

Don slid his chair over to mine and breathed down my neck.

“Having fun yet, Ms. McCoy? Does watching this make you wet and horny?”

Rage mixed with nausea. Keeping my head bowed, I bit down on my tongue and tried to focus on my notes. I couldn’t. Carla and Carlos’s shrieks of agony resounded in my ears.

“Get me out of here,” sobbed Carla as angry bees buzzed around her. “Please!”

Get me out of here. I’d had enough. Springer had taken things too far.

With all the bravery I could muster, I stood up and faced him.

“Mr. Springer, you need to stop production. This is unacceptable.”

He swirled around in his swivel chair. “What the hell are you talking about, bitch?”

“The bees are too much. The contestants can’t take it anymore.”

“It’s the fucking season finale. You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. I’m not shutting down production.”

Close to tears, I barked two words: “Do. It.”

Springer slammed his fist on the console so hard it shook and then shouted into a microphone. “Stop the fucking wheel. And everyone get your ugly asses out of here.”

I sighed with relief as I watched the wheel come to a halt. Poor Carla and Carlos. Their bodies were covered with red welts from the bee stings, and they were violently shaking. The only, little comfort I had was watching Carlos wrap his swollen, mutilated arms around his whimpering partner. At least, he cared more about her than winning this sick game.

“I have a few other notes.” My voice faltered.

“I gotta get out of this hell hole. Give ’em to me downstairs.”

Having no choice, I followed him as he stormed out of the booth and headed back onto the set. Everyone was gone including the crew. Only a few buzzing bees remained. My nerves crackled with apprehension. I didn’t like being here alone with Don Springer. The faster I could give him my notes, the better.

Standing beside him before the Wheel of Pain, I opened my notebook. It shook in my hands. Before I could give a single note, he wrenched it away and flung it across the soundstage. His face reddened with rage.

“No uptight little bitch tells me to shut down my production.” He jerked me against him.

“Let go of me!” Writhing, I tried to free myself, but his grip was too powerful.

“Tell me, why the fuck did you do that?” His fetid breath heated my face. I turned away from him. He pinched my cheek. “Answer me.”

I winced. “My boss, Blake Burns, gave me the authority to make decisions.”

“That fucking prick.” He squeezed me tighter. He was hurting me. I could hardly breathe.

“The contestants were in too much pain.” The words barely made it out of my mouth.

“I’ll show you pain, you cunt.”

Only one person had ever called me that. That night. Sophomore year. Don cut the painful memory short and shoved me into the capsule on the wheel.

“What are you doing?” I gasped. My inner panic button sounded.

“You’re going for a ride, you little ho.”

The monster stomped on a large button on the floor and then, to my horror, hopped into the capsule. The wheel began to spin. As it ascended, he tore off my blouse and tossed it onto the set. I heard the pearl buttons ping across the floor as he slammed me down onto the cushion. His wretched eyes held me prisoner.

“Let go of me!” I screamed as he pinned me down by my shoulders.

“Shut up!” He slapped me hard across the face and then groped my quivering breasts. Fear filled every crevice of my being.

“Stop it!” I cried, futilely fighting him off. If only I had my purse, I could use my pepper spray. But in my angst-out state, I’d left it in the booth.

He squeezed my nipples and laughed. “Do you let that asshole boss of yours do things to you?”

“Let go of me. Please.” As I twisted and turned, a sharp pain pierced the back of my hand. For sure, a bee had stung me. Tears stung my eyes. Sobs wracked my body.

“Shut the fuck up and spread your legs, bitch. Or I’ll do it for you.”

I watched with wide-eyed horror as he zipped down his fly, and his dick, a thick wad of repulsive pulsating flesh, sprung from his pants. He thrust himself on top of me, crushing me with his weight.

“I’m going to ram you like a jackhammer. Make it so it hurts to walk, slut.” He began to rip off my skirt and panties at once. “You’re going to pay for what you did, cunt!”

“No!” I cried out at the top of my lungs. Hot tears poured from my eyes. Desperately, I tried to fight him off, but his weight held me down. My sobs and screams filled the air. Oh please, God, no!

Then, as if my prayer had been answered, another voice roared. Three magical words.

“You fucking bastard!”

The End of Part 1

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TRAINWRECK 1

NELLE L’AMOUR

ABOUT

A steamy and suspenseful two-part duet series by NEW YORK TIMES Bestselling Author Nelle L’Amour.

SARAH: I’m an utter trainwreck. I can barely pay my rent. Mom’s sick and her insurance company won’t cover her new treatments. To make matters worse, I work for a total bitch, who makes the Devil Wears Prada look like Mother Theresa. Oh yeah, did I mention I have no social life? Then, I met him on a train. Ari Golden, New York’s most eligible and dazzling bachelor. Don’t ask what happened. I’m ashamed to tell you, but the truth is it really happened to me. Now, I realize I made the biggest mistake of my life…because an unexpected discovery threatens to destroy us both.

ARI: I’ve sworn off women. At least, having them in my bed. No woman is allowed there. I’ve been hurt both emotionally and physically and don’t want to go there again. And besides, I have someone way more important than myself to protect. Then, I saw her, and from the moment I set eyes on her, I knew there was something different about her. Something special. She sat next to me on the train and I couldn’t resist. I should have, and now I risk losing everything if I don’t stop…because my past has come back with a vengeance to haunt me. The last thing I need is another trainwreck.

Hold on to your seats for the steamiest ride you’ll ever take! When the past and the present collide, will fate derail these two star-crossed lovers or will it bring them to their final destination before they crash and burn?

Copyright © 2016 by Nelle L’Amour

Kindle Edition

All rights reserved

First Edition: May 2016

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be re-produced in any form or by any means without prior written consent of the author, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

A NOTE FROM NELLE

Dearest Reader~

Whether you’re new to me as a reader or have read many of my books, it is my pleasure to bring you TRAINWRECK, a two-part series.

This series is very special to me because it is a reworking of my very first erotic romance series, Seduced by the Park Avenue Billionaire. I have added Ari’s POV throughout. The material is brand new and not a rehashing of previously written chapters. If you’ve previously read Seduced, you will not find a new story, but you will uncover, as I did in writing the new chapters, the answers to many unanswered questions and get a much deeper understanding of Ari’s complex character—particularly his fear of commitment because of the emotional and physical scar he harbors. There is also a bonus five-years later epilogue, which many of you asked for.

Additionally, the original Sarah POV chapters have been painstakingly edited to bring you the best reading experience possible. Since writing the original versions, I have grown as a writer and I hope you will see this reflected in this book. Believe it or not, I spent more time (countless hours!) editing the original chapters from Sarah’s POV than I did on the new ones from Ari’s.

I know many of you prefer standalones, and I initially intended on making TRAINWRECK one. However, it became way too lengthy to be a single book. Hence, I’m bringing it to you as a two-parter, but you will have a seamless reading experience as both full-length books are releasing at the same time. So when you get to the end of Book 1 and scream, “OH NO!” (and you will!), you will be able to immediately one-click Book 2 and read the rest of Ari and Sarah’s passionate runaway train romance.

I would also like to point out that the combined price for the two books is the same as what it would cost to buy a standalone. The benefit of a two-parter is that it allows me the opportunity to provide you with an inexpensive first book so you can decide if you want to continue reading my story. Fingers crossed you will.

Lastly, before I take up too much of your valuable reading time, I want to share something personal with you. The story was inspired by a true event and a special person in my life. Yes, the first chapter—the scene on the train—actually happened to me, well more or less. This is after all fiction, the story and characters, a product of my imagination. But my “Trainman” really did live on Park Avenue and commute to Philadelphia every day. He was a loving single dad and the most beautiful man I ever met. A golden-haired Adonis. Le sigh! No, I didn’t marry him, but I did marry the second most beautiful man in my life. And I have no regrets.

But we never forget our first love, even as the years roll by. Sometimes a single encounter will change your life and stay in your heart forever. Had I not met this gorgeous stranger on a train, I would not be bringing you all my steamy books that make you laugh, cry, and swoon.

I hope you will love reading TRAINWRECK as much as I loved writing it. From the bottom of my heart, thank you for your love and support. You, my belle reader, are the reason I write.

MWAH!~Nelle ♥

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For all those who still remember their first love.

May they never be forgotten.

CHAPTER 1

Ari

I was at 30th Street Station early, something that was unusual for me. It was a three-day holiday weekend so I’d shut down my office early, letting my hard-working employees get a head start on some rest and relaxation with their families and friends. They deserved the time off.

I soaked in my surroundings. I knew this place like the back of my hand, having commuted to and from it from Manhattan for over seven years. Many thought I was nuts to make the ninety-five-mile commute almost daily and told me I should move my company to the city or I should move to Philly. I had thought about it a few times, but it was out of the question. The company, started by my father, had originated in Philadelphia and that’s where it would stay. I loved living in Manhattan and that’s where I would stay. Besides, I enjoyed the commute and truthfully it wasn’t too bad—just a little over an hour and a half each way. The morning ride in business class was productive, letting me catch up on all my emails. And after a long day at the office, the ride home was relaxing. I could read a newspaper and unwind with a cold bottle of beer. And sometimes I could catch up on a little sleep.

After buying a Wall Street Journal, I hung out on the VIP mezzanine, waiting for my train to be called. It was a great place to people watch, something I enjoyed doing. The onset of rush hour, the station below was bustling with people from all walks of life, young and old, and representing a broad spectrum of ethnicities. As I surveyed the comings and goings of the crowd, my heart did a little flip.

Ah! There she was, looking more frantic than usual. That mysterious girl. I’d seen her here several times before, always sitting on a bench and what looked to be drawing in a sketchpad. Today, she was racing through the busy station.

My eyes followed her, taking mental snapshots, though I’d captured her once on my cell phone. This was the first time I’d ever seen her standing up. She was tall, in fact, taller than I’d imagined. Maybe five nine or ten. Her body was a gaggle of spindly arms and legs, her clunky boots making her legs look skinnier and longer. Her long, loose-fitting skirt came below her knees, but by her gait, I knew she must have a pair of lightning-fast, colt-like legs. Her long dark hair was pulled up in a high ponytail, which made her look younger than what I assumed was twenty-something. A large canvas bag with worn leather fittings was slung over her shoulders and flew behind her as she galloped through the station. She was so not my chic blond supermodel type, but there was something about her I found interesting. And so sexy. As usual, at the sight of her, my cock flexed beneath my slacks as I fantasized about undressing her.

Perched high above her, I kept my gaze on her as she scurried about. What would it be like to fuck her? Would she like it hard? Scream when she came? Come again and again? For a split-second, I thought her eyes met mine. The call for my train diverted my attention, interrupting my lustful thoughts, and I headed for the platform, her body and face etched in my mind. Maybe one of these days, I’d encounter her again and find out who she was. My cock twitched at the possibility.

CHAPTER 2

Sarah

I was going to miss my train! That was all I could think of as I dashed through Philadelphia’s majestic 30th Street Station. Totally disheveled. A total trainwreck, no pun intended.

My best friend, Lauren, with all her connections, had scored a bunch of coveted tickets to a Black Eyed Peas concert in Central Park, and I was among those she had chosen to be part of her entourage so I had to be home by seven, shower, and get dressed. I rushed past the tempting food court toward the information center. The old-fashioned, flip-letter Amtrak schedule board made a ticking sound as it updated arrivals and departures. I glanced up. Shit! My train to Penn Station was leaving in five minutes from Gate 5. My eyes darted around the high-ceiling Art Deco station for the escalator leading down to the train platforms. Usually, I took the cheap, smelly Chinatown express bus to Philadelphia to visit my mother, but today was one of the few exceptions because of the concert. Despite the fact I’d been in this vast station a few times before, I never knew where I was going. My sense of direction was nothing to be proud of.

My eyes bounced from the famous Angel of the Resurrection statue to another bronzed statue. A god. An over six-foot tall, golden-haired Adonis leaning seductively against the railing of the VIP mezzanine. Even from this distant vantage point, I could tell he was wearing one of those super-expensive, custom-tailored beige suits that New York’s tycoons donned once spring hit. It made a stunning contrast with his St. Tropez tan, the kind wealthy Manhattanites sported all year round. With his designer sunglasses perched on his perfectly blown flaxen hair, he looked like he was straight out of GQ.

I couldn’t get my eyes off him. The sight of him made my knees weak and my heart hammer. I had dreamt about men like this, but the reality of ever meeting one was not within my grasp. I was a geeky, relatively recent college grad, who, after several false starts, had finally landed an entry-level job at Ike’s Tikes, an established New York City toy company, and was struggling to make ends meet. Beautiful men were just not in the cards. They never had been. But my mom had always told me it was okay to dream, so for a minute, as Adonis pivoted his head in my direction, I imagined his eyes burning across the station into mine.

A booming voice put an end to my reverie—and the hot pulsating sensation thrumming between my legs. “Last call for Amtrak 148 to Penn Station boarding at Gate 5.”

In the blink of an eye, Adonis was gone. Out of my life and dreams forever. My pulse accelerated as my eyes flitted around the vast station for the gate sign. Finally, I found it and began to run, my messenger-style canvas bag flying behind me. The escalator descending to the train platform was out of order. Thank goodness, I was wearing my trusty combat boots. At breakneck speed, I clambered down the daunting three flights of stairs, praying that the train wouldn’t leave without me.

“Wait!” I screamed as the automatic doors of the sleek silver train were closing. I skimmed through one of them, narrowly missing being a smooshed sardine.

Breathing heavily, I staggered through the car, desperately searching for a seat. Nothing. It was rush hour and every seat was taken. Maybe I would have better luck in the next car, I thought as I wobbled across the connecting bridge, the train rolling into motion. I so needed to sit down, catch my breath, and relax. I was exhausted and rundown. Not just from my sprint to the train, but from weeks of juggling my Manhattan-based job as the assistant to a demanding female executive with visits to my ailing mother, who was receiving experimental cancer treatments at the University of Pennsylvania’s world-renowned hospital. Seeing my mother in her weakened state, hooked up to IVs and monitors, never helped no matter how cheery she was when I came to see her.

As the train picked up speed, I struggled to keep my balance and open the sliding door to the next car. Using all the muscle power I could muster, I finally yanked it open and stumbled into the cabin. This car was different than the one before. It was far more spacious and deluxe. Roomy pairs of rich brown leather seats lined the aisles, and the well-dressed occupants were sipping cocktails in real glasses while toying with the latest electronic gadgets. This was obviously business-class. I sure as hell did not belong here wearing my T.J. Maxx midi skirt and cheap T-shirt. Oh yeah, and my scuffed up boots, which I’d found at a flea market. This was the cabin where Louis Vuittons, Jimmy Choos, and Chanels mingled with other LVs, Choos, and Cocos. No, I didn’t belong here. Not one bit.

Fighting the speed of the train and my embarrassment, I clumsily zigzagged down the aisle, occasionally grabbing onto the corner of a seat for balance. Like the previous cabin, every seat was taken. No one seemed to notice me, but truthfully, I wanted to get out of here as fast as possible. As I neared the back of the car, the train jerked, sending me flying into the lap of a Wall Street Journal-reading commuter to my left.

“I’m so sorry,” I squeaked at my victim, whose face was still buried in his newspaper.

He flexed his powerful thigh muscles under my butt, signaling for me to get up, and then slowly lowered his newspaper. A smirk curled on his lips. Oh, those lips! My heart leaped into my throat. Adonis!

“Sit,” he said, motioning to the empty window seat next to his.

“Um, uh, I’m in economy,” I stuttered, my eyes unable to leave his face, no matter how humiliated I felt. Up close, he was even more beautiful than I imagined with his chiseled nose, strong, angular jaw, and piercing eyes the color of sapphires.

“Don’t worry; I’ll handle it,” he replied with a wink.

Holy shit! Adonis had just winked at me!

“Sit,” he growled, this time as if it were an order.

With a powerful heave of his knees, he bounced me to my feet, forcing me to plop down next to him.

Holy shit again! I was going to spend the next hour and a half sitting next to this gorgeous man—a man that existed only in my dreams—and now I had no idea what to say. My heart pounded.

“What’s your name?” he asked, his tone challenging.

“Sarah,” I replied, pulling myself together in time to reply in a very business-like voice.

“Saarah.”

The sultry way he repeated my name—drawing out the first syllable with a breathy lilt—sent a chill down my spine. I couldn’t help thinking of my favorite song from my favorite movie, West Side Story. Say it soft and it’s almost like praying.

“Ari,” he said next, not giving me time to ask the obvious.

A fitting name. Almost like Ares, the Greek god of war. This man was a warrior. A beautiful warrior. And I was soon to find out that conquest was his middle name.

“Um, very nice to meet you.”

I held out my slender hand to shake his. My heart thudding in my chest, I truthfully didn’t know what else to say or do. His long, tan fingers entwined with mine. His grip was strong. Powerful. Slowly, he raised my hand to his lush lips. Blood rushed to my head as they pressed ever so gently against the back of my palm. One by one, he unfolded my fingers, sucking each one as if they were candy sticks. A layer of his warm saliva glistened on my fingertips. Butterflies fluttered in my stomach, and wetness pooled between my thighs. What the hell was he doing? And why the hell was I letting him do it?

My heart was racing as fast as the speeding train. I needed to stop this. Move to another seat. My eyes darted around the cabin, but there were still none to be had. No one seemed to notice what was going on; they either had their faces buried in newspapers or books or were occupied with their iPhones, iPads, or Kindles.

This was just not right. I was sitting next to a complete stranger and letting him suck my fingers. He could be a total whack job… molester…or serial killer. Who knew? Though my fear was fleeting, I made up a desperate clichéd excuse.

“Um, uh excuse me. I need to use the restroom.” Actually, I really did. I needed to get away from this mysterious, seductive stranger and get a grip.

“It’s at the front of the cabin,” said Adonis dryly, returning to his newspaper.

I leaped up from my seat. Tripping over my bag, I caught a glimpse of Trainman’s amused expression. He refused to move his long legs, forcing my butt to brush against them as I made my escape. I couldn’t get to the bathroom soon enough or fast enough.

CHAPTER 3

Ari

Up close and personal, she was more attractive than I could even fathom. Geeky in a very sexy way. Someone so different than my normal type. And she seemed unpretentious, so down to earth. Not one woman I dated fell into this category. They were too stuck on themselves and too stuck on me. This Sarah intrigued me. And I’ll admit it, aroused me. Sucking her fingers, I could taste her and she tasted delicious. That perfect combination of sweet and salty. My cock strained against my fly. It had been a quite a while.

My eyes stayed on her as she staggered down the aisle, the speed of the train forcing her to clutch the edges of seats and walk in a zigzag line. Her tight little ass swayed side to side with each step, but I’m sure she had no clue how sexy she was. So fucking sexy. So fucking cute. Given the drab outfit she was wearing along with those worn out clunker boots, I was positive she was wearing practical cotton panties that came up almost to her belly, and while I was a total lace man, the skimpier the better, I found that image surprisingly sexy. Everything about her said warrior: Dare and try to get into my pants. There was nothing I loved more than a challenge. I could handle her. Melting panties was one of my talents.

My cock grew hard to the point of throbbing. “What are you waiting for?” I heard it cry out to me.

I heard you. As she disappeared from sight, I stood up and followed her down the aisle. I had no idea what trouble I was getting myself into.

CHAPTER 4

Sarah

The door to the unisex lavatory located at the back of the cabin was locked. That meant someone was inside. I tapped my foot impatiently, my head filling with the image of the blond, blue-eyed Adonis sitting next to me. Why couldn’t I stop thinking about him? These kinds of things never happened to geeky me. They were the stuff of novels and movies. Not my mundane all-work-no-play life.

“Hi.”

A familiar velvety voice catapulted me out of my thoughts, and a waft of warm breath blew across the nape of my neck. I spun around and gasped. My mysterious stranger! His crisp blue eyes burned into mine, making my temperature soar and my bones turn to liquid. What was he doing here? I suppose he had to go. I couldn’t stop that.

I turned my head away, and stared squarely at the bathroom door, praying silently that whoever was in there would hurry up. As I stood as stiff as a board, my breathtaking companion blew hot air on my neck again and wrapped his arms around my waist, drawing me tight against his rock-hard body. A warm, hard bulge pressed against my buttocks. I was all twisted up with nerves and might need the bathroom more than I’d originally thought.

Finally, the door burst open in my face; a sour-faced matron barged out. Calling on every muscle in my body, I broke free of Trainman’s grip and hastily dashed inside. My hands shaky, I fumbled to slide the latch, but before I could get it through the lock, the door forcefully swung open.

“I couldn’t wait,” Trainman muttered, pushing me against the edge of the sink as he deftly latched the door. His hips pressed tightly against mine. I was trapped.

He leaned in close to me. A mix of his warm, minty breath and expensive cologne with its musky scent rushed up my nose. His eyes narrowed, turning into collectible slivers of blue sea glass. His mouth descended on the right side of my neck then slowly trailed upward to my earlobe. He clamped his warm, soft lips on the cartilage, alternating between nipping and sucking it. Oh my God! I didn’t know my earlobes could feel so much. The last time they felt anything was when I got them pierced in eighth grade. And that was pain. Pure pain. Now what I was feeling was bliss. Pure, tingly bliss…and the sensation was coursing through my entire body.

Still pressing me hard against the sink with his hipbones, he pinched my nipples between his thumbs and index fingers and then began twirling them in small circles, each rotation deeper than the one before. Magically, the delicate buds puckered and peaked beneath my cotton tee. A new I-want-to-burst-out-of-my skin sensation gathered in the triangle between my legs. It was if my tits and clit were connected by a power cord. I moaned softly.

“You don’t wear a bra,” he murmured in my ear.

I rarely wore a bra because I really didn’t need one. My boobs never got past a small A-cup, the size of old-fashioned champagne saucers. Before I could respond, that is if I could say something, he whispered one word.

“Sexy.”

Me, Sarah, plain and tall, sexy? And this coming from this gorgeous beast? Pinch me. I must be dreaming this entire fantasy. As if on cue, he pinched one of my nipples again. My girl bits roared in delight. No, this was real. And it was happening to me. Sarah Greene. Art school graduate. Aspiring toy designer. Twenty-five-year-old virgin.

I stared at his breathtaking face. His eyes were on me. The cocky smile on his lips both aroused and unnerved me. While one hand continued to twirl a nipple, the other slid down my torso past my tight, twisted abdomen and under the elastic waistbands of both my skirt and pantyhose. His hands felt like hot velvet as they explored my inner thighs.

“Hmm,” he purred. “No panties?”

I never wore panties with pantyhose. Why bother? They were called pantyhose for a reason. And I confess, not buying expensive panties—and bras—saved me a lot of money. Money I needed desperately to visit my mother.

“Very sexy,” he said, enunciating each syllable, as his fingertips made their way to the triangle between my legs. They stopped to caress my mound, stroking it as if it were a beloved pussy…cat.

“So soft and silky,” Trainman purred again as if I were auditioning for one of those bouncy hair Pantene commercials.

After a tug of a curled clump, his fingers crawled to the sensitive folds between my legs. They explored this new territory eagerly like someone who was searching for gold. And then he discovered it. The nugget. Greedily, he rubbed the pad of this thumb around his discovery with intense little circles that were driving me insane. I squirmed against the sink as a loud moan escaped my lips.

“Do you like this?” he asked, picking up his pace and applying more pressure.

“It feels good.”

That was an understatement. Holy cow! It felt amazing! Buzzing with intense pleasure, I wanted to jump out of my skin. My eyes caught a glimpse of him. A wicked smile crossed his magnificent face, and his piercing blue eyes glistened.

“Saarah, I can’t help myself,” his voice all hot and breathy. “I want you.”

And despite myself, I wanted him. So badly, I was panting like a dog in heat.

“I want to fuck you senseless. Will you let me?”

“Yeah, cool.” Cool? What was wrong with me? I was anything but cool. I was a total hot mess, who couldn’t add one and one.

A pleased, sexy as sin smile played on his face. Still massaging my clit with his thumb, he plunged his long thick middle finger inside me. I gasped, not prepared for the shock of penetration. Shockwaves spread through my body as his finger slid up and down the soaked walls, each thrust deeper than the one before.

“Jesus,” he moaned. “You’re so fucking hot and wet for me. And you’re as tight as a virgin.”

I gulped. Should I tell him? Was I supposed to? Or would this confession turn him off? As I contemplated what to do, he continued his ministrations, pumping me harder.

Dripping with my own wet heat, I gasped again, still not sure this was really happening. My core was aching for more. Desperate for it. Why was I not resisting?

“I’m going to take you now,” he bit out.

Take me where? I didn’t want to be anywhere, any place but here in this cramped bathroom with this sinfully sexy mysterious sorcerer who was doing his magic on me.

Using his free hand, he yanked down both my skirt and hose. My eyes glanced down at my skirt puddled on the floor and my pantyhose scrunched up above my scuffed up boots. His hand made its way back up, and I heard him unzip his fly. My gaze stopped short at a massive hunk of pink, veined flesh that was aimed at my crotch. Yowzer! I was ready to surrender. Yes, take me now.

“Sit on the sink,” he ordered as he expertly rolled on a latex condom that seemed to come out of nowhere.

I was in no condition to argue. I plunked my buttocks down on the edge of the shiny basin. The cold metal gave me goosebumps all over. Wasting no time, he tugged off my boots, without untying them, and then slipped off the hose.

“Now, spread your legs.”

Yes, sir.

He splayed his large hands on my narrow hips to anchor me. An intensity washed over his face. Like an artist who was contemplating painting his masterpiece.

“Now, Saarah, take me and insert me where you want me.”

Holy shit! He wanted me to touch that monstrosity. Cradle it in my hands? Our eyes met, mine wide-eyed with fear and excitement, his hooded with determination and desire.

Hesitantly, I curled my trembling fingers around the pillar of flesh, surprised that they could circle around it despite its girth. I’d never felt a man’s cock before. The touch beneath my fingers was hot, velvety, and pulsing with energy. Burning with desire, I knew exactly where I wanted it. The hollowness inside me was crying out for it. I needed to be sated by him. Totally consumed.

My fingers on fire, I angled his cock toward the opening between my legs and put the wide crown to my entrance. I suddenly had second thoughts. Shit. Was his mammoth erection going to fit inside me? I silently shuddered. What if it didn’t fit? And even if it did, would I know what to do? As much as I wanted him, I was so not prepared for this. My heart stuttered at the thought of letting down this sex god. Of being a failure. And then regretting my actions. This was so not how I envisioned losing my V-card. I dreamt about being swept away by the man of my dreams. But he was the man of my dreams. Should I tell him I was a virgin?

“Saarah…”

Okay. I was going to tell him the truth. He needed to know.

But on my next heated breath, he stopped me, fierce like a freight train on its mission. With a sharp thrust, he jettisoned his enormous erection deep inside me. I winced. The initial pain and shock of his penetration was enough to make me almost fall off the sink, or into it, but as my muscles relaxed, it felt amazing. Like it belonged and had found its home sweet home.

“Christ, I just can’t believe how tight you are. It feels so fucking amazing.”

Rolling his tongue over his lips, he lifted me off the sink basin so that we were almost face-to-face. My feet dangled like a rag doll’s not touching the floor below.

“Wrap your legs around me,” he ordered, holding me firmly.

In no condition to argue, I did what he said, wrapping my long legs around his lean torso like a pretzel. He gripped my hips. My arms swung around his neck, and I hung on to him tightly, clasping the rich fabric of his suit jacket between my fingers. This was one ride I did not want to fall off.

With me in this position, clinging to him, he took a couple steps to back me against a wall and then with a grunt, shoved his rock-hard cock deeper into me. I gasped with a mixture of shock and ecstasy as the tip rammed against a hypersensitive spot I never knew I had. He groaned. He slid his rod nearly out and then thrust it back in, this time hitting the spot even harder. I moaned. He groaned. He repeated the pattern, speeding it up with every forceful thrust. How could that giant thing between his legs fit so easily and comfortably inside me? Every powerful thrust elicited a moan from me, louder than the one before and a groan from him, deeper than the previous. I moved my hands to his ass, cupping the rock-hard glutes beneath his slacks, and rocking my hips to meet his thrusts, as I fell into the rhythm of his relentless pounding. Our breathing grew ragged; we were panting like animals.

“Oh fuck, baby, what you do to me,” he breathed out, his voice an octave deeper, and sexy beyond belief.

“Don’t stop,” I pleaded, my voice breathy, my mouth dry.

“Don’t worry.”

And then a loud rap sounded at the door. “Hurry up in there.”

“Someone needs to use the bathroom,” I panted, panic in my voice at this untimely intrusion.

“Fuck it,” he grunted without stopping his ministrations.

As his greedy length hammered me, hitting that mega-spot again and again, he planted his thumb back on my clit and massaged it vigorously. My temperature was rising. Sweat was pouring out of every crevice of my body. Squeezing my legs tighter around him, I bit down on my lip and closed my eyes to savor the unbearable pleasure this sexy as sin beast was giving me.

“Are you on birth control?”

The words drifted through my head, not expecting them. I managed a throaty “yeah” as he thrust his cock once again into me. I had been on the pill for several years due to my irregular cycle.

“Good, baby,” he murmured in my ear.

I guess he felt you could never be too safe. Tugging my head back by my ponytail, he rolled his hot, velvety tongue up my neck. So, this was my reward for the right answer. The sensation drove me crazy. I felt like a puppy being scratched in her favorite spot.

Whimpering, I didn’t think I could take it anymore between the ruthless banging, clit flicks, and licks of his tongue. My pussy throbbed as a wildfire raced through my body, shamelessly kindling every nerve inside me, from my head to my toes. I was about to implode.

“I think I’m going to come!” I cried out, the vibrations of the speeding train bringing me even closer to the edge.

“Hang in there, baby.”

On my next heated breath, I felt him explode with a massive blast of his release.

“Yes, Saarah,” he roared, drawing out my name.

I simultaneously convulsed around him, my own epic orgasm sending wave after wave of ecstasy soaring through my core. Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God. I wasn’t sure if I was saying the words aloud or screaming them silently in my head. What was happening to me? I’d never had such a mind-blowing experience.

Slowly, he withdrew from me. I was surprised at how big and rigid his sheathed cock still was. Without taking his smoldering eyes off mine, he slid off his spent condom and tossed it into the waste dispenser. Snatching a paper towel, he cleaned himself up and then tucked his thick length back into his pants. I don’t think he was wearing underwear either.

“Saarah,” he said, grinning as he zipped up his fly, “do you still have to pee?”

“Yes,” I stammered, as I pulled up the remains of my pantyhose and slipped on my skirt. I was shaking, dazed, and drained from his plundering. He, on the other hand, looked totally together like he was ready to go into a board meeting.

Trainman rolled his eyes and then let me pee in peace. And privacy.

Re-locking the door, I sat on the toilet longer than I needed to, tremors tearing through me. After putting my boots back on, I gazed at the big rip in my pantyhose in the so-called “reinforced” crotch area. My inner thighs trembled. The events that had just happened spun around in my head while orgasmic vibrations were still coming at me with the force of a rockslide. Why did I let myself do this? Why? Neediness? Insecurity? Maybe a desperate escape from the anguish my stricken mother was causing? Or just because this man was the sexiest beast I’d ever laid my eyes on? Finally, I tore off a generous piece of toilet paper and wiped by bottom from front to back just like my mother had taught me. A crimson stain soaked the soft white paper. I was bleeding. Reality hit me like a brick. I had just lost my virginity to a stranger on a train.

In a state of mild shock, I slowly raised myself from the toilet, pulled up my damp, crotchless hose, and washed my hands in the sink that now held so many memories for me. I splattered a little of the cold water on my face and sipped some from my hands to quench my parched mouth. For the first time, I looked at myself in the mirror. My reflection startled me. My hair was disheveled; my big brown eyes half-moons, and my full-lipped mouth locked in a parted pout. I was no longer the girl who, only minutes ago, had almost been squished by a pair of automatic train doors. I looked like a woman. A woman who had just been fucked. Big time.

Hastily, I fixed my ponytail and splashed some more water on my face. I took another glimpse of myself in the mirror. Not too much better, but at least better. Taking a deep breath, I unlatched the door and made my way back to my seat. My legs were like Jell-O and my body was shaking. And between my inner thighs, my pussy was blazing.

Trainman flashed a dimpled smile when he saw me staggering down the aisle. Though cocky, it was dazzling, and his blue eyes glinted with victory. I was once again aroused by his gorgeousness. As I continued my walk of shame, I thought about how cool, calm, and collected he looked. Maybe he was a pro at this routine—find a sweet, innocent girl like me and have her kiss her V-card goodbye. Another typical ride home. And I was just a number.

My heart rattled at the thought as I neared him. This time in true gentlemanly fashion, he rose from his seat and let me slide into mine with a modicum of grace. We were back to sitting side by side.

As the speeding train passed through different neighborhoods, from the poorest to the toniest, we shared a self-imposed silence. He was back to reading his Wall Street Journal so I kept my head turned, looking out the window. A million questions whirled around in my head. I wondered—who was this man?…what did he do?…why did he choose me?…would I ever see him again? The last question troubled me the most. With a growing feeling of having been used, I swiveled my head and stared at his spectacular, high-cheekboned profile that showed off his long lashes, strong chin, and fine Roman nose. What was he thinking? Why was he ignoring me? The impassive look on his face made his thoughts unreadable, and it frustrated me to no end.

Jesus. He’d just fucked my brains out. Stolen my virginity. And he wasn’t talking to me. I thought about snatching his precious newspaper out of his hand and blurting, “Just for your information, I’m a virgin. Or up until five minutes ago, I was a virgin.” But the consequences of my actions frightened me. I feared he might laugh at me. I didn’t need to feel more insignificant and used than I already did.

Unfortunately, the aftershocks of my insane orgasm were not dying down, and in fact, intensified with the friction of the train zooming over the tracks. Overwhelmed by the long day’s events and a mixture of remorse and regret, I set my comfy leather chair into a reclining position while Ari pulled out his iPhone from his briefcase and caught up on emails. His skilled hands moved quickly on the touch screen keyboard. God, he was good with those fingers! But he continued to ignore me as if I didn’t exist. With a heavy heart, I peered out the window and again soaked in the scenery. An empty feeling fell over me at the memory of his fullness inside me. Before long, I couldn’t keep my eyes open and drifted off.

CHAPTER 5

Ari

She looked adorable as she slept. Her head had fallen on my shoulder and soft snoring emanated from her slightly-parted full lips. I didn’t have it in me to wake her and instead continued to respond to my endless emails on my cell phone. I ran a global conglomerate and the work didn’t stop at six o’clock. With offices around the world, I worked 24/7. There was always another fire to put out or some decision requiring my attention.

But it was hard to concentrate with her so close to me, her sweet touch and scent sending bolts of desire to every part of my body. I had fucked her. Fucked her hard. And I’d loved every fucking minute. She was so frickin’ tight, almost like a virgin, but I knew that wasn’t possible with the way she fucked. It was the best damn orgasm I’d ever had, one that had barreled through me like a freight train, taking me to a place I’d never been.

I was still a bit stunned by my actions, especially since I’d never done this with a stranger on a train before. Especially not with a beautiful stranger, who I’d fantasized about for months. Most of the time, another self-absorbed suit sat next to me. But today, the unpredictable beauty named Fate had taken his place. I’d often heard that Fate was a bitch, and believe me, I knew her, but this Sarah—oh Saarah—must have been her angelic twin sister. I planted a chaste kiss on her silky hair trying to process my emotions and contemplate my next step. Any form of involvement was so not what I wanted. I’d been with a lot of women, all of them conveniently disposable. Not one had sent me to the moon like she had. While I drunk in my brunette beauty, with her intelligent, sensuous face, not a single stop sign popped up in my head. She was different. Impulsively, I kissed the top of her head again.

As the train made its next stop and the conductor shouted out the name of the station, she stirred, and the large satchel bag on her lap tumbled to the floor, spreading its contents at her feet. I cast my eyes down and surveyed the array. Not too bad. Carefully, without waking her, I bent over and picked up the satchel, and then retrieved each item that had spilled out, one by one. First her thin red wallet. I know I shouldn’t have been nosy, but curiosity got the better of me. I unzipped it and wasn’t surprised it didn’t contain much money—a single twenty dollar bill and about a dollar’s worth of change in the coin compartment. Tucked inside were a Visa card and her driver’s license. I slipped the latter out and studied it. The photo looked just like her—with her high cheekbones, full lips, and wide-set brown eyes; she photographed like a million bucks. So her full name was Sarah Greene; she was twenty-five-years old having just celebrated a birthday, five feet nine, weighed one hundred twenty pounds, and she lived on the West Side. Two twenty-five West Forty-Fifth Street in the heart of the theater district. I committed the address to memory and then slid the wallet back into her bag.

The next item I retrieved was a small leather notebook that looked to be a journal of sorts. I flipped it open and began to read it. Every page was filled with famous sayings and lines—some inspirational, others humorous, and a few quite profound. I skimmed them quickly, chuckling when I came to the last one: Think big. I shared the same philosophy; bigger was definitely better.

After putting the journal back into her bag, I reached for another notebook—a sketchpad—with one hand, and with my other, I gathered up a mechanical pencil and a pack of colored ones. After dropping the pencils in her bag, I opened the pad. On the inside cover was a message:

IMPORTANT!

If found, please return!!!

Call me at 212-555-9696 or email me at toygirl@gmail.com

THANKS!!

Girl toy was more like it I thought, flashing back to our bathroom encounter. My still swollen cock stirred at the thought. I quickly added her name and phone number along with her email address to my contact list on my cell phone before leafing through the pages of the notebook. Page after page was filled with impressive portraits of a young woman with soulful eyes who looked a lot like her—perhaps an older sister? An interspersed among these drawings were detailed sketches of weird looking creatures, gizmos, and vehicles. She must be some kind of designer or artist. With her bohemian attire, she looked like the artsy type. She was indeed very talented…in many ways.

I carefully placed the sketchpad back in her bag. Bending down again, I reached for a plain white envelope. Unsealed. I peeked inside at the contents—it looked to be a ticket to an event. Curious, I removed it and my eyes grew wide—it was a ticket to the highly coveted Black Eyed Peas reunion concert tonight in the park. They’d sold out quickly in less than twenty-four hours, and even I, with all my connections, couldn’t score one. Who the hell was she and who did she know? Maybe Ms. Artsy had a boyfriend connected to the band. Or fucked one of them. Jealousy, an emotion that was alien to me, raised its ugly green tail in my chest.

She stirred again, and afraid she might wake up, I quickly put the envelope with the ticket back inside her satchel and gathered up the rest of her belongings. Some lip gloss, a hairbrush, a few loose receipts, a tampon, a hair elastic, a checkbook with a balance of eighty dollars, a set of keys, and several packs of Big Red gum. For toting such a large bag, she sure didn’t carry all that much. “Less is more,” my late father always preached, but I knew better than that as I glanced down at my still raging cock. And somehow, I thought there was much more to this girl than met the eye.

CHAPTER 6

Sarah

“Last stop, New York Penn Station.”

The loud announcement woke me with a bang. Startled, I blinked my eyes open, to find my head resting on Ari’s broad shoulder. Embarrassment swept over me.

“I’m sorry,” I said, collecting myself.

“Don’t be.” He flashed a quick dimpled smile that rendered me breathless.

As other commuters stood up, he helped me to my feet, the touch of him sending goosebumps up my arms.

“Ladies first.”

As I side-stepped past him and made my way to the automatic sliding doors, the sinking feeling that I might never see him again set in. The train ride was over.

Penn Station was stinking hot, bustling with commuters and tourists, and it wasn’t even summer yet. It tasted, smelled, and sounded like 30th Street Station’s ugly stepsister. Ari clasped my hand as we wove our way in and out of the ruthless crowd of rush hour commuters and ubiquitous homeless. His hand was warm, the grip firm but not too tight. I quickened my pace to keep up with him, his stride a blend of grace and arrogance. He was clearly an expert, manipulating this oppressive swarm of people. Despite having lived in the city for almost three years and taking my share of subways, I had yet to master the impatient New Yorkers always in a hurry to get where they were going.

Silence prevailed between the two of us as we made our way through the throng. Only the hum of the vast station sung in my ears. It, however, did little to quiet the turbulence whirling around in my head or the turbulence centered between my legs. I had lost my virginity to a man I would likely never see again. A man I craved but could never have. As the exit sign came into view, I started thinking about my exit line. “Nice knowing you.”…“Thanks for taking away my V-card.”…“Thanks for the memories.”…“Have a nice life.” If he weren’t dragging me through the station at breakneck speed to the point I was almost jogging to keep up with him, my heavy heart would have slowed me down. The truth was I didn’t want to say goodbye to this beautiful stranger on a train and was dreading it.

Suddenly, a sharp tug from behind followed by a forceful shove sent my jumble of thoughts to a screeching halt and me tumbling onto the filthy Penn Station floor. Stunned and stinging with pain, I caught sight of my assailant, a skinny Latino youth running through the crowd with my bag. My keys! My cell phone! My wallet! My identity! And the cash I needed to get through the weekend!

“Little fucker!” yelled my companion, taking off in hot pursuit.

Staggering to my feet, my eyes could not believe the speed with which his long legs carried him. It was like watching a scene from Mission Impossible with Tom Cruise or some stunt double running after the bad guy. My assailant glanced back at Trainman, panic washing over his face as he saw my action hero gaining ground. Even as the bad guy picked up speed, the gap narrowed until Trainman pounced on him, sending him crashing to the floor. He lay sprawled on the ground between Ari’s powerfully splayed knees, his face frozen with fear.

Gripping the lad by a clump of his greasy ebony hair, Ari yanked him to his feet. The boy was shaking and near tears, and I was taken by how slight he was compared to my tall, mighty, broad-shouldered hero. The boy surrendered my bag and defensively raised both hands, clearly afraid that his captor might strike him. Still clasping his hair, my hero lifted the youth until his Nikes no longer touched the ground. The boy grimaced in pain. And then Ari lowered him. I was close enough to hear him growl.

“Now, get the fuck out of here, you little twerp.”

He released the boy, who, wasting no time, sprinted through the station without looking back. He then wheeled around, his eyes searching the crowd until they landed on me. I was shaking—unsure if it was from the shock of being violated or the shock that this devastating man had risked his life for me. I mean, the kid could have had a knife. Taking long strides, Ari loped my way.

“You okay?” he asked, his concerned blue eyes surveying every inch of my body.

“Yeah,” I managed.

Glancing down, I noticed patches of grime on my beige skirt. My right knee hurt from the fall. I lifted up the skirt by its hem to check it out. No blood. Just a large hole in my pantyhose—though it was a mere fraction of the hole between my crotch. Embarrassment crept through me as Ari handed me by bag. It was intact and in one piece.

“Hold on to this,” he said, his frown curling into a wry, but oh-so-sexy smile.

I quirked a quick smile back. My gaze met his once again, and I was immediately aware of the post-orgasmic waves crashing against my pelvis. My heart thudded. Thank goodness the buzz of the crowded station drowned out the sound.

“Saarah, I’m having drinks with someone,” he said, his eyes still holding me fiercely.

He needed to say no more. He was meeting some stunning supermodel. The type of woman he belonged with. My heart sunk. It was time for my exit line.

“Um, okay,” I spluttered. “Thanks for everything.” Yes, everything.

Without not so much as a goodbye, I sprung toward the exit sign. With hot tears clustering behind my eyes, I walked blindly through the throng of impatient commuters and filthy bums begging for money, brushing up against more than I wanted. It was over. I’d reached my final destination. My scenes from a movie were over. I didn’t even know a thing about him. His last name. Where he lived. What he did. What did it matter? I’d probably never see him again. It was just a fluke thing that wasn’t supposed to happen to me. I shrugged my shoulders and inwardly sighed. Yet, there was so much of me that kept hoping I would feel his strong hands on my shoulders, stopping me dead in my tracks. Spinning me around. Pulling my head back with a yank of my ponytail. Sinking his lips into mine and then parting them with his tongue, gifting me a kiss that lasted for an eternity right in the middle of Penn Station. That’s what happened in movies. With wishful thinking, I stole a glance back over my shoulder. Ari was hugging a tall, drop-dead gorgeous redhead in a chic suit. Just his type. A mixture of envy and self-pity pulsed through me. Facing front and fighting back tears, I quickened my pace. Why was I fooling myself? My West Side Story was a dream. My life was a reality show. A really lame reality show.

CHAPTER 7

Ari

Gwen looked as stunning and as put together as ever. In a chic olive green pantsuit and stylish heels that accentuated her lean build and her enviable height. With her mane of flaming red hair and lankiness, she could have easily been a model. Grace Coddington, the legendary lookalike Creative Director of Vogue, had once scouted her on the street in The Village when she was seventeen and begged her to model—even offered to introduce her to all the top modeling agencies and pay for her comps, but my brainy, Wellesley-bound companion had no interest. A feminist, she was way more interested in saving the world and fighting for the rights of women than in saving Calvin Klein’s sagging career.

She gave me a hug, her taut, toned body pressing into mine. She’d texted me earlier in the day that she would be here at Penn Station at this time, after spending the day in a Long Island court dealing with a nasty divorce case. We’d agreed to meet up for drinks.

“You look amazing,” I breathed into her ear. “I want to introduce you to—”

I flipped around and she was gone. My eyes darted around the crowded station. She was nowhere in sight. Shit. Sarah was gone. Fucking gone. Why some bizarre girl I hardly knew made my heart beat into a tailspin, I could not explain. I just knew I had to see her again. And I wanted to see her soon.

“Gwen, can I take a rain check?”

“Sure. What’s going on?”

My mind raced. “Is Dawn still at Bergdorf’s?”

With a puzzled look, she assured me nothing had changed on the sixth floor of the venerable department store and gave me all the info I needed. Her sharp inquiring mind, however, wanted to know why I urgently needed a women’s clothing personal shopper.

“I forgot it’s Miss Thatcher’s birthday tomorrow and I need to get her something fast.” Miss Thatcher was my prim and proper spinster secretary, who’d likely never been laid in her life.

Suspicious Gwen cocked an eyebrow. I cocked back a smile. “Honestly.”

With her eyes and ears on me, I pulled out my cell phone and made a call.

“Since when is Miss Thatcher into Marc Jacobs and wearing a size six?” she asked after I ended the call.

“She lost a lot of weight and is changing her style.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yes, she wants to expand her horizons. And meet a hot guy.”

Gwen shot me another wry look and then told me she was looking forward to tomorrow night.

All was looking good.

Fuck the Black Eyed Peas.

My girl toy filled my head. If I had my way, and I would, she would be playing with me tonight. It was going to be a good, good night.

CHAPTER 8

Sarah

Fuck him.

Remorse giving way to rage, I decided to walk home from Penn Station. The furnished apartment I was subletting on West Forty-Fifth Street between Eighth and Ninth Avenues on the edge of the theater district was not far. Besides, it was a warm May night, and I needed the air to clear my head. Unfortunately, the intense throbbing between my inner thigh area kept me in a fog. Ari’s beautiful face filled my mind while his beautiful dick filled every other part of me. And then the image of that stunning redhead made it all go away faster than losing my virginity. The reality that I was no longer “the twenty-five-year-old virgin,” as Lauren sarcastically called me, made me shudder with disbelief. It had to happen sometime, but now I wished it hadn’t happened with that Adonis. Wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am. The asshole didn’t even thank me for fucking his brains out. But I was the idiot for letting him seduce me. Now I hated myself for succumbing so readily to his selfish, lustful assault.

I got to my brownstone in no time. Mounting the five-step landing that led to the front door, I dug deep into my large bag in search of my keys and sighed with relief when I found them. Had it not been for Trainman, I would have had no bag or keys. For all I know, that kid, having access to my identity and address, might have vandalized my apartment and wiped out everything. And if I happened to be home at the time, who knows what else might have happened. I trembled thinking about the possibilities.

I jiggled the front door key into the tricky deadbolt lock. It was a royal pain in the butt to get it to unlock, but one could never be too safe in this big city, especially in my neighborhood, which was still considered a little seedy.

Once inside, I used a tiny key attached to the chain to open one of three tarnished mailboxes lining the chipped walls of the dingy entryway. Two other tenants lived in the building—Mrs. Blumberg, on the second floor, a retired Broadway actress, who always had a story to tell me about her song and dance days and was convinced she was related to the city’s former mayor, and Mr. Costanzo, on the ground floor, who owned a nearby pizzeria. They were both always trying to feed me. My apartment, identical to theirs, was located on the third floor.

I reached my hand into the narrow metal box and grabbed the pile of mail. Bills. Bills. And more bills. And a letter from the Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania. I would deal with all of them later. Right now, I had to hurry and get myself ready for the Black Eyed Peas concert in Central Park. Perhaps some good music and food would get my mind off my sick mother and the sick feeling I had about being used by that asshole on the train.

Usually the trek up the steep three flights of stairs was effortless for me, but this evening it was challenging. I was worn out, my insides torn, both physically and emotionally. As I mounted each step, the image of my mother, wan and frail, life ebbing out of her, alternated with the image of Ari, tan and fit, putting life into me. I could still feel his hot pulsing cock deep inside me. I wanted the memory to go away and move on. Liar. I wanted more of him.

Breathing heavily, I unlocked my apartment door after several attempts. Jo-Jo, short for Josephine, the sweet black cat I was caring for, immediately brushed up against my ankles and meowed. Her true owner, a flamboyant, singing-dancing transvestite, was away on a yearlong tour of La Cage Aux Folles.

My flat, a railroad apartment, was small but pleasant. I was lucky to have found it on Craigslist. It was rent-controlled, so I wasn’t paying much, and the tenant I was subletting from even gave me a small break for looking after his cat. The only thing odd about the apartment was that the walls were painted a flaming hot pink, and there was a large framed poster of Josephine Baker (obviously the inspiration for kitty’s name) above the pseudo-Victorian sofa. The other flea market finds that filled the apartment gave it a je ne sais quoi charm that appealed to me.

Jo-Jo followed me into the small galley kitchen, where I proceeded to open a can of Fancy Feast and put it into her special bowl on the Formica counter. From the corner of my eye, I noticed that the message light on my landline was flashing red, signaling I had some.

Leaving Jo-Jo to her food, I slogged over to the phone located on the other end of the counter and punched in the code to retrieve my messages. I had six new ones, all from my best friend.

Lauren: “Where are you?” CLICK. Lauren: “What are you wearing? Remember, my cotillion friends are coming.” CLICK. Lauren: “Where are you?” CLICK. Lauren: “Guess what! Taylor is taking me to the Hamptons.” CLICK. Lauren: “Call me!” CLICK. Lauren: “FYI, your cell phone is turned off.”

End of messages. My heart sank. So much of me wanted to hear Ari’s sultry voice. “Saarah. Call me. I want to make you wet and fuck your brains out.”

Stop it, Sarah! I silently chided. He was probably already bedding that stunning redhead. And he had no idea where I lived or how to get in touch with me. Chances were I’d never see or hear from him again. Yet, the raw aching I felt for this man continued to consume me. The aftershocks of my off-the-charts orgasm measured 6.0 on the Big-O scale and my pussy was still pulsing.

Enough. I’d better call Lauren and let her know that I was back in town and that I would meet her at the Seventy-Second Street entrance to the park at 7:30. Before I had a chance to dial her number, the intercom buzzed. Lately, any time it did, my heart dropped to the floor, thinking it might be someone serving me for non-payment of bills. Or even worse, some messenger with the news of my mother’s passing. Anxiously, I hurried back to the door to my apartment and pressed a nearby button.

“Yes?” My voice trailed off as I spoke into the intercom.

“Delivery for you,” said a male voice with a heavy New York accent.

That was strange. I wasn’t expecting anything. Unless Catherine, my demanding boss, had decided to send a stack of her expenses to take care of over the weekend. I had taken the day off to visit my mother, and she was not happy about it one bit. So, this was her revenge.

“Just leave it outside on the stoop.” I never let strangers inside the building. As both Mrs. Blumberg and my mother said, you just never knew who could be the next David Berkowitz, the city’s next serial killer.

“You need to sign for it,” said the invisible voice.

“Fine. I’ll be right down.”

Grabbing one of the loose pens that I kept in a tin can on the counter, I galloped down the three flights of stairs. Waiting for me outside was a twitchy man holding a box that must have measured five feet in length. It was magnificently wrapped in violet paper and topped off with a white bow the size of a basketball. This could not possibly be for me. And it was definitely not from my stingy boss, who I think hated me.

“Sign this,” said the man, handing me a receipt.

Sure enough my name, Sarah Greene, was printed on the paper along with my address and apartment number. Huh? And then it hit me. Of course, it was a gift from my mega-wealthy, debutante friend Lauren, who probably sent me something nice to wear to the concert tonight so I wouldn’t be an embarrassment in front of all of her high society friends. She had threatened to burn my entire wardrobe once, and this was her way of sending me a message.

Grabbing the receipt, I plastered it against the hallway wall and signed my name. The deliveryman promptly left, and I humped back up the stairs with the large package in my arms. What did Lauren pick out for me? Knowing her over-the-top expensive taste, I’m sure it was something like Seven for Mankind tight-ass jeans and some bold print halter-top cut so low you could see my navel. Trendy things that flat-chested, straight-as-an-arrow, bohemian me had no right wearing. And would not look good in.

Once back inside my apartment, I gently laid the massive package on the couch and carefully unwrapped it. I’d never seen such a meticulously wrapped present, and the dazzling bow must have cost a small fortune. Lauren could afford it. Her father, Randolph Hoffmeier, was a major Wall Street honcho, and she already had a substantial trust fund from her Mayflower-descended family.

The box was from Bergdorf’s. Wow! The only time I’d ever set foot inside that store was the one time Catherine sent me there at lunch to pick up a tube of her favorite Chanel red lipstick. Dressed in my cheap, unfashionable garments, I stuck out like a sore thumb among all the expensively dressed chic women and couldn’t wait to get out of the place. I spent the rest of my lunch break down the street, consoling myself at T.J. Maxx.

I carefully removed the box top. Layers of delicate white tissue paper lined the interior of the other half. I peeled them away and then gasped. Facing me was a beautiful black silk dress with two sparkling spaghetti straps. A tag hung off one of them. Marc Jacobs, size 6, no price. I lifted the dress by the straps and held it up in front of me. It was stunning. Simple and elegant. But certainly not the kind of thing one would wear to a rock concert in Central Park. What was Lauren thinking?

My eyes returned to the box and came upon a small, white envelope with my name printed on it. Draping the dress over one arm, I reached for it. The flap unsealed, I slipped out the contents. My eyes grew big as I read the note and so did the explosions that were rocking my body.

Ms. Greene ~ Please wear this tonight. I shall collect you at 8 p.m. Meet me downstairs. ~ Ari

P.S. Please do not wear pantyhose.

A mixture of holy cow and damn him saturated my brain. How the heck did he know where I lived? Wait. Of course, he must have gone through my bag while I was asleep on the train. He got my address from my driver’s license. He must know everything about me. My height. My weight. My checking account number with my home phone number. My social security number. What kind of gum I chewed (Big Red). Crap. I bet he even thumbed through my sketchpad and read the journal I kept with my favorite sayings.

One of them flashed into my head. When in doubt, leave it out. Damn it! I should have never let him sink his cock inside me. None of this would have happened. None of it. Except…there was no doubt. I had wanted him as much as he had wanted me. My mind flitted to the ravishing redhead. Though they looked like they belonged together, maybe I had jumped to the wrong conclusion and she was just an acquaintance. Or just one of his many girlfriends.

Truthfully, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to be among the many. When it came to men, I lacked confidence. Added to this, I was going through a very vulnerable period of my life with my mother being so ill and my future insecure. And there was another problem. I couldn’t see him tonight. I had plans with Lauren. Trust me, she rubbed it in my face that she was able to get those reserved-seat tickets for the Black Eyed Peas because her father’s investment company managed Fergie’s assets, and that I was lucky she counted me as one of her best friends.

The shrill ring of my phone hurled me out of my thoughts. It must be Lauren. I dreaded answering it because she got super mad if I didn’t call her back right away. For a friend, she was very high maintenance.

Finally, after the fifth ring, just before the call went to my voicemail, I ran over to it and picked up the receiver.

“Saarah, do you like your dress?”

Gah! It was him. The temperature in the kitchen suddenly rose ten degrees. And my heartbeat accelerated. The phone shook in my hand.

“It’s very nice.” Who was I kidding? It was the most fabulous dress I’d ever owned. And the most expensive.

“I’m looking forward to seeing you in it.”

Shit! How the hell was I going to tell him that I had plans? That I couldn’t see him tonight.

CLICK.

I wasn’t. My mother always preached: No risk, no gain. I immediately dialed Lauren’s number. It went straight to her voicemail. Beep.

“Lauren, something’s come up. I can’t go to the concert tonight. I’ll explain tomorrow. Have fun.”

CLICK. Phew! That saved me from having a nasty, drawn-out conversation with her. I suppose I could also try her on her cell, but truthfully, I didn’t want to. A pang of guilt shot through me, but I reminded myself that it wasn’t like she shoved out a fortune for the ticket; it was comped. Plus, she had her entourage so she wouldn’t be alone. I’d still pay the consequences tomorrow, but right now, I had to get ready for my date with Trainman.

Taking my new dress with me, I skipped toward my adjacent bedroom. A loud knock at my door stopped me in the hallway. Retracing my steps, I peered through the peephole. Mrs. Blumberg. She was rather entertaining, but quite frankly, I had no time for her right now.

I unbolted the door. Chewing a big wad of gum, she faced me. Half my size, the elderly woman was holding a shopping bag. While she always seemed to have a grocery bag in her hand, the Bergdorf’s bag was unusual.

“I was just on my way to shul when this came for you,” she said in her thick “New Yawk” accent.

She handed me the bag bag. Inside was another gift-wrapped package, this one significantly smaller, maybe a foot long by six inches. My heart fluttered. Now what?

Mrs. Blumberg’s crinkly eyes fixated on the black dress that was still folded over my arm. “Hot date tonight? I hope he’s Jewish.”

God, she was nosy. And so annoying. I didn’t respond.

“So, how’s your mother doing?”

Sadness swept over me. After I left the hospital, my mother was scheduled for another treatment. They always made her feel sick to her stomach. I fought back tears.

“She’s hanging in there.”

“Oy!” My neighbor shook her head, a bright-orange ball of frizz. “I’ll say a prayer for her tonight. You know, you should come with me one Friday.”

“I will and thanks.”

Mrs. Blumberg meant well. Despite her constant meddling, it was hard not to like her. Her eyes lingered on the shopping bag.

“So, what are you waiting for? You gonna show me whatch’ya got?”

God, she was being difficult.

“Mrs. Blumberg, I’d love to spend time with you but—”

“I know. I know. It’s okay to hurt an old lady’s feelings. You got a hot date.”

Her voice trailed off as she turned on her heel. Closing the door behind her, she got in her last two cents.

“Make sure you wear clean underwear. And don’t let him touch you there.”

I sighed; if she only knew. “There” tingled at the thought of being touched by “him” again. Wasting no time, I reached into the shopping bag and tore the package open. Two words on the lid of the shiny white box blazed in my eyes: JIMMY CHOO. I lifted it off to find another note, the scrolly handwriting identical to that of the note that accompanied the black dress. I was convinced it wasn’t his, but rather that of a Bergdorf’s employee.

Wear these tonight. Remember, no pantyhose.~A

Holy cow! He also bought me shoes. The kind Sarah Jessica Parker wore in Sex in the City. A creamy white duster bag encased them. My heart thudding, I slipped out the shoes. I gasped. A pair of six-inch high black satin peep-toe stilettos. Size 9.5AA. How the hell did he know my crazy shoe size? Did he remove my two-sizes-too-wide combat boots stuffed with inner sole pads to make them fit while I was dozing on the train?

A frightening thought crossed my mind. I was born wearing combat boots. How was I going to manage to walk in these sexy beasts? I took off my boots and placed the high heels side by side on the floor. Placing one hand flat against the wall, I stepped into them, right foot, then left. Sarah, plain and tall, was suddenly taller. Six inches taller. A six-foot-three pillar.

I let go of the wall. Okay, I could balance in them. But could I walk in them? I was going to do my trial runway walk down the hall to my bedroom. Still carrying the little black dress, I took my first step, then my next. My ankles wobbled, and the intense throbbing inside me wasn’t helping my balance. Focus, Sarah. Focus. Pausing for a deep breath, I took another step and then another; I was getting it down. My bedroom was just an arm’s length away. Victoriously, I stumbled inside it. Jo-Jo, whom I’d honestly forgotten about, followed right behind me.

My shoebox-size bedroom, painted in another shade of bright pink, consisted of a queen-size bed that took up most of the space, a faux-French mirrored armoire with a matching nightstand, and a sliver of a closet. Jo-Jo jumped up on the bed and curled up on the garish zebra print satin sheets left behind by the transvestite. Not wanting the dress anywhere near the furry cat, I draped it over my closet door. I glanced at the alarm clock on my nightstand. 7:15 p.m. I had less than an hour to get ready for my date. Quickly, I slipped out of my skirt, letting it fall to the floor. As I pulled my T-shirt over my head, a waft of his intoxicating cologne drifted into my nose. God, he smelled so divine. Maybe, I should never wash this tee. Hold on to it as a keepsake. A souvenir of losing my virginity.

Wearing my torn pantyhose and my six-inch Choos, I stood before the armoire and gazed at my reflection in the mirror. My normally long legs seemed to go on for miles. The heels accentuated my calf muscles and toned thighs, both gifts of having been a tomboy my whole life. I ran my palms over my pert breasts, surprised by the soreness of my small nipples. The memory of Ari tweaking and tugging them filled my head. A bolt of electricity ripped through my body.

Holding onto the armoire, I took off my new shoes and slid down my pantyhose. I had the urge to hold the latter to my nose, but I let them scrunch on the floor. Maybe, I should put them in a zip lock baggie and hide them in the armoire. The scene from an episode of Law and Order popped into my head, as if losing your virginity to a stranger on a train was a crime.

Jack McCoy: “Your honor, I present to the court Exhibit A: Defendant’s Fucked-Up Pantyhose.”

Inwardly chuckling, I headed, naked, to the hole-in-the-wall bathroom located off the small hallway that connected the living room and the bedroom. I turned on the water and hopped into the narrow stall shower and, with misgivings, let the warm water wash away the scent of my encounter. I loosened my ponytail, letting my thick hair fall to the middle of my back, and then lathered it up with my cheap drugstore shampoo. Impulsively, I rubbed my soapy hand between my legs, shocked that my bud was still so sensitive and swollen. A buzz of excitement shot through me.

After conditioning my hair, I stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around my torso—a zebra print one that matched the satin sheets on the bed. I glanced at my reflection in the mirrored medicine cabinet. My too-big-for-my-face chocolate eyes were a little bloodshot from my lack of sleep, but my complexion was glowing, and I thanked my lucky stars for the zillionth time that I had been blessed with good skin. The genes of my mother. My heart grew heavy again—the image of her once radiant face, now sunken and sallow, filled my mind. I wondered how her treatment went. I so badly wanted to call her, but usually after one of them, she was weak and nauseated and preferred to talk to no one. Not even me, her only daughter. Her best friend and confidant. How I missed my mother!

With a weighty sigh, I threw my soaked chestnut hair back into a ponytail, with no time to blow dry it, and dabbed on some berry-flavored lip gloss, something I rarely did. The thought of Ari licking it off my lips made me tingle. I hadn’t been kissed by him. Fucked. But not kissed. What would that feel like? At the last minute, I spritzed myself with perfume. Sarah Jessica Parker’s Lovely, a recent birthday present from Lauren, who thought it might help me get some sex in the city. She couldn’t have been more right.

I headed back to my bedroom and beheld the little black dress, waiting for my body to claim it. Careful not to get my lip gloss on it, I slipped it over my head, squeezed my arms under the spaghetti straps and shimmied it down. It stopped mid-thigh and fit my body like a glove, giving me little curves I never thought I had. The silky fabric was cool and soothing against my skin. I pulled off the tag and tossed it into the waste can. Jo-Jo gave me the cat’s meow. Marc Jacobs and I were now one.

Don’t wear pantyhose. I could hear his sexy voice saying the words. Okay, so panties it would be. I opened the door to my armoire and pulled out a pair from the drawer where I kept my collection of Fruit of the Looms. Cheap, comfy white panties I bought on sale at the downtown Target. I slipped my feet into the leg openings and slid them up under my dress. I stared at myself in the mirror. Damn! I had panty lines. Ugly panty lines.

Remember, no pantyhose. Fine. I’d live with the lines, but silently I cursed my Fruit of the Loomers, wishing that I had a single pair of those obnoxious butt-floss thongs. I slipped my bare feet back into my black satin Choos and gave a final look at myself in the mirror.

Sarah, plain and tall, in her little black dress and grown-up high heels, no longer looked plain but instead borderline elegant. Pretty, and witty, and wise. But, damn, damn, damn, those panty lines. They were ruining everything. Impulsively, I reached under my dress and yanked the panties down, letting them slide down to my ankles. I kicked them off, almost losing my balance, as my landline started ringing.

Shit. Wearing my heels, I teetered to the kitchen but not in time for the call to go my voicemail. I played back the message and could faintly hear Lauren’s voice, the Black Eyed Peas singing, “I’ve Got a Feeling” in the background.

“Sarah, what the fuck is going on? Call me immediately.” CLICK.

I glanced at the wall clock. 7:55 p.m. Lauren would have to wait. Pantyless, I, Sarah Greene, was ready for my next encounter with my mysterious Trainman.

8:00 p.m. I stood anxiously on the landing of my apartment. My eyes darted east and west, searching for a tall, golden-haired Adonis that stood out from the crowd. A melting pot of New Yorkers passed by me, several pausing to stare. A silver-haired businessman gave me a wink, and a rapper type gave me a thumbs-up wolf whistle. I wasn’t used to being noticed, let alone winked and whistled at. It was as empowering as it was embarrassing.

My nerves grew edgier by the minute. What if he was going to stand me up? The image of the beautiful redhead flickered once more in my head. I always said: The grass can’t compete with the trees and I was just a tall blade of grass in a big city filled with beautiful trees.

My heart was sinking, and my nerves were ticking like a countdown clock. And then, as I was about to lose all hope, my eyes caught sight of my long-legged Trainman running down the street in my direction. He loped up the landing, taking two steps at a time. A devilish grin flashed across his swoon-worthy face.

My heart skipped a beat at the sight of him. He was casually dressed in jeans—the premium denim kind—and a black cotton T-shirt—the expensive, yummy kind. I immediately felt overdressed in his little black dress and uncomfortable.

“Hi,” I said nervously, hating myself for my banality.

In my spiky heels, we were practically the same height, making him about six three. His piercing blue eyes burned into mine and then traveled down my body, lingering on places he had no right to be.

“The dress suits you,” he said at last with a glimmer of approval.

He offered me his arm, and my eyes fixed on his biceps. Perfect, not too big as if to shout professional weight lifter, but enough to let me know that he worked out. The rest of his body was equally sculpted to perfection. The outlines of his muscled thighs and calves were visible through the denim, and I could see the ripple of his abs beneath his fine cotton tee.

I hooked my arm in his, glad to have someone help me down the steps in these mile-high heels. Please don’t let me trip. Please! I prayed silently.

I made it to the street. A small victory. I suppose we were walking somewhere—there were lots of good restaurants in the theater district—but truthfully, I wasn’t looking forward to walking more than a block in my stilettos. My feet were already beginning to ache, and I still didn’t trust myself in them.

“My driver will be here any second,” said Ari.

Driver? What was he talking about? In a heartbeat, a sleek black limo slithered up to us. Ari motioned with his finger to it and helped me step off the curb.

A tall uniformed man, with rich, ebony skin and the intimidating build of Mr. Clean, immediately came around the car and opened the passenger door.

“After you,” said Ari.

I looked at him with hesitancy, and then with as much grace as I could muster in my tight dress and six-inch high heels, I slid into the car. Ari climbed in after me. The door closed, and I was sitting, once again, next to my mysterious stranger on a train.

The posh, spacious interior felt alien to me. Soft black leather seats, plush carpeting, dark-tinted windows, plus a dark glass partition separating us from the driver. There was also a well-stocked bar. I’d never been in a limo before. Obviously, Trainman was rich. Very rich. Again the question: What was he doing with me?

He stretched his long, taut legs out in front of him, and I noticed he was wearing expensive black suede loafers with no socks. I impulsively crossed mine—acutely aware that I was not wearing underwear. The thought made me press by legs tighter together. I wondered—was this some kind of defense mechanism?

Ari glanced down at my crotch—holy shit, did he know?—and then subtly down at my feet. A sly smile flickered on his bronzed face. Was it the beautiful shoes or the fact that I wasn’t wearing pantyhose that pleased him? I dared not to ask.

The scent of his expensive cologne mixed with that of the car’s rich leather and wafted up my nose, making me feel lightheaded. Butterflies fluttered in my stomach, and the throbbing in my groin kicked up a notch with the movement of the car. Please don’t let me get carsick.

“I hope you like lobster,” he said, breaking the silence.

Oooh. That was a conversation starter. Me, who lived on ramen noodles and an occasional macrobiotic dinner out, courtesy of BFF Lauren, who was forever going through a raw diet phase, didn’t know the first thing about eating lobster. All I knew was that it was a big red shellfish, with big, scary claws, that I could never afford.

“Yes,” I lied.

“Good. We’re going to The Palm, my favorite restaurant.”

“Cool.”

This was not going well. Despite my intimate encounter with this gorgeous man only hours ago, I now felt at a loss for words. Remembering one of my favorite sayings—Speak only when spoken to—I peered out the tinted window, gazing at the spectacle of cars, cabs, and pedestrians that made New York the city that never sleeps. A thought crossed my mind. I could see them, but they couldn’t see me. Somehow, I thought Ari’s piercing blue eyes could see right through me yet mine couldn’t penetrate him. He made me feel naked.

His sultry voice diverted my attention. “Would you like a drink?”

“Um, a Coke would be nice.”

“Come on, Saarah. You can do better than that. It’s not a school night,” he said in a tone that was half-amused, half-mocking.

With a smirk, he reached for a bottle of wine, already uncorked, and poured some into two crystal goblets. He handed me a glass and then clinked his against mine.

“Cheers. To you and a fine meal.” His eyes stayed fixed on my face.

My heart hammering, I put the goblet to my lips and took a sip of the wine. It was chilled and delicious. It didn’t taste like the acidic or oversweet “house wine” I occasionally ordered when I was out with Lauren. No, it tasted perfectly balanced and velvety. As I swallowed, I glanced at the label on the bottle; it was in French. So, Trainman liked fine cars, fine wines, fine food…and fine women?

The limo was heading east on Forty-Second Street, the driver expertly weaving in and out of the insane Friday night midtown traffic. I imbibed more of my wine.

“So, Saarah…”

There he was, saying my name with that slow, sexy lilt. My breath caught in my throat.

Holding his glass of wine in one hand, he slowly ran the manicured fingertips of the other down my right leg, all the way down to my ankle. His caress gave me goosebumps.

“So, you didn’t wear any pantyhose,” he purred, his hand rubbing up and down my ankle.

I swallowed hard. Or any panties. I was too aroused to say anything.

“I hope you’re as hungry as I am.”

“I’m famished,” I squeaked. Suddenly, I was craving a heaping portion of his cock. My stomach emitted an embarrassing growl.

He responded with that amused smile while his hand glided back up my leg and made its way under my little black dress. His middle finger toyed with my magic button that turned on the heat. I was getting hot. Very hot. And very wet.

“You’re salivating. You must be starving.”

I bit down on my glossed lips to suppress a moan.

“Open your mouth,” he ordered.

Hesitantly, I parted my lips. Removing his hand from between my thighs, he slid his middle finger, wet with my sex, across my tongue.

“Just a small taste of what’s to come.” A roguish glint danced in his eyes.

Never having tasted myself before, I had to steady the wine in my hand at the unexpected experience as shock and pleasure flowed through my body. Every nerve in my body was buzzing. I feared one way or another I was going to end up with a large, wet stain on my new black dress if we didn’t get to the restaurant soon.

The limo turned north on Third and shortly after pulled up behind a cab in front of The Palm. The driver got out and our door swung open. Ari gracefully slid out and I followed, aided by his hand. My stomach rumbled again. I really was hungry.

Inside, The Palm was a noisy, bustling restaurant with white-clothed tables and a colorful array of caricatures of well-known celebrities lining the walls. As we walked toward the check-in area, a jovial heavyset man, with half-moon glasses, greeted my companion with a warm handshake.

“Good to see you, Mr. Golden. Your regular table is waiting for you.”

So now, I knew Trainman’s full name. Ari Golden. Fitting for the golden-haired warrior. Later tonight, I would google him and find out everything there was to know.

Holding my hand, Ari followed an attractive, mini-skirted hostess who kept looking back at him, past the jammed bar and table after table of chicly dressed couples and businessmen devouring monstrous lobsters. I managed to keep up on my heels and again prayed I wouldn’t do something embarrassing like breaking my ankle in front of all these rich people.

Several striking, well-dressed women stopped Ari along the way, eyeing me curiously. Ari politely acknowledged each of them with a quick smile and a nod. Former strangers on a train?

The circular booth to which we were led was in the far corner of the restaurant. It could easily accommodate four more people, but we had it all to ourselves. I slid all the way into it expecting Ari to sit across from me, but much to my surprise, he positioned himself practically next to me. In fact, he was so close to me, I could feel his heat. My heart pounded.

A waiter came by and Ari ordered for the two of us: two Manhattans, Caesar salads, and a four-pound lobster to share.

I was happy when the Manhattans arrived at our table. I still felt super-nervous being with this intimidating man. I didn’t know what to talk about. I took several consecutive gulps of the drink. The chilled, velvety liquid, another first, went down smoothly and loosened me up. A little.

Twirling his Manhattan cherry by the stem, Ari eased into conversation.

“Sarah is a beautiful name. It means ‘princess’ in Hebrew.”

My mother had told me that once, but I was the last thing from being a princess. Tomboy, geek, plain Jane, yes. But definitely not a princess.

“Thanks,” I said in a tone that was more dubious than flattered.

He plucked the cherry from his drink and flicked it with his tongue. “I’ve seen you a few times before at 30th Street Station.”

I gulped. Had he been spying on me?

He popped the cherry into his mouth and swallowed as my mind whirled with unsettling thoughts. He’d stalked me?

“Were you visiting someone there?”

I nervously nodded.

“Oh, a boyfriend?”

“No, my mom,” I replied, taken aback by his question and his confrontational tone. “She’s being treated for cancer at Penn’s medical center.”

Without warning, all the emotions I had bottled up broke loose. Remorse. Fear. Hopelessness. Grief. I don’t know what caused it. The wine. The Manhattan. The cherry. Or a combination of all three. Tears that had been welling up in my eyes on and off all day streamed down my cheeks.

Before I could apologize for my emotional outburst, Ari leaned into me and brushed them away with his thumbs. With a tenderness that surprised me.

“I’m sorry,” I sniffed.

“Don’t be.” His voice embodied genuine compassion. “I lost my father to cancer several years ago.”

So we did have something in common. Or close enough. Fingers crossed, my mother would be cured and go into remission.

“What kind?” I asked hesitantly.

“Lung.” Sadness filled his voice. “He was a smoker.”

“My mother has lung cancer too, but she never smoked a day in her life.”

Anger from this unfair fate rose fast and furious inside me. Just in time, the Caesar salads arrived. I picked at mine, my appetite suddenly gone. Ari dug into his, sheepishly gazing up at me with each forkful.

“Saarah, cheer up!” It was almost a command. “Here comes the lobster.”

My eyes grew wide at the sight of the humongous red-shelled creature that our waiter set down in the middle of our table. Alongside the platter, he added a couple of nutcrackers and pickers as well as a side of melted butter. Tying ample plastic bibs around our necks, he bid us, “Bon appétit.”

My anxious eyes darted back and forth between the lobster and Ari’s lit up face. I had never eaten lobster before and truly had no clue where or how to begin. Thank goodness, my gorgeous companion was a god. And a mind reader.

“Watch. Use the nutcracker and start with the tail. The most succulent part.” Squeezing the utensil, he skillfully cracked the creature’s tail and then plunged one of the slim two-pronged forks into the meat. “Taste,” he ordered after dipping the snowy meat into the butter.

I opened my mouth and let him feed me the buttery piece. Oh, God, it was good. Rich, melt-in-your-mouth good. I instantly wanted more.

“Your turn.” A wry smile lit up his face. “But I want you to crack a claw. The next best piece of meat.”

Taking the nutcracker, I wrapped it around one of the lobster’s large claws. I squeezed it hard, but the shell wouldn’t crack.

“It’s hard,” I lamented.

He chortled. “You have no idea.”

Suddenly, under the table, I felt Ari grab at a naked calf. He yanked off my shoe and moved my foot to the crotch of his expensive jeans. The sole of my foot sat directly on the warm bulge between his muscular thighs. Oh, God, it was hard! Very hard! Gripping my ankle, he rubbed my foot up and down. Slowly. Then faster. The mound expanded while my foot caught fire.

I fumbled with the nutcracker. I still couldn’t crack open the damn claw. I was totally distracted.

“I’m hungry,” grumbled Ari, rubbing my bare foot faster and harder against his arousal.

Holy cow! The rigid rod beneath his jeans tensed further. Absent-mindedly still working on the claw, I gazed at the man sitting across from me; his eyes were closed, his lush lips parted, and his back slightly arched. His huge erection thrusted deep against the sole of my foot and then gave way to a spasm that made my toes curl. An orgasm!

And at that very moment, the claw cracked opened, the tender white meat inside exploding through the shell. I plunked the two-pronged fork into a chunk and slid it into Ari’s parted lips.

“Mmmm,” he moaned as hot tingles coursed through my body. I delighted in the pleasure I could give this gorgeous man.

He savored the meat in his mouth and then opened his eyes. I watched him swallow.

“My princess, that was delicious.”

I flushed at his compliment. And he called me his princess!

We continued to feed each other lobster until we had devoured it and all that was left was a heap of shells.

“What did you think?” asked Ari as he discarded the last shell.

“Oh my God! It was amazing!” Oh was it!

He quirked a pleased smile. “Do you have room for dessert?”

“Yes,” I said with a nod.

“Great. They have the best crème brûlée here.”

“Can’t wait,” I replied, having no clue what this concoction was. Secretly, I wanted to skip it and longed for him to take me home or to wherever he lived and fuck our brains out. Even the back of his limo would do. So turned on, I was craving him inside me.

In no time, our waiter, whose name was Mario, came back to clear the table, and Ari ordered the dessert. Again, a single portion for us to share. As Mario took off, Ari picked up a teaspoon and began playing with it.

“Can you do this?”

My eyes stayed on him as he put the spoon to his perfect manly nose and balanced it on the tip. I giggled.

“Of course. Anyone can do that.”

He flashed another cocky smile. “Okay, let’s see you do it.”

With his eyes fixed on me, I silently lifted my spoon and repeated his actions. Eyes crossed, I gazed down to see the spoon dangling from my nose just like his.

He smirked. “Let’s have a contest and see who can keep the spoon on their nose the longest.”

“Fine.” My turn to smirk. My mother had taught me this trick when I was a little girl, and I’d mastered it, my upturned nose perfect for this balancing act. He had no clue who he was dealing with. Maybe I was clueless and insecure when it came to men, but when it came to games, I played to win.

“Okay. On your mark. Get set. Go!”

Over the next five minutes, we stared into each other’s eyes, our spoons dangling from our noses. I was ready to explode with laughter at the sight of this sex god with a spoon hanging from his nose and somehow, I also found it adorably sexy. Totally phallic. Not before long, everyone in this chi-chi restaurant was imitating us. I pointed this out to him, hoping he’d jerk his head to look around, and the spoon would fall off his nose. But no. He remained inert, staring straight into my eyes with stoic determination.

Damn. Him. He was making it so hard. Time to stir things up. I started making funny faces from rolling my eyes to making monster lips. But nothing distracted him from his mission to win. And then, high from the Manhattan and wine, I just blurted it out.

“I want you to fuck my brains out again.”

His eyes grew saucer-wide as he jolted against the booth. The spoon slipped off his nose, falling under the table.

“Shit!” he mumbled.

“Ha ha! I win!”

To the victor, belong the spoils. Another one of my favorite sayings. But I had no idea what was in store.

Ari looked at me mischievously. “Well, I guess you win the prize. Stay put. I’m going to retrieve the spoon.”

“I’m sure our waiter will bring you another,” I said, but it was too late. He was already sliding his glorious body under the table, and in no time, he disappeared.

Remembering my bare foot, I quickly wiggled my toes back into my shoe. But before I could set my heel down, a hand gripped my ankle and yanked my foot out. A soft, warm mouth descended on my big toe and sucked it feverishly. Tingles shot up my leg, all the way up to my crotch. Oh my God! Dessert had arrived.

Having enough of my big toe, he nibbled and sucked the rest of them, one at a time. Delicious pain followed by delicious pleasure. He then flexed my foot and moved his mouth to my heel. His tongue glided, like a slow rollercoaster across my high arch, making its way back to my toes. The sensation sent prickly goosebumps all over me. Who knew that the soles of my feet were so sensitive?

Holding my foot in his palms, his tongue continued its journey up my long, naked leg. The sensation was ticklish, yet strangely erotic. Arching my back, I squirmed. When he reached the top, his hands gripped my thighs, and with a firm yank, he spread my legs apart. Oh, God. Was the icing on the cake coming? My body stiffened in anticipation.

Hiking my dress up as high as it would go, he buried his face in my pussy. I could feel his rough stubble rub against my inner thighs as he sucked and nibbled my sensitive cleft. Then, his tongue took over. It figure skated across the surface of the fiery folds, performing all kinds of tricks from spins to figure eights until it landed on my aching clit, licking and flicking. I was falling apart, every bone in my body turning to jelly. His ever-so fit tongue stroked furiously as the pressure between my legs mounted. I wanted to scream! Squeezing my eyes shut, I bit down on my lips—Oh, please let me come!—and finally a hot burst of ecstasy gave me the relief I’d been craving.

Shuddering from the release, my head thrust back, I could only hope people weren’t staring at me. That famous line from the movie When Harry Met Sally flashed into my head: “I want what she’s having.” Yes, my golden-haired sex god had given me yet another delicious and enviable orgasm. And then I jolted again as he pressed something hard and cold against my flaming folds. The spoon! The shock of the sensation intensified the fire between my legs. Oh my God! I was coming again!

For a few moments, I think I lost consciousness or was transported to another planet.

“My princess…”

At the sound of his voice, I returned to reality. As I snapped open my eyes and began to recover, my Trainman re-emerged from under the table, holding the spoon in his hand.

He winked at me. “Did you enjoy your prize?”

I gulped as I watched him put the spoon to his luscious lips and languidly lick my glistening sex off it. His tongue rolled around the surface as if he were savoring the last bit of creamy sweet frosting.

“Mmm,” he moaned. “I hope you’re still up for dessert. Seriously, the crème brûlée here is orgasmically good.”

Jesus. What was it with this man? I’d had enough orgasms to last a lifetime. Well, at least, for the next twenty-four hours. The thought of another creamy, mind-blowing dessert was almost anti-climactic, no pun intended.

“Sure,” I stuttered, my pussy still buzzing.

His lush, shimmering lips twisted into another wicked dimpled smile. “You won’t be disappointed.”

I tried not to read too much into his words. While we waited for the dessert to arrive, I silently stared at his beautiful face, realizing that I knew so little about this man who had robbed me of my virginity and made me explode with unparalleled bliss more than once.

“What do you do?” I asked, finding the strength and courage to interrogate him.

“I’m a businessman.”

“So, you were on a business trip to Philadelphia today?”

“No, my company is based there. I commute back and forth every day.”

That was a big distance to travel twice a day, but obviously his employer made the round-trip worthwhile. He was obviously wealthy. Very wealthy.

“Why don’t you live in Philly?”

“Because I love Manhattan.” He quickly changed the subject. To me. His voice was flirtatious. “And what do you do?”

“I work for—”

Before I could finish my sentence, Ari jumped up from his seat.

My eyes followed him as his long legs strode to the front of the restaurant. And then my heart leaped into my throat.

The gorgeous redhead! And she was in Ari’s arms.

My emotions skipped over jealousy and sprinted straight to rage. How could he do this to me? And so shamelessly right in front of me?

Without putting on my other shoe, I sprung up from the table and hobbled over to them. If people were staring at me, I was oblivious. The redhead gave me the once-over, the expression on her face suspicious and patronizing. As if I were in a league below her and didn’t belong here.

Ari’s face, however, brightened. “Saarah—”

“Don’t ‘Saarah’ me.” In a swift, heated move, I yanked off my other Jimmy Choo and flung it at him. “You can keep your damn shoes! And eat your precious dessert all by yourself.”

I stormed out of the restaurant, pretty sure I would not be returning to The Palm any time soon. Make that ever. With tears pouring down my face, I headed west on Forty-Fifth Street. I hadn’t brought along my wallet, so I was going to have to walk home barefoot. Fortunately, the night was still warm.

Tears kept coming. Past Third. Past Lexington. Past Park. Happy, laughing young couples, taking advantage of the fine weather, passed by me, but they were all just a blur.

I wanted to get him out of my mind. Erase him forever. But I couldn’t. The inner throbbing just wouldn’t go away. I hated him. I hated her. And I hated myself most of all. How could I be so stupid to fall for this callous man? To give him my body, pure and unadulterated? To trust him? My mother had always told me to wait for someone who really loved you. She made the mistake of not—and had to raise me as a single parent. I should have listened to her words of wisdom. And right now, there was nothing that I wanted more than to talk to my mother. To tell her everything. To hear her consoling words and feel her loving embrace.

When I got home, I was going to soak my feet, wash him and the street grime away, and then take a pair of scissors to his little black dress and shred it to pieces. I was going to go back to being who I really was. Sarah, plain and tall.

CHAPTER 9

Ari

I flew out of the restaurant. What the hell had gotten into her? The evening had gone so well. We seemed to have a lot in common, and I enjoyed opening up to her as she did to me. And my little sexcapade under the table seemed mutually enjoyable—well, that might be a little bit of an understatement. She had totally aroused me. Seriously, I didn’t intend to devour her pussy when my spoon fell under the table, but I simply couldn’t resist. Something about her drove my androgens insane, driving up my testosterone and making me horny as sin. The scent of her was delectable and she was so fucking edible. I fucking loved it when she came all over my face. And there was no doubt in my mind that she loved it as much as I did. But maybe she’d started to have second thoughts about me. Think I was some kind of perv. I couldn’t blame her. My actions today were not for the faint-hearted. Maybe I needed to apologize and start over. Whatever it took, I wanted to have her.

Clutching her shoes in one hand, I ran through the crowded streets of Manhattan. With the insane Friday night traffic, it made no sense to call for my driver, Andre. Madly, I wove in and out of the throngs of people enjoying the night out, almost knocking over a few. Adrenaline was pumping through my veins and my heart was racing a hundred miles a minute. Where the fuck could she have gone? She couldn’t have gotten far.

My mind raced along with my pulse. Home. She must be heading home. Where else would she go? She certainly didn’t seem like the clubbing type or someone who would drop in alone at a bar. I knew her address by heart—and stayed on course heading west. I’m sure I was a faster runner than she was, and having lived in Manhattan since my undergraduate days at Columbia, I knew the streets like the back of my hand. If my calculations were right, I might make it to her place before she did.

Halfway there, my cell phone went off. It couldn’t be her since she didn’t have my number. Without slowing down, I slipped it out of my jeans pocket and then glanced at the caller ID. The name and number were way too familiar. I quickly hit answer and put the device to my ear.

“Qué paso?” I breathed into the phone, my words rushed.

“Eet eez another bad dream, Señor Golden.”

Shit. My breath caught in my throat and I stopped dead in my tracks. I needed to get home as fast as possible.

Fifteen gut-wrenching minutes later, I was back at my apartment, totally out of breath after running forty city blocks uptown at lightning speed. I felt like I’d just competed in a 6K race and crossed the finish line.

“How is he?” I asked Luisa, my treasured nanny and housekeeper who’d been with me since Ben was born.

Wearing a navy velour robe and slippers, the big-hearted buxom woman, who was cleaning up the kitchen island counter, stopped what she was doing and looked up at me. A warm smile lit up her coffee-skinned face.

“He eez much better, Señor. I calmed him down with some warm milk and cookies and just put him back to bed. He eez probably still up.”

I let out a loud sigh of relief. “Gracias, Luisa,” I muttered, already on the way to his room.

“De nada. El pobrecito!”

Yes, my poor little boy. Still suffering from nightmares from the fucking bitch.

A few moments later, I was outside Ben’s room. His door slightly ajar, I pushed it open and lightly stepped inside, afraid to wake him in case he’d fallen asleep. A nightlight lit up the room, something that helped keep the bad dreams at bay and helped him with his fear of the dark.

“Hi, Daddy!” a little voice shouted out in the semi-dark. He was up.

“Hi, buddy,” I replied, ambling over to his bed. He was tucked inside it beneath a fluffy comforter, his treasured Green Ranger action figure by his side. I sat down on the edge beside him and ruffled my fingers through his silky hair. “How are you doing?”

“Better now, Daddy. I had another one of the bad dreams.”

“The same one?” I asked, still threading his hair.

He nodded. “Yes. The one with the big ugly green monster that has the big scary teeth. It was coming after me!”

His recurring dream. His psychologist, Dr. Brenner, had told me the monster symbolized my ex. Green was the color of her eyes and the sharp teeth symbolized the knife she tried to use on him that horrific, unforgettable night. Though Ben had no recollection of the actual events (he’d blocked them out), I relived them every time he told me about the nightmare. The rage. The shrieks. The sobs. The blood. The pain. The sirens. The vivid, traumatic memory played in my head like a scene straight out of a horror movie. How close we had come to the end! Hatred for my ex filled every cell of my being.

“What’s that in your hand, Daddy?” asked Ben, bringing me back to the moment. I cast my eyes down. I was still clutching Sarah’s heels.

“A girl’s shoes,” I replied with hesitation.

He giggled. “What are you doing with a girl’s shoes?”

“Um, uh, she lost them.”

“Kind of like Cinderella?”

“Yeah, kind of like Cinderella.”

The image of my beautiful princess flashed into my head. The delicious memory of eating her under the table made my cock stir and I could still taste her sweetness on my tongue. Maybe I should call her. Find out what had gotten into her and see if she was okay. This wasn’t the way I thought this night would end. Ben broke again into my thoughts.

“Girls are silly, Daddy!”

“Yeah, sometimes.”

I thought about playing that silly spoon game with Sarah. I had never had so much fun with a woman. Ever. I desperately wanted to hear her voice. Say her name on my lips. Find out how she was. Eager to call her, I gave Ben an affectionate noogie.

“Hey, bud, you better get some sleep. You know what tomorrow is?”

“My birthday!” he shouted at the top of his lungs.

“That’s right. And I have a big day planned.”

“Did you get me a scooter?”

“You’ll see in the morning.”

Of course, I did. I got him everything he wanted. Though I’d taught him about sharing, kindness, and giving back, I couldn’t help spoiling him. I loved the little guy. More than life itself. He was everything to me. I’d even kill for him. The thought that my ex had almost taken him away from me sent another blast of rage through my veins.

“Daddy, can I ask you one more thing?”

“Shoot.”

“Will you sleep with me tonight so I don’t get scared again?”

I hesitated and then said “sure.” How could I say no?

“Thanks, Daddy.”

He moved to the side, making room for me in his double bed, which was just big enough for the two of us to sleep together comfortably. On my next breath, I kicked off my shoes and crawled into his bed, still in my jeans and T-shirt. Slipping under the fluffy down comforter, my head next to his on a pillow, I smacked a kiss on top of his head.

“Night, bud. Sweet dreams and don’t let the bed bugs—”

“Bite! Night, Daddy!”

Within a few minutes, he was out like a light. Lying on my back, I turned my head and drank in his sweet face, hoping he wouldn’t wake up again in a cold sweat, screaming and thrashing with terror. His Power Ranger toy was clutched under his arm. And under my arm, were Sarah’s shoes. I guess I wasn’t going to be able to call her. With a sigh, I put one of her shoes to my heart and held it there. Sole to soul. I’d known her for less than twenty-four hours, yet the connection I felt to her both emotionally and physically felt more like a lifetime. I took another peek at my peaceful, sleeping little boy. Both his shrink and mine said it had to happen sometime. But I was scared. A woman had scarred us both once and I could never let that happen again. But Sarah seemed different. The big question was: Was I ready? And was Ben ready to have another woman in his life? And then my heart stuttered. Sarah kept running away from me. Maybe none of this was meant to be. That she wanted no part of me. I couldn’t blame her. I was fucked up. A nice, intelligent, pretty girl like her needed someone better. Someone who wouldn’t treat her like a disposable girl toy. And who wasn’t afraid to love.

Still clutching her shoes, I let the darkness blanket me and sleep take over my body and mind. Saarah…Saarah…Saarah. I couldn’t get her out of my head. She was under my skin, and as I drifted off, I felt her in my bloodstream awakening my heart.

CHAPTER 10

Sarah

A loud knock-knock-knock at my door woke me in the morning just as I had finally gotten to sleep. My night had been restless, haunted by the memory of surrendering myself to a man who was so selfish and hurtful. How could I have been so needy? So stupid? The unwanted throbbing in my heart and between my legs had made it even more difficult to fall asleep. Groggy, I kicked off my covers, slipped on my plaid flannel bathrobe, and staggered to the door. Jo-Jo trailed behind me. I peered through the peephole. Lauren! What was she doing here? I’d never known her to be up before noon on a Saturday or venture east of Fifth Avenue. Her world was confined to the narrow rectangle bordered by Seventy-Ninth Street on the north, Fifty-Seventh Street on the south, Lexington Avenue on the east and Fifth Avenue on the west. Within this realm, was every designer store with Daddy’s credit card on file.

“Where have you been?” she asked, barging into my apartment. “I’ve left you a hundred messages.”

Ever since we’d been roommates at the Rhode Island School of Design (RISD), me, on a full scholarship, and her there thanks to Daddy’s substantial endowment, Lauren had always put her needs and desires above everyone else’s. Though she could be extremely generous and a lot of fun, she was quite demanding. Somehow, I put up with it, and we had remained friends as we both pursued careers in New York City. I was an executive assistant at a mid-size toy company though I aspired to one day be a toy designer. She was a “Brand Ambassador,” as she liked to call her job, to one of the hottest fashion designers in Manhattan, another one of Daddy’s clients. I assumed the “workaholic” was on the job even now, dressed head-to-toe in his clothes—perfectly ripped skinny jeans, a tight graphic tee, and spikey black leather ankle boots that made her a curvaceous 5’8” blonde instead of the petite 5’2” she actually was.

“You stood me up last night,” she said, heading straight to the kitchen.

I trailed behind her. Without asking, she pulled out a Diet Coke from the fridge and began drinking it. As we padded back to the living room, I wondered—should I tell her the truth? She was my best friend. In fact, my only friend in the city other than Fernando, my pal at work. My other RISD classmates had scattered all over the country, and I was no longer in contact with the small-town Pennsylvania kids I had grown up with.

“I had a date,” I said glumly.

Lauren’s turquoise eyes grew wide. “You’re kidding!”

Part of me wanted to punch her. Like she could have one and I couldn’t.

“With who?” Her voice sounded snarky, like she was challenging me.

“Some guy.”

“Hel-lo-O. Name please.”

I hesitated; I didn’t really want to talk about it. “Ari Golden.”

Her mouth fell to the floor. “Ari Golden? The Ari Golden? Get out!”

Slamming her Diet Coke on the vintage trunk that doubled as a coffee table, Lauren whipped out her iPhone from her monstrous red Birken bag (a Christmas gift from her mother) and hastily typed something.

“Look at this,” she said, suggesting that I should march over to her. Truthfully, the less I knew about this creep, the better.

I trudged over to Lauren and peeked at the screen. Ari’s beautiful face filled it. I could feel him staring at me, his piercing blue eyes penetrating my body. Despite my loathing of him, a tingle rippled through me. Damn him for having this effect on me.

The headline read: New York’s Sexiest Billionaire.

Lauren scrolled down and started to read aloud. “Ari Golden, Chairman and CEO of Golden International…Estimated Worth: 1.6 Billion Dollars…#40 on the Forbes List…Age: 32…”

Whoa! He had a limo with a bar, wore expensive clothes, had a predilection for fine wine and dining…but I had no idea he was this rich. Holy shit!

Lauren continued to scroll down and spout more info. “Charities: Meds Without Borders (Founder)…Pet Peeve: People who invade my privacy…Favorite Saying: Imagine and dreams will come true.

I always said: Some things are best left to the imagination. I wished I’d never met him. I wished I’d never fucked him. I wished…I wished…Sarah, just admit it…I wished he was mine!

“Sarah, do you know how he made his fortune?” asked Lauren, snapping me out of my wishful thinking.

Was she testing me or something? Truthfully, I had tried to google him last night before I went to bed, but my damn Internet connection was down again. And I didn’t own a fancy smartphone with Internet access like Lauren’s. Mine was one of those yesterday’s news clunkers with a $19.98 basic monthly plan. The kind you had to convert numbers into letters for texting. I was saving up to buy an iPhone, but right now I couldn’t afford the exorbitant cost or to add the hundred dollar service fee to my already high monthly cost of living. Between my low paying job and mother’s condition, I could barely make ends meet as it was.

Lauren cut into my thoughts. “Okay. Time’s up. His company invented Dermadoo! That miracle anti-wrinkle cream that’s so hard to get. You’ve got to get me some!”

I hardly knew the man—in fact, I was never going to see him again—and Lauren was already asking for favors. So like her.

While I digested all of this information, Lauren sauntered back to the kitchen and returned with yet another Diet Coke. I guess it was on her raw diet.

“Did you sleep with him?” Lauren asked, not one to hold back.

Silence.

“C’mon, you’ve got to tell me,” she pleaded with a fling of her perfectly blown, shoulder-length auburn hair.

“No,” I said, at last. Theoretically, that was true.

“One of these days, you’ve got to say goodbye to your virginity. It’s no big deal.”

I twitched my mouth, saying nothing to big-mouth Lauren.

Knitting her brows, Lauren took another sip of her soda. “How did you meet him?”

“On the train home from Philly.”

There was no way I was going to tell the gossip girl about the details of our train encounter as the juices between my legs began once again to percolate. I flushed at the memory.

“Well, you know what they say. You never know when and where you’ll meet Mr. Right.”

As my sassy friend put her cell phone back into her Birkin, my eyes landed on something that I hadn’t noticed before.

“Oh my God, Lauren, what’s that?” I asked, pointing at her left fourth finger.

A big smile spread across her Emma Stone look-alike face. “I thought you’d never notice.”

“No way!”

“Way!” she squealed. “Taylor and I are engaged. He got down on his knees—right in front of all my friends—and asked me to marry him while the Black Eyed Peas were singing tonight’s gonna be a good, good night. It was so romantic.”

The engagement ring on Lauren’s finger must have been at least five carats. And I’m sure it was flawless. Taylor Hodges IV grew up in the same circles as Lauren; their families probably dined together on the Mayflower. They’d known each other since their childhood cotillion days, but their relationship didn’t blossom into a romance until he went to Brown while she was “next door” at RISD. Despite a couple of major breakups, they’d been together for six years. He worked for her father. Already written up in the Wall Street Journal as one of Wall Street’s wunderkinds, he was destined to be one of the financial world’s major players. While he was never my favorite person in the world, for Lauren, he was perfect marriage material. I gave her a huge hug.

“That’s wonderful! I’m so happy for you.”

“I want you to be one of my bridesmaids. You can bring Ari as your date.”

“I’d love to,” I replied, eschewing Ari. That wasn’t happening!

“Mummy has already lined up a private appointment for me at Vera Wang’s at noon, and then we’re heading over to the Bergdorf Bridal Salon. It would be so much fun if you came along.”

I politely declined. In my head, I knew I’d better get used to the next six months of constant wedding talk from Lauren. There’d be no detail spared, and she was going to want me to weigh in on every decision from the color of her wedding day nail polish to the number of layers of her cake. I wouldn’t be surprised if she bought me an iPhone like hers so that we could be in touch 24/7.

“Maybe, tomorrow we can hang out,” I said.

“Can’t. I’ll be in the Hamptons. Taylor’s parents are throwing us a little impromptu cocktail party tomorrow night to celebrate our engagement.”

Lauren plunked the Diet Coke can on my coffee table (having servants her entire life, she didn’t know from cleaning up—that was my job when we were roommates at RISD) and heel-toed toward the door.

“Sarah, maybe you’ll be next.”

She winked at me as she turned the doorknob to let herself out. As the door slammed behind her, my phone rang. My heart jumped. I ran to it before it went to voicemail. In my head, I could hear him saying my name in that soft, sultry sexy voice. Stop it, Sarah. Stop it! This man is not into you.

When I picked up the receiver, I was as relieved as I was disappointed. It was just another one of those obnoxious bill collectors. I pretended to be someone else. I hated these people because I was positive they got some sadistic pleasure out of people suffering. Since my mother’s illness, my bills had piled up. The added cost of my weekly trips to Philadelphia forced me to make late payments and even ignore some bills. Seeing my mom had to be the priority. Someday, I would be a rich and famous toy designer and never worry about money again. I just wanted my mother to be in my life when I got there.

More bills were stacked in a pile on the kitchen counter. I’d left them there last night. After feeding Jo-Jo, I attacked the bills. The usual suspects—termination of cell phone service if my bill wasn’t paid immediately…late charge for an emergency room visit (I fell off my skateboard and needed a few stitches)…an invitation to one of Lauren’s charity balls ($1000 per ticket—forget it)…and finally a bill from The Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania. Except the latter was not a bill; it was a letter.

Dear Ms. Greene:

I regret to inform you that the government grant providing for your mother’s treatment has run out of funds. Unfortunately, her insurance company will not cover experimental drug treatments. In light of the circumstances, we have no choice but to terminate her current treatment protocol, but we will be glad to work with the both of you to find a viable alternative that is affordable and possibly covered by another insurance provider. Please contact me at your earliest possible convenience.

Sincerely,

Dr. Martin Chernoff

The letter shook in my hands as tears swelled in my eyes. How could this be happening? She was doing so well. Making progress. What was I going to do? There was no way I could afford her exorbitant experimental treatments with my meager wages. We had already tried all the treatments approved by her insurance company, but they did nothing to arrest the growth of her cancer. Finding another company that could help defray the cost of the new treatments could take months—with each passing day bringing my beloved mother closer to the end. The tears multiplied, giving way to sobs. All hope was ebbing from my pores. I couldn’t even think straight.

I needed to get clarity. With tears streaming down my face, I fled to my bedroom. I flung off my bathrobe and laced up my running shoes.

Jogging around the Central Park reservoir always energized me. The majestic apartment buildings along Central Park West and the soaring architectural wonders along the East Side never ceased to amaze me. And the reservoir itself was a little miracle in this big city of sidewalks and skyscrapers.

The dirt track around the reservoir stretched just a little over one and a half miles. I was now on my third lap. I was well into my run, my heart pounding at an even rate, my legs propelling me forward almost effortlessly. It was probably already in the low eighties, and under the bright morning sun, sweat poured from every crevice of my body.

Clarity came to me. I would just have to work harder. Overtime for my demanding boss, Catherine. Or take on a second job like being a barista at Starbucks or a waitress at some neighborhood restaurant. And I could work weekends too. Somehow, I’d figure out how to pay for my mother’s treatments.

As I got off at the Ninetieth Street entrance, another brilliant idea came to me. I’d sell Ari’s little black dress, which I couldn’t bring myself to shred, to an upscale resale shop. That should fetch me a nice bundle of money, especially since it was practically brand new. Too bad I no longer had the shoes. They were probably worth a small fortune.

Slightly cheered up, I ran home through the park. The park was in its spring glory, with its multitude of verdant shrubs, colorful flowers, and blossoming trees lining the winding path that led to Fifty-Seventh Street, where I would exit. It was filled with New Yorkers of all ages, taking advantage of the beautiful day after a long, cold winter. Cyclists, joggers, strollers, rollerbladers, nannies pushing elegant prams, and even a few equestrians. The run took my mind off my mom…and Trainman. The temperature was rising and so was my heat level. My thin, cotton tank top clung to my body, and my running shorts were soaked. I was looking forward to a cold shower.

Stopping for a moment, I bent down to re-tie a loose shoelace.

“Watch out!” screamed a voice ahead of me.

I looked up and coming downhill toward me at hell-bent speed was a bearded man on a racing bike.

Before I could blink an eye, two strong arms scooped me up.

“Saarah.”

My name. That voice. It was him!

My brown eyes gazed up and met his sparkling sapphire ones. His sensuous lips stretched into a saucy grin. His golden hair, more carefree and tousled than yesterday, glistened in the sun. Embarrassment washed over me like a sudden downpour. Here I was all hot and sweaty in his bare, sculpted arms. In fact, I was melting at the sight of him. Don’t let him do this to you.

“You can put me down. I’m perfectly capable of managing on my own two legs.”

He gently set me down and sighed. “Princess, you really must be more careful.”

He’d come to my rescue once again. I hung my head in shame, my eyes roaming down his sinfully perfect body. He was dressed in all white. White tennis shorts, one of those expensive cotton polo shirts with the alligator on the pocket, and white tennis shoes. His long legs were lean, tan, and muscular, laced with a layer of gold threads.

“So you’re a runner,” he said, eyeing me from head to toe.

I was also a hot, sweaty, disheveled mess.

“Yeah,” I said daring to lift my head. Oh God, was he gorgeous! Heart-stoppingly gorgeous. My heated-up body was close to igniting.

“You have great legs.”

I humbly shrugged my shoulders. “Thanks.”

The truth was, my legs were my best feature. Like his…long, lean, and toned from having been a tomboy my whole life. I was especially proud of the ripple that ran down the side of my thighs, almost to my knees, thanks to running.

“I see you’re not wearing a bra.” A devilish expression accompanied his words.

I glanced down at my chest. Shit! In my haste to get of out of my apartment, I had forgotten to put on my sports bra, the only kind of bra I wore. My pert nipples popped through the thin, soaked layer of my cotton tank top. Mortification raced through me.

“What else aren’t you wearing?” he asked, his eyes gazing at my crotch as if they had x-ray vision.

“My running shorts have attached panties,” I smirked back at him.

Flipping up the edge of one side of the shorts to prove it to him, I could feel my crotch getting hotter and wetter. Oh God, this man was turning me on. I had the burning desire to tear off his clothes and mine and fuck him right here, right now in the park. Why was I still talking to this womanizer? And lusting for him? Shame on me. He was bad news.

He shot me that breathtaking smile. “We should run sometime together.”

“I don’t think you could keep up with me.”

“I think I would do just fine.” He paused. “Hey, what got into you last night? I looked for you—”

Before I had a chance to reply, a little boy on a scooter rushed up to us. He had long-lashed green eyes, sandy hair, and a handful of freckles scattered on his face. He was, in a word, adorable.

“Daddy, I want some ice cream.”

Daddy? The word numbed me.

Ari nervously ran his hand through his golden hair and knitted his brows together. “Sarah, this is Ben. My son.”

His son? Trainman had a son? I felt the ground open up beneath me, and I was sinking into a dark abyss. Fucking Trainman was fucking married! From the corner of my eye, I saw the beautiful redhead jogging our way. She was waving. Holy shit! His wife?

“I’ve got to go.” I hurried to get the words out as I fought back tears.

“Saa—”

The second syllable of my name faded into the fragrant spring air as I took off like a bolt of lightning. I raced through the park, tears streaming down my face. The married fucker fucked me on a train? And called me his princess? I didn’t know who I hated more—my Trainman or myself. I felt sick to my stomach.

When I reached the corner of Forty-Fifth and Sixth, I finally slowed down. My heart was still racing, and I was drenched with a combination of sweat and tears. Never had I felt so dirty, so humiliated, and so regretful in my whole twenty-five years. And so hurt.

With tears still spilling down my cheeks, I speed walked the remainder of the way home. When I got to the landing of my brownstone, I mounted it two steps at a time. I couldn’t wait to hop in the shower and wash myself off. The sweat. The grime. The memories. I unfastened the safety pin that attached my keys to my shorts, and jiggled the largest of them into the feisty lock. The door wouldn’t open. Damn that lock!

“Can I help?”

I spun around. Fuck. It was him. His face was flushed with beads of sweat glistening on his bronzed skin like fairy dust. His breathing was heavy, his eyes hooded.

“Get away from me!” I yelled. “I don’t want to ever see you again.”

“Jesus. I ran halfway across this city to see you, and trust me, I never have to chase after women.”

His voice was breathy, the look on his face a cross between rage and lust. A look that made me want him even though I had no right to want him. A horde of emotions swarmed me. Guilt, confusion, hurt, and desire. I began to sob and pound his rock hard chest with my fists.

“Get away from me, you asshole! You’re married!”

With one hand, he clasped his long fingers around both my hands, so tightly I couldn’t move them or strike him again. The other hand cupped my tear-soaked chin and tilted my head back slightly. Too drained to resist, my gaze met his. His eyes were intense and did not blink.

“Saarah, I’m not married. I’ve been divorced for three years.” He loosened his grip.

My lips parted, but I was speechless. I could only taste my salty tears.

The next thing I knew, his lips were consuming mine, my face now cradled in his ample hands. My eyes closed, I could hear him softly moaning, as he pressed harder, deepening the kiss. My parted lips made an easy entry for his tongue; it instantly found mine and I couldn’t say no to the warm, velvety suitor. I had wanted his kiss ever since we’d met. Our tongues swirled together, his dancing across my palate and the hollows of my cheeks. Oh God, he tasted delicious. Sweet and minty and just a little salty. Oh what a kisser! Melting, I moaned into his mouth.

Still holding my keys, I wrapped my arms around his neck and raked the unencumbered fingers of my other hand through his thick, damp hair. His hands slithered down my neck to my chest, until they landed on my breasts. Squeezing and massaging them, he brushed his thumbs across my nipples. Desire was pooling between my legs at the speed of a locomotive.

With one arm, he drew me closer to him. I could feel my hard, erect nipples rub against his drenched cotton shirt. I folded my arms around his taut torso, pressing my body tighter against his.

Moving his hands to my waist, he forcefully shoved me against the hard wooden door, pinning me against it with his equally hard body. My groin ached as the hard wedge between his legs pressed against it. I dug my fingers into his narrow hips, clutching the tails of his tennis shirt. He was still kissing me passionately. The wildfire inside me kept spreading. I couldn’t believe this scene—straight out of a movie—was actually happening to me. With this gorgeous, gorgeous creature.

Slowly, he withdrew his tongue from my mouth. His breathing was heavy, his beautiful face with its hooded blue eyes only a palm’s width away from mine. His tongue flicked across my neck and then his warm breath blew in my ear. Clasping a large hand over mine, he expertly transferred my house keys into his possession.

“Saarah,” he whispered, “I need a shower.”

That made two of us. I was dripping wet. Soaked with his sweat and mine. I don’t know whose was whose. Our musky mists mingled.

With two simple twists, he managed to unbolt the double lock. After turning the doorknob, he kicked the door open and, in one smooth move, scooped me up in his arms. I brushed the sweat off his brow and then wrapped my arms around his neck, inhaling the sweet scent of his manly sweat mixed with mine.

Effortlessly, he carried me up the three flights of stairs to my apartment. I ran my fingers through his hair and let myself just enjoy the ride. With every step, the throbbing inside me grew more intense. Along the way, we passed Mrs. Blumberg with her shopping cart. Her eyes grew wide. I simply waved at her, stifling a giggle. I knew what she must be thinking. Oy! She’s going to let him touch her there.

Oh yes, I was!

Still holding me in his arms, Ari managed to unlock the door to my apartment, again easily with two quick passes of my key. I was beginning to think he had a special talent when it came to inserting things. Be it a key. His tongue. Or his dick. Just like before, he kicked the door open and then kicked it again, slamming it shut behind us.

Embarrassment crept over me. Here was this drop-dead gorgeous billionaire, who probably lived in some Park Avenue penthouse, in my rinky-dink one bedroom apartment. At least, it was clean and tidy. Trainman didn’t stop to notice a thing. Not even Jo-Jo who meowed loudly and brushed up against his legs. As if he’d been here a hundred times before, he carried me straight into the tiny bathroom down the hall. Given that my apartment was only 300 square feet, I guess it wasn’t too hard to find.

After gently setting me down, he yanked the shower curtains apart and turned on the water. A forceful steamy spray poured down from the showerhead. The one thing this apartment had was good water pressure.

“Take off my shirt,” he ordered.

Like a stalwart soldier, I did what he asked, my fingers trembling as I lifted his damp shirt over his head. He brushed his taut bronzed chest against mine. A shudder ran through me, all the way down my spine.

“Now pull down my shorts.”

Nervously, I fumbled to undo the button and the fly. His monstrous cock shot through the fly even before I could finish unzipping it. It was aimed at me like it was a rifle and I was the target. As I stood there wordlessly, his white shorts fell to the tiled floor.

“Saarah, get undressed.”

I couldn’t move. I was shocked into paralysis by the spectacular body that stood before me. I had taken sculpting classes at RISD and had studied all the great Italian masters, but nothing compared to the Adonis that was standing right here in my bathroom. The serrated muscles of his long legs bulged just the right amount in all the right places and connected seamlessly with those narrow hips and that perfect pelvic-V. My eyes traveled up his lean torso, lingering on his rippled abs, sculpted chest, and manly broad shoulders. And then, they closed in on that chiseled face with its parted lips and gemstone eyes that fixated on me. This man, this god, he belonged in a museum for the world to behold, not here in my hole-in-the-wall bathroom. Except, there was no fig leaf in the world that would cover the hunk of hard flesh that jutted out between his legs.

He let out a long, breathy sigh. “Oh, princess, must I do everything for you?”

I remained paralyzed as he lifted my tank top over my head and yanked down my running shorts. He stepped back and studied me, his lush lips tightening and his eyes narrowing as if they were scrutinizing every fine detail. While it was hot as hell in my un-air-conditioned apartment, a chill ran through me as his eyes roamed up and down my body. Maybe he didn’t like what he saw. The impassive expression on his face was unreadable. Then, that dazzling, dimpled smile broke loose.

“Saarah, you are even more beautiful than I imagined.”

Another shiver shot through me. Had he been fantasizing about what I looked like without my clothes on?

Before I could I build up the courage to ask him, he grabbed my hand and led me into the shower. The hot water poured down forcefully on both of us, soaking us to the bone. Facing me, he yanked the elastic off my ponytail, allowing my wavy chestnut hair to cascade down to the middle of my back. Finding my shampoo, he squirted a few drops on my head and started lathering my scalp as he flutter kissed my face. I closed my eyes and moaned. It felt good. So good. He let the pounding water wash off all the suds before applying the conditioner.

“Mmm, baby, you smell so good.” He nuzzled the side of my neck while his hands cupped my buttocks. “And you’ve got a great ass too.”

“Thanks,” I muttered as a hand moved between my inner thighs.

I was soaking wet there too, though from more than the shower. He began to caress the tender folds with long even strokes. Breathy pants escaped my chest as the slit tucked between them ached for his entry.

With his other hand, he led my hand to his enormous erection, spreading my fingers around the hot, wet column of flesh. He moved my fist up and down, letting go once he knew I knew what to do. As I pumped with vigor, he squeezed his eyes shut.

“Oh baby, you’re doing it just right. It feels so fucking good,” he hissed. My reward was the insane pleasure that pulsed between my legs as he began to rub my clit.

“Princess, your extraordinary clit is like a rosebud,” he murmured, his voice breathy and filled with lust.

I moaned at his words. A beautiful orgasm was blossoming. I threw my head back, channeling my ecstasy into the pleasure I was giving him.

“Now wash my cock, baby. All over,” he ordered, slipping a bar of soap into my free hand.

Another command. Holding his heavy balls in my right palm, I ran the bar of soap up and down his long thick shaft from the root to the crown, instinctively applying pressure. When I got to the bulbous tip, I circled the soap around its circumference and heard him blissfully hiss again.

“Now, just use your hand.”

Letting the soap fall to my feet, I did again as he asked and slid my hand along the slick, soapy shaft, surprised how easily it glided across his length. I picked up my pace, applying more pressure. I could feel his cock expanding in my palm, growing harder and bigger with each vigorous stroke. Below between my thighs, his fingers pressed firmly against my bud, coaxing it to explode in full bloom.

As the shower stall steamed up, my breathing turned ragged and so did his. The tension between my legs was mounting, rapidly heading toward the unbearable.

“Do you want to come with my cock inside that tight little pussy of yours?” He rolled his tongue inside my ear, the strangely erotic sound bringing even more pleasure to where I felt it most.

“Please!” It was a cry of desperation. I wanted him terribly.

Expecting him to lift me up against the tiled back wall and plunge his huge cock inside me, I was surprised when he yanked the shower curtain open and stepped out. Turning off the water, he scooped me into his strong arms and carried me, dripping wet with water and desire, to my bedroom. He threw me on the bed and then crawled onto it.

“You need to know I’m clean,” he mumbled under his breath.

Well, I’d certainly given him a good scrubbing. He continued, shifting so that he was facing me.

“What I mean is that I’ve been tested. I need you to trust me. I don’t have a condom with me. Are you okay with that?”

A condom was honestly the last thing on my mind. So hungry for him, I nodded feverishly. And perhaps foolishly.

“Good. Now, spread your legs,” he ordered, his eyes ablaze, his magnificent face and body glistening from the shower.

Without wasting a second, I parted my legs and as I did, he threw them over his shoulders. Meeting my hungry gaze, he anchored himself between my splayed legs and thrust his hard, glorious cock inside me, inch by thick inch. Oh God! He filled me! My fingers raked through his soaking wet hair as his still soaped-up shaft moved effortlessly inside me, each thrust coming harder and faster than the one before. His cock was barreling inside me, like a high-speed bullet train. The friction along my tracks was sending sparks flying everywhere. There was no getting off, no stopping. Digging my nails into his upper back, I screamed with pleasure from this erotic thrill ride. And then he lurched forward, slamming into me, consuming that fiery spot where all hell broke loose. I exploded with a fireworks display and heard him cry out my name as his own massive orgasm crashed through me.

Holy shit! I had just fucked Trainman in my railroad apartment.

For several minutes, he just lay splayed on my body, his head nuzzled in the crook of my neck. “Oh Saarah, Saarah, Saarah,” he rasped between breaths.

He was a trainwreck, and I was pretty damaged too. But in a good way. A very good way.

Finally, he rolled off me and slid off the bed. My eyes stayed fixed on his chiseled body, still wet and shimmering from the shower and our sex. I was surprised that his dick was still erect.

“I’m starving,” he rumbled. “Do you have anything to eat?”

Jesus. My mind, still in a fog from my orgasm, tried to think. Other than my pussy (not Jo-Jo), the only thing I could offer him was ramen noodles. I wasn’t even sure if I still had any since I hadn’t been to Gristedes since last Sunday. I chewed on my lip, my face silently saying uh-oh.

He caught my expression and winked. “Don’t worry. I’m not that picky.”

Ha! From the man who ate lobster and drank fine French wine.

Wrapping the zebra print sheet around me like a toga, I headed to my tiny kitchen. There were still a few packs of the noodles left. I tore one open and then filled a cup with water. Pouring it into a small pot on the stove to boil, my phone rang. I thought about letting it go to my voicemail, but was stopped by an unsettling thought. The one that always freaked me out. Maybe something was wrong with my mother. I dropped what I was doing and hurried to the phone, picking it up on the next ring.

“Sarah.”

I recognized the sharp, haughty voice right away and was immediately regretful that I had picked up the phone. It was my demanding boss, Catherine Sinclair. Had she nothing better to do on a Saturday morning than to call me? I’d worked for her for just over a month, having landed the executive assistant position through a job search newsletter I subscribed to. My qualifications nailed it for me: I had no boyfriend or social life and could work late and on weekends. Little did I know what I’d signed up for.

“Hi, Catherine,” I murmured, trying to stay as professional as possible and mask my annoyance. I couldn’t afford to lose my job.

She huffed. “I’ve been trying to reach you all morning. Both your cell phone and home phone voicemail boxes were full. Don’t you ever erase your messages? And why don’t you pay attention to your texts or emails? You will see I’ve sent a dozen.”

“I’m sorry,” I stammered. “I was out and about.” And too busy getting fucked by the most gorgeous man in the world. “What’s up?”

“I have an emergency.”

Internally, I sighed. She always had an emergency. And I’d quickly learned that they ran the gamut from scheduling an emergency appointment with her manicurist on account of a chipped nail to running all the way uptown to Bergdorf’s to buy her a new tube of her favorite Chanel lipstick. Add to this her total lack of organization, and I was forever resending her important emails and reports as well as covering up her tardiness, ineptitude, and inexcusable lack of preparation when it came to important meetings with the head of the company, Ike Abrams.

“What is it?” I asked, my eyes darting to the pot on the stove. Shit. The water was boiling and getting low.

“I need you to let Ike know that I can’t make it to the four o’clock staff meeting on Tuesday. I have an appointment with my hair colorist, and this is the only time she can fit me in all week. Just tell him I have an emergency doctor’s appointment or something like that.”

“Sure. No problem.”

“Good.” CLICK

Hanging up the phone, I felt my blood simmer. Not once had the lazy entitled bitch ever thanked me for anything I’d done. I worked my butt off, but she made me feel like I was a worthless piece of shit. On the positive side, I suppose I should be grateful that she wasn’t making me do stupid errands for her on my weekend off. And then the phone rang again. Shit. Maybe I jumped to a conclusion too fast. Reluctantly, I answered on the first ring.

“Yes?” I couldn’t help barking the word, dreading another fucked up Saturday like last week when I had to schlep all over Manhattan hunting for the special blender she wanted for making her kale smoothies.

“Saarah—”

I gulped so loud I’m sure he heard me. He was calling me from the living room.

“I’m hungry. What’s taking so long?”

“Um…uh…I had to take an important (yeah, right!) call from my boss, Catherine. She’s very demanding.”

“I am too.”

I could actually see the smirk on his bronzed face in my mind’s eye.

“Please hurry.”

“I’ll be right there.”

“Oh, by the way, I’ve made friends with your cat. You have a very sweet pussy.” CLICK

Aflutter, I slammed the receiver back on the hook, and ran over to the stove. Phew! There was still enough water left in the pot to cook the noodles. Without wasting a second, I emptied the package into the bubbling water.

Five minutes later, I carried a steaming bowl of the noodle mix with a pair of chopsticks into the living room.

“Hi,” I chirped, already aroused at the sight of him.

Jo-Jo by his feet, he was staring at the large poster above the couch. His back was to me. God, what a great ass he had! Perfectly shaped buns of steel. And then as my eyes traveled from his narrow waist up his spine, something else captured my attention. For the first time, I noticed a grisly six-inch scar that ran down his right shoulder blade. The one imperfection on his otherwise perfect body. I wondered how he’d gotten it, but this wasn’t the time to ask.

“So you’re into Josephine Baker,” he said, not turning around.

“Not really. I sublet this place from a Broadway dancer. He’s away on tour.”

“Josephine was a great beauty. Like you.”

The bowl of soup almost slipped from my hands as I lowered it to the vintage trunk that also served as a dining table. Me, a great beauty? In the eyes of this god?

He moved a few feet and studied another portrait. A small oil painting of a little girl with long pigtails and big soulful brown eyes. The only object in this apartment that was mine.

“Is that a portrait of you?”

“Yes. My mother painted it when I was five years old. She’s an artist.”

“There’s deepness and determination in those eyes.”

I didn’t quite know what to say as he turned to face me.

“Are you an artist too? I’ve seen you sketching several times while waiting for the train.”

A shiver skittered down my spine. How long had he been watching me? More than six months?

“You were often weeping. What were you sketching?”

“Mostly images of my mom when she was younger so that I can remember her healthy and beautiful.”

Sadness swept over me knowing that she might never be that way again. And that she might not be around next year at this time if she didn’t receive more of her treatments. As much as I wanted to share my mother’s plight with this devastating billionaire standing next to me, I refrained. He’d probably think I was after his money, which I wasn’t.

“You’re talented. They’re very good.”

Unknowingly or not, he’d just revealed that he had leafed through my sketchpad while I slept on the train. I wanted to be mad at him but couldn’t. He sounded so sincere.

“What were those other weird things in your sketchpad?”

“Ideas for toys.”

Ari arched his thick flaxen eyebrows. “Toys?”

I smiled. “I want to be a toy designer when I ‘grow up.’ I’ve always been into toys.”

“I’ll have to remember that,” he replied with a sheepish smile.

Not quite sure what he meant by that, I reminded him that I had brought him something to eat. My eyes stayed on him as he strode over to the trunk. Looming above it, he cast his eyes down at the steaming bowl of soup.

“So, Saarah, what do we have here?”

“Ramen noodles,” I said, putting on my best Suzy-homemaker face.

He smirked. “Hmm. I haven’t had these since I was in college.”

Lifting the bowl and chopsticks off the trunk, he sank into the couch, his back against an armrest and his long legs crisscrossed. His mega-sized dick along with his balls now rested on his folded limbs.

I surveyed the room, wondering where I should sit. In addition to the couch, there were two funky armchairs facing the trunk.

“Sit here,” Ari insisted, gesturing to the cushion next to him. “I want to look at you while I eat.”

Hesitantly, I joined him, mimicking his cross-legged position. With his free hand, he yanked down my makeshift toga, exposing my breasts.

“Much better,” he smiled as he dug into the ramen.

I watched as he dipped his chopsticks into the bowl and expertly lifted the noodles to his parted mouth. Obviously, he had mastered eating them in college. As he slurped them off the wooden sticks, I was very aware of the tingling inside me. How could a man eating ramen noodles be turning me on?

“Open your mouth,” he ordered.

God, he was bossy, but I again did as he asked. Using his chopsticks, he lifted another portion of the ramen and dangled them above my mouth.

“Eat.”

I tilted my head back and slurped the worm-like noodles. As they disappeared into my mouth, he ran his deft fingers along my neck, stroking that one sensitive spot right below my chin that drove me crazy and added to the pleasure I was feeling between my thighs.

“Saarah, your neck is so long and graceful,” he said, his voice deep and sexy. “Like a ballerina’s.”

I swallowed hard. It was hard to eat when this gorgeous beast was still turning me on.

We continued this little feeding game until the bowl was emptied. Ari placed the bowl back on the trunk, then placed his hands firmly on my shoulders. A sudden somber expression fell over his face. His intense blue eyes held me fiercely while his jaw tightened.

“Listen, Sarah, we need to talk.”

There was seriousness in his tone. Even in the way he said my name. His mercurial behavior unnerved me. My heartbeat sped up. One minute he was hot; one minute he was cold. I didn’t know what to make of him. With hesitancy, I muttered one word: “Sure.” The last word I’d use to describe how I felt about him or how I thought he felt about me. His eyes stayed on me, holding me captive.

“There’s something I need to tell you.”

He paused. Now what? He was bi? He had some kind of STD? He had lied to me about his ex? All of the above? Oh shit! My heart thudded in my chest as I held my breath and he sucked in a gulp of air.

“Sarah, I haven’t fucked a woman in a bed for over three years.”

Huh? I blinked hard. His words shocked me. I was sure he was someone who jumped from one supermodel’s bed to another.

“I don’t believe you,” I countered, the image of the beautiful redhead filling my head.

“It’s true. While I’m certainly not lacking for sex, it’s been that long since I’ve come in any woman’s bed. Or mine—at least with a woman.” He paused. “You are the first.”

“Why?” I gazed at him, wide-eyed with curiosity, more intrigued with the fact that he didn’t sleep in women’s beds than with the fact he came in mine.

“I’ve had to be protective of my son. I’ve raised him as a single parent since he was three.”

“Doesn’t your wife, I mean ex-wife, have joint custody?” I asked, glad that I’d quickly corrected myself.

“I have sole custody of him.” Rage filled his eyes; his pupils dilated. “I paid my ex a shitload of money to stay away from him. And from me.”

The anger in Ari’s eyes grew fierce, his features hardening into a wall that almost stopped me from asking any more questions.

Bravely, I asked, “Where is she now?”

“I don’t know and I don’t care.” His voice was gruff. Full of contempt. “The last thing I heard she was fucking her brains out in Europe. But as far as I’m concerned, she’s dead. And that’s what my son thinks.”

The cold fury and resolve in his voice sent a sharp shiver down my spine, rendering me speechless. I didn’t know what to say. An intense mixture of anger and anguish washed over his face while his stormy eyes held me fiercely in their gaze. And then his expression softened.

“Here’s the deal.” His voice went from livid to business-like.” If we continue to see each other, you must know that I will never spend the night with you here as I must go home to my son. He suffers from nightmares because of the cunt, and I need to be there for him.”

As much as his words rattled me, I respected him and admired his love for his child. I had grown up with a loving single parent myself. In all the eighteen years I’d lived with her, my mother had never brought a man home, fearing he would disrupt our magical bond. Or that he would break her heart as did my musician father when he abandoned her to live in a hippy commune with another woman. With the advent of the Internet, she was able to trace him…only to learn soon afterwards he’d died all alone from a drug overdose. But that only added to the pain. I’ll never forget that day, that phone call. I’d just turned five. She was painting my portrait. Bringing me back to the moment, Ari continued.

“And you shall never spend the night with me. In my bed. The last thing my son needs is to be confused by another woman. Or hurt.”

Obviously, there was a lot he wasn’t telling me about his ex. And what had gone down between them. My curiosity was piqued, but a little voice in my head told me not to go there…yet.

He sucked in a breath. “One last thing. Don’t count on any kind of long-term relationship. You need to understand that…because I like you.”

For some reason, this part of the deal made me inwardly shudder. It was some form of rejection even before I was rejected. But I knew on his part, it was a defense mechanism; he was afraid of having a relationship, afraid of commitment, afraid of being hurt again. Before I could respond, the unexpected buzz of the intercom startled me. I jumped up from the couch. Shit! Who could be here? Lauren again? The Grim Reaper? The redhead? My heart beat as fast as the vibrations below in a place called “there.”

“It must be Andre,” said Ari, rising from the couch.

“Andre?”

“My driver. I asked him to bring me some clean clothes.”

Hmm. So he had this all plotted out. I wanted to be mad at him, but instead I cracked a small smile. Wrapping my improvised toga once again around my breasts, I padded to the entryway and pushed the intercom button, allowing Andre to enter the building.

Shortly afterward, there was a loud knock at my door. I peered through the peephole and recognized the uniformed driver from last night. I opened the door halfway.

“These are for Mr. Golden.” His voice was strangely soft and melodic for such a big man. “I will be waiting for him downstairs.”

Before departing, he handed me two bags. Both were from Bergdorf’s. I returned to the couch and handed them to Ari. He reached into the smaller of the two. I watched in awe as he slipped a brand new pair of designer jeans over his bare ass and managed to zip up the fly despite the large package between his thighs. The jeans hung perfectly on his narrow hips, like they were custom made for him. A crisp, oversized blue and white striped collarless shirt completed the ensemble; he left it open, exposing the golden cream of his taut chest, and let the tails hang out over his jeans. Damn, he looked sexy!

“The other bag is for you,” he said.

“I can’t keep taking presents from you,” I stammered.

“Stop it. I’m going to buy you the entire women’s department if you don’t open what’s inside.”

“Is that a threat?” I asked playfully.

“No. It’s an order. Open the packages, Saarah.”

The sexy, languorous way he said my name totally unraveled me. I dug inside the bag and located the smaller of the two boxes. After sliding it out, I fumbled with the lid. My eyes grew wide. Another pair of stilettos. These shiny red strappy sandals. Prada. My size. My heart palpitating, my eyes met his.

“I enjoy seeing your toes. They bring back fond memories.”

I felt myself turning as red as the shoes. My sex was blushing too.

“Now, open the other box.”

Both hands, now trembling, I reached inside the bag again and slid out the much bigger package. I felt giddy with the excitement of a little girl getting an extravagant birthday present. I lifted off the lid and unfolded the layers of delicate tissue paper inside. Gasp! Before my eyes was an exquisite floral halter dress. Prada again. Size 6. Holy shit! I remembered seeing this dress in one of Lauren’s Vogues and gasping at the price. $4,000! I held it up and admired it. The strappy red stilettos matched the cabbage patch roses perfectly.

“Ari!” I croaked, too taken back to say another word.

“I want you to wear these this evening.”

I gazed at him, cocking my head like a puzzled puppy.

“Today is my son’s sixth birthday. I’m throwing him a small, informal party at my apartment with just my family. I would like you to attend.”

I suppose that was an order too. He padded toward the bathroom and returned wearing his tennis shoes. He glanced down at his watch, an old gold Rolex, and knitted his brows.

“I’ve got to go. I promised my son I’d take him to see a movie this afternoon and then go to Dylan’s Candy Bar.” His eyes returned to mine. “I expect to see you this evening.”

“Where do you live?” I asked, squeaking out the words.

“1001 Park Avenue. Andre will pick you up at 5:30. Please meet him downstairs. And please don’t wear any underwear.”

I gazed at him sheepishly.

He smirked. “Don’t worry. My mother and my sister will be there. And, of course, my son. It’s highly unlikely I will be doing any kind of exploration. But I would like to use my imagination.”

He rendered me speechless again. The sound of Jo-Jo’s meow gave me an excuse to avoid a response. Brushing against my legs, he was craving attention. I felt Ari’s eyes on me as I bent down to pick her up. I cuddled her in my arms while Ari caressed her soft fur. The cat purred.

“My cat really seems to like you.”

He winked at me. “I’m good with pussies.”

Oh was he!

“I’ll see you later.”

With a smug smile, he strode to the door to let himself out. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. Jo-Jo wasn’t the only one purring.

CHAPTER 11

Ari

My imagination was working overtime as I stood with Ben by my side in the long line of moviegoers to get some popcorn, soda, and candy. Ben was occupied with his new iPad, playing some kind of video game. The tablet was another one of his birthday presents—I’d given it to him at lunch—and within an hour, he had totally mastered it, filling it with all his favorite apps and games. Kids today were whizzes when it came to technology.

My mind was on Sarah and I kept flashing back to the mind-blowing sex we had earlier, still stunned that I took her on the bed. Another epic orgasm. She did things to me that no other woman had done before. I was insanely attracted to her. And more than just to her lithe body. I liked her quirky personality and felt there was depth to her, something that had eluded me when it came to women. She was the first woman I opened up to about my ex as the others had never lasted beyond a short time in a hotel room or the pied à terre I kept close to my apartment. Since my divorce, find, feel, fuck, and forget had been my credo. I wanted no involvement. Sarah was the first woman I wanted to spend time with, and I hoped she could accept and understand my rigid terms. I glanced down at my precious son. Nothing in the world meant more to me than him. I had one mission in life: to protect him. My ex had hurt him—hurt us both—and only now, were we recovering from the deep wounds. Ben saw a child psychologist regularly and I was seeing a shrink to deal with the past and the future. As a result of my terribly failed marriage, I had a terrible fear of commitment. Something my shrink and I were working on. Sarah represented some kind of breakthrough. She was the first woman I wanted to see again. And she was the first woman I’d invited to my home since my divorce and was going to introduce to my family. I hadn’t, perhaps foolishly, told Ben I had invited her to his birthday dinner nor had I told my mother or sister. A ripple of anxiety coursed through me as I neared the front of the concession line. What would they think of her? Or, for that matter, think of me having a girl at the house? In particular, my sister’s reaction worried me. She was fiercely judgmental and protective—of both Ben and me. Never wanting me to end up with someone like Cassandra again, she had strong opinions of what kind of woman I should be with. And truthfully, now that Ben’s life and mine were finally both on course again and we were functioning well, I suspected she didn’t even want me to get married again. The dynamics of the evening ahead worried me, but worry succumbed quickly to a much stronger emotion. Anticipation. The image of Sarah in her beautiful new dress filled my imagination. Then it gave way to me slowly taking it off her. Her beautiful lean body with its sinewy muscles and long limbs danced in my head. I imagined it wrapped around me, ready for penetration. At the thought of fucking her brains out again, my cock flexed against my jeans.

“Daddy, can I get some red licorice?” asked my son, breaking into my erotic fantasy as we at last reached the front of the line.

“Sure. Anything you want, birthday boy,” I replied with a smile, ruffling my hand through his silky, sun-streaked hair.

A few minutes later, we were all set—with an extra-large tub of popcorn, two root beers, and a bag of Twizzlers. We headed toward the theater playing our movie. Lots of moms and their kids surrounded us. I was used to being one of the lone fathers who brought their kids to the cineplex. Being a single dad wasn’t easy. And then there were the divorcées…

As we neared the theater entrance, a high-pitched voice calling out my name captured my attention. I turned my head and instantly recognized the woman sauntering my way. A cute freckle-faced little girl was by her side. The child’s name was Jordan and she was in Ben’s class at the private day school I sent him to. Her mother’s name was Lisa. She was a former casting agent, who had married a Wall Street hedge fund manager, subsequently gotten a divorce when she discovered him cheating with his secretary, and made out like a bandit. A big smile lit up her Botoxed face. She’d always had a thing for me, and now that I was available (so she thought), she constantly hinted at us going out. Though our kids were good friends, I had no interest in her—the short, surgically enhanced busty blonde was not my type and I wasn’t ready—so I kept our relationship casual and limited to school functions, soccer games in the park, and unexpected but inevitable encounters like this.

“Why, Ari, how lovely to see you?” she cooed, seductively running a hand through her mane of bottle-blond hair.

From the corner of my eye, I saw Ben walking ahead with Jordan, showing her his new iPad. Knowing where he was, I returned my attention to Lisa, trying to keep things short and sweet.

“Hi.” Like I said, short and sweet.

“What movie are you seeing?”

I told her we were seeing the new Superman movie that had opened this weekend. To my relief, she was seeing some animated film that Ben had already seen.

“I think our movies end around the same time. Let’s grab a bite afterward.”

It was an invitation, not an inquiry. She was pushy and always hitting on me. I politely told her it was Ben’s birthday and that we had plans. I didn’t tell her we were going to Dylan’s Candy Bar because I knew she would tag along.

She flashed another flirtatious smile and played with the big sparkling diamond that hung from a chain around her neck. Her former wedding ring.

“Well, then next time.”

There was never going to be a next time. I was never going to go out with her. Unexpectedly, the image of Sarah flashed into my head again. She was so different from Lisa and all the other women who were after me. She wasn’t after me at all. Given how much I looked forward to seeing her later, it seemed to be the other way around. I hoped Lisa wouldn’t notice the erection that was straining against my jeans. Least of all think it was thanks to her. I inwardly chuckled.

Before I could excuse myself, Lisa aggressively grabbed my arm and held me back.

“Oh, before you leave, Ari, I just want to ask you a question.”

“Shoot.” I was losing my patience with her and wanted to catch up with Ben.

“I saw someone at the Bergdorf’s spa earlier who looked SO much like Cassandra.”

At the mention of my ex’s name, my heart skipped a beat. Every muscle in my body tensed and my hands trembled. I almost dropped the tub of popcorn, but caught it in time.

“That’s impossible,” I stammered. Only three people knew that Cassandra was still alive—my sister, my mother, and myself. The rest of the world, like Ben, thought she was dead—killed in a horrible car crash in the Hamptons.

“Does she have a twin sister? Seriously, Ari, the resemblance was so striking. Slightly curvier, and her hair was long and dark instead of blond and short.” Lisa knew my ex-wife well, having cast her in hundreds of commercials in her modeling heyday.

“No, she doesn’t. She was an only child.”

My chest tightened painfully and beneath my T-shirt, I was sweating. I felt like I was on the verge of an anxiety attack—something I hadn’t had for a long time thanks to the help of my shrink.

My companion popped a kernel of popcorn into her mouth and then shrugged her shoulders. “Well, you know what they say. Everyone has a twin.”

“Yeah, right.” I spat out the words. “Listen, Lisa, good seeing you. I need to catch up with Ben.”

My eyes darted his way. He was almost at the entrance to the theater.

Lisa licked her injected plump lips. “Well, see you soon and enjoy your movie.”

With my evil-ex wreaking havoc on my body, the latter wasn’t happening. My mind pondered the unlikely but terrifying possibility that Cassandra was back in town. Was Ben’s recurring monster dream last night a premonition? My heart pulsing with dread, I caught up with my precious son.

CHAPTER 12

Sarah

The intercom buzzed. Wearing my new Prada dress and strappy heels, I hurried as fast as I could to answer it. It was Ari’s driver, Andre. Five minutes early, he was here to pick me up. Excitement pulsed through me like bubbly champagne. Still not having mastered the sexy little beasts on my feet, I carefully dashed back to my bedroom to grab my purse and the Bergdorf’s shopping bag containing Ben’s gift. Fingers crossed he would like it. I gave myself a final look in my mirror. The gorgeous floral dress looked amazing on me, and somehow the array of bright red and cocoa roses brought out the color of my chocolate brown eyes. I smiled at my reflection and it smiled back at me.

1001 Park Avenue was located on the northeast corner of Eighty-Fifth Street and Park. It was one of those majestic, pre-war high-rise buildings with a forest green awning at the entrance. After Andre helped me out of the limo, a doorman promptly greeted me.

“I’m here to see Mr. Golden,” I said.

“You must be Miss Greene. He’s expecting you.” The doorman gave me a quick once over and a saucy grin. I wondered how many of Ari’s women he had met.

He swung open the front door to the building and ushered me into an elegant lobby combining creamy marble with rich brown leather furniture, oriental rugs, gilded sconces, and elaborate floral arrangements. What most attracted my attention was the magnificent coffered ceiling. Having studied architecture as part of my coursework at RISD, I had an appreciation of the handcrafted details.

“Mr. Golden’s apartment is on the top floor.” The penthouse! “The private elevator is to your right.”

Taking a fortifying breath, I headed toward the elevator, acutely aware of the clicking sound my sharp heels made on the polished marble floor. I pushed the UP button, and the gilded door slid open to a pristine interior with upholstered walls and polished handrails. My heart was pounding, and my fingers trembled as I pushed the button for the penthouse. I was nervous about seeing Ari again and meeting his family. Only yesterday, he was a stranger on a train.

Without making any stops, the elevator reached the penthouse floor in no time. The door slid open again. Exiting the elevator, I found myself standing in an elegant marble foyer that must have stretched fifty feet. The creamy walls were lined with large, abstract paintings and next to the archways stood pedestals with imposing vases of fragrant white roses and lilies. Holy cow! I had stepped right into Ari’s breathtaking apartment. A Rubenesque, Hispanic woman wearing a black and white aproned-uniform approached me. She also wore a warm smile.

“Hola. You must be Señorita Greene. I am Luisa. Señor Golden has been looking forward to your visit. Follow me, por favor.”

She led me to a palatial, step-down living room with a spectacular view of the city. It was filled with fabulous Art Deco furniture, the overall color scheme beige with accents of burgundy and turquoise. An exquisite antique rug anchored the room, and all around there were outstanding paintings, sculpted pieces, and more flowers. Wow! This place must have cost a small fortune to decorate. It was straight out of Architectural Digest.

A woman, who looked a lot younger than the sixty-years she likely was, sat on one of the fringed silk couches, sipping champagne. She was very elegant, with her platinum blond hair pulled back in a regal chignon and clad in an expensive, white linen pantsuit that was accented with lots of chunky gold jewelry. This, of course, was Ari’s mother. They shared many of the same features, including bronzed skin, jewel blue eyes, and a strong jawline. Before she could introduce herself, a familiar, velvety voice from behind me called out my name.

“Saarah.”

My heart leaped into my throat, and I spun around. Ari, with his young son beside him, strode into the room. He was still wearing the jeans and blue-and-white striped shirt, but he had changed from his tennis shoes into a pair of shiny black loafers. Alligator? He wasn’t wearing socks.

His face brightened at the sight of me, his blue eyes twinkling. He quickly gave me the once-over. I bet he was already using his x-ray vision to see through my dress. No, I wasn’t wearing panties beneath the Prada just as he’d requested. He flashed a knowing smile.

“Let me introduce you. You’ve met my son, Ben.”

The little boy politely held out his hand for me to shake. “Hey, you’re the lady from the park.”

I nodded and smiled. He was absolutely adorable in his pint-size version of Ari’s ensemble. “Happy Birthday!” I handed him the bag. “This is for you. I hope you like it.”

“Cool! Thanks!” He peeked inside and gazed up at his father. “Daddy, can I open my present?”

“In a minute, my little man.”

Entwining his arm with mine, Ari led me over to the platinum-haired woman. Ben followed behind us.

“Saarah, this is my mother, Lila.”

Setting her flute of champagne on the glass coffee table, the elegant woman rose and planted a kiss on each of my cheeks.

“So lovely to meet you, my dear. And I adore your dress.”

Her deep voice was breathy, with the affectation of someone who was wealthy and cultured. I instantly liked her, drawn to her warm, inviting personality. She smiled at me.

“Ari has told us so much about you.”

Inwardly, I cringed. Did he tell her that we fucked on a train? And how he taught me how to eat lobster?

“Nice to meet you too,” I said nervously.

“Sorry, I’m late.”

My mouth fell open as another woman breezed into the room. She was clad in ivory linen trousers that accentuated her long legs and a jade green silk blouse that looked stunning against her flaming shoulder-length hair. It was the beautiful redhead!

“And, Saarah, this is my twin sister, Gwen.”

His twin sister? I was speechless.

The willowy redheaded beauty extended her long-fingered hand. I shook it; her grip was firm.

“So, we officially meet at last.” Her tone was frosty, totally unlike her mother’s.

She made me uneasy. I forced a half-smile. “Yes, finally.”

“Can I open my present now?” asked Ben eagerly.

A dimpled smile formed on Ari’s lush lips. “Sure. Go ahead.”

Wasting no time, the little boy removed the package from the bag and tore off the wrapping paper. The box was marked Jimmy Choo. At the last minute, after discovering that I didn’t have another box for my gift, I’d decided to recycle it. Regrettably, I had no further use for it.

“You got me shoes?” the little boy exclaimed, disappointment evident in his voice and on his frowning face.

Ari shot me a look that read: What the fuck?

“Open it.”

The little boy ripped off the lid, and a big smile exploded on his adorable face.

“Cool! A train.” He immediately dropped to his knees and rolled it on the hardwood floor. “Choo-choo-choo-choo-choo-choo-choo!” He gazed up at me with his green as a Christmas tree eyes. “Where’d you get this?”

Ari gave his son a stern look. “That’s not polite, Ben. You should say thank you.”

“It’s okay.” I smiled, pleased that the little boy was so exuberant. “I made it when I was in college.”

Ari’s sister fired me a chilly look. “And, Sarah, what college might that have been?”

The look Ari shot back at her was definitely disapproving.

“The Rhode Island School of Design.”

“Such a prestigious school,” said Ari’s mother before Gwen had a chance to respond.

“You must come from quite a comfortable family to afford that kind of education,” Gwen quickly added, her tone snarky.

Ari was cringing. Before he could utter a word, I proudly said, “I was on a full scholarship, and I worked at both the campus art supply store and coffee shop to pay my expenses.”

My words worked magic.

“My late husband worked his way through school. It makes you appreciate your education,” said Ari’s lovely mother. His sister Gwen shut up.

Gleaning a little information that Ari’s father might have been a self-made man, my eyes shifted to Ben. He was examining the train, turning it upside down and spinning the wheels.

“Does this train need batteries?”

“Yes. It’s programmed. You can tell it to do all kinds of things.”

“Like what?” asked the little boy with wide-eyed curiosity. Even Ari and his family—including his judgmental sister—looked intrigued.

“Tell it to backup.”

“Train, backup!” Ben commanded with a hint of his father’s bossy tone.

Almost instantly, the train sped backward, crashing into Ari’s loafers.

Ben’s eyes lit up. “Wow! What else can it do?”

“Ask it to spell ‘come’”

Ari shot me a wry smile. Gah! Why did I choose that word? Did I have sex on my brain? Oh my God. What was I thinking? And there was an even bigger problem. I hadn’t worked out all the toy’s kinks, and couldn’t remember if I’d fixed the issue of the train only being able to spell phonetically. Shit. It could easily respond with: “C-U-M.”

“Okay, train, spell ‘come,’” Ben shouted while I held my breath.

“C-O-M-E,” the train spewed out in one of those computerized voices.

I inwardly sighed with relief at the welcomed four-letter word.

“Wow! It’s a brain train!” Taken by the toy, Ben ordered it to move forward. At his command, it shot across the living room. The excited little boy chased after it.

“Very impressive, Saarah,” said Ari in that low, sultry voice, his eyes shifting from his son to me. “You seem to do very well with trains.”

The innuendo sent a rush of tingles straight to my pussy. My muscles clenched as sparks of electricity filled the air between us. Damn him for making me want him!

Before I could get a word out, Ari’s sister asked me to help her with making a salad in the kitchen. As much as this stunning woman intimidated me, I couldn’t say no.

The kitchen, off the long foyer, was enormous. Twenty of my galley kitchens could easily fit inside it. Rich dark wood cabinets lined the walls, and in the center of the black and white tiled floor, there was an island. Luisa was scooting about the kitchen, organizing platters of tasty-looking Mexican food. The tantalizing smell of a baking cake wafted in the air.

“Luisa, we’ll take it from here,” said Gwen, already tearing up greens and placing them into the large ceramic bowl sitting on the island’s countertop.

“Sí, Señora. I will set up the dining room.” Grabbing a large platter of homemade burritos, she skittered out of the kitchen.

Without her asking, I helped Gwen with the salad, cutting up tomatoes and cucumbers. I noticed she wore a simple gold band on her left fourth finger, indicating that she was married. I wondered where her husband was but didn’t feel comfortable asking. We shared an awkward stretch of silence before Gwen started in.

“Sarah, you are the first one of Ari’s women that we’ve formally met.”

The words “one of Ari’s women” unnerved me. How many had he had?

Tearing up a head of romaine, she continued, her tone chilly. “And to the best of my knowledge, the first one that he’s brought to this apartment and introduced to Ben.”

I said nothing and tossed the cut-up veggies into the bowl.

“Sarah, I don’t know how long you’ve known my brother or how much you know about him.”

“We just met recently.” Make that twenty-four hours ago, I added silently. “I don’t know him well.”

“Then, let me tell you a few things.” Her face darkened as her voice grew menacing. “My brother is very fragile. He was in an extremely abusive relationship. The divorce, in which I represented him, was very damaging and costly.”

So, she was an attorney. No wonder she was so adept at interrogating me. I bet she could be quite intimidating in a courtroom, but I wasn’t going to let those tactics get to me in a kitchen. I was eager to hear more.

“My brother—and his son—have both been in intense therapy over the last three years. Although Ben still suffers from nightmares, he doesn’t have any recollection of his mother. And thankfully, Ari is finally beginning to heal.”

I processed all of this information carefully and slowly. I was gaining insight into Ari’s former wife. It was clear to me that she had emotionally damaged both Ari and his son in some major way. While my lips were burning with questions, there was no way I was going to pry information from his fiendish sister. My gaze met hers in silence. Gwen’s emerald eyes flared and her lips, full like Ari’s, pressed into a thin, menacing line.

“Sarah, I’m very protective of my brother. Be careful. If you hurt him, you will pay the price.”

Her words made my blood run cold. Come on, Sarah, don’t let her intimidate you. And then I remembered, Sarah, plain and tall, wore combat boots.

“I don’t want to be hurt either.” With my cancer-stricken mother, I had enough pain in my life.

My words silenced her.

Dinner was casual. A Mexican buffet in the grand dining room that included a pitcher of Sangria. The polished blond wood dining table, which could be extended, was sized down to keep the dinner intimate. Ari sat at the head and his mother on the other end. I sat to the right of Ari, across from his sister, who was seated next to Ben.

While I’d piled my plate up with all the delicious-looking dishes, I didn’t have much of an appetite and mostly nursed my Sangria. Ari kept shooting me flirtatious smirks that didn’t go unnoticed by his suspicious sister. Her eyes darted back and forth between us, catching the sparks flying in the air.

The conversation was also casual. I mostly listened. I lived by the saying: Speak only when spoken to. Ari’s mother chatted about her philanthropic endeavors that ran the gamut from fundraising for MOMA to educating children in third world countries, while Gwen mentioned that her husband Greg, an economist, was at a global warming conference in Norway. All Ben wanted to talk about was the superhero movie he’d seen in the afternoon and his new train. I was pleased he liked it so much.

Hunger kicked in as I began to relax. I dug into the Mexican food and was glad I did. Luisa’s burritos were absolutely delicious, filled with chicken, beans, cheese, and just the right amount of hot salsa, while the salad Gwen and I had made had turned out well. Then, suddenly as I ingested my last forkful of the cheesy burrito, cleaning my plate, an unexpected sensation under the table made me jolt in my chair and choke. Holy guacamole! Ari had taken off one of his loafers and was rubbing his bare foot up and down my leg. I managed to swallow what was in my mouth as his deft foot made its way under my flowy dress—just in time before his big toe found my clit and started to work it. Hard little circles of erotic pleasure. Oh God! He was making me wet and wild. Stiffening, I gripped the sides of my chair so that I wouldn’t squirm. A mixture of love and hate surged through me. The liar! He said he wouldn’t try anything in front of his family. To rile me up more, he shot me a deadpan stare.

“Saarah, you really must have another one of Luisa’s homemade burritos. They’re the best this side of the Rio Grande.”

How did he seriously expect me to eat at a time like this? If I let go of the chair, I was going to leap to my feet and scream.

Gwen eyed me suspiciously. “Sarah, are you okay?”

I nodded. If I dared open my mouth, shrieks and whimpers might fly out. Ari’s big toe was relentless, and my clit was going crazy from his latest game of footsie.

Gwen’s legal eagle eyes stayed on me. “Why don’t you tell us a little bit more about yourself?”

I’m hot as hell, and I want to scream. “Um, uh, I work for a toy company.”

“That’s the bestest job ever!” beamed Ben.

“Which one, my dear?” asked Ari’s mother.

For a second, I didn’t remember. The hot, pulsating sensation between my legs was taking up all of my concentration. Yikes!

“Ike’s Tikes,” I finally stammered.

“That’s so cool!” exclaimed Ben. “I’ve got lots of those little beanbag thingies. Wanna come see my collection?”

Ari looked my way again, his beautiful face a total poker face. “Sarah will come as soon as dinner is over.”

“I’d love to!” I gulped.

Holy shit! I might not last that long. Slathered with my wet heat, his big toe rammed into my pussy. Once inside, he jabbed it in and out. The pressure was building. My heart was racing and my temperature rising. I was falling apart, my pussy begging, desperate for release.

Ari, the madman, was enjoying every minute of his ministrations as I began to unravel. I couldn’t take it anymore. Waves of ecstasy started to crest through my core. Oh my God. I was going to have an orgasm right here in front of Ari’s mother, sister, and son! Oh please, not here…Oh please, yes now!

I was so close. Just as I thought I would scream out in divine pleasure and create a scene I’d regret forever, Luisa entered the room with the candlelit birthday cake. Everyone shouted “Happy Birthday,” including happy, happy me.

As Ben made a secret wish and blew out the candles, my wish came true. Sweet spasms coursed through me, zapping every cell in my body. The flames on the candles might be extinguished, but I was on fire.

“I hope everyone enjoyed dinner,” said Ari as Luisa sliced a piece a cake for everyone.

He withdrew his toe and shot me a playful glance. I tried to keep my cool as he stuffed himself with a mouthful of the cake and then sensuously licked the creamy icing off his fork with his tongue.

Unable to form words, I gulped down a big bite of the cake. Gwen shot me a dirty look. The intensity of the fire raging in my body was equal to that of the iciness coating her eyes. Damn him! Damn her!

Shortly after the cake was served, Ari’s sister and mother dismissed themselves from the table to call it a night. While Ari’s mother gave me a warm embrace and said she hoped to see me again, Gwen left with a cold goodbye. The chill in her eyes told me that she had not warmed up to me one bit. The feeling was mutual. Not only did I dislike her, I distrusted her, and the less time I had to spend with her the better.

“Do you wanna come see my playroom now?” asked Ben as I, too, was about to say goodnight. Before I could utter a word, he clutched my hand and led me down the long foyer. Ari trailed close behind us. I could feel his eyes on me and imagine the satisfied smirk on his face. I was still experiencing intense tremors from my orgasm, and I bet he knew it.

The huge paneled room, located at the end of the hallway, was lined with built-in shelves filled with toys. I recognized them all—from Moshi Monsters to Transformers. On a wall facing a plumped-up slipcovered couch was the biggest flat screen television I’d ever seen. It must have been close to five-feet long. Bringing my attention back to the toy-lined shelves, Ben proudly showed me his sizeable collection of Ike’s Tikes. He must have owned every one of the collectible little beanbag characters. And then my eyes landed on a toy that brought a smile to my face—a Green Power Ranger. For sure, the original one from the 1990s. I had loved the Power Rangers growing up, and my favorite had been Tommy, the Green Ranger, because he was somewhat of an outsider like me. I’d actually had a secret crush on him.

“Wow! Where’d you get the Green Ranger?” I asked Ben.

“It was Daddy’s when he was growing up.”

Ari gazed at me sheepishly, looking almost embarrassed that he had once played with Power Rangers. Now, I suppose he only played with power. And clits.

“My father bought it for me,” he said, flushing. “The Green was my favorite because I was really into the martial arts. I still practice.”

So Ari, the warrior god, was also a martial artist. Fitting.

“Grandpa’s name was Benjamin like mine,” interjected Ben. “That’s a photo of him,” he added, pointing to a framed photo on an end table.

My eyes shifted to the photograph of a handsome dark-haired man who had his arm wrapped around an angelic golden-haired boy. The child looked to be the same age as Ben and bore a striking resemblance. Of course, Ari and his father. I could detect the loving bond between them, further evidenced by the fact that Ari had named his son after him.

“Do you want to play Pac-Man with me?” asked Ben, plopping down on the couch and grabbing a remote.

“Ben,” chided Ari, “I don’t think—”

I cut him off. “Sure. You first.”

Ben loaded the game onto the big screen TV and began clicking the remote with his thumbs. Both Ari and I kept our eyes riveted on the screen as he managed to get to level three, scoring 1235 points.

“Okay, your turn.” Beaming with pride, the little boy handed me the remote. Ari fired me a bemused look. Like I was out of my mind.

“Good luck, Saarah,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Thanks,” I said brightly. Ha ha. Just wait.

Without wasting a second, I plunked down on the comfy couch and began feverishly pressing the remote with my thumbs. My eyes stayed glued to the cute little yellow open-mouthed face gobbling up pellets and striving to eat enemies before they ate me. In high school, no one could beat me at Pac-Man. Or at RISD. It had been a while since I’d played, but I hadn’t lost my touch. Ten minutes later, I was at level five with 5020 points.

“Wow!” exclaimed Ben. “You’re awesome.”

Ari’s brows lifted with shock and then a smirk slid on his kissable lips. “Saarah, you are surprisingly good at manipulating things with your hands.”

The innuendo (and boy, was he full of them tonight) made my cheeks heat and my skin prickle. And not just on the back of my neck.

“Let’s play again,” begged Ben.

A familiar voice stopped me from answering. “It eez bedtime for Señor Ben.”

Standing at the entrance to the room was Luisa, her arms folded under her buxom chest. A warm smile spread across her bright-eyed face.

Ben frowned. His father gave him a signal to get up, tilting his chin toward the foyer.

“No fair,” he sulked.

The cutie-pie reluctantly rose from the couch, leaving the remote behind, and shuffled over to Luisa. She wrapped an ample arm around the child’s slender shoulders.

“Luisa, I’ll be there in a minute to tuck him in and read him a good-night story,” said my companion.

I was impressed by what a devoted father he was. A pang of sadness stabbed me. That was something I had never had in my life.

The adorable little boy gazed up at me and then unexpectedly broke away from Luisa to give me a hug. The warmth of his little arms wrapped around my waist radiated throughout me. My heart melted.

“Thanks, Sarah, for my cool train. Can you come over and play Pac-Man with me again?”

I fired an uncertain look at Ari. The impassive expression on his face was unreadable. “Maybe,” he said. My heart quivered, not knowing what that meant.

After wishing us “buenas noches,” Luisa shepherded Ben out of the room, leaving me alone with Ari. Despite the mixed messages this devastating man was giving me, I didn’t want this evening to end. I wanted to be in his arms and make delicious love with him in his bed. Don’t go there, Sarah. I was hit hard with the realization that it was time for me to leave. That I would not be spending the night. His house, his rules.

“I should say goodnight.” My voice wavered.

“Wait for me here. I’ll be right back.” He abandoned me but returned quickly holding a small shopping bag. “Yours,” he said softly, handing me the bag.

With just a glance, I knew what was inside. I took out the Jimmy Choo box and lifted the lid. Inside were the black satin peep-toe stilettos. I was on the verge of crying.

“Thanks.” My voice was watery.

He tilted up my chin with his thumb as I fought back tears. “I thought you might like to have them back. You’re quite a Cinderella.”

In some way, at this moment, I felt like Cinderella. A clock gonged in my head. It was time to leave. That was the deal. His next line confirmed it.

“I’ll walk you to the elevator.”

Planting his hand on the small of my back, he ushered me out of the room and walked by my side as we traversed the long foyer. There was no more physical contact, not even the holding of a hand. Maybe, “maybe” really meant maybe. Or never. I had to remember that this man was afraid of a relationship. Afraid of commitment. I had to accept that. It just wasn’t as easy as I thought.

Ari pushed the button by the elevator and the door immediately slid open. To my shock, he shoved me into the carriage, straight into the corner. As the door closed, he pinned me against the upholstery with his hip and crushed his lips onto mine. The kiss was fierce, all-consuming, and passionate. As the elevator descended, a fire re-ignited in my core and coursed through my body. Oh what a kisser this gorgeous god was!

When the door reopened, he pulled his lips off mine. I was breathing heavily, and my legs were trembling.

“Thank you for coming tonight,” he said, leaning his body against the door to hold it open.

“Sure,” I said breathlessly.

“Andre is waiting for you outside to take you home.”

My heart clenched. Reality. I was going home.

As I stepped out into the lobby, he placed his strong hands on my shoulders, holding me back. He spun me around to face him. My skin tingled from his touch as his warm breath skimmed my cheeks.

“Goodnight, Saarah.”

My gaze held his as if we would never see each other again. I held back the tears that were threatening to fall.

“Goodnight,” I said softly.

Forcing myself to not look back, I headed toward the entrance of 1001 Park Avenue. I heard the elevator door close behind me. My heart sank. He didn’t ask me out. Or even ask me to meet him for a coffee or a run. Clutching the bag with my shoes, I stepped into the foggy New York night, unsure if any form of “we” was meant to be.

CHAPTER 13

Ari

“Goodnight comb.”

“And goodnight brush.”

“Goodnight nobody.”

“Goodnight…”

Waiting for Ben to shout out “mush,” the next word of his favorite book, one of our bedtime rituals, I realized he was sound asleep. A small smile spread on my lips. I stared at my beautiful little boy, feeling so blessed to have him in my life. A shudder ran through me at the thought that I had almost lost him—on more than one occasion. Yes, that hellish night, but that wasn’t the first time. There was the incident right before that one as well as another in the Hamptons. And I almost lost him right from the onset. Eight months into her pregnancy, fucking Cassandra, who was high on something, fell down the stairs of our Upper East Side duplex and had to be rushed to the hospital. In the ambulance, she went into premature labor, requiring an emergency C-section to be performed. After two hours of surgery, Ben was born at a mere four pounds with a life or death condition known as PDA (patent ductus arteriosus)—an opening between two major blood vessels leading to his heart which could result in heart failure. While Cassandra recovered quickly from the fall and the surgery—at least physically—poor Ben, who almost didn’t make it, had to remain in the hospital for two months on ventilators and IVs until the heart defect closed—that is, if it closed up. Every morning and night, I visited my tiny, brave boy and prayed for him to get well. The bitch, on the other hand, didn’t visit him once, and spent her days in bed, strung out on a cocktail of vodka and Valium, with an endless pile of fashion magazines that featured her on the cover or in spreads inside. As little Ben’s heart defect healed, after a couple life-threatening setbacks, mine began to fall apart. I went into a state of denial—thinking that this nightmare would go away. That once Ben got better, Cassandra would come out of her depression and we’d be that family that fairy tales were made of. But that never happened. Cassandra fell deeper into her depression and wanted nothing to do with our son. As my love for him never wavered and grew every day, I began to wonder—had she deliberately fallen down the stairs in an attempt to end our unborn baby’s life?

To this day, I didn’t know the answer to that disquieting question. But what I did know was I couldn’t live without Ben. He was a miracle baby, the gift of life, and the only bright light in my years of darkness with Cassandra. Knowing what he’d been through, each birthday was more special to me than the one before. Loving him with all my heart and soul, I gave my precious son a kiss on his forehead and, then after putting the book on his nightstand, headed to my bedroom to call it a night.

I did a little bit of last minute packing for tomorrow’s trip, performed my normal bedtime routine, and then got into my pajama bottoms. While I used to love to go to sleep in the raw, I no longer did that in case Ben woke up in the middle of the night with a nightmare. I couldn’t waste a second getting to my son whenever that happened. Checking the two-way monitor on my night table, which would let me know if he was having one, I crawled into my king-size bed and hoped there wouldn’t be a repeat of last night. While he was having his nightmares less and less frequently, they were never easier to deal with. And I sure didn’t want him to end his perfect birthday with one.

Both my mind and body were restless. While darkness bathed me, the uncanny events of the day whirled around in my head. Sarah’s presence at Ben’s birthday dinner had made me forget about Cassandra, who had wreaked havoc on my mind all afternoon after Lisa had mentioned her name. While toe-fucking Sarah, I had banished the thought of my ex being back in town. It was impossible. Thanks to my sister, the lawyer, we had a heavy-duty agreement that forbid her from ever setting foot in New York again or for returning to this country for that matter. My worries subsided as thoughts of Sarah filled my mind, and I became aware of my raging boner beneath the covers.

Sarah totally turned me on. The more time I spent with her, the more I liked her. And the more amazing I found her. I was impressed by the way she wasn’t intimidated by my snide, in-your-face sister, who I wanted to smack a couple times, and was blown away by the way she kept her cool while I made her come under the table. Most of all, I was astounded by how well she and Ben connected. My little boy seemed to take a strong liking to her and vice versa, and this more than anything turned me on the most.

I can’t begin to tell you how hard it was (no pun intended) for me not to ravage her in the elevator. While I fucked her luscious mouth with my tongue, all I could think about was fucking my Cinderella up against the wall. Hoisting up that pretty dress of hers and ramming my dick right into her delicious pussy. Banging her until she saw stars and I don’t mean the ones in the sky. With the way she submitted to me, I thought she wanted it too. Damn, a missed opportunity—something that, as a shrewd businessman, drove me crazy. The sublime taste and scent of her invaded my senses as I slipped my hand under my pajama bottoms and curled my fingers around my enormous aching erection. I needed relief if I expected to get any sleep. Imagining one of her exquisite talented hands wrapped around the girth, I closed my eyes and began to jerk myself off, fantasizing that her luscious mouth was sucking me off in tandem. My breathing grew ragged as I stroked myself faster, more furiously and imagined what it would be like to come in her mouth. Within a few minutes, I exploded with a loud grunt, my release spreading all over my hand. I kept my hand there as my breathing calmed down.

I snapped open my eyes and reached my free hand across the firm mattress. For the first time ever, I felt lonely in this big empty bed. An unexpected sadness and longing swept over me. I wanted Sarah’s soft body in my arms. But was I ready? Was I capable of feeling again?

This weekend I was going to find out.

I was tired of saying, “Goodnight, nobody.”

CHAPTER 14

Sarah

I woke up the next morning with Jo-Jo and reality in my face. I didn’t sleep well. My evening with Ari plagued me, and I had a nightmare in which I was Dorothy and his sister was the Wicked Witch of the West. “I’ll get you and your little pussy Jo-Jo,” she cackled, her evil laugh still echoing in my ears.

As I stumbled out of bed, doubt wracked my brain. I had no clue if I’d see Ari again, or after last night, he’d want to see me. I had to remember this was a man who was fucked up. He had not been in a serious relationship since he’d left his wife, and commitment—okay, date—was a four-letter word.

Heading into the bathroom to complete my morning routine, I decided today was as good a day as any to start looking for a second job to help pay for my mother’s treatments. My plan was to scour the local restaurants to see if I could get an evening or weekend job as a waitress or hostess. The good news was that I had done both before to help pay my RISD expenses. I was an exemplary employee—punctual, hard-working, personable, and courteous—and could expect glowing recommendations from my former employers. Later, I would call my mom, and hopefully, we could share some good news.

Dressed in a mid-length paisley skirt, a lightweight sweater, and my beloved combat boots, I grabbed my bag and trotted down the stairs, passing Mrs. Blumberg, who was already carrying two shopping bags full of groceries.

“So, how was your date the other night?” she asked, always the nosy busybody.

“Very nice,” I replied with a quick smile. Wishing her a good day, I skipped down the stairs, pondering my response. Very nice… but…

Upon opening the front door to the building, sunlight assaulted my eyes. Squinting, I recalled that for New Yorkers, today was the second day of the three-day Memorial Day weekend. Unlike your typical Sunday, the city streets were empty. Families and singletons, like me, had already escaped the rushed, stressful life of the Big Apple by heading to more restful destinations like the Hamptons. Like Lauren and her fiancé Taylor. All their friends owned or rented second homes in these exclusive oceanfront communities along Long Island’s South Fork. Except me, who couldn’t afford to do either. And truthfully, I had better things to do than sun on the beach.

As I headed east on Forty-Fifth Street, Ari filled my mind. My body ached for him—his arms, his lips, his tongue, and most of all, his glorious cock. My longing ate away at me. Pessimism persisted. With every step, I was growing more and more positive I’d never see him again.

As I got to the end of the block, a car honked loudly behind me. I turned my head to see what the commotion was about. Rolling up to me was a midnight blue Bentley convertible. A beyond handsome man, wearing a white visor with a T-shirt and expensive-looking wraparound sunglasses, was at the wheel. Holy shit!

“Get in,” he ordered.

“I can’t,” I stammered, marching up Eighth Avenue.

The Bentley trailed me.

“Get your sweet ass in the car, NOW,” barked the driver.

He pulled up to the curb beside me and opened the car door. Torn between stepping into the car and running away as fast and far away as I could, I opted for the former, against my better judgment.

“Where are you taking me?” I asked after slamming the heavy car door closed and fastening my seat belt.

Ari peeled away from the curb. “It’s a surprise. Ben agreed you should come along.”

Ben? I guess I’d made a positive impression on him. Ha-ha. Score more points for me. I held back a smug smile.

“We’ll be spending the weekend.”

Huh? I jolted as Ari picked up speed. I was spending the weekend with this god and his son? I hadn’t even spent a night with him! In fact, I hardly knew him.

Ari glanced my way. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” I muttered.

Truthfully, I was already regretting getting into the car. A flurry of worries swarmed me. I had no clue where he was taking me. I had nothing to wear. I should be looking for a second job. I was freaking out about spending the rest of weekend with him. And there was this…who was going to take care of the poor cat? Maybe Mrs. Blumberg could.

“Open the glove compartment,” Ari ordered, shaking me out of my mental madness.

I did as he asked and unlatched it. Inside, along with a Bentley Continental GTC manual, was a white visor like his and a pair of black Ray-Bans.

“Those are for you. You’ll need them.”

I slipped them on. Ari shot me that dazzling, dimpled smile.

As we zoomed uptown and the wind whipped against my face, I began to relax and look forward to my adventure. My guilt and angst succumbed to the joy of being with him. It felt good. So good. At least for now.

We were no longer going to be strangers on a train.

CHAPTER 15

Ari

Oh, yeah. I had her where I wanted her.

She was in my car.

Strapped in a seatbelt.

She protested once. Okay, twice.

I told her to shut up.

She did.

I then asked her if she was wearing panties.

She was.

Not for long.

A victorious smile curved my lips.

It was going to be a stellar weekend.

My cock twitched.

End of.

CHAPTER 16

Sarah

I’d never been in a convertible before, let alone a Bentley. I was loving every minute of it. As Ari zoomed uptown along traffic-free Park Avenue, my ponytail whipped across my face. My eyes darted from the sun-lit skyscrapers to the car’s rich leather and veneer interior, and then over to Ari’s gorgeous but unreadable profile.

“So, come on, tell me where we’re going,” I begged him. We were getting close to his apartment.

“If I tell you, will you play with my Pac-Man?”

While it was way too early in the morning for one of his sexual innuendos, my eyes roamed down his beautiful body and I instantly flushed at the sight of the big bulge between his legs. Tingles rushed to my pussy.

“Sure,” I stammered. “But not in front of your son.”

Ari broke into a smile. “Southampton. I have a house there.”

Southampton was the summer playground of New York’s elite. It figured that he would have a second residence there. My stomach bunched up with nerves. Two questions pummeled my head: 1. What was I going to wear? (I didn’t exactly come packed for a weekend at the beach), and 2. Where was I going to sleep?

I put my mental ramblings on hold when Ari’s stately Park Avenue apartment building came into view. His adorable son Ben was already standing under the awning, holding the handle of a small roller bag in one hand and the toy train I’d given him in the other. Dressed in khaki shorts, an oversized Spiderman T-shirt, and a New York Yankees baseball cap, he waved to us as we pulled up.

“Isn’t Luisa coming?” I asked Ari.

“No, I’ve given her the rest of the holiday weekend off. Olga and her husband Vadim will be waiting for us at the Hamptons house.”

More of Ari’s staff.

The doorman helped Ben put his bag into the trunk, and then the little boy hopped over the rear window into the backseat.

“Buckle up, buddy,” Ari said.

“Sarah, it’s so cool you’re coming with us,” replied his obedient son.

Ari chimed in before I had a chance to utter a word. “Yes, it is so cool she can come.”

I jerked my head in his direction, raising an eyebrow. What did he mean by that? While his vision remained focused straight ahead, he was well aware my eyes were on him. The corner of his mouth again curled into a wicked grin that sent a pang of desire to my core.

We spent the next two and a half hours cruising along the Long Island Expressway and later Sunrise Highway at eighty miles an hour, listening to music that Ari had programmed for the trip, which included selections by Frank Sinatra, Bob Marley, and James Taylor. I liked Ari’s taste in music; it wasn’t that heavy metal stuff or annoying rap crap that so many guys listened to. It was mellow, mature, and soulful.

There wasn’t much traffic as most New Yorkers had left yesterday to get an early start on the three-day Memorial Day weekend. The sound of the wind whipping against the car and the loud music made conversation virtually impossible. Fortunately for me, the combination had a calming effect, allowing me the bliss of mindlessness, instead of my normal stream of worries. Ben quietly played games on his iPad, which I learned was a birthday present from his father, while Ari stayed focused on the road. I glanced over to him occasionally, admiring his tanned biceps and the way the wind ruffled his golden hair. I had to resist the urge to run my fingers through the silky, glistening strands. God, he was gorgeous.

We finally exited the highway and began traveling down a more rustic road. After twenty or so minutes and several turns, the unmistakable smell of the salty ocean mingled with the fresh, fragrant country air. We passed a sign that read “Welcome to Southampton,” and a few turns later we were cruising down an oceanfront road lined with mansion after mansion. We soon pulled up to a massive electronic gate that opened like the wings of a butterfly after Ari hit a button on his elaborate dashboard. Ben shouted out, “Yay! We’re here!”

Upon entering the property, the car traversed a long, pebble driveway that wound past pastures of grass, beds of roses, and other wildflowers. Finally, we pulled up to a rambling two-story gray shingle house with wraparound white terraces. Despite its grand size, it wasn’t at all pretentious.

A big-boned woman with high Slavic cheekbones and a man who resembled Charles Bronson in his heyday instantly came out the front door to greet us. They both looked as if they were straight out of Central Casting for Russian secret service agents. The woman was clad in a black maid’s uniform that was identical to Luisa’s, and the man wore tight black jeans with a T-shirt that exposed his body-builder physique. Ben jumped out of the car to hug the woman and high-five the menacing looking man. They must be Olga and Vadim. The Southampton staff.

Ari hopped out of the car and opened my door before I had the chance. My Trainman was always the gentleman. He then unlatched the trunk of the Bentley as Olga and Vadim promptly joined him. Ari handed Vadim the luggage, which included a pink overnight bag with tan leather trimmings. Mine?

With his hand pressed on my lower back, Ari ushered me inside the house while an excited Ben skipped ahead of us. The lodging was quite the opposite of Ari’s intimidating, formal Park Avenue apartment. It was the kind of place that, after a long day of sun, you could curl up with a good book and relax. White slipcovered seating arrangements were scattered on bleached hardwood floors, and nautical-themed paintings lined the all-white walls. Everything was connected by accents of blue. The color of the ocean. The color of Ari’s eyes.

“Saarah, Olga will show you to the guesthouse.”

So, that’s where I would be sleeping. In my own room. In my own bed. In my own house. Detached from him.

“Please put on a bathing suit,” he ordered. “That’s all you’ll need. We’ll be going to the beach following lunch.”

So, he had packed a bathing suit for me. A bikini or a one-piece? And what other things would I find in my bag?

As I followed the housekeeper through French doors out to the back of the property, my eyes took in my surroundings. An endless emerald green lawn surrounded a large rectangular swimming pool that shimmered a soft blue in the sunshine, and to the right was a tennis court. I had seen pictures of houses like this but had never in my life thought I’d actually step foot in one. Let alone be staying in one.

Ahead, to the left, was a shingled house, similar in spirit to the architecture of the main house. I assumed this was the guesthouse as Olga led me down a shrub-lined path. As we got closer, my eyes popped. It was bigger than the house I grew up in. Way bigger!

She opened the front door, and I took my overnight bag from her. “Thank you, Olga. I can handle it from here.”

Olga smiled at me, her first sign of warmth. In her heavy Russian accent, she paid me a compliment of sorts. “It eez very nice to finally meet a girlfriend of Mr. Golden.”

Well, I wasn’t exactly his girlfriend, but I took her words to mean that Ari had never brought a woman here before. Well, at least since his ex. It took away the chill of having to stay in the guesthouse alone.

The interior of the guesthouse mirrored that of the main house with a cozy array of slipcovered furniture, flea market finds, and quirky paintings. Outsider art, I was sure. I was beginning to discover there was another side to Ari Golden. One that was warm, unpretentious, and creative.

The best part of the guesthouse was its breathtaking view of the ocean. From the living room, I could see waves crashing up against the white sand. The sound was exhilarating and soothing at the same time.

I found the bedroom easily. It was simple and charming, consisting of a bleached wood sleigh bed and white wicker furnishings that included a rocking chair. I plopped myself and the overnight bag on the bed’s plump white duvet. It felt delicious, and for a split-second, I wondered what it would be like to make love to Ari here.

Before unpacking the bag, I tried calling my mother on my cell phone. No answer. I anxiously assured myself that she was just taking a stroll down a hospital corridor, something she enjoyed doing; I’d try again later. Putting my cell phone back into my messenger bag, I unzipped the pink overnight case. Inside was an assortment of brand new, high-end designer stuff, once again from Bergdorf’s. I unpacked everything. Two string bikinis, shorts, several fine cotton tees, skinny white jeans, a couple of floral sundresses, strappy platform sandals, and a pair of sparkly flip flops. Nothing too formal. And not a stitch of underwear.

After putting everything away, I shed my skirt and combat boots—and said farewell to my panties—then slipped on one of the bikinis. Having worn athletic, one-piece bathing suits my whole life, I was not used to having so much skin exposed. I might as well have been wearing nothing. Maybe that’s what Ari was aiming for. I fought back the urge to cover myself with a T-shirt or one of the sundresses, but knew that wouldn’t sit well with him. Sliding my feet into the flip-flops, I headed back to the main house.

To my surprise, Ari had another guest. His stunning, redheaded twin, Gwen. Her face was buried in the Sunday New York Times, but she looked up when I took my seat at the kitchen island where lunch was spread out. The temperature in the room suddenly dropped ten degrees, and I could feel goosebumps popping along my arms. I suddenly wished I’d put on a T-shirt. Make that a ski jacket.

“Well, hello, Sarah.” Her voice was icy, and the way she said my name was hurried and harsh, so unlike the sultry, breathy way Ari said it.

“Hi,” I squeaked, already intimidated by her.

She ran her eyes up and down my body. “You have very fair skin. You know, you can get burnt. I know lots of women who have.”

Her words got under my skin. I knew what she was implying. That her brother Ari went through women like matches. Lighting them up and throwing them away. Her new scare tactic. Well, two could play at this game.

“I’ll use protection.”

She smirked. “I’ll be watching you.”

“Sarah, do you wanna play Frisbee with us after lunch?”

The sound of Ben’s sweet voice saved me from having to say anything further to Ari’s snide sister. Clad in colorful swim trunks and holding a red Frisbee, the little boy hoisted himself onto a stool and grabbed a sandwich.

“Sure.” I shot him a smile under Gwen’s watchful eyes. She then went back to reading her New York Times.

“I’m looking forward to playing with you, Saarah,” came a deep, sultry voice.

I twisted my almost naked torso around, my breasts almost falling out of the skimpy top. Ari. Dressed in khaki shorts, his golden skin tight around his bare sculpted chest and washboard abs. There was a glimmer of mischief in his blue eyes as they surveyed my bikini-clad body. A shiver rippled through me, leaving me hungry for something other than lunch.

After helping himself to a sandwich, he strode over to a pantry and returned holding a tube of SPF 50 suntan lotion. He squirted some on my back and began slathering it in circles across my shoulder blades, then all the way down to the edge of my bikini bottom. I could feel his warm breath on the nape of my neck, and my skin prickled beneath his touch. Gwen kept one eye on her newspaper, the other on me.

“Saarah,” he murmured in my ear but loud enough for his sister to hear, “I don’t want to see you get burnt.”

“Thank you for the protection.”

The smirk that flashed on my face did not go unnoticed by Gwen.

The sand beneath the soles of my feet felt like a warm foot massage, and the chorus of squawking seagulls that mixed with the crashing waves made for perfect background music. We were playing Frisbee—Ben tossing the saucer to Ari and me, each competing to be the one to catch it.

For a six-year-old, Ben had a damn good arm. I could tell from Ari’s lit up face that he was incredibly proud of his son. Standing at least fifty feet away from us, the little boy flung the Frisbee with the strength and precision of someone much older. It spun in the air, and I had no idea where it might land, given the ocean breeze.

“It’s mine,” shouted Ari, running toward it.

“No, it’s mine,” I countered, running toward it.

And then we collided, the Frisbee flying by both of us.

I tumbled to the sand, my body crashing upon his. Skin to skin, organ to organ, heart to heart. The heat of his body coursed through mine, and his warm breath heated my already flushed cheeks. My scantily clad breasts rubbed against his taut, bare chest. As it rose and fell beneath me, my nipples puckered.

His strong hands hugged my waist, and his ocean-blue eyes burned into mine with the strength of the sun.

“So, Saarah, you play to win.” His cock hardened beneath me.

I would have said, “Game over,” had not Ben run over to us and burst out in laughter.

“You guys look so funny.”

Ben’s laughter was contagious, and despite our mutual embarrassment, we both joined in. This was the first time I’d ever heard Ari laugh hard and it showed me a lighter side of him that somehow made him sexier. Still chuckling, he scrambled to his feet, pulling me up with him. The smile on face could light up the sky.

“C’mon. Let’s check out the ocean.”

Ben was the first one in. As he frolicked in the waves, I watched as Ari pulled down his shorts, revealing one of those spandex Speedo suits worn by athletes. With his broad shoulders, lean muscular build, and that rock-hard perfect ass, this godlike man could easily be mistaken for an Olympian. Even the shimmering mysterious scar on his back could not take away from his beauty. He turned to face me. My eyes gravitated to the package between his legs. Holy cow! I swear the spandex made it look more sizeable than it already was. I met his gaze and felt myself heating up. He knew I was mentally undressing him and twisted his lips into a crooked sexy smile. I was getting all tingly again, the nerves between my legs bustling with lust. With a wink, he sprinted into the water, diving head first into a frothy wave.

“Come on in, Sarah!” shouted Ben.

At the shoreline, I dipped my big toe into the water. An icy sting shot up my leg. God, the water was cold.

“It’s too cold,” I shouted back.

Rising from the water, like a sea god, all wet and glistening under the burning sun, Ari sloshed toward me.

“Are you having fun?” I asked stupidly.

“Not quite enough.”

I had no time to ask what he meant. His mischievous eyes gleaming, he scooped me up into his powerful arms and flung me over his right shoulder. An arm pressed tight against the back of my thighs, right under my buttocks, locking me against him.

“My pretty princess, you’re coming in.” He smirked. “Like it or not.”

“Put me down. Now!” I barked back at him.

I kicked furiously and pounded his muscular back, my eyes all the while riveted on his in-my-face perfect ass. It was futile. He was already marching back into the sea, giving me no choice but to enjoy the ride. And the spectacular view. Blood rushed to my head. I felt tingly hot when I should feel chilled against his cold, wet body.

In the near distance, I could hear Ben laughing his head off again at the sight of us.

“Ben, tell your dad to put me down,” I called out to him.

The water up to his waist, Ari retorted, “Forget it, Saarah. I like it when you’re all wet.”

Before I could say another word, I was flying in the air and, seconds later, thrashing beneath the frigid water. I alternated between gripping my bikini bottom and skimpy top, fearful the sea would claim them.

When I resurfaced and was able to regain my balance, Ari was standing right beside me, now chest-deep in the water and holding Ben in his arms. He clasped my hand, and we began jumping waves, each one bigger than the one before.

“The waves are so big!” squealed Ben.

Ari squeezed my hand and shot me a smile. “The bigger, the better.”

Waves of desire mingled with those of the sea and I thought: The more, the better.

The monster waves licked my clit as I jumped them, making me long for the erotic sea of waves this man could drown me in. As I brushed up against him, I wondered what the rest of this weekend would bring.

Ari spent the rest of the afternoon inside the house, catching up on business-related matters while I decided to spend it with my sketchpad at the pool. Ben swam about in the water under the watchful eye of Vadim, who I was convinced was some kind of bodyguard. Just as I pulled out my sketchpad from my satchel, Ari’s sister took the chaise next to mine. She was wearing a black bandeau one-piece bathing suit that was cut in a way that made her long, lean legs look even longer, and a large, stylish, floppy hat. The latest issue of Vanity Fair was in her hand. Good. She was going to read. I wouldn’t have to talk to her and could do some sketching. At least, that was what I thought.

“My brother seems to like you,” she began, her tone cold and calculating.

“We get along,” I replied coolly. And we fuck really well together.

“You’re the wrong kind of woman for him.”

Her tone went from cold to cutting. Each word was a knife to my heart. I was glad I was wearing the Ray-Bans so that she couldn’t see the hurt in my eyes as she continued.

“He needs someone mature, independent, and with class. Someone who can take an active role in society, host dinner parties, and know what private schools are best for his son.”

His mother. He already had one and didn’t need another. Anger was rising in me like bread in an oven.

Her eyes narrowed into sharp slivers of glass. “I’d like you to consider dropping him, and I will make it worth your while.”

Was she bribing me?

“Help!” The word sounded loudly in my ears before I could respond.

Gwen jumped to her feet. “Oh my God,” I heard her mutter.

My eyes darted to the pool. Ben was in the deep end, flailing his arms. “Help!” he screamed again as his head sank under the water.

Vadim, fully clothed, was in the water too, swimming toward the child at Olympian speed. I held my breath while Gwen, truly terrified, cupped both hands over her mouth.

My eyes didn’t blink once as I watched Vadim pull the limp child out of the pool and onto the concrete. His mouth pressed against the child’s mouth as he pumped his large hands against his slender chest. My heart was in my throat…and then the little boy squirmed and bolted up. Gwen and I breathed out loud sighs of relief in unison.

“Oh, God. He almost drowned once before.”

“How?” I asked, my curiosity getting the better of me.

“His mother took a combination of sedatives and alcohol and fell asleep out here. While she was out, Ben fell into the pool; he was only a toddler. Had Olga not been bringing out lunch, we would have lost him.”

I digested her words. The picture of Ari’s ex-wife was getting clearer and clearer in my head. What other terrible things did she do to Ben…and my Adonis? Loathing for this woman was seeping through my veins.

Within seconds, Ben was back to his playful self, high-fiving Vadim.

“It looks like he’s okay,” I commented.

Turning to me, Gwen narrowed her incendiary eyes. “Sarah, my brother needs someone responsible. You’re just a child who throws temper tantrums in restaurants and wants to play with toys.”

Her words stung me like the wasp buzzing around me. She had no clue who I was. Or what I was capable of…literally no idea what I did to take care of both my mother and myself.

“Consider my offer, Sarah. I’ll draw up a contract.” She rolled up her magazine. “And one last thing, please don’t tell my brother about this incident. Ari would rather die than lose that child.”

She stalked back to the house, leaving me with decisions to make.

When I got back to the house, I learned that Ari was taking me to a cocktail party at the home of one of his clients. Gwen was staying put, looking forward to a quiet evening with Ben and Olga’s homemade pierogi for dinner. After our run-in this afternoon, I was glad she wasn’t coming along.

Before I headed back to the guesthouse to shower and change, Ari whispered in my ear. “Wear the jeans and a T-shirt. And the only panty line I want to see is that of your tan.”

No panties. No bra. No surprise.

Returning to my quarters, the first thing I did was call my mother again. Fortunately, this time she picked up. I inwardly sighed with relief. Though she sounded weary, it was good to hear her voice. I told her I was at the beach; she was pleased to hear that I was enjoying myself. I didn’t tell her I was spending the weekend with a stranger I met on a train. After I said goodbye to her, I immediately called Mrs. Blumberg and asked her to feed Jo-Jo. She had a spare set of keys to my apartment, allowing her access. Of course, the busybody wanted to know where I was. I told her I was visiting a girlfriend. She didn’t believe me and went on about the dangers of going away with men you didn’t know. “Didn’t you read in the papers about that poor girl who got stabbed to death by some meshuganah she met on the Internet?” Rolling my eyes, I told her to stop worrying, that I was fine.

I thanked her for taking care of Jo-Jo and hastily bid the naysayer goodbye. It was time to get ready for the party. I stripped off my clothes and headed to the bathroom.

The shower—with its state-of-the-art massage showerhead—was divine. But lonely. As the hot, pulsing water poured over me, kneading my muscles, I fantasized about Ari sharing the shower with me. Closing my eyes, I arched my head. I could see his face—those sexy, sapphire eyes—and feel his hard body against mine, his hands soaping me up all over. The space between my inner thighs ached for his thick length. And the stroke of his long fingers.

Craving his stimulation, I rubbed my soapy hand over my mound—stimulating my clit just like he did it. Pleasure? I wasn’t sure. I needed to come, and the only way I could was by imagining him. The orgasm came quickly, but not with the magnitude, endurance, or insane ecstasy he could give me. I was only placating myself, compensating for the emptiness I felt inside me. Masturbation had its place but not its glory.

As I dried myself with a thick, fluffy towel, my cell phone rang. Letting the towel fall to the tile floor, I ran out of the bathroom stark naked, thinking maybe something bad had happened to my mother. When it came to my mother, my mind always jumped to the worst-case scenario.

Hands shaking, I picked up the phone, which I’d left on the nightstand in the bedroom. The caller ID said “unknown caller” which freaked me out more. Maybe it was a doctor from the hospital calling.

“Hello,” I said, my voice quivering.

“Sarah.”

I recognized the shrill voice immediately. A sigh of relief was followed by a huff of disgust. It was my demanding boss—Catherine Sinclair. Why the hell was she calling me on a Sunday night, let alone a three-day weekend? I scrunched up my face as she continued.

“I’m just checking in to make sure you booked my trip to Nuremberg for the International Toy Fair.”

“All done,” I lied through clenched teeth. The damn Toy Fair was over a year away.

“And I can assume you got me first-class tickets and a suite at The Four Seasons?”

“Yes.” Sheesh!

“I want to extend the trip. After the convention ends, I want to go to Milan to do a little shopping. So be sure to add that to your ‘To Do’ list.”

“I assume you’ll want to stay at The Four Seasons?”

“Seriously, do you really have to ask? I don’t like it when you waste my time.”

And I don’t like it when you waste mine, I seethed silently.

“I will email you a list of the designers with whom I want you to book appointments. And while I’m there, I want to visit my hairdresser, Adolpho, so squeeze that in too. I expect everything to be taken care of by the time I walk into the office on Tuesday.”

“Of course.” Seriously?

“That’ll give you plenty to do over the rest of the weekend.”

My blood curdled. I already had plenty to do over the rest of the weekend and it had nothing to do with work. Or her.

“Are we clear?”

“Yes,” I mumbled.

“Good.” Once again without thanking me, she ended the call.

God, I hated working for this skanky bitch. She was a total slave driver—and an incompetent one—with no appreciation for all I did for her. There was only one saving grace. A least it was a job taking me one step closer to my dream of creating toys that would give joy to boys and girls. If only that could happen sooner than later.

Seething mad, I set my cell phone back on the nightstand and inhaled a deep breath to let go of the rage that was spiraling inside me. As I got dressed, my head spun at the prospect of going to a party in the Hamptons with my Trainman and the night ahead.

It was only a five-minute drive to the gated oceanfront house where the party was taking place. Unlike Ari’s New England-style cottage, this one was a spectacular Downton Abbey-like brick manor house surrounded by formal gardens, greenhouses, and stables. After valeting the Bentley, we were led to the vast backyard. About two hundred people sipping cocktails milled about. They were all perfectly tanned and chicly dressed, the women mostly wearing sophisticated sleeveless dresses and the men in jackets. Everyone oozed sex and money, and I felt out of place in my jeans and T-shirt.

As we ambled through the crowd, Ari turned heads. He was wearing white linen drawstring pants and a V-neck T-shirt that showed off his bronzed skin and biceps. I swear every woman was looking at him although Ari seemed oblivious to their stares. Holding his hand did not alleviate my anxiousness. Who knew better than me the effect this heart-stopping sex god could have.

“There’s my client,” said Ari, glancing to the right. “I need to spend some time with him.”

Breaking loose of my hand, he strutted in the direction of a debonair, silver-haired man clad in khakis and a navy blue blazer.

Please don’t leave me. I felt intimidated, surrounded by all these beautiful people I didn’t know and who were definitely way out of my league.

Ari needs a woman who is mature and independent. Ari’s sister’s words whirled around in my head. Okay, Sarah, plain and tall, be a big girl and mingle.

I snagged an hors d’oeuvre from one of the white-gloved waiters who were passing them around and strolled over to the bar. Maybe a glass of wine would loosen me up.

“I’ll have a glass of Chardonnay over ice,” I told the bartender.

“Sarah!”

My eyes popped. The raspy voice behind me was familiar. So familiar. Holding my wine, I spun around. Standing in my face was my best friend Lauren, dressed to the nines in a tight strapless dress that hugged her curves and matched her six-inch-high strappy stilettos.

We hugged and said it at the same time: “What are you doing here?”

I let Lauren answer first. “This is Taylor’s parents’ house. Remember, I told you they were throwing an impromptu cocktail party to celebrate our engagement?”

Some “impromptu party.” With the white-gloved staff and elegant décor, it looked like it had taken months to plan. I couldn’t even begin to imagine the scope of Lauren’s wedding as she asked for a glass of champagne.

Taking a sip of the bubbly, she flashed an auspicious grin. “And I bet you’re here with—”

“Yes, Ari,” I said, cutting her off. And then I remembered that Taylor’s father owned the largest chain of drug stores in the country. Of course, he must be one of Ari’s biggest clients.

“You’re next,” beamed my BFF, flaunting her boulder-sized engagement ring. The diamond sparkled under the moonlit sky.

I rolled my eyes and took another sip of my wine while Lauren chugged her champagne.

“Listen, I’ve got to go and spend some time with Taylor’s parents’ friends. I’ll catch up with you later. I want to hear everything.”

She sauntered off, strutting in her mile-high heels as if she were born wearing them. In the corner of my eye, I glimpsed Ari. My heart skipped a beat and my wine glass almost slipped from my hand. He was talking to a gorgeous blonde, who looked like she could be a movie star. One of his women? Or someone he just met and was hitting on? A mixture of jealousy and anger ripped through me. I thought about marching up to them—“Oh, hi, I’m Sarah, Ari’s girlfriend”—and then refrained. First of all, I wasn’t Ari’s girlfriend (I’d known him for all of forty-eight hours) and secondly, maybe I was jumping the gun and letting my insecurity take hold of me. Maybe she was just an acquaintance. Or an old friend. I was nonetheless miffed that he had left me alone, stranded for such a long time, and was ignoring me. Maybe he was testing me. To see how independent I was. To see if I could survive his crowd of movers and shakers.

And then, just as I got a grip, he took her in his arms and smacked a hot kiss on her lips. I’d seen enough. Draining my wine, I fled and thought about calling a cab. But where would I go? I sure as hell didn’t want to go back to his house and have an ugly confrontation with Gwen. Then, I thought about the train station we’d passed on our drive but doubted trains were running back to the city on a Sunday night in the middle of a holiday weekend. And I certainly couldn’t afford a cab ride into Manhattan. Right now, I just needed to be alone. With tears brimming in my eyes, I escaped the party, running aimlessly through the vast property, passing formal gardens, a tennis court, guesthouses, a pond with swans, and ending up at the pool area. The shimmering pool was surrounded by chaise lounges and off to the right was a lit-up pavilion.

Emotionally drained, I leaned against the pavilion and gazed up at the starry sky. As clear as the night was, I was in a thick fog. Yes, here I was at a glamorous party in the Hamptons with a gorgeous billionaire that I’d met only a couple of days ago, but I was just arm candy. As exciting as my life had been since I met him, loneliness and apprehension assaulted me. Even jealousy and insecurity came out of hiding. He had fucked a lot of women. I was just one of them. This man did not want commitment. And I, Sarah Greene, did not want to get hurt.

For all I knew, he would be going home with the stunning blond tonight. Maybe not fucking her in his bed, but fucking her somewhere. He was a player and that’s what players did. Tears pricked my eyes as I watched a shooting star rocket across the darkening sky. I didn’t need this. I had too much on my plate as it was, between my ailing mother and my demanding job. Before the weekend was over—maybe even tonight if I had the chance—I was going to end it. Tell him the truth that this “relationship” wasn’t right for me, that I needed more…someone who adored me and could be supportive, get me through this challenging time. Unbearable sadness swept over me. Who was I trying to fool? I was smitten by this man. Helplessly, hopelessly falling in love with him. And his little son. The timing was all wrong; that’s what it was. Fate fucked me over when I ended up sitting next to him on the train. As much as I longed to be in his arms, it just wasn’t meant to be. The tears that were threatening to fall could no longer be held back.

As I brushed them away, a familiar man’s voice startled me. “Hey, babe. Fancy meeting you here.”

I turned my head. My bleary eyes squinted at the husky male form about twenty feet away. It was Lauren’s fiancé Taylor, staggering toward me with a drink in his hand. His eyes were glazed, his lids hooded. He was drunk. Very drunk. I had seen him this way before way too many times.

“Watch’ya doing here, Sarah?” he mumbled as he stumbled up to me, slurring each word.

“I’ve got to go…head back to the party.” I hurried the words, pondering an exit strategy.

“What’s the rush, sweetheart?”

Before I could take a step, he pinned me hard against the stucco of the poolside pavilion. His hips pressing tightly against mine, he leaned into me. His warm breath reeked of alcohol. Whiskey? Gin? Vermouth? I was no expert.

“You look fucking hot tonight,” he breathed into my face, his fetid breath nauseating me.

I tried to wiggle myself free of him, but even in his drunken state, ex-football star, Taylor Hodges IV, was too strong for me.

His lips parted, and I was prepared for the worst as they moved in close to mine. Ugh! He was kissing me, his slobbering mouth all over mine. I squirmed as his tongue darted out and forced my lips to part. It rolled around my palate, its foul taste making me feel even more nauseated than I already was. His hands groped my breasts as his hips gyrated into mine. A hard bulge, growing between his thighs, dug into me through his chinos. I continued to resist him, but the more I struggled, the more forceful he became. I wanted to scream. I wanted to run. Oh God, get him off me.

“What the fuck?”

I knew that voice too. Ari! Oh God, what was he going to think?

In one swift move, he yanked Taylor away from me, sending his cocktail tumbler crashing to the ground.

“Hey dude, chill,” slurred Taylor.

Fury was blazing in Ari’s eyes. Balling his fist, he socked Taylor in the face, sending him to his knees.

“Hey man, what was that for?” winced Taylor, blood pouring from his nose.

“For the same reason I’m doing this, motherfucker.”

I cringed as Ari kicked him hard in the gut. Taylor clutched his stomach and groaned as Ari grabbed me by the elbow and jerked me away.

“I’m away from you for fifteen minutes, and you wander off with some asshole?” Rage mounted with every word.

“I can explain.” My voice shook.

“Remember, speak only when spoken to.”

Reducing me to silence with his harsh words, I hung my head low as we headed back to the party. Inside, I was fuming.

“We’re out of here,” he thundered, gripping my hand so hard it hurt.

He was moving so fast I could barely keep up with him. Unsteady in my platforms, I thought for sure I would twist an ankle. On the way out, I passed by Lauren. Engaged in conversation, she shot me a wink. I twitched back a fake, fleeting smile. My heart sank to my stomach. Did she know what a jerk her fiancé was? I wasn’t sure if I was going to tell her what happened. Especially when she was riding so high. When my emotions settled, I’d think about it more.

Ari and I shared a stretch of tense silence on the way back to his house. His mouth was pressed into a hard, angry line, and he didn’t look once at me. Finally, I had enough.

“You’ve got it all wrong,” I barked.

Silence.

“That jerk—Taylor Hodges IV—FYI, the son of your beloved client—is my best friend Lauren’s fiancé, and he hit on me.

Silence. His eyes narrowed. My nerves were little electrical pulses ready to explode. I was getting nowhere with him. This guy’s level of trust, on a scale of one to ten, was a minus twenty. A good part of me wanted to jump out of the car and hitch a ride back into the city.

With a sharp turn, the Bentley flew through the electronic gate of his estate as it opened. He sped down the pebble path that led to the house. The car came to a screeching halt in front of the shingled structure, and I hastily jumped out, not waiting for any I’m-a-gentleman door opening.

“I’m going to sleep,” I huffed. “And in the morning, I’ll be taking the train back to the city.” I stalked off in my platforms. He could keep them and everything else he bought me.

“Sarah, wait!” I heard a desperate voice call out.

Screw him. Without slowing down, I turned my head as he hopped the Bentley and then picked up my pace as he sprinted my way. Dammit. If only I could walk faster in these wedge sandals. Catching up to me in no time, he grabbed my shoulders, stopping me in my tracks, and then spun me around.

“Princess, I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I fucked up.”

Before I could say a word, he hauled me against him and crushed his velvety lips into mine. It was an all-encompassing kiss, full of tongue, passion, and remorse. I was melting like a candle, dripping with desire. I could not stay mad at this man. This god.

Slowly, he pulled away. My lips ached for more. My body ached for more. I wrapped my arms around his hard body, the way his were wrapped around mine, and leaned my head against his concrete chest. I closed my eyes. The waves in the distance lolled as he let me enjoy his warmth.

He clasped my hand from behind. “Come, Saarah, let’s take a walk on the beach. We need to talk.”

Hand in hand, we headed down to the beach in silence. Upon hitting the sand, we both kicked off our shoes. The sand was now cool and soothing beneath my soles. Ari wrapped a strong arm around me while I rested my head against his shoulder as we strolled.

The night couldn’t be more perfect. The temperature was still mild, and a myriad of stars danced around the full moon. The black as the night ocean was at low tide, the white-crested waves gently ebbing in and out.

“I’m sorry I acted that way with your friend’s fiancé,” said Ari, breaking the silence.

“He deserved it. Thanks for coming to my rescue.” Once again, he had been my heroic Power Ranger although not well intentioned.

“He’ll probably tell his father and I’ll lose my biggest account.” He shrugged, kicking up some sand.

“Nah. Macho Taylor would never tell a soul, including his father, that he got beat up.”

“Are you going to tell your friend?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. She’s so in love with him. Maybe it was just an act of drunken folly.” Although I knew damn well, this was not the first time Taylor had cheated on Lauren.

We stopped to look at the peaceful ocean and then, releasing my hand, he turned me around to face him. Tenderly, he tilted up my chin and looked into my eyes. “And I’m sorry I came down on you so hard.”

I twitched a little forgiving smile. “It’s okay. You didn’t know what was really going on.”

His eyes stayed on me. “Do you believe in love, Saarah?”

His question struck a deep chord inside me. I nodded. “Yes.” The way Tony unconditionally loved Maria in West Side Story. “What about you?”

He took a shaky breath. “I used to. I’m not sure anymore.”

Ah, the emotional scar left behind by his ex-wife. I yearned to tell him that scars can fade. Even my mother’s broken heart had mended after my father deserted her.

“Did your father love your mother?” I asked.

“Totally. He put her on a pedestal and worshipped her. He was very possessive of her.”

That explained a lot about his behavior. Like father, like son. He treated me like he owned me.

“And my mother loved him like none other. It took two years for my sister and me to convince her to sell our family home just outside Philly. That’s where all the family memories were stored…all the memories she needed to let go of to survive. Finally, she acquiesced and moved into the city to be close to us. She’s happy now, but I don’t think she’ll ever marry again. No one can ever replace my father.”

I understood what he said. Though my mother’s first love was hardly as adoring, there’d always been an attachment she couldn’t let go of. There had never been another.

I stared at the ocean, absorbing his words as the waves gently crested along the shoreline. The word “love,” which had been mentioned several times in our conversation, rolled silently over my tongue.

“Ari…”

“Yes?”

Do you think you can love someone again? The words I was burning to say stayed trapped in my throat, and instead I commented on his earlier behavior.

“You get jealous.” My observation was more lighthearted than judgmental.

He let out a short, sexy laugh. “Yeah, I confess. I get jealous. I wanted to kill that asshole.”

“You can be a very bad boy, Mr. Golden,” I laughed back.

“Ms. Greene, I was never good at sharing my toys.”

A pang of anger stabbed at me. “You think I’m a toy?”

“No, not at all.” He flicked the tip of my nose. “I just want you all for myself.”

“Then come and get me.”

Relieved, I didn’t know what made me do it, but I broke away from him and took off like the wind. Turning and running backward for a few yards, I shouted out at my shocked companion, “You said you could keep up with me. Prove it.”

Without waiting for a response, I sprinted across the sand.

“You’re going to pay for this, my pretty princess,” I heard him shout back.

I craned my neck and stole a look at him. He was running after me at hell-bent speed. I propelled my legs to run faster. My lungs were burning and so were my thighs. I looked over my shoulder one more time. Shit! He was gaining ground on me; I needed to run faster, but I couldn’t. Panting, I was losing speed and running out of stamina. I could feel him behind me, his breath on me. And then a powerful arm cinched my waist, stopping me dead in my tracks. He flipped me around, his breathing ragged.

“Saarah, it’s payback time.”

Holding me prisoner with one arm, he feverishly unbuttoned my jeans and yanked them down without even bothering to unzip them. Then, one-handedly, he pulled my T-shirt over my head and tossed it onto the sand. His lustful eyes made their way from my head to my toes, lingering on the obvious places.

“Fuck. You’re so, so beautiful.”

The words rolled off his tongue like a song. Then as he hauled me to him, a sharp slap sounded in my ears and a sharp sting zapped my ass. Simultaneously.

“You’re getting something my son never gets,” he breathed in my ear. “A good spanking.”

Holy crap! I’d never been spanked before in my life. My mother didn’t believe in that form of corporal punishment. And while I had always shuddered when I heard about other children being spanked, I was strangely looking forward to it.

Before I could take another heated breath, his large hand struck me again. Whack! I winced. And then again and again. Each slap louder and harder than the one before. With each blow, I let out a shriek, and tears stung my eyes. Yet, somehow, this licking was turning me on. Wetness was dripping down my legs, and I was tingling all over.

“You won’t stray from me again…will you, Saarah?”

Whack.

I shook my head no, stifling a cry.

“Good.”

My pulse racing, my muscles tightening, I was prepared for another swat of his hand, but instead the spanking stopped. He gently rubbed my raw, burning buttock. The pleasure mixed with the pain, creating an erotic cocktail that aroused every nerve in my body.

He grinned wickedly. “I’m not done with you.”

My heart thundered as I wondered what could be next.

In one swift move, he scooped me up and laid me down on the sand. The cool grains felt soothing against my burning ass.

“Spread your legs,” he ordered, all six-foot-three of his virile perfection, looming above me.

Trembling, I did what he asked.

My gaze stayed riveted on him as he loosened the drawstring of his linen pants, letting them fall to the sand before expertly stepping out of them and then tearing off his shirt. He stood above me in his naked glory, his enormous cock, hard and erect, aimed at me like a lethal weapon. Before I could blink an eye, he threw his torso upon mine and, with a savage grunt, plunged his steely spear deep inside me. I winced. Oh my warrior!

“You’re going to get it hard, my deviant little princess.” He grunted out each word, already grinding his raging hot length in and out of me without restraint. “So hard you’re going to beg me to stop—but I’m not—GRUNT—and when I’m done with you, you’re going to scream my name so loud you’re going to wake up all the fishies in the sea.”

Gah! A retribution fuck. I was speechless. The only sounds I was capable of were garbled shrieks and whimpers as he plundered me like a madman. Just two days ago, I was a virgin, being stretched by a stranger on a train, and now I was letting this relentless beast ravage me as if I’d done it my whole adult life. Digging my fingertips into the sand, I squeezed my muscles around his ruthless cock, bucking my hips to meet every forceful thrust. Rubbing my clit as he hammered me, he was taking me to the limit and sending me over the edge. Was this beautiful love or beautiful torture? I just hoped I wasn’t going to wake up his son or his sister.

Hovering above me, his breathing grew ragged, and wisps of his hair fell forward onto his gorgeous face. His eyes glinted with raw lust and passion. Pure primal need.

“Do you like it when I fuck your tight little pussy hard?” he panted out as I brushed back the flaxen strands.

I managed a weak nod. Don’t stop, now.

With a fiendish smirk, he accelerated his pace, pounding me faster and faster. Harder and harder. Fast and furiously. I wrapped my legs around him just to hold on, not knowing this action would allow him to drive into me even deeper. And much harder. My whimpers morphed into sobs. Loud, needy sobs that were begging for release. My climax was building with the force of a tidal wave and I could tell from the exquisite torture written on his face so was his.

Just when I thought he couldn’t go any deeper and I couldn’t take any more, he cupped his hands under my sore ass and lifted it up off the sand. Thrusting his cock one more time ruthlessly inside me, he cried out, “Now, princess!”

At his command, my orgasm crashed through me like a tsunami, taking every cell, every molecule of my being with it as his own epic orgasm chased my sea of fierce waves. I wailed happily, helplessly as he hoarsely shouted out my name and then collapsed on top of me.

Drowning in our sea of juices, he couldn’t move. Nor could I. The cold sand beneath me was a welcomed contrast to the heat of his sweat-laced body blanketing mine. Our breathing was still harsh as his hot release spilled out of me.

I don’t know how long we stayed in this position when he rolled off me. Recovered from his epic orgasm, he repositioned his glorious body so that he was perpendicular to me, his head resting on my warm breasts. He swiveled his head so that his eyes, two glistening stars, gazed at my face. I ruffled my fingers through his damp silky hair. His fingers danced along my neck, twirling around that strangely erotic spot below my chin as he let out a breathy sigh.

“That was fucking incredible, Saarah.”

“Yeah.”

I was basking in the aftermath of our mind-blowing orgasms. Despite the turbulence I’d just experienced, there was now peacefulness. Harmony. The soft waves of the ocean synchronized with the exquisite waves still rolling through me.

He flicked my chin. “Do you think you’ve been punished enough for one night?”

I jerked a little. Was he thinking of fucking me again? After all, he was still erect. I just wasn’t sure if I could handle it.

“Don’t worry. I’m not going to fuck you again although you are quite insatiable.”

I laughed. “Hey, I should be punishing you.”

“What do you mean?”

“You left me all alone at the party and flirted with that blonde. You even kissed her.”

He tugged at my ponytail. “Saarah, Saarah, Saarah. That jealous streak of yours rivals mine. That woman is my head of sales. Anne Connelly. And she happens to be happily married with two kids. The reason I kissed her is that she told me another one is on its way. Oh, and by the way, she’s gay.”

I gulped. I mistakenly jumped the gun. I needed to apologize. Before I could say a word, he rose to his feet, lifting me up with him. He drew me in close to him and smashed his lips against mine. The kiss was fierce, hot, and maddening. I melted into him as his warm tongue chased mine. Desire for another helping of his cock was rising inside me.

I pulled away, my confidence soaring. “I’m going to punish you anyway.”

I ran my fingers down his chiseled chest and over the ripples of his six-pack, heading toward his magnificent erection. To my shock, he caught my wrist, stopping me in my path before I could reach my final destination. His gaze met my shell-shocked eyes. The expression on his face was far from desirous. His eyes, half-moons, conveyed something between aloofness and anxiety.

“Saarah, get dressed. I need to—”

“Be there for your son.”

I finished the sentence for him. As much as I understood where he was coming from, I felt bereft. This was my real punishment for getting too close to him. With a weighty heart, I brushed the sand off my body and quickly donned my jeans and tee.

“Let me walk you back to the guesthouse,” he offered, sliding his linen pants up over his semi-erect length.

“Don’t bother. I’m a big girl.”

Without looking back, I sprinted across the sand. I was nothing more than a guest in his life. Someone who had to respect his rules and his space. Someone who had no right to tomorrow. I had to remember that. I was just his girl toy. Tears pricked my eyes. As I neared the guesthouse, I noticed the silhouette of someone perched on the upper terrace of the main house. The moonlight illuminated her face. It was Gwen. A shudder rippled through me. She had been spying on us.

CHAPTER 17

Ari

What the fuck was wrong with me?

A whirling dervish of emotions swirled through my head.

Remorse.

Confusion.

Guilt.

Frustration.

Lust.

Planting my hands on the front door to my beach house, I slammed my head against the hard slab of wood, hoping the pain would give me clarity. It didn’t. It only gave me a bigger headache than the one I already had. My head throbbed as much as my aching cock. Brushing off some sand, the only souvenir of this fucked up night, I let myself into the house. As usual, the door was unlocked.

The house was dark and quiet. Rubbing my throbbing head, I shuffled to the kitchen. I needed a stiff drink. Badly. Upon entering it, I turned on the light and got a surprise. Wearing a silk robe that resembled a kimono, my sister Gwen was seated at the island counter sipping a glass of red wine.

Her jade green eyes met mine. She didn’t seem as surprised to see me as I did to see her.

“What are you doing up?” I asked as I trod to a cabinet to pour myself a brandy. I found an open bottle of Hennessey and filled a tumbler to the brim. Wasting no time, I took a gulpful. The potent alcohol instantly burned through my veins. My head hurt a little less.

“I couldn’t sleep.” She took a sip of her wine. “How was your party?”

I drained my glass. “It was okay.”

“Looks like you and Sarah were having quite the good time on the beach.”

My blood curdled. I tightened my squeeze around the tumbler, fighting the urge to fling it across the room and smash it into smithereens.

“What the fuck, Gwen? You were spying on me?” Rage fueled my voice.

“No. I’m looking out for you.” Her voice stayed calm.

“What the hell do you mean?” My voice grew louder with each word.

“I’m not going to bullshit you, Ari. I don’t like that girl.”

My mind flashed back to Ben’s birthday dinner. It was plain and clear to me that my sister didn’t care for Sarah, but I thought bringing her here might warm Gwen up to her. The contempt in Gwen’s voice proved I was wrong. Very wrong.

“What don’t you like about her?” I challenged.

“Everything. She’s from the wrong side of the tracks. She’s way too young for you. And she has no understanding of your needs or Ben’s.”

“For your information, she gets me very well.”

“Oh, she knows how to suck you off?”

I heated with anger. “Don’t go there, Gwen.”

“Oh, does my brother need to get laid so badly that he’ll do it with a complete stranger he met on a train?”

Exploding with rage, I inhaled through my nose and exhaled loudly from my mouth. “My life is none of your business.”

She narrowed her eyes at me. “It is my business if you think I’m going to get you out of the next bad relationship that might cost you your life—or your son’s.”

My muscles tensed. I didn’t need or want to be reminded of Cassandra. “Sarah is nothing like Cassandra,” I said defensively.

My sister huffed. “Please. I spend my life in a courtroom reading people. She’s an irresponsible little shrew who’s after your money.”

“You’re wrong for a change, Gwen,” I barked back at my presumptuous sister. “Sarah has a job and her own apartment, and she’s the least pretentious or material woman I’ve ever met.”

“And she has no problem accepting expensive gifts from you? Do you really think for one minute I believed she bought that Prada dress and those shoes she was wearing last night? It had to be from you or one of her other sugar daddies.”

I was simmering to the point I could actually feel steam rising from my skin and smoke coming out of my nostrils. If she weren’t my sister, I would have told her to get the fuck out of here, but instead I put up with her rant.

“She’s a spoiled, needy little brat who can’t even look after a child.”

“What are you talking about?” It was pointless telling Gwen about how well Ben and Sarah got along.

Gwen flashed a fiendish smile. “Oh, then maybe I should tell you that she just sat there on a chaise lounge sunning herself while your son almost drowned in the pool this afternoon.”

My heart skipped a beat and my stomach twisted. Bile rose in my throat. I suddenly felt sick…like I was going to vomit.

“I don’t believe you.”

Gwen stood, adjusting the belt of her robe. “Be my guest. Ask her. I’m going to call it a night. Tomorrow’s another day, right?”

Wordlessly, I watched her glide out of the kitchen.

As soon as she was out of sight, I did something I’d been wanting to do. I picked up my tumbler and hurled it on the floor, watching it splinter into a million little pieces. Just like my heart.

And then I spun around and threw up in the sink.

CHAPTER 18

Sarah

When I arrived for breakfast in the main house the next morning, Ari, his son, and his sister were already seated around the kitchen island, eating pancakes. Gwen looked up from her New York Times and eyed me coldly. Ari was reading his Wall Street Journal, and Ben was playing a game on his iPad.

I helped myself to some coffee and joined them at the island.

“How did you sleep?” asked Ari, putting down his paper. He looked tired, the usual sparkle in his eyes gone.

Gwen shot me a smirk, clearly pleased that I hadn’t slept with her brother.

“The best I ever have,” I replied, shooting a smirk back at the manipulative Ice Queen to let her know I could read her mind.

I took a sip of my steaming coffee and yawned. To be honest, I slept terribly. The bed, with its fluffy down duvet and mountain of pillows, was as delicious as I’d imagined. But while the ocean sang a lullaby with its ebb and flow, I tossed and turned. Ari was a man of contradictions. He was tender and savage. Gentle and rough. Hot and cold. He wanted me; he didn’t. I was tormented by his ambivalence and began to question what this sexy billionaire saw in me. I was a no one. A plain, small-town girl with a messed up life. And though he called me his “beautiful princess,” my beauty probably paled next to the women he was used to fucking as well as to his ex-wife’s. He had said it himself—don’t count on a permanent relationship. There was no way this could work out, and I knew I had to cut it short while I still could. I was not, however, going to let his cunning sister Gwen in on my feelings of self-doubt and dread.

Ari, dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt, rose. I couldn’t take my eyes off his tanned, buff body. The sight of this godlike man who had ravaged me on the beach last night made my stomach flutter and insides ache. It hurt knowing I couldn’t have him.

“Sarah, I have to go back to the city this morning for an emergency business meeting. You’re free to stay here—my mother will be arriving shortly—and Gwen can take you home with Ben later. Or you can go back with me.”

His voice was matter-of-fact, almost cold. While I relished spending more time with Ari’s lovely mother and his delightful son, the thought of spending two hours in a car with his calculating sister was unbearable.

“I’ll go back with you,” I replied, aware of Gwen’s eyes on me.

“Fine. Please pack your bag. We’ll be leaving right after breakfast.”

We drove back to the city in Ari’s Bentley in silence, except for the Beethoven CD that played. Appassionata. He was brooding, but I didn’t dare ask him what was on his mind. My own mind was troubled too. How was I going to end it with him? Plus, I was worried about my mother; I was worried about Lauren, and I was worried about Jo-Jo. Fingers crossed Mrs. Blumberg had fed her and left her some water.

We made excellent time back into the city, missing the traffic that would for sure later clog up the roads when the long weekend came to a close. Ari dropped me off in front of my brownstone. He helped me with my bag and walked me to the front door. We shared another awkward stretch of silence until he finally broke it.

“I hope you enjoyed yourself, Sarah.” His voice was flat, and the way he said my name was clipped.

“Thanks. It was a great weekend.”

Anticipation, like a dangerous sparking wire, coursed through my body. Was he going to kiss me? Swoop me into his arms? Invite himself up to my apartment?

Instead, he gazed at me coolly. “I’ve got to go.”

Without touching me, he headed back to his car and took off. I longed for him to turn his head. Or even wave. He didn’t. Dammit. I should have ended it right then and there.

With a mixture of disappointment, sorrow, and regret, I watched as the Bentley rounded the corner and disappeared out of sight. Maybe I didn’t have to end it. Maybe he just had. His fear of commitment had gotten the better of him. Or I just wasn’t his supermodel type. Something in him had changed. The more I thought about it, the more I was sure that our relationship, if you could call it that, was over. Chances were I’d never see him again.

My heart heavy, I jammed the key into the front door, but no matter how much I jiggled it, I couldn’t get the damn door to open. Just my luck. I buzzed Mrs. Blumberg’s apartment, but there was no answer. And then, Mr. Costanzo’s, the pizza man. No answer. Great. I was locked outside.

As I lowered myself to the stoop and moped, Mrs. Blumberg came bursting out the front door with her shopping cart. There wasn’t a single day that went by that she didn’t shop for groceries. I suppose it gave her something to do.

“Young lady, didn’t your mother ever tell you that you could get infections down there from sitting on a dirty stoop?”

My “down there” throbbed. Once again, I felt robbed. Physically and emotionally.

Shaking her head in dismay, the elderly woman held the door open for me with her cart. I thanked her for taking care of Jo-Jo and trudged up the stairs with my pink overnight bag, filled with the clothes Ari bought me. Fortunately, I had no problem opening the door to my apartment.

Jo-Jo, with a loud hungry meow, greeted me and rubbed her head against my ankles. I threw my bag on the floor and hurried to the kitchen to feed her.

I checked my messages. None. Opened my refrigerator. Nothing. I decided I might as well use the rest of the day to try to find a second job to help pay for my mother’s treatments. Later, I would call her. And tonight, I would start on Catherine’s bookings. Fingers crossed the Internet was back up and running.

Not wasting time, I changed into my trusty combat boots and hit the pavement, still wearing one of Ari’s sundresses—and pantyless. The ache between my legs, which rivaled the ache in my heart, made it impossible to forget him as I combed the empty streets in search of part-time work. Most of the local restaurants were closed because of the holiday—including Mr. Costanzo’s pizza joint—and the few that were open had no employment opportunities. Exhausted and depressed after three futile hours of looking, I trudged back to my apartment in the late afternoon.

The first thing I did was call my mother. She sounded upbeat, a little stronger than usual. I tried to sound cheery, telling her that I had a nice weekend at the beach. While I wanted to pour my heart out to the person who was my best friend in life and confidant, I refrained because I didn’t want to pull down her spirits. Of course, I didn’t tell her about the insurance problem and, in fact, still had no idea how I was going to break that news to her. I told her that I was looking forward to seeing her again on Friday. By the end of the conversation, my mother sounded tired. We exchanged “I love you’s” and I hung up the phone.

I fed Jo-Jo again, and then boiled some water to make a cup of ramen noodles before starting in on my boss’s assignments. A loud rap at the door diverted my attention, and I turned off the stove. It must be Mrs. Blumberg. The busybody probably wanted to hear all about my weekend.

I slumped toward the door and peered through the peephole. My heart dropped to my stomach. It was him!

CHAPTER 19

Ari

After dropping Sarah off, I got a call from our factory in Hoboken. The “urgent” manufacturing problem had been solved so there was no need for me to schlep there. It was a welcomed relief, but now I didn’t know what to do for the rest of the day so I drove idly around the city. I just didn’t feel like going home to an empty apartment; not even Luisa would be there as I had given her the day off. The streets were deserted due to the holiday so I didn’t have to deal with the normal, stressful hustle-bustle. It was rare to drive through the city without being honked at, cut off, or having to hit the brakes for some crazy pedestrian dashing across the street.

Taking my Bentley for a spin when the city was empty usually relaxed me, but I felt wound up. The aimless driving did little to wash away the anger that was clawing at me. I was angry with my sister. I was even angrier with myself. While I cruised down Fifth Avenue passing landmarks like the Empire State Building and the venerable Public Library, I mulled over my conversation with my sister and her account of Ben’s pool incident. Gwen was never one to hold back, but the wrath she harbored for Sarah ate away at me. Okay, I may have been a poor judge of character when it came to my fucked up ex, Cassandra, but I was younger then. And stupid. Infatuated by her supermodel beauty, worldliness, and glamorous life. Sarah was different. She was down to earth, smart, and caring. She just didn’t strike me as someone who would sit there idly when someone was in danger. Especially an innocent child. For fuck’s sake, she designed children’s toys for a living. I should have never believed my sister. The shrewd lawyer would do or say anything to win her case. She’d been like that even as a kid—always twisting things to get her way. Our father had taught us both to be winners, but for Gwen, winning was everything.

I already missed Sarah. But I wasn’t sure if she’d see me again. I’d acted like a prick most of the weekend, showing my possessive side, and then I fucked her brains out and abandoned her. She wasn’t a girl I could simply fuck and forget. She’d gotten under my skin and now she was in my bloodstream. I could kick myself for the way I treated her this morning and on our drive back to the city. Moreover, I should have asked for her side of the story when it came to the pool incident. But foolishly, I didn’t. Instead, I gave her the silent treatment and dropped her off at her apartment like she was nothing more than a FedEx package. My heart pinched as I remorsefully looked into my rearview mirror. And then it skipped a beat. Crossing the fabled street behind me was Sarah, still in my sundress and wearing those funky boots she wore when I first met her.

Crap. There was no way to stop the car as the traffic, as light as it was, was moving, and there was no place to pull over. And I couldn’t turn to go around the block as the next street went one-way. The wrong way. West to east. And Sarah was at the southeast corner behind me heading west by foot. Taking a chance, I turned onto the next street I could hoping to catch up with her. But, shit, wouldn’t you know it…I turned right into an accident. A goddamn fender bender between two cabs. The two drivers were out of their vehicles in the middle of the street yelling at each other. Fuck. Shit. Fuck. The street was blocked and I couldn’t budge. Impatient and frustrated, I honked my horn, but it was futile. I was stuck here until the two idiots moved their cabs. Part of me thought about throwing the Bentley into park, hopping out of it, and running after my princess. But rationality got the better of me; leaving my $100,000 dollar car unattended wasn’t a bright idea. Clenching my steering wheel, I exhaled loudly and cursed under my breath, taking in my surroundings.

And then I saw it. A small specialty shop sandwiched between a Greek diner and a dry cleaner. And it was open. Serendipity…my mother’s favorite word.

Twenty long, frustrating minutes later, I was racing back uptown with my purchase.

Sarah said she liked toys. Well, she was definitely going to like this one.

At the next red light, my cock honked at me. It was ready to make up with Sarah and play.

CHAPTER 20

Sarah

Ari knocked again, his jewel blue eye shining through the peephole and meeting mine. Both my heart and mind were racing. How on earth did he get into the building? Mrs. Blumberg? Did he somehow make a set of my keys? All these questions swirled around my head, but the one that needed answering first was: What the hell was he doing here?

Tidying my ponytail, I unbolted the door and then swung it open. Still clad in his jeans and T-shirt, all six-foot-three of his gorgeousness stood before me, wearing a wicked grin. He looked as dazzling as ever and it took all I had to control myself. My heart was thudding so loudly I could hear it. Don’t let him get to you, Sarah.

Maintaining a poker face, I narrowed my eyes at him. “What do you want?”

“I came to apologize.” His eyes burnt into mine. “I’m sorry, my pretty princess, about some of my behavior this weekend.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” I said though my inner thought balloon was bursting to say, “Yes, you do, you jerk, and don’t call me your ‘pretty princess.’”

“I had a lot on my mind.”

“Did you solve your business crisis?” I asked, steering away from the events of the weekend.

He nodded. “It solved itself. I didn’t have to make a trip to our factory in Hoboken.”

“That’s good,” I replied, wondering how he’d spent the last few hours in the city.

“I’ve bought you something to make up for the way I treated you.”

For the first time, I noticed he was carrying a small shopping bag. Now what had he bought me? I felt wary about taking expensive gifts from him. If that’s the way he thought he could worm his way back into my heart, he was wrong. He was in my heart…my thudding heart. He’d never left it. Every nerve in my body was buzzing at the sight of him, especially the cluster between my pantyless legs. Despite his foibles, I was hopelessly attracted to this pillar of virile perfection like a moth to a flame.

“What is it?” I asked suspiciously, my gaze back on his face.

Again, that cocky grin spread across his lush lips; he was melting me. “A toy. I think you’ll like it.”

My eyes fell to the bag again. I didn’t recognize the name of the toyshop—The Pleasure Trove. Maybe a new store had recently opened up.

He flicked the tip of my nose with the forefinger of his free hand. “Are you going to let me in, Saarah?”

Oh! The way he said my name! And just the tiniest touch from him sent me spinning with desire. My body was warring with my mind. My mind said: “Go fuck yourself!” My body screamed: “Fuck me!” Guess what was winning.

“Fine.” I flung the word at him.

With a smug smile, he marched into my apartment as if he owned it, taking long strides toward the couch. I trailed behind him, my eyes glued to his perfect glutes.

Before either of us sat down, he pulled out a colorful cellophane-wrapped package from the bag. I glimpsed the name of the toy and said it to myself.

Sparky. The Vibrating Magic Wand.

“Okay, so you want me to wave this thingie and make magic?”

My voice dripped with sarcasm. What was he thinking? All right. He did know I worked for a toy company and loved toys. So, maybe this was his way of being thoughtful.

“Kind of.” He smirked. “It’s for your pussy…”

A cat toy for Jo-Jo? The last time he was here, he and the cat really got along. In fact, Jo-Jo was meowing and brushing against his ankles as we stood in the living room.

I quirked a small, awkward smile. “That’s really thoughtful of you, Ari, to buy my cat a toy.”

To my shock, he burst into hysterical laughter. “Saarah…Saarah…Saarah…”

“What?” I snapped, heating as if he was mocking me.

“Saarah, it’s a fucking vibrator.”

I didn’t have time to process his words. In one swift move, he scooped me up in his bronzed, brawny arms, set me down on the couch, and lifted up my dress, exposing my crotch. Smiling, he was obviously pleased I wasn’t wearing panties. He caressed my cluster of silky curls, his fingertips brushing along my hypersensitive clit.

“Princess, I love that you’re so ready for your new toy and you’re even so wet.”

Wet? That was an understatement. My pussy was swimming in my juices.

Wide-eyed, turned-on, and nervous as shit, I watched as he removed Sparky from the box and handed it to me. I studied it. It did resemble a sparkling toy wand—in fact, one that Ike’s Tikes manufactured that was very popular with little girls.

“Saarah, I want to watch you play with yourself,” he said, his voice deep and sexy.

I was having a mini-panic attack. If I understood correctly, he wanted me to put this big girl magic wand to my pussy. I bit down on my bottom lip as he dug his other hand into a jeans pocket.

“This will make it more fun for you.”

My pulse in my ears, I watched as he pulled out a small plastic package that was marked “Lubricating Gel.” He tore it open with his teeth and squirted the contents on the head of Sparky. He then flicked the “on” button, and it began to buzz. As I began to buzz with anticipation, his velvet voice rose above the loud hum.

“Now, let’s get you set up.”

On my next breath, he straddled my left leg over the arm of the couch and then bent the right one on the cushion. He guided my hand to my very exposed, very wet, quivering pussy, and I let out a little yelp as he helped me apply the surprisingly warm vibrator to my clit. Applying firm pressure, he moved the tip around it in small circles. I moaned. Oh my God! It was what his fingers could do to my magic button, multiplied many, many times.

“Okay, princess, it’s playtime for you.”

He let go of the vibrator allowing me to take over. I played with the toy, gliding it up and down my slick folds and then, after I was done exploring, placed it back on my clit. I could feel my temperature rising as my raging pussy fluttered with the intense pleasure I was giving myself. Strange erotic sounds escaped from my throat.

Ari loomed over me, his arms folded across his taut chest and his eyes trained on my pussy. A diabolical smile played on his lips, and as my eyes traveled down his body, they almost jumped out of their sockets. A huge bulge was threatening to burst through his fly. Holy shit! I was turning him on as I turned myself on.

Within minutes, the ultra-intense pressure, beyond anything I’d ever felt down there before, became unbearable. Flinging back my head, I squeezed my eyes shut and whimpered. I wanted to stop but forced myself to continue. I was buzzing my way to ecstasy.

“Saarah, are you having fun?”

I was in no state to respond. I was peaking. Combusting with orgasmic pleasure. Shrieking with euphoric relief.

“Princess, now it’s my turn to play with you.”

Oh no, don’t take away my toy! I’ve been a good girl!

I was in no condition to fight him as he pried away the vibrator and rolled me over. Still stunned by my out of this world orgasm, I was now on my tummy, my pelvic bones and elbows propping me up. In one smooth move, he spread my legs and bent them upward so that the soles of my feet faced the ceiling.

Sparky descended on my clit once again, and my back arched sharply as if I were doing an upward dog yoga pose. My neck was so taut I thought it would snap. My muscles clenched as I built toward another earth-shattering climax. Oh God! How much more stimulation could my clit take?

“Come for me, baby,” I heard my playmate breathe out.

I was so close I could almost taste it. The throbbing was insufferable until finally my bubble burst again with such orgasmic force I shuddered. As I cried out my climax, I felt the weight of his body on mine. His knees, straddled, pressed into my hips and his palms pressed over the backs of my hands. I couldn’t move as he nuzzled my neck.

“Playtime isn’t over yet, my sweet toy.”

Removing the vibrator, he powered his magic wand inside me. Oh my God! He was so hard! So hot! So deep!

“Oh, Saarah,” he rasped as he drove his thick length in and out of me with velocity and ferocity. “It’s so much fun to play with you.”

As my clit continued to pulse, his forceful fullness awoke every fiber of my being. Each time he sank his cock back into me, I flexed my hips to meet his thrust, deepening the pleasure not only for me but also for him. Ari groaned loudly as I shrieked at the top of my lungs. I buried my face into the couch to muffle my sounds, fearful that if Mrs. Blumberg heard them she would think I was in danger and call 911. Which maybe wasn’t a bad idea because I honestly thought I was going to die from his ruthless assault.

“Now, baby!” he ordered as he rammed his length once more into my magic spot.

Accompanied by a long, loud grunt, his cock convulsed, spurting hotly into the depth of my core. As his spasms rocked my quivering walls, wave after wave of ecstasy swept through me with reckless abandon. They kept coming and coming. My whole body shook under the weight of his torso. I could hear myself moan as he collapsed on top of me.

Hoarsely, he whispered into my ear, “Oh, my princess.”

His head crashed onto my back as his body, a dead weight, lay splayed atop mine. Slowly, he pulled out of me and then mustered the strength to stand up. Wasted, I forced myself to roll over and sit up. I drank in his face. He looked totally spent yet so breathtakingly sexy—his eyes, heavy and hooded…his hair, a wild tousled mess…and his mouth, a parted, kissable vestibule for taking in air. He met my gaze and we said it in unison: “Holy fuck.”

“I’ll be right back,” he managed, a few ragged breaths later.

He staggered to the kitchen and then returned with a moist dishtowel. My eyes stayed fixed on him as he cleaned himself up and slipped on his jeans. I just never got tired of looking at this gorgeous specimen of mankind. My beautiful Trainman.

“Saarah, do you have a pen?” he asked as he zipped his fly over his still swollen cock. He had regained his strength and now once again was that powerful, intimidating Adonis.

My eyes searched the small living room and spotted one on the desk where I kept my old, ready-to-shut-down-forever computer. My knees weak, I retrieved it. Beneath my dress, our hot melded juices rolled down my inner thighs.

Now fully recovered, Ari plucked the pen from me and dug his hand into a jeans pocket. My eyes grew wide. What he pulled out was a crisp hundred-dollar bill. Pasting it against the wall, he scribbled something on it. He turned around, and with the bill in his hand, gazed at me intensely with his piercing blue eyes.

“I want you to have this. In case of an emergency. My cell phone number is written on it. If you ever need me, I want you to call me. But promise you won’t give out the number to anyone. I safeguard my privacy.”

I nodded and let him slip the hundred-dollar bill into my hand.

“I have to go. Ben will be home soon. It’s a school night.”

He strutted to the door and swung it open. My heart was a sinking ship, knowing that this was goodbye again. Holding the door open with his foot, he leaned against the doorway.

“Come here, princess,” he ordered, motioning with his finger.

Fighting back tears, I slowly padded over to him. He hooked his arm around my waist, drawing me next to him, chest against chest. He smacked a hot kiss on my lips and then flashed that dazzling, dimpled smile.

“Saarah, I must say you are definitely an expert when it comes to toys.”

And with that, he jogged down the stairs.

I closed the door behind me and slid down against it into a crouching position. I stared at his hundred-dollar bill, not knowing if I should be insulted by it or flattered. All at once, I felt like a spurned lover, an orphan, and a whore. Was I nothing but a girl toy to him? Something, not someone, he’d grow tired of that could be passed on or simply thrown away? One minute he made me feel loved; the next minute he made me feel used. The jumble of emotions was overwhelming. Folding my arms across my shins, I buried my head between my knees and wept for everything that was uncertain in my complicated life.

CHAPTER 21

Ari

When I got back to my empty apartment, I was buzzed. Drunk with my princess, Sarah Greene. I was glad I’d gone over to her place to make amends, and that vibrator sure went over big. In more ways than one. I already missed her and there was a big part of me (no pun intended) that wished she would call me on my cell phone. She was the only woman I’d given it to aside from my mother, my sister, and my top female executives.

After I dropped my weekender bag off in my bedroom, I headed to the kitchen to grab a beer and fix myself a quick bite to eat. I’d barely eaten all day. On my way, the intercom buzzed. It was the doorman, letting me know that my sister and Ben were on their way up. I wasn’t expecting them back so soon. Maybe they left the Hamptons early or didn’t have a problem with traffic.

When the elevator door parted, Ben came flying out and I swung him in the air.

“Hey, bud! Did you have a good trip back?”

“Yeah. Aunt Gwen stopped at a Dairy Queen and bought me ice cream!”

“Cool.” My eyes met Gwen’s. “Thanks for bringing him back.”

“No, problem.” She propped up Ben’s roller bag on the marble floor. “He slept most of the way home.”

Her voice was as cold as ice, her face tight. Whatever barrier Sarah had created between us was in full force. My twin sister was not one to step down and neither was I. We were two peas from the same stubborn pod.

I toyed with the idea of telling her that I’d just come from Sarah’s place just to piss her off. It was strange how the dynamics between us were the same as when we were kids, but she didn’t give me a chance.

“Ari, I’ve got to go. I have an early day in court tomorrow.”

She eyed me suspiciously, perhaps distrustful of the sparkle in my eyes.

“Please think about what we talked about last night. She’s no good for you. If you don’t end it, I will.”

Her cold, threatening tone sent a chill down my spine.

“What’s Aunt Gwen talking about,” asked Ben, still in my arms.

I put him down. “Nothing you need to know about.” I gave him an affectionate pat on his bottom. “Why don’t you go to your room, put your clothes away, and get into your pajamas and we’ll make macaroni and cheese together.”

“Yay!” shouted Ben, grabbing his suitcase and scooting down the long hall.

Gwen’s frosty eyes stayed locked on me. “He deserves better. Goodnight, Ari.”

With that, she turned on her heel, letting herself out and leaving me simmering.

I’ll confess. I was good at a lot of things, but cooking wasn’t one of them. My idea of cooking was microwaving a package of frozen mac ’n cheese, but I was lucky because this was one of Ben’s favorite things to eat.

Sitting at the kitchen island counter facing each other, we devoured our tubs of the super orangey, soupy stuff, which I’m sure was made with fake cheese and had tons of bad additives. But it was so fucking good.

“Daddy,” said Ben, scraping the bottom of his tin with his fork, “did Aunt Gwen tell you about what happened at the pool yesterday?”

My stomach twisting, I set down my fork. “No, tell me.”

Five minutes later, I’d heard the whole goddamn story straight from the horse’s mouth. No details spared. While in ordinary circumstances, this life or death encounter would have gutted me—there was nothing more sacred to me than my son’s life—his explicit narrative sent hot rage shooting through my veins.

Fucking Gwen. She had lied to me about Sarah sitting there idly just as I thought. Ben had gotten a cramp while swimming in the deep end and his close-by bodyguard Vadim, who watched him like a hawk, had instantly come to his rescue. My princess was a witness to Vadim’s quick reflexes as was Gwen.

Simmering, I dismissed Ben from the table, telling him to go watch TV and that I’d bring him Twinkies and ice cream. A new Power Rangers episode would likely be playing on Nick. He couldn’t have been happier.

As I cleaned up, my rage morphed into fear. I had to win Sarah before Gwen got to her. As soon as the last utensil was in the dishwasher, I made a call.

CHAPTER 22

Sarah

I woke up the next morning at the crack of dawn. Tuesday. Work. I didn’t need an alarm to get me up. The vibrations between my thighs from last night’s playdate with Ari were enough. I could practically hear the throbbing.

I went through the steps of my usual workday routine. Feed the cat. Coffee. My birth control pill. A quick jog around the neighborhood. Shower. Get dressed. I threw on a loose-fitting gray Urban Outfitters dress that Lauren has passed down to me because it wasn’t her style, laced up my combat boots, and organized my messenger bag. At the last minute, I slipped Ari’s one hundred dollar bill into my wallet though I still had very mixed feelings about it. Good to go, I grabbed my skateboard. Yes, that’s how I commuted back and forth to my office located between Broadway and West Twenty-Third Street. My skateboard was a fast, economical, and reliable means of transportation.

It took me a half hour to get downtown, weaving in and out of the early-morning commuters skittering like mice along the city streets. The landmark cast-iron clock outside the iconic Toy Center Building, which dated back to 1909, read seven thirty-five. Perfect. That would give me plenty of time to finish up Catherine’s ridiculous assignments. While I’d gotten most of them done, the bitch didn’t send me a list of the fashion designers she wanted to visit in Milan until ten p.m. And by that hour, I was too emotionally and physically drained by Ari’s mind-fucking plundering to begin it. Fingers crossed I could get it all done by the time she showed up, I thought as I headed into the building with my skateboard clutched under my arm.

No matter how much I despised working for Catherine, I always got a rush of excitement when I stepped foot inside the building where I worked. There was a contagious, electrifying energy and I could feel the creative juices flowing. I’d finally landed a job where I belonged. One day, I hoped all my hard work—and talent—would pay off, and I’d be sitting in a corner office like Catherine’s overlooking the Flatiron District and displaying all the toys I’d developed. Stepping into the elevator that was packed like sardines with familiar faces, I dreamt about what the future might bring.

Ike’s Tikes was located on the twelfth floor. When the elevator doors parted, I wormed my way out of the still packed car and headed to our headquarters. Someone was ahead of me walking in the same direction. I recognized him by his girth and his shiny, thick black wavy hair. It was Ike Abrams, the founder and president of the company. We got to the entrance of the office at about the same time, and I thanked him for holding the door open for me.

He responded with a warm smile. I’d only run into him a few times and I’m sure he had no clue who I was.

“You’re here early,” he said brightly as we stepped into the colorful reception area that was filled with those award-winning beanbag toys everywhere you looked.

“Yes, sir. I have a lot of work to do.”

“Who do you work for?”

“Catherine Sinclair.” I debated whether to tell him my name but chose not to since he didn’t ask.

He smiled again. “Great. She’s one hell of a woman.”

If he only knew!

“You’ll learn a lot from her.”

I mentally rolled my eyes. Yup. In addition to knowing the layout of the Chanel makeup counter at Bergdorf’s by heart, I now knew the name of every major Italian fashion designer.

Moving past the reception area, Ike and I amicably parted ways, with him going down a different hallway to his office. His side of the U-shaped office was devoted to those who worked on Ike’s Tikes, which was the company’s cash cow. Catherine’s office was in the new development and business affairs area, and was the biggest among them. My desk sat outside it.

Other than Ike, I was likely the first person here. There was an eerie peacefulness as I marched down the dimly lit hall filled with empty cubicles and offices. In less than two hours, there would be a totally different vibe, the office space filled with dozens of employees working collectively to come up with the next breakout toy.

When I got to my desk, my mouth fell to the floor. Someone had been here before me. Waiting for me was an elegant crystal vase filled with a dozen of the most perfect long-stemmed red roses I’d ever seen. I knew whom they were from without having to open the small envelope propped against the vase. How the hell did he know where I worked? Duh! Of course. I mentioned it to him and his family at Ben’s birthday dinner the other night.

“Hay, caramba!”

I spun around. It was Fernando Suarez, my best friend at work, who, like me, tended to be an early bird. As usual, he was wearing his all-black uniform—tight jeans and an equally tight T-shirt that exposed his pumped up boyish body.

His dark eyes lit up. “Señorita Sarah found a boyfriend over the weekend?”

“Hardly,” I snapped back at him.

While I adored Fernando, a gorgeous gay guy of Filipino-Cuban descent, who worked in the packaging division (those cool Ike’s Tikes’ birth certificate tags were totally his creation), he could often be annoying. Very annoying.

“Have lunch with me later, mí querida.” He winked. “I want to hear everything.”

My eyes stayed on him as he sashayed down the corridor toward his cubicle and disappeared. Parking my skateboard under my desk, I sat down and tore open the envelope, which had my name printed on it. My hand was shaking as I read the notecard inside.

Dear Sarah~

I enjoyed my long weekend with you. I trust you did too.

Yours~ Ari

My heart fluttered, and I felt my face flush. I slipped the note into my top desk drawer, very aware of the vibrations between my inner thighs. I wondered when I would see him again. I got the feeling he was devoted to Ben during the week, something I understood and respected. Yet, I found myself hungering for him.

Forcing myself to focus on my work, I booted up my computer and checked my emails. The majority of them were from Catherine sent this morning. More ridiculous things to do like picking up her dry cleaning, setting up her waxing appointment, and color-coding her files. Didn’t she have anything better to do first thing in the morning than piling a crapload of chores on me?

I got to work, resenting every minute. Just as I finished booking her trip to Milan and setting up all the appointments she requested, a familiar clickety-clack sounded in my ears. Shit. Catherine was here. Nine a.m. This was early for her. Her usual ETA was ten. Maybe she had a restful weekend and was in a good mood. If so, later today I could ask her for a raise or persuade her to let me work more extra hours to help me pay for my mother’s treatments.

“Did you book my Milan trip?” Not even a good morning.

I looked up from my computer. “Yes, I just got done booking your entire trip. Do you want me to forward you the itinerary?”

Silence. Not even a thank you. Her serpentine eyes lingered on my roses and mine on her outfit du jour.

As usual, with her svelte supermodel figure, she was a walking advertisement for Chanel. Today she was wearing a classic Chanel suit—a smart little black and white tweed number with fringed embellishments—and matching “CC” pumps. Layers of faux pearls were strung around her long neck and a bright red “CC” monogrammed headband held back her waist-length raven black hair.

“Roses?” she said frostily as she passed my desk. “I must be paying you way too much for you to afford them.”

“Someone sent them to me.” My voice quivered. Nope. Not a good day to ask for a raise.

She eyed me with contempt. “Really? That’s a surprise.”

God, she was a bitch. I’d been working for her for a little over a month, and I’d never heard a kind word out of her mouth. Not once.

“Well, I don’t want you to be smelling the roses all day. We have lots to do.”

She dug her manicured hand into her black leather Chanel briefcase (God knows how much that cost) and pulled out a two-inch thick folder.

“Last month’s expenses. I want them done by the end of the day.”

She slapped the folder down on my desk and marched into her office, slamming the door behind her. Reluctantly, I opened it and scanned the receipts. Yowzer! This woman ate out at expensive restaurants morning, noon, and night. Breakfast at The Four Seasons…Lunch at Le Cirque…Dinner at Nobu. And since when was a thirty dollar tube of Chanel lipstick (for which I schlepped uptown to Bergdorf’s to purchase on my lunch break) an “emergency business expense”? Given the number of receipts in the folder, it was going to take me hours to prepare her expense report. I needed to get going on the tedious job right away. Just as I start arranging the assorted receipts by date, the phone rang.

“Boys’ toys,” I answered. Catherine never wanted me to give out her name unless it was absolutely necessary.

“Saarah…do you like your flowers?”

That voice! I recognized it instantly. My heart raced, and the phone receiver shook in my hand. It was him!

“Um, uh, they’re very pretty.” Who was I kidding? They were magnificent, and their intoxicating scent was making me dizzy.

“Good. I have a meeting in the city today. I shall collect you outside your office at six sharp for an early dinner. Ben has school tomorrow.” CLICK.

Shit! He didn’t even give me the chance to tell him that I might not be able to make dinner because of all the work my tyrannical boss was piling on me. With my mother’s health care crisis, I couldn’t afford to lose my job.

I immediately got back to work on the expense report, but my mind kept drifting to what I was going to wear on my date with Ari. My drab dress was not going to cut it. Sadly, I couldn’t afford to buy a new one, and there was no time to scoot up to my apartment to change into one of his pretty sundresses. As my heart pounded, wetness pooled between my legs. My cotton panties were soaked. Well, at least I knew what I was not going to wear.

I was still on the first week’s worth of expenses when Catherine came charging out of her office. A file marked “Competitive Boys’ Toys” was in her hand.

“Ike just called an emergency meeting with the design team in the boardroom. He wants me to demonstrate the top-selling boys’ toys.” Her voice sounded panicked as it always did when Ike pulled this kind of stuff. “I need you to come with me. Let’s go.”

I straightened up. This was not the first time I had to accompany Catherine to a meeting and be her puppet. Maybe she’d had great success creating the bestselling girls’ toyline of all times—Poutz—but she didn’t know the first thing about boys’ toys. As I followed her down the hallway to Ike’s boardroom, I anticipated assembling robots, action figures, and assault vehicles and then demonstrating how they worked while my wretched boss sat back in her chair and fluffed her hair.

Ike’s boardroom consisted of a long cherry wood table, a dozen black leather swivel chairs, a giant flat screen TV, and framed posters of all of the company’s successful toys. Ike, who was in his early 50’s, and the motley design team which included Fernando, were already seated around the table when Catherine and I entered the room. A dozen popular boys’ toys were scattered on the shiny wood, including a Power Rangers Zord, a Transformers action figure, and a Star Wars battleship. We took the two empty seats next to Ike, who was seated at the head of the table.

Ike got right down to business. “So, Catherine, can you please show me how little boys play with these toys.”

My inept boss smirked, looking my way. “My assistant will show you. She’s such a boy at heart.”

Her patronizing words made me cringe. Okay, I might have been a tomboy growing up, but I wondered if she knew that I could fuck a man’s brains out. And not just any man. A god. An Adonis. Ari’s beautiful face filled my mind and a tingling sensation coursed through my body, intensifying at my crotch.

Ike made eye contact with me, for sure recognizing me from our earlier encounter. With an encouraging smile, he asked me to get started.

My confidence soaring, I demonstrated each toy, one by one, complete with POW! ZING! VROOM! sound effects. Ike watched attentively, nodding his head throughout my presentation. When I was done, he thanked me, looking pleased, and returned his attention to Catherine.

“So, Catherine, what do you think we should be developing in the boys’ market?”

“Robots are always a safe bet. So are dinosaurs,” she said with authority and self-assuredness.

Ike furrowed his bushy eyebrows. “But there’s such a glut of robots and dinosaurs out there. We need something new. Something different. Something that will break out from the pack.” He turned to me. “Do you have any ideas?”

Moi? He wanted to hear from me, a lowly assistant?

Catherine shot me a dirty look. I wasn’t intimidated.

“Mr. Abrams, I think parents are looking for something that’s high-tech, educational, and not too violent.”

Ike’s face brightened. “I totally agree with you, Ms.—”

“Greene. Sarah Greene,” I said proudly.

Catherine was smoldering, her nostrils flared. I could practically see puffs of smoke coming out of her ears.

Ike turned to my flustered boss. “Catherine, by Thursday, I’d like to hear at least six concepts for a breakthrough boys’ toyline. Please work with the design team.”

“Not a problem,” responded Catherine, recovering quickly. Her voice oozed with an air of faux confidence.

Ike thanked everyone, and the meeting was adjourned. As he exited the boardroom, he shot me another smile. On cloud nine, I twitched one back at him as he left the room.

My high was short lived. Back to fuming, Catherine marched hell-bent down the hall to her office. I trailed behind the clickety-clack of her Chanel pumps. When I got back to my cubicle outside her office, there was, to my surprise, a large gift-wrapped box sitting on my desk. I immediately recognized the violet paper and humongous white bow. It was from Bergdorf’s and I immediately knew who had sent it to me. There was no card, just a label with my name printed on it. My heart was pounding.

Catherine’s pillowy Chanel-red lips slithered into a smile. “Oh, that must be the special order I placed at Bergdorf’s over the weekend.”

I broke the “bad news” to her. “Um, uh, it’s for me.”

Catherine’s eyes almost popped out of their sockets. I wish I had a camera to capture the expression on her face. It was a combination of utter disbelief, disgust, and disdain.

She scoffed at me. “You have no business shopping at Bergdorf’s. I want you to stay glued to your desk at lunch and come up with some ideas for a new boys’ toyline.” She threw the competitive analysis file at me and stomped into her office. “And don’t forget to confirm my lunch reservation at Cipriani’s for two,” she called out before slamming the door behind her.

Despite how much I wanted to open my package from Bergdorf’s, I spent the rest of the morning studying the file. There was definitely a need for something new, something different in the boys’ toy arena. At noon, Catherine popped out of her office.

“I’ll be out of the office for two hours. Please screen all my phone calls, and remember, do not give out my cell number to anyone.”

After refreshing her lipstick, she stalked down the hall toward the bank of elevators. I sighed with relief. She was gone. I could finally open up my package.

Just as I was about to unwrap it, Fernando stopped by my desk. I had totally forgotten we had made a lunch date.

“Ooh, fancy schmancy Bergdorf’s box. Since when have they been paying you the big bucks, mí amor?”

“It’s a gift.”

“Ooh. Mí amiga has a hot sugar daddy.”

I felt myself flushing. “No, not exactly.”

“Come on, mí amor. Open, open! Let me see what you got.”

I twisted my face in frustration. I knew I wasn’t going to get rid of Fernando. He was somewhat of a leech, albeit an admittedly lovable and not hard to look at one. A dead ringer for George Chakiris—Bernardo in West Side Story. With his jet-black hair, exotic chiseled face, and tight little ass, he could have easily been a male model. Or an actor.

My heart hammering with anticipation, I carefully tore off the wrapping paper and opened the box. My eyes grew wide. Inside, under layers of tissue paper was a breathtaking hot pink strapless dress with a thigh-high slit extending from the hem. A pair of strappy silver stilettos accompanied the dress.

“Ooh! Alexander Wang. I love him!” exclaimed Fernando.

The raving fashionista made me stand up and hold the dress against my body.

Another “hay caramba.” “That is so fucking hot. Bebé, you are going to get some major action.”

My cheeks heated further. I could always count on Fernando for brutal honestly. And that’s why I loved him from the day I met him. He had become my best friend and confidant at Ike’s Tikes. I knew everything about him, including his longtime relationship with one of the city’s top window display designers, who he hoped one day to marry. I, in turn, could tell him anything and everything. He was one of the few people in the world who knew about my ambitions, financial woes, mother’s illness, and my bitch of a boss. I, however, wasn’t going to tell him anything about Ari. I couldn’t jeopardize my relationship with him or his cherished privacy. I just wasn’t sure how I was going to get away with it with my tell-me-everything amigo. Fortunately, luck was on my side.

“Fernando’s tight tummy is screaming, ‘Tengo hambre.’”

I told Fernando that Catherine had ordered me to stay at my desk at lunch. I couldn’t leave in case she came back early even though that was unlikely. No problema. Fernando offered to go to the commissary and bring back lunch for both of us. We could eat and talk at my desk.

Over chicken tortillas, we gossiped mostly about Catherine. Fernando lived for gossip and had collected a lot of dirt about my tyrannical boss. Her background was a little sketchy. She lived in Europe for a while, worked at a major European fashion house, and then was recruited by an up and coming toy company to develop a girls’ lifestyle brand. The Angelina Jolie look-alike Poutz dolls she created took off immediately, knocking Barbie off her throne. Rumor had it that she stole the idea for Poutz from a rival designer, but it could never be proven. Ike Abrams hired her with the hope she could work her magic, developing a breakout boys’ toyline for his company. Supposedly, to lure her away from the other toy manufacturer, he had to give her the title of President, Boys’ Toys and all the perks that came along with that title—including a driver, an unlimited expense account, and a three-year one million dollar a year contract with bonuses. Boy, I wish that would happen to me one day. I just had to work hard. And be patient. Good things happen to those who wait, my mother always said. Given her precarious health condition and my dire straits, I hoped sooner than later.

As we came close to finishing lunch, the phone rang. “Boys’ toys,” I answered.

“Saarah, do you like your dress?”

I could feel my face reddening. “It’s lovely.”

Know-it-all Fernando knew right away who was on the other line. “It’s him, sí?” he mouthed, pointing to the box still on my desk.

I nodded like one of those bobble-head dolls, putting a finger to my lips to shush him.

“I thought you could use a little more color,” said the voice on the phone.

If Ari could see my face now, he might think differently.

“I look forward to seeing you in it.” CLICK.

With a shaking hand, I hung up the phone.

“Okay, chica, spill the beans,” said Fernando, eager to hear the dirt.

I took a deep breath. “Okay, I met someone. He’s very rich and very nice.”

“And muy bueno in bed?”

My silent blush gave away the answer.

“Fantástico!” Fernando clapped his hands with the glee of a child getting a sweet. He was genuinely thrilled for me. That’s what I loved about him.

“What is going on here?”

Gah! It was Catherine. She was back unexpectedly early. I quickly hid the box with the dress and shoes under my desk.

Venom poured from her eyes. “Sarah, I thought I told you to work over lunch.”

Words were trapped in my throat, but fortunately, Fernando came to my rescue.

“We were brainstorming. We have some really good ideas for the next big boys’ toy.”

“Very well. I look forward to hearing them.”

She marched into her office and slammed the door behind her. Shortly afterward, Fernando went back to his cubicle, and I spent the rest of the uneventful afternoon finishing Catherine’s expense report and thinking about my date with Ari. She spent it behind a closed door. I had no idea what she did all day although I imagined she spent most of her time online browsing Chanel.com.

At three p.m. Catherine emerged from her office, all spruced up. She stopped at my desk.

“I’m off to my colorist. I do hope you let Ike know that I can’t make the staff meeting…discreetly.”

“Yes.” I nodded. “I did as you asked.” The skanky bitch liar…some doctor’s appointment.

“And then I have cocktails and dinner tonight.” Her venomous eyes locked on me. “Can I assume before you leave you will get all your work done?”

I flashed a fleeting smile at her. “Yes. Your expense report is all done, and I’ve set up your waxing appointment for Friday. I’m working now on your files.”

“Good.” Again, there was no thank you as she stomped off.

Good on my end too. She was gone for the day. I could get ready for my Trainman, who would be picking me up soon. My heart fluttered.

CHAPTER 23

Ari

Dr. Harold Zimmer’s office was what you would expect of a top Manhattan psychiatrist. Located in a venerable building on upper Fifth Avenue, it overlooked Central Park and that in and out of itself was calming. The spacious office was likewise soothing, decorated in muted shades of beige with sleek furnishings that included a large mid-century teak desk. His numerous degrees and awards dotted the walls along with framed photos of his family. In practice for almost forty years, he had been a classmate of my father’s at Penn State and had remained good friends with him until his untimely death. Having grown up with him my entire life, he was like a surrogate father. After the Cassandra incident, I’d been seeing him regularly to deal with my issues—my overbearing need to protect Ben and my fear of commitment. He knew everything about my life, including my business dealings, meaningless hook-ups, and the love-hate relationship with my sister. He did not, however, know about the new force in my life: Sarah.

Sitting in a club chair angled toward me while I sat on the cushy couch, the good doctor adjusted his steel frame eyeglasses and eased into our weekly session. After some small talk about the weather and our families, he asked me what I wanted to talk about.

I shifted in my spot and fidgeted my fingers. “I met someone.”

Dr. Zimmer cocked a brow. “A woman?”

I nodded.

“It’s about time. What’s her name?”

“Sarah.”

My shrink smiled. “A beautiful name. The same as one of my granddaughters.”

Dr. Zimmer had three grown daughters and ten grandchildren he adored. Sometimes I envied the fact that he and his wife Leah had so much nachas—good fortune—in their lives while my parents had been gypped. Ben was my mother’s only grandchild and would likely remain so as my career-driven sister and her husband didn’t want to have children.

“How did you meet?” he continued.

“On the train…on the way home from Philly.” I hesitated to tell him more and then I just blurted it out. “I fucked her.”

Regrettably, I should have said “seduced her,” but it was too late. If Dr. Zimmer was shocked, he didn’t show it. Instead he chuckled.

“Sounds like you had to have her.”

I flashed a diffident half-smile. “Yeah. That’s a good way of putting it.”

“And you’ve seen her again?”

I told him yes and that I’d invited her to my apartment for Ben’s birthday.

“That’s quite a breakthrough…bringing a woman to your home and introducing her to your son and your family.”

Feeling comfortable and proud of my breakthrough, I then told him about our weekend in the Hamptons, leaving out the sexual details.

“So, did you have sex with her again?”

“Yes, but I haven’t technically slept with her.”

“You mean spent the night with her.”

“Yes.”

My shrink was well aware of the major problem I had sharing my bed with a woman. Since my divorce, not one had been allowed in it. Dr. Zimmer continued to interrogate me, his voice calm and non-judgmental.

“And how does Ben feel about her?”

“He really seems to like her. And the feeling is mutual. Sarah is really comfortable around him.”

Dr. Zimmer clasped his hands, his face brightening. “That’s excellent.”

I squirmed again and felt my chest tightening. A wave of anxiety washed over me. “Doc, I’m freaking out.”

“Why? Because you like her?”

“I more than like her. I fantasize about her all day. And when I see her, I’m happy. She’s smart, easy to talk to, and she makes me laugh. And the sex is great.” Off the charts great.

“So what’s wrong with that?”

“She’s not my type.”

Dr. Zimmer furrowed his bushy brows. “Your type? Can you please elaborate?”

“You know, supermodel blonde. Sophisticated. Glamorous.”

My therapist lifted his glasses atop his balding head and looked straight at me with his penetrating steel gray eyes. “Ari, what you described is not your type. It’s your poison.”

I didn’t respond. He was right. I was describing Cassandra, my psycho bitch ex. Taking a deep breath, I continued.

“Doc, she does crazy things to me. Makes me do things I’ve never done with another woman.” I refrained from telling him all the kinky things. “Over the weekend, I was at a party and I saw another guy hitting on her and I…punched him out. I may have knocked out a few teeth.”

Dr. Zimmer grinned. “A jealous streak?”

“Yeah, I was fucking jealous. I swear that if he comes near her again, I’m going to rip his head off. And that’s just for starters.”

“You wouldn’t really kill him, but I do believe you might do some serious damage.” He paused. “Do you know what’s wrong with you, Ari?”

Majorly fucked up? I shook my head, my stomach twisting into a giant knot.

Grinning, he raised a knowing finger. “It’s simple. You’ve fallen in love.”

Love? The four-letter word echoed in my head. “B-but I’ve known her for less than a week.”

His grin broadened. “Have you ever heard of love at first sight?”

“If that’s what I had with Cassandra, I don’t want anything more to do with Sarah.”

Dr. Zimmer knitted his brows again, a look of frustration washing over his face. “Ari, that’s not what you had with Cassandra. We’ve been over this. What you had was lust. You were young and infatuated with her. You had the need to conquer her…possess her. Make her yours. What you’re describing with Sarah sounds different. You have feelings for her that go beyond the sexual. You enjoy and respect her as a person.”

Silently, I digested what he was saying as he continued.

“Ari, I will be honest with you…Ben needs a mother. You can’t shelter him from other women for the rest of his life. The fact that he has embraced Sarah and enjoys being with the both of you is fantastic. You can’t live a life of just meaningless hook ups. It’s unhealthy for you and for Ben. That’s not what being a good role model entails. It’s a well-known fact that sons of fathers, who enjoyed healthy, stable, passionate relationships with their wives, go on to live much happier, more productive lives and are better husbands and fathers themselves. The upbringing you had with your loving parents has made you a fantastic father.”

“But I failed as a husband.” I bowed my head, casting my eyes downward in shame.

“No, Ari. Cassandra failed you as a wife. And as a mother. She was mentally ill.”

That horrific last night together flashed in my head—the white-hot pain, Ben’s wails, Cassandra’s shrieks, the blaring sirens—and sent a tremor through me.

“Look at me,” I heard Dr. Zimmer order, his voice soft but authoritative.

Slowly, I lifted my head and met his compassionate gaze.

“Let go of the past, Ari.”

“I’m afraid.”

“Why?”

“I’m afraid of getting hurt. Gwen thinks Sarah’s all wrong for me. That she’s too young and inexperienced…that’s she’s incapable of taking on the duties that come with being my wife and a mother to Ben. She’s positive Sarah is after my money and wants me to stop seeing her.”

Dr. Zimmer narrowed his eyes. He knew my controlling, opinionated sister well as one of his daughters had gone to Wellesley with her and was still one of her best friends.

“Since when does your sister rule your life?”

I laughed despite myself. “Since forever. I should have listened to her when it came to Cassandra. She always thought she was bad news.”

“Well, let me tell you something, young man. Maybe you made one mistake, but you’ve done just fine on your own. You single-handedly built an empire and have given back to those in need. And no matter what she thinks or you think, she can’t rule your heart.”

I processed his words as he glanced down at his vintage leather-band watch. “Our time is almost up for today, Ari. Is there anything else you want to ask me?”

I pondered his question and then replied. “Should I ask Sarah to the Meds Without Borders gala?”

Dr. Zimmer laughed. “You needn’t have asked that question. Of course! My wife and I look forward to seeing you both there. And I’ll see you here next week.”

Five minutes later, I was in my limo with Andre, heading downtown. My heart beat rapidly and my cock twitched with anticipation. I was looking forward to my dinner date with Sarah more than ever. And maybe, just maybe, it would end up with an après dinner drink at my apartment. For starters.

CHAPTER 24

Sarah

My heart pitter-pattered. Every bit of me was revved up for my dinner date with Ari. I had less than fifteen minutes to get ready. Knowing Ari, he would be here on time.

With Catherine gone and her ridiculous color-coded filing system done, I snuck into her office and used it as a changing room, locking the door behind me in case someone like Ike barged in. Quickly, I got undressed and slipped on the sexy dress Ari had sent me. The antique-filled space had a large gold-leafed mirror. I gasped when I saw myself standing in the silver stilettos and the hot pink sheath with its thigh-high slit. Once again, the words of the West Side Story song, “I Feel Pretty” whirled around in my head. Just like Maria, I looked stunning and entrancing. This was still a Sarah Greene I was not used to. Or might ever get used to. Beneath my slinky dress, I was stark naked. No bra. No panties. Ari was right again. I did look better with color.

High-heeling my way to the elevators, I passed by Fernando’s cubicle. His eyes popped when he saw me. “Holy fuck! Is that you, chica?” I smiled at him. “Bebé, you are going to do the walk of shame tomorrow morning.”

The bright smile on my face grew melancholy. I knew that I would not be spending the night with Ari. Not now. Not ever.

“I don’t think so,” I sighed, wondering if I was totally insane and setting myself up for an epic disaster.

“I want to hear everything,” called out Fernando as I continued to the elevator. “Todo!”

I descended in the elevator with all eyes on me—male and female alike. I felt uncomfortable and was relieved to find Ari’s limo waiting for me in front of the office building. Upon catching sight of me, Andre immediately leaped out of the car and opened the passenger door. I slipped into the back seat, this time more gracefully than before. I was getting good at this.

Ari was dressed in an expensive dark blue suit, a crisp blue and white striped dress shirt, and a jacquard tie that matched the color of his eyes. His business uniform. God, was he gorgeous. So, so gorgeous. The dizzying effect he had on me was always the same. It was as if I was encountering him for the very first time.

All the doubts I had dissipated as he gazed at me. His eyes glimmered with approval and a hint of something else. Lust.

“Saarah, you look hot,” he said in that velvety voice.

I felt hot. My temperature was rising rapidly, with the heat wave centering right between my inner thighs. Holy shit. I was already dripping with desire and hoped I wouldn’t stain the silk dress.

I jerked a little as he moved his deft hand onto my thigh—the one the slit exposed. He caressed my flesh.

“So smooth. So sexy,” he purred as his hand made its way upward.

My pussy was tingling with anticipation. It didn’t have to wait long. His fingers massaged my honeyed folds, arousing me with pleasure. I dug my fingers into the leather seat to stop from squirming.

“My princess, you’re always so deliciously wet for me,” he whispered in my ear after nibbling the lobe. He dipped the tip of his velvety tongue inside it, making swirling, succulent circles while his middle finger mimicked the motions down below.

I closed my eyes and moaned as my bud hardened into a marble. Then I jumped. He had inserted something high into my pussy. I could feel it pulsating against the walls.

“I thought we’d share a couple of appetizers before dinner,” he said, his voice deep, sexy and as smooth as cashmere.

“What’s that you just put inside me?” I managed between moans.

“Just a little vibrating egg. I hope it won’t spoil your appetite.”

If anything, it was making me hungry. Ravenous for his magnificent cock to sate me.

As if he read my mind, I heard him unzip his pants. He placed my hand on his length; it was already thick, hot, and hard. And oh so big! I could already taste it.

“I know you’re hungry, Saarah,” he teased as my fingers curled around it, absorbing the heat. “I prefer women with a healthy appetite.”

Without interrupting the flow of motions between my legs, he slid off the leather seat and onto to his knees before me. My eyes, now half-open, met his. They glinted with wickedness.

“I’m hungry too.” He cast his eyes down at his enormous cock. “Suck!”

Holy shit! He wanted me to give him a blowjob. I’d only done this once before with a guy at college who’s dick was no bigger than my thumb. How was I supposed to fit this monstrosity in my mouth?

Without overthinking, I bent over and wrapped my lips around the wide crown. My tongue rolled around the hot, velvety flesh. The sweet-salty taste was like a delicacy. A total turn-on. With a hiss, he pushed my head down the shaft with his free hand, urging me to explore. My tongue ran along the back of it, savoring the flavor and smoothness. Yes, I was hungry, and I was going to eat him. My head bopped back up and immediately went down again, this time deeper. I gripped my hand around the base and worked that area as my mouth slid back up and then right back down again, this time taking him to the hilt. His length swelled inside my mouth, filling the hollows of my cheeks. My eyes glimpsed his back arching as he groaned.

“Oh baby, you suck me so well. Take it all.”

His words were music to my ears. And the exquisite expression on his face, a work of art to behold, knowing I made him feel this way.

As I continued to suck his dick with accelerating speed, he began to stroke my pussy harder and faster, alternating between up and down motions and circles. I was soaked and my clit was on fire. And deep inside my core, I was getting off on my vibrating egg. It was all too much. I wanted to whimper. Actually, shriek, but I couldn’t because his cock filled my mouth and was suffocating my vocal chords. It was so not fair that he got to moan and groan.

I went down on him again, and this time he held me there, with his hand on my head. On my next rapid heartbeat, he roared out a savage sound, and with a violent shudder, his cock exploded in my mouth, spurting his molten release deep inside my throat. Syrupy, it tasted sweet and salty like his dick. And oh so delicious!

“Swallow,” he ordered.

I gulped down the hot cum as he pulled my head back by my ponytail, forcing me to release his cock from my mouth. My eyes met his, and I rolled my tongue around my cum-coated upper lip to let him know that I had enjoyed my appetizer.

With a squeeze of my clit, he thanked me. The orgasm that was building in me erupted like a volcano, and I could finally let out the cry that was begging for a release. God, I sure hoped this part of the limo was soundproof.

While my heartbeat slowed, Ari zipped up his fly over his glistening mound of flesh and returned to the seat, sitting so close to me I could feel his heat.

“Saarah, look at me,” he said, his voice all breathy.

I turned my head toward him. He looked more devastating than ever. I couldn’t help running my hand through his tousled golden locks. Inside me, the little egg was still vibrating, prolonging the burst of ecstasy I’d just experienced.

He traced my lips with his forefinger. “I hope you enjoyed your appetizer.”

“It was very tasty,” I managed with a small smile.

A satisfied smile of his own spread on his luscious lips as he poured champagne into two crystal flutes.

“I hope you enjoy French food just as much.”

“Sure,” I said stupidly. The closest thing to French food I’d ever eaten was Knorr’s French Onion Soup mix.

“I’m taking you to a little French restaurant in my neighborhood. Have you ever eaten moules marinières avec frites?”

I didn’t even know what they were.

With a wink, he clinked his glass against mine. “To another delicious meal.”

The bistro Ari took me to was small and intimate. Tables with red-checkered tablecloths and votive candles were lined up against mirrored walls. Since it was early, we had the place almost to ourselves. Ari insisted we sit side by side, our backs against the mirrored walls. His thigh pressed into mine as he ordered from the menu, which was written entirely in French. A chilled bottle of expensive champagne was brought immediately to our table, the waiter pouring each of us a glass.

Although the vibrating egg was deliciously distracting, I was feeling more relaxed in his presence. For a change, I started the conversation.

“What were you doing in the city today?”

He hesitated. “I went to see my shrink. We have a weekly standing appointment on Tuesday afternoons.”

My mind flashed back to my conversation with his Ice Queen sister. She had mentioned that Ari had been in years of therapy as a result of his bitter divorce. Loosened up by the champagne, I was ready to venture into dangerous territory.

“Why do you need to see a psychiatrist?” I asked, feigning innocence.

He took a sip of champagne. “My ex-wife fucked me up. I have major commitment issues.”

No kidding! I was dying to know if he talked to his shrink about me but instead asked, “How long were you married?”

“Three years. The first year was a fairy tale. The last two a nightmare from hell.”

I was making progress, getting him to open up. “How did you meet?”

His eyes grew distant as if they were going back in time. “We met in St. Tropez. I was vacationing there with my family. My father was gravely ill, and I had just graduated from Columbia’s Business School. We knew it was going to be our last family vacation with him. She was there on a shoot—she was, at the time, a fashion model at the peak of her career. She worked mostly in Europe.”

Inwardly, I cringed. I knew he was the supermodel type. I was a far cry from any cover girl and wondered again what he was doing with me. A wave of insecurity swept over me.

He continued. “My parents and my sister didn’t care for her, but I was obsessed with her. I proposed to her one month later. Sadly, my father didn’t live long enough to see us get married.” His voice grew watery, and he took another sip of champagne. “In retrospect, maybe that was for the best.”

Although I was dying to find out her name, I did not dare ask. He wasn’t offering; I wasn’t asking. Instead, I braved another question.

“What happened to your marriage?”

He drained his champagne and poured himself another glass. “Her modeling career began to wane—there’s always a fresh new face—and then she got pregnant with Ben.”

“Did the two of you want children?”

“I did; she didn’t. The pregnancy was an accident, but by the time she found out, it was too late to abort. I thought a child might turn our sinking marriage around…give her a new purpose in life. But I was wrong.”

I listened intently, not interrupting him.

“She gained a lot of weight and after giving birth, she couldn’t get her body back to what it was. Her career was over. Because she was a narcissist, the loss of her looks put her over the edge. She became bipolar.”

I was familiar with that term. Lauren had been diagnosed with that disorder. She could be either hyper with glee or dark with gloom. When extreme depression set in, she could be dangerous to herself. Suicidal.

“Did your wife try to hurt herself?” I asked hesitantly.

Ari’s eyes flared. “No, she hurt Ben. She physically assaulted him.”

I gasped, unable to mask my shock, while Ari’s lips hardened into a grim line.

“She blamed him for her problems; we grew apart, and she turned to alcohol and drugs. One night, when Ben was three, he was afraid to go to sleep and kept crying that he didn’t want to go to bed without her. Drunk out of her mind, she couldn’t put up with his wailing and shoved him to the floor. He hit his head and had to be rushed to the hospital. He was in a life-or-death coma for a week. I never left his side.”

Ari’s eyes grew forlorn. It wasn’t hard for me to imagine him sitting in a hospital room, anxiously waiting for his beloved son to wake up. The image broke my heart. I’d been there myself with my mother after some of her treatments. I wanted to clasp his hands but refrained.

“I filed for a divorce immediately after that incident.”

My eyes stayed locked on him, begging for—and then what?

“When she got the divorce papers, she went crazy. We had a terrible fight, and she stabbed me with a kitchen knife. Ben watched the whole thing.”

“Oh my God. The scar on your back?”

My jaw stayed wide open in shock, partly because of what she had done to him and partly because I could not believe his darling little boy had to witness such brutality.

“So, you’ve noticed it.” It was more of a statement than a question.

“It’s hard to miss,” I said, finding my voice. “How serious was it?”

He sucked in a deep breath, blinking several times, and then clasped my hand as if he needed something to hold onto to go on.

“I might have bled to death hadn’t Ben had the smarts to tell the 911 dispatcher I needed help after I collapsed with the phone in my hand. The wound required thirty stitches and I spent three days in the hospital.”

“Oh my God.”

A shudder tore through me as I tried to imagine the scene. It was straight out of a horror movie. Oh, my poor beautiful Trainman! And his poor precious little boy! His story was gutting me. My next words spilled out.

“Did you tell the police?”

“No, I didn’t want to drag my family into a New York Post Page Six scandal. My mother was just getting over my father’s death, but was still fragile, and I was restructuring the family business. I also didn’t want to scare Ben, who was already traumatized enough. It was the last thing everyone needed. My attorney sister, the rational one in the family, used her connections to keep the police away and came up with a plan to pay my soon-to-be ex off. She offered her a multi-million dollar settlement contingent on changing her name, leaving the country, and never having contact with Ben or me again. Her lawyer insisted she take the deal over a trial and possible imprisonment. She agreed to it, and I’ve never seen or heard from her again. Thankfully, Ben doesn’t remember her—or anything about the incident; he totally blanked it out. What he’s been told is that his mother died in a car accident and that’s how I got the scar on my back.”

Ari took another deep cathartic breath and lowered his champagne glass to the table.

I was on the verge of tears. His story was way more complicated and tragic than I anticipated. My darling Ari was damaged. So, so damaged. Emotionally and physically. A trainwreck. I desperately wanted to hold him in my arms and heal his scars. But I held back.

We both drained our champagne in silence until our waiter returned with a large bowl of moules and a side of frites—skinny French fried potatoes. The delicious garlicky smell rushed up my nose.

Ari’s face brightened. “Ah, Saarah, fresh mussels from the South of France.”

I wondered—did he eat these with her in St. Tropez? I loathed Ari’s ex-wife for what she did to him, and even more, for what she did to that poor innocent child. No wonder my Trainman was so afraid of getting involved with another woman. The chances of having a long-term relationship with him were dismal. And I hated his ex even more for that.

Stopping me in my thoughts, Ari demonstrated how to eat a mussel.

“It’s easy. Watch.”

He plucked the meat from the shell, dipped it into the broth, and then bit off the lower plump, fleshy part, and savored it. My eyes followed him as he discarded the tendons in a bowl along with the iridescent black shell.

“Okay, your turn,” he said brightly.

I reached for a mussel and mimicked his actions. The tender mussel meat rolled around in my mouth. God, it was good. Buttery, garlicky good. It got my mind off the revealing and unsettling conversation we’d just had. I instantly wanted another one.

I glanced at Ari. The expression on his face indicated he was pleased with my reaction. He opened another mussel, but this time held the meat by the grisly tip over my mouth.

“Ouvre ta bouche,” he ordered in French.

I assumed that meant, “open your mouth.” My mind instantly flashed back to the blowjob I’d just given him, bringing awareness to the little vibrating egg still inside me. It was making me hunger for him. Parting my lips, I let him circle them with the succulent meat until he deposited it on my tongue. Closing my eyes, I savored it and swallowed, then opened my eyes slowly.

Ari’s sapphire eyes searched mine. His warm breath brushed my neck as he moved closer to me.

“Do you know, Saarah, mussels are a natural aphrodisiac? The ancient Greeks believed they were the sustenance of the Goddess of Love.”

My God of Love must be right. My hormones were raging out of control. Wetness was pooling in the pantyless triangle between my inner thighs. My body was heating, and I was buzzing all over. Ari must have known the effect the mussels were having on me. He reached his hand beneath the table and through my thigh-high slit, he slithered his fingers up my leg to my hot, wet cleft. He caressed the sensitive folds, arousing me further, and then pulled away with a smug smirk on his lips. The tease!

“Feed me,” he ordered.

He tilted back his head and parted his lips. I dangled a mussel over his luscious mouth and slowly lowered it inside.

“Mmmm,” moaned Ari.

We continued this sensual back and forth feeding ritual until all the mussels were devoured along with the cone of skinny fries.

Ari placed my hand on his lap. Beneath his fine, gabardine trousers, his cock was as hard as I was wet. A rush of hot tingles traveled from head to toe as the flutters below turned into throbs.

Ari gazed into my eyes. “Saarah, have you ever been to the South of France?

Words trapped in my throat, I shook my head.

“It’s still my favorite place in the world. You should go there sometime.”

In my head, I fantasized being there with my Trainman. Staying at one of those five-star Côte d’Azur hotels I’d read about in magazines…sunning topless on the beach…swimming in the warm Mediterranean…making glorious love in a delicious bed…sharing mussels and champagne at a local café…fucking our brains out yet again in bed…and waking up next to him in the morning to greet the sunshine and start all over again.

Why bother dreaming? That was never going to happen. Not with this damaged man who was so afraid of commitment. So afraid of getting hurt and hurting his beloved son.

Ari’s sensual voice put an end to my mental ramblings. “Saarah, would you like dessert? The crème brûlée is excellent and rivals The Palm’s.”

The restaurant was filling up. My mind flashed back to dessert at The Palm. Dessert could prove to be too embarrassing in this small, intimate restaurant. I couldn’t risk it.

“No thank you,” I stammered, my pussy hungering for him.

“Ah, then we should, at least, share a French kiss.”

Framing my face in his hands, he crushed his soft lips onto mine and consumed them. I closed my eyes as he brushed his tongue across my upper lip, signaling me to part them. His velvety tongue dipped into my mouth and flicked mine, inviting it to dance. Our dance was slow and sensuous. A lyrical waltz with sliding, gliding, and swirling that was making me want to swoon. I took small breaths through my nose so I wouldn’t lose consciousness. Three words ran circles in my head. Oh. My. God. I forgot how this sinfully sexy man could kiss. The sweeping movements sent sweet sensations of desire to my sex. I moaned into his mouth. Oh, the power of a kiss!

As his lips and tongue deepened the kiss, he placed my hand once again under the table, back on the bulge between his legs. My fingers clasped the oh so big rigid length beneath his pants, and I knew instinctively what he wanted me to do. I moved my hand up and down. Up and down. My grip grew firmer, my stroking faster. The heat of his erection surged beneath my palm.

And then I felt his talented hand once again trail up my thigh. I spread my legs, allowing him easy access to my flooded cleft. I moaned softly, loud enough for him to hear me as my own hand continued to travel up and down his hard as a rock cock. Making me even wetter, his middle finger moved to my already hard bud and focused solely on it. He made deep, overlapping circles with the fervor of a finger-painting child. Oh, how he knew how to push my button! Meanwhile, the little egg inside me kept vibrating, intensifying the insane pleasure that was coursing through me. As I headed toward my climax, I wanted to jump out of my skin. I dug the nails of my free hand into his thigh and my heels into the floor. His cock began to spasm, and my arousal was peaking. Oh God! Why did his gourmet dessert always have to be the best part of the meal?

“Well, Ari, how nice to see you again.”

As fast as Ari had thrust his tongue inside my mouth, he withdrew it. Just as fast, his hand pulled away from my crotch as did mine from his cock. The voice made me shudder.

The color on Ari’s face drained, and I’m sure mine was as white as a ghost. Standing before us was a tall, stunning, whippet-thin woman dressed to the nines. The scent of her Chanel No. 5 perfume wafted up my nose and made me dizzy. The scathing look she sent my way made me shake.

“Why don’t you introduce me to your friend?” she hissed.

Should I answer or should he?

Ari’s fists clenched so hard his knuckles turned white. In a voice as frigid as dry ice, he introduced us.

“Sarah, this is my ex-wife, Cassandra O’Toole.”

My stomach churned, and bile rushed to the back of my throat. I thought I was going to throw up.

“You’re nothing,” she hissed directly at me.

The expression on Ari’s face went from shock to rage. There was fire in his eyes.

“Come on, Saarah, let’s get out of here.”

He threw two one hundred-dollar bills onto the table and grabbed my hand. My legs were like Jell-O, but I managed to stand up and follow him out of the booth. His ex’s eyes stayed fixed on mine, sending daggers my way. Ari strode to the front door like a bolt of lightning with me dragging behind him, numbed. He couldn’t wait to get out of the bistro. And the truth is, I couldn’t either.

Ari had Andre take me to my apartment. The only thing more intense than the throbbing between my legs was the silence between us. And the waves of nausea I was staving off.

I clutched my stomach.

Breaking the silence, an alarmed Ari asked, “Are you okay?”

He immediately pulled me close to him, wrapping his arm around me.

“I feel sick.”

Ari put the palm of his hand to my forehead, the good father he was. “You don’t have a fever.”

Little did he know the fever was raging inside me. Consuming every ounce of me.

“It’s her, right?”

“No, I think I ate a bad mussel,” I lied.

Ari gently twisted my shoulders so that I faced him. “Sarah, she’s nothing to me.”

I was too distraught to say another word. As the limo pulled up to my brownstone, I was so close to throwing up I could taste it. Oh God, don’t let me barf in front of him! Not waiting for Andre to open the passenger door, I sprung it open myself and scurried up the steps to the landing.

“Sarah, wait!” I heard Ari shout out behind me.

“Please, Ari, go away,” I replied hoarsely, without looking back.

My hand jittering, I reached for my keys and jammed the one for the front door into the lock. For once, it opened the warped door in one try. As it slammed shut behind me, I sprinted up the stairs, taking them two steps at a time. My heart was racing as I battled tears and nausea. At last, I reached my apartment and was grateful one more time that my key worked on the first try.

Once inside, I ran past a meowing Jo-Jo, straight to the bathroom. Falling to my knees, I yanked out the vibrating egg, tossed it into the toilet, and puked out my guts.

I had just met Ari’s evil ex-wife…Cassandra O’Toole.

My evil boss…Catherine Sinclair.

END OF BOOK 1

One-click the cover below for Book 2, the gripping conclusion of Ari and Sarah’s steamy and suspenseful story.

FREE! in Kindle Unlimited.

THE BIG O PREVIEW

NELLE L’AMOUR

ABOUT

From New York Times Bestselling author Nelle L’Amour, a new sizzling STANDALONE that’s guaranteed to make your panties melt!

The first time Owen King sets eyes on her, she’s in a focus group, biting into a cream-filled donut and having the most orgasmic reaction he’s ever seen. “Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh!” she cries out. He’s instantly obsessed.

Aspiring actress, Olive Cumming, has just lost her waitressing job and can’t pay her rent. But when the CEO of Donut King steps out from behind the one-way mirror and hires the curvy respondent to be his assistant, things are about to change. Big time.

Love at first sight has never been a reality for jaded, overworked Owen. And for sweet overweight Olive, love has never been within her reach. But when fate steps in, the king finds his unexpected princess, not knowing that someone is waiting in the shadows to keep them apart.

WARNING: Be prepared for over-the-top insta-love, a bit of kinky fun, and some yummy food play. This sugar-coated full-length novel is just waiting for you to take a bite.

Copyright © 2016 by Nelle L’Amour

Kindle Edition

All rights reserved

First Edition: July 2016

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be re-produced in any form or by any means without prior written consent of the author, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

NOTE FROM NELLE

Hello, my Belles! This is nothing quite like anything I’ve written before. It’s an over-the-top, scorchin’ hot standalone novel that’s going to make your ereaders melt and your panties drip. We’re talking one testosterone-driven, possessive alpha male, who won’t stop for anything to get the woman of his dreams into his bed forever. And one big, sweet love of a woman, who can’t wait. Be prepared for sizzling hot insta-love, a bit of kinky fun, and some yummy food play. Pure delicious, toe-curling smut. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Hope you have a pool nearby to jump into and cool off. A cold shower would be good too. Or the O for ocean.

Get ready to laugh, cry, and swoon.

Happy reading!

MWAH!~Nelle ♥

Dedicated to everyone who’s not afraid to take the first bite

CHAPTER 1

Owen

I studied the spreadsheet on my desk. The numbers for last quarter’s earnings. They sucked. We were operating in the red and facing bankruptcy. If my dick was the line of my P&L chart, it would look like it fell off a cliff. That’s how bad things were. For decades, Donut King had been the number one breakfast stop in the country, but year after year our market share had declined. Numerous locations had shut down. What the hell was wrong with our yummy donuts and coffee? Trust me, they were delicious. Customers loved them. But with little advertising, companies like Starbeans and Coffee Depot had taken over our business. I couldn’t even remember the names of their coffees or breakfast entries, let alone how to pronounce or spell them. A Venti Caramel Macchiato? What the hell was that? And what language were we talking? Had suddenly everyone in America become seasoned sophisticates and taken a Berlitz course? A familiar caustic voice cut into my disturbing thoughts.

“Owen, you’re missing the focus group.”

“Huh?” I looked up from the depressing data and met the steely eyes of our young marketing director, Mallory Clint. While only in her mid twenties, the mousy-haired Harvard MBA looked much older in her navy pinstriped pantsuit and horn-rimmed glasses. The daughter of financier Burton Clint, whose hedge fund was keeping us afloat, she walked around as if she owned me. She thought that her father’s clout entitled her to call me by my first name while everyone else in the company addressed me as Mr. King. It pissed me off, but I had to treat her carefully. What made me even more on edge was that I sensed that she wanted more than a professional relationship with me. Trust me, I had no interest in fucking her. She wasn’t for me. And lately, with business in the toilet, fucking anyone was the last thing on my mind. This was the longest dry spell I’d ever endured. I’m talking years.

“Sir, this is very important. It’s giving us consumer insights.”

I appreciated that she for once called me sir. I demanded and deserved respect. I was, in fact, known to millions from TV commercials as the eponymous “Donut King,” a title I inherited from my late father who started the chain. To be truthful, they should have called me “Your Majesty,” “Your Royal Highness.” or at least, “My Lord.” But at this point, it was moot. Given our latest sales numbers, I was about to fall off my throne.

I hated research. Fuck this shit. I was the kind of guy who went by my gut instincts. Nothing in my life was fifty shades of gray. Everything was black or white. I want it or I don’t. I like it or I don’t. Even my love life was like that. Or should I say lack of one. I’d never found a woman to love. Someone who I’d fallen head over heels for. Sure I was one of Southern California’s most eligible bachelors with the fortune I’d amassed from my donut empire, but that didn’t help things in the love department. I obviously had very particular taste when it came to women. When the right one came along, I was positive I’d know it.

I followed Miss Know-It-All Clint, who’d convinced me to do the group, to the research facility at the end of the hall and took a seat on the couch next to her upon entering. A platter of donuts and a tin of coffee were spread out on a credenza behind me. I peered through the one-way mirror that spanned the length of the room. The group was already in progress.

Eleven motley women of various ages and ethnicities sat around a table. But one respondent, in particular, immediately captured my attention. Holy shit! She was gorgeous. Big, blond, and beautiful. I swear I felt the temperature in the room rise twenty degrees. And that’s not all that was rising. I loosened my tie. For some reason, she turned her head so she was facing me. I got a better look at her stunning face. Porcelain skin with just a sprinkle of freckles on her rosy cheeks…frosted rosebud lips…and a button nose. I swear I could feel her big chocolate brown eyes burn a hole in me right through the one-way mirror. My skin heated up, the flesh near my groin kindling. Sweat clustered beneath my shirt and my heart palpitated. I was having a hot flash.

I kept my eyes on her as the group moderator explained the “rules” of the group. She wanted the women to talk one at a time and to give their true and honest opinions.

“Who are these women?” I asked Mallory.

“They’re Donut King customers though some of them also frequent Starbeans and other coffee chains.”

“Who’s the blonde?”

“Can’t you read her name tag? Maybe you need glasses.”

I squinted my eyes. Shit. Maybe I did need glasses. But as I did, her name came into focus. Olive.

I said her name aloud in my head. AAAH-love. Her name took my breath away. It was almost orgasmic. I let out a loud sigh.

Clint snickered. “Please be quiet so I can take notes. The moderator is going to show the women the current Donut King commercial.”

Miss Bossy Pants. Sometimes I thought she was either a dyke or a dominatrix or both. She grated on my nerves and she’d done nothing to turn our sales around. In fact, since she joined the company three years ago, sales had eroded further. But because of her father, I was stuck with her.

After dimming the lights, the moderator grabbed the remote and our thirty-second spot began to play on the big screen TV. My eyes stayed on Olive as she swiveled her chair to watch it. Her profile was equally gorgeous and I loved the way her butter-blond hair fell over her shoulders. And holy shit. Those tits. Two glorious mounds that could be sweet melons; they strained against the flimsy fabric of her blouse, pulling at the buttons. Her fluttering eyes stayed glued to the TV while she put her hand to her mouth as if she was gasping. The rise and fall of her chest was noticeable. It was like she was having some kind of Pavlovian reaction.

I’d seen this commercial a zillion times and mock-said the lines as a mom and her son stepped into a Donut King shop.

“Mommy, look it’s the Donut King!”

“Welcome to my kingdom!”

Yup, that big burly guy with the shit-eating grin behind the counter was me, wearing my royal robe and a crown. A thick, cartoony beard was pasted on my face. I looked more like the Dork King. I hated this spot. But Mallory and her team felt we should be positioned as a family-oriented brand. My eyes darted back and forth between the commercial and the beautiful blond respondent, whose eyes never left the screen. The mom and the kid each ordered a donut, and as soon as they bit into them, sparkly crowns magically appeared on their heads. I looked into the camera and said…

“Donut King. Share the magic.”

The TV screen went black and the moderator clicked the remote. The lights went back on.

“So ladies,” began the moderator, “what did you think of the commercial?”

She went around the table soliciting responses from each of the women. To my dismay, the reaction was lukewarm at best, eliciting monotone words like: “It was okay…Nothing to write home about…I’ve seen better…Meh.” Every muscle in my body clenched. They hated it. And then she got to my Olive. My gorgeous Olive.

“What about you, Olive? What did you think?”

She took a deep breath, her magnificent tits quivering as she did. “I thought it was amazing.” Her eyes did that fluttering thing again. “I love the Donut King.”

Her very first words. Her voice, despite her size, was like a sparrow’s. So sugary sweet. So full of sincerity and innocence. I thought I was going to jump right through the one-way mirror. No woman had ever said they loved me, let alone with such passion and conviction.

“Could you please elaborate,” responded the group moderator. “Are you talking about the donut shop or the man who plays the part of the Donut King?”

Mallory grunted. “The moderator shouldn’t be focusing on one respondent. I’m going to go in and give her a note to move on.” She rose from the couch.

Grabbing her by the elbow, I yanked her back down. “Sit down and shush up,” I gritted. “I want to hear what Olive says.” Oh man, did I love saying her name. I could say it over and over again. I was all ears as her lush mouth parted.

“Both. I love going to Donut King. I used to stop at one every day on my way to work. They have The. Best. Donuts.”

“You don’t go there any more?” The moderator, like me, was quick to pick up on her use of the past tense.

The dazzling dimpled smile on Olive’s face fell off. “I lost my job about a month ago, so I can’t afford to go there anymore. I can’t even pay my rent.” She paused, her eyes watering. “I may get evicted from my apartment any day now.”

“Honey, that’s too bad,” chimed in one of the women.

“Hope you find a new job,” said another.

The rest concurred, a testament to the sisterhood of women.

“Thanks,” muttered Olive, quirking a small smile. Hot damn, she was cute. And I felt bad about her job loss.

The moderator brought the discussion back on topic. “So ladies, what do you think of the actor who plays the Donut King?”

I hated to think about myself as an actor. I was a salesman. A pitch person. So good I could sell ice to an Eskimo. So I thought. The fact that sales were down—way down—made me question my abilities.

The woman who was sitting closest to the moderator chimed in again. “My five-year-old is frightened by him.”

“Same here,” commented another. “He looks like a fairy-tale villain who gobbles up children.”

Yet another: “He’s more like a bad-looking cartoon character with that stupid beard.”

The rest of the group laughed except my Olive whose mouth fell open in a big O. And then her face hardened, her eyes narrowing with fury.

“How could you say those things? I totally disagree. He’s beautiful. I mean, just look at those dreamy blue eyes. Those spectacular big hands. His dazzling smile and that deep, sexy voice. I love everything about him. I’d be his princess any day.”

I was melting like milk chocolate. She was attracted to me. Insanely attracted to me. I couldn’t believe my ears. She saw in me what none of these judgmental women did. If only she could see me now in my custom-made Italian suit, perfectly groomed, and all buff. My heart was beating so hard in my chest I thought it would leap out and crash right through the one-way mirror. I wanted Olive to be my princess. I wanted to rule her body, her heart, and her soul. No woman had ever had such an affect on me. Not one. Not ever.

A heated argument broke out among the women, but my Olive, God bless her, held her own.

“I can’t believe you don’t see what I see in him,” she said convincingly, fending off the naysayers.

Truthfully, I wanted no woman to see what she saw. I could afford no obstacles. I wanted her to be mine. And mine alone. I was thankful when the group moderator intervened.

“Okay, ladies, let’s calm down. We’re going to move on to the fun part of our session. The taste test.”

While Olive’s eyes lit up, the reaction of the other respondents was lackluster. I watched as the moderator rose from her chair and retrieved a large box of donuts from the credenza behind her. She set it in the middle of the table.

“Okay, ladies, dig in.”

Not one woman moved.

“What’s going on?” I asked Clint.

“I don’t know.” Edginess peppered her voice.

“I thought these women were supposed to be donut lovers,” I grumbled.

“I thought so too.”

“Where the hell did you find them?”

“The recruiter ran an ad on Craigslist. I guess they lied.”

“Jesus.” Anything to make a buck. Each of these respondents was being paid one hundred dollars to be here and share their opinions. What good were they if they didn’t eat donuts? Adding in the cost of the recruiter and the report, my calculation for this qualitative research, as Clint referred to it, came close to ten thousand dollars out of my pocket. My blood curdled. I was so simmering mad I could see smoke coming out of my nostrils.

“Goddamn it, Mallory. This is a total waste of time and money.”

“No, this is very valuable. Obviously, the donut business is dead. My father should have never invested in your company.”

I was now breathing fire like an angry dragon. “It’s not dead. Everyone loves donuts. We’re just doing something wrong.”

And then as I was about to send her in to end the group, a sweet voice filtered into the observation room. My Olive!

“Would someone please pass me the box of donuts?”

“Be my guest,” said the woman closest to them, handing it down the line of respondents as if it was filled with dog shit. My gaze stayed focused on Olive as the box landed in front of her. She lifted the lid and peeked in. Her eyes sparkled and her lush mouth watered.

“Wow! These look so good! I haven’t had one in ages.” She studied the donuts. “Eenie, meenie, miney, moe…”

I held my breath while my cock twitched.

“I’m going to help myself to my favorite…a cream-filled one.”

Oh yes, my favorite too. It had always been our top seller.

Like in a slo-mo scene ripped out of a movie, she reached into the box and put the donut to her lips. Her eyes closed as she slowly wrapped her mouth around the circle of dough. And then she did it. Bit into it, ripping off a large chunk with her teeth. My cock boinged as the creamy filling seeped out. Holy shit! It was like the donut was having its own epic orgasm. “Mmmm.” A soft moan drifted into the room. I felt like I was going to cream my pants.

“Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh!” she screamed out, arching her back and squeezing her eyes shut as she savored the biteful.

A look of ecstasy swept over her face. Every eye in the room stayed on her as she swallowed and cried out “Oh God” before going for another bite.

“I want whatever she’s having,” shouted one of the respondents.

“Me too!” echoed another woman. And then another and another. “Someone pass the box.”

While Olive finished consuming her donut, the box got passed around, and within seconds, moans and groans filled the room. It was like an orgasmic choir led by my beautiful Olive. Even the group moderator joined the chorus and I could hear her moan.

As I watched my Olive lick a little of the cream off her upper lip, I was having my own mental orgasm. My ready-to-burst cock strained against my pants. My know-it-all marketing director was wrong; she’d jumped the gun. There was nothing wrong with our donuts. Fucking nothing. Olive’s “ohs” whirled around in my head. Ideas were spinning too.

An infuriated Mallory broke into my delicious thoughts. “This is ridiculous. It’s like an orgy in there. I am going to put an end to this group.”

“Be my guest.” I had all the research—and answers—I needed. A satisfied smile stretched across my face. Orgy coincidentally began with a big “O” too.

“These women shouldn’t even be compensated,” Mallory hissed. “Especially that big fat ball of trouble.”

Rage pulsed through me; I wanted to smack her.

“Don’t talk about her like that,” I growled. But then a bright idea hit me. “Actually, Clint, I don’t want her compensated. Please have her stay behind and bring her to my office. I will handle her personally.”

Mallory smirked as she headed out of the observation room. “You should give her what she deserves for disrupting the group.”

That’s exactly what I had in mind. And a lot more.

“And Clint, one more thing. Please fire our advertising agency and hire the hottest one in town to do a new campaign. I want a meeting set for this afternoon.”

Mallory fired me a puzzled what-the-fuck look. Before she could utter a word, I shut her up. “Do it.”

As a miffed Mallory disappeared, my eyes drifted back to my beautiful Olive.

She had single-handedly put the O back in our donuts. I broke into another big smile. Donut King was going to re-conquer the world. And I was going to conquer her.

CHAPTER 2

Olive

Why didn’t I get paid? All the other respondents got an envelope with a crisp hundred-dollar bill inside it. I must have messed up. Done something wrong. But all I did was follow instructions, giving my true and honest opinions. And reactions. Tears spilled from my eyes as I sat on a black leather couch in the big corner office belonging to the man who owned this company. I needed the money so badly. I was about to be evicted. Tomorrow I could be homeless. On the street. At the thought of being one of those many desperate people in LA, who held up a sign on a street corner begging for money and food, soft sobs wracked my body. I was a basket case. What did I do to deserve this fate? I was a good girl, so I thought. Taken care of my poor mama until she passed away…gone to church every Sunday…and had vowed to stay a virgin until I found someone to love. The latter—finding the right man—was unlikely. Men didn’t want a big girl like me. Maybe it was time to check into a nunnery.

“Why are you crying, Olive?”

A quasi-familiar deep baritone voice rung in my ears. But how did he know my name? And don’t even get me started on the way he said it. All breathy like a prayer. Startled, I looked up. A gorgeous monumental man loomed over me. My stomach flip-flopped as my heart skipped a beat. While he wasn’t wearing a crown and his royal blue cape or sporting a long beard, I recognized him in an instant. It was the Donut King! Maybe he was meeting with the owner of this company too.

“I-I’m sorry,” I spluttered, looking into his piercing sapphire eyes, which looked even bluer with his jet-black hair, dense eyebrows, and layer of dark stubble along his strong jaw. Holy cow. He was even more gorgeous in person. And so much bigger. At least six-foot-four, maybe even six-foot-six with endless long legs and broad shoulders that belonged on a movie star. In a word, he was dazzling. The most beautiful man I’d ever set eyes on. I tried to collect myself, but it was impossible. My tumultuous emotions mixed with a rush of hot tingles. My breath hitched in my throat, but I miraculously found my voice.

“I’m waiting for the owner of this company. I think he wants to yell at me and tell me how badly I messed up his focus group.”

A warm smile lit up his face, making the fine lines around his eyes and sexy dimple in his chin more prominent. Then to my shock, he brushed away my tears with the back of his large hand. Oh so tenderly.

“I am the owner of this company. Owen King.”

A loud gasp escaped my lungs. Flushing with embarrassment, I stuttered, “Y-you’re the Donut King? I-I thought he was an actor.”

He let out a husky laugh that came from deep down inside him. “Yeah. I’m the one and only Donut King. My acting sucks.”

“No it doesn’t,” I countered, gaining the tiniest bit of confidence and composure. “You’re an amazing actor.” Everything about him was amazing. My heart pitter-pattered as the tingles coursing through my body clustered between my legs. My temperature was rising as fast as bread in an oven and my panties were melting like a stick of butter. Even my breathing labored. Dear God. Was this love? Get a grip, Olive. This man was so out of my league, but I couldn’t take my eyes off of him as he spoke.

“Thanks, but I find it hard to believe. The women in that group certainly didn’t seem to think so.”

I was about to giggle when the reality of messing up the focus group hit me again. More tears poured from my eyes. “I’m so sorry I screwed up the focus group.”

“Stop crying, Miss—”

“Cumming. Olive Cumming.”

“Olive Cumming.” He repeated my name, his rich virile voice making it sound so dreamy. “Mmmm…I like the sound of that,” he added, raking his eyes over me. “How did you get the name Olive?”

I sniffed. “My mother named me after her favorite cartoon character—Olive Oyl.”

He reacted with a belly laugh. It unnerved me. I was a fattie. Plain and simple.

“I know. I’m the furthest thing from Olive Oyl.”

He laughed again. Was he mocking me? While I’d come to grips with my size, the pain I’d endured from kids taunting me about my weight when I was younger came back to haunt me with a vengeance. The tears that were falling multiplied. The gorgeous scumbag. He was no different. I had to get out of here. And besides, I desperately needed to find a job so I could pay my rent to my landlord, mean old Mrs. Murphy. I attempted to stand up, but he gripped my shoulders with his large hands, holding me back. My size was no match for his formidable strength. His eyes burned a hole into mine while a cocky smile swept across his face.

“That skinny bitch wishes she had your beautiful curves. She would have done a lot better than that dickhead sailor.”

I let out a giggle while his hands roamed down my arms and his gaze fixed on my double D-boobs. Goosebumps popped beneath the warmth of his palms. Holding my hands, his eyes met mine again.

“Now, please stop crying and listen up.”

His voice was commanding and authoritative like the chief executive he was. It both intimidated and excited me. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to jump away from him or jump him. The latter was winning by a landslide.

“Contrary to what you might be thinking, I actually asked you to be brought to my office so I could personally thank you for your focus group input. I loved everything you said.”

“You did?” I squeaked. He must have been sitting behind that mirrored window.

He nodded. “Yes, you’ve given me an exciting, brand new marketing direction. Something I never thought of. Nor did my brainiac marketing gal.” He bracketed the word “brainiac” with air quotes.

Before he got into more details, my cell phone rang. I dug it out of my bag and instantly recognized the number. My tingles instantly morphed into trembles. Anxiety filled every nook and cranny of my body. It was my landlord, Mrs. Murphy.

“I’m sorry. I have to take this.” My hands shook as I put the phone to my ear. I listened quietly and then burst into another round of tears. Big, fat ugly ones. The kind that came with a full-on snot storm.

“Jesus. What’s the matter now, Olive?”

Before I could answer him, he scooped me up in his brawny arms. He held me effortlessly, making me feel like a mere waif. Trust me, many pregnant women in their last trimester didn’t weigh as much as I did. I reveled equally in my misery and the strength of this powerful man. My Donut King. On my next breath, he began kissing my tears away, planting the most delicate of kisses all over my wet cheeks with his soft lips. The sexy little sucking sounds made my heart beat into a frenzy while electricity whipped through my system. Oh what this big beautiful sex god could do to me. My arms curled around his broad shoulders as the kisses kept coming.

“I suck at tears,” he murmured.

He could suck at my tears all he wanted. I continued to bawl.

“Seriously, Olive, what can I do to stop you from crying?”

“Kiss me!” My lord, my master! “Take my mouth. Smother it with yours”

I couldn’t believe I was begging this gorgeous man to devour me. And I was in his arms. I’d only met him ten minutes ago. I knew nothing about him except I wanted him to own me, possess me, and never let me go.

CHAPTER 3

Owen

Holy shit. She tasted delicious. So delectably sweet, partly thanks to the lingering flavor of the cream-filled donut she’d eaten in the focus group. Too immersed in my work, it had been a long time since I’d kissed a girl and gotten off on it. I’d never kissed anyone like her. And I’d kissed many.

My mouth consumed hers, intermittently gnawing and sucking, and once parted, our tongues tangoed as if we’d danced this dance forever. She followed my lead perfectly, her tongue swirling and twirling, while adorable little sexy sounds escaped from her throat. She was totally turning me on. As her hands tugged at my hair, an erection of mega proportions was raging beneath my trousers. I hardly knew her, but I had to have her. Minutes later, her crying died down.

“Good girl,” I whispered, breaking the all-consuming kiss.

“More,” she breathed out.

Christ. She was insatiable. And I was falling in love with every bit of her.

“Shh.” I smacked another hot kiss on her soft lips and then asked, “Why were you crying so hard?”

Her eyes began to water again. God, she was an emotional one, but I loved that about her. Everything about her was extreme. In many ways, she mirrored me.

“You don’t need to know.”

“Yes. I. Do.”

Another tear blinked out of one eye. Oh, no. Here we go again. I couldn’t handle it.

“Olive…” I stretched out her name, audibly making the two syllables sound like “Aaah…love.” She was quickly becoming my love. “Please tell me what’s going on.”

She gulped down a breath. “My landlord terminated my lease. I’m being kicked out of my apartment today.” Her full lips quivered. “I have no job. No money. And no place to live.”

“What about friends or family?”

She simply shook her head as the tears began to pour down her cheeks. It was fucking gutting me. Big time. And then—PING!—an idea sprung to mind.

“What can I do to help?” Besides marrying you and making you mine forever. And that could easily and happily be option number one.

“I don’t know.” Her misty eyes gazed up at mine. “Maybe just give me the hundred dollar focus group fee. At least, that’ll get me a night in a cheap hotel until I figure out my life.”

God. She was so cute. So humble and modest. She wanted so little from me. I’d never met a woman like this in my thirty-five years. Well, except my beloved late mother, may she rest in peace. With this fond memory, I responded.

“I’m sorry. I can’t do that.”

“I understand.” Her lips trembled with despair.

She was no longer gutting me. She was killing me. Her sad chocolate brown eyes were melting me as if I was the Wicked Dick of the West. No more playing games. Looking straight into her soulful eyes, I, the straight shooter (in more ways than one), told her exactly what was on my mind.

“Listen, Olive.” All the air left my lungs as I uttered her breathy name. “I have an opening.”

Her plump, pink lips parted like a rose in bloom. “What do you mean?”

“What I mean is I have a job opening. My assistant quit the other day and I’m in desperate need of another.” I refrained from telling her that my last assistant (unlucky number thirteen) had a nervous breakdown because she couldn’t get into my pants or keep up with my demanding workload. All she wanted was a full load of my seed.

Olive’s long-lashed eyes fluttered. “You’re offering me a job?”

“Yes. Under one condition. I need to find out if you’re a good fit.”

Want more Olive and Owen yumminess? One click the cover below.

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ENDLESS LOVE
SNEAK PEEK

NELLE L’AMOUR

ABOUT

A special SNEAK PEEK of the long-awaited sequel to New York Times bestselling author, Nelle L’Amour’s critically acclaimed masterpiece, Undying Love. Please keep in mind this excerpt has not yet been professionally proofread and is subject to change.

WARNING! SPOILER ALERT! Please do NOT read this sneak peak of Endless Love if you have NOT read Undying Love. Undying Love is available at all retailers as well as in paperback.

Undying Love

Copyright © 2017 by Nelle L’Amour

Kindle Edition

All rights reserved

First Edition: July 2017

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be re-produced in any form or by any means without prior written consent of the author, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

True love stories never have endings.

—Richard Bach

PROLOGUE

Allee

Four Years Earlier

Madewell~

By the time you read this letter, I will be gone. I have no clue where I’m going or why this is happening to me. I only know I will miss you.

Your name, Ryan, comes from the French word “roi” which means “king.” My name Allee is almost identical to the French word “allée” which means “gone.” LOL. When I am gone, Madewell, I want you to rule with your heart and live your life. You have so much potential, so much to live for. You have a great future ahead of you, with me or without me.

I know one day you will fall in love again. You will because I’m telling you to. I don’t want you to mope around mourning me. Why mourn what you can’t have? I’m sure whomever you meet will be someone I would like.

There’s one other thing I want you to do. Make up with your father. He is the only one you will ever have. We have all erred in our lives, but we all deserve the chance to be forgiven. I hope you will forgive me for leaving you too soon. It’s not your fault, my Superman, I could not be saved.

Go on living, my sweet superhero. Although our time together was so short, it was the best time I ever had. You gave me everything—love, laughter, Paris, and all of you. Just because I’ve stopped living my life, don’t stop living yours.

One last thing…Write, Madewell, write. Write for me. I’ll be reading every word from wherever I am. Always remember…

I love you more~

Allee

CHAPTER 1

Willow

I’d started crying from the minute Allee found out she had incurable cancer. I felt her pain and Ryan’s in every bone of my body. The words on the page became blurs as my teary eyes brushed over their first and last dance…their fateful trip to Allee’s beloved Paris…Allee’s final words as Ryan lay beside her in her death bed. Their song, “I Won’t Give Up,” played in my head as I flipped the pages. Then, I totally lost it when I came to Allee’s love letter to her Superman. Big fat ugly tears pouring down my face, my sobs clogging my ears, I bawled until there were no more tears to shed. The last page of the book was soaked. Ready to fall apart like me. Emotionally drained, I closed the book and gazed at the cover. A beautiful young couple in love. They had everything to live for; unexpectedly, death took all that away. But their love, immortalized in this memoir, would never die.

The title of the book stared me in the face. I had experienced my own Undying Love. I’ll never forget the day I came home from high school, and my father sat me down at one of the tables in his deli. In fact, it was the very one I was sitting at today.

“Pumpkin, would you say if I told you Mom is no longer with us?” he asked, his eyes watering.

Confusion sent a chill through me. “What do you mean, Pop?”

And then he told me. My mother, Belinda, had been hit by a cab. Instant death. The tears just poured and poured. Enough to make brine in a barrel of pickles. The sadness was unbearable, the guilt unshakable. I never told her how much I loved her during my rebellious teenage years nor did I get a chance to say goodbye.

Pop and I went on with life without mom. His deli, Mel’s Famous, was a landmark institution on New York’s Lower East Side, and regular customers kept him busy. As for me, I threw myself into my dancing at Julliard. An aspiring ballerina, my dancing kept the pain away. My father was concerned about my obsessive-compulsive behavior and made me see a shrink. I’d become dangerously anorexic. All skin and bones. Dr. Jules Goodman saved my life.

Dr. Goodman was now saving my life again. I was on a sabbatical from The Royal Latvia Ballet Company. On my way to becoming a prima ballerina, I had collapsed on stage while performing in Vienna. The in-house doctor said I was exhausted and malnourished. That’s what my dad was told. Only Dr. Goodman knew what really brought me almost to complete destruction. Physical and emotional. The real extent of the damage. For now, as I healed, that secret needed to stay between us. Gustave Fontaine, the company’s infamously handsome and brilliant director, had gone on to another dancer. And not just any ballerina. Mira Abramovitch. My archrival since we’d been in tutus together in pre-school. I had given him everything—my heart, my soul, my body. My passion. But I was just another conquest. Stupid, stupid me should have known better. The other ballerinas in the troupe had warned me, but foolishly I thought I was different. Special.

Being back home in New York, living with my dad, was good for me. Afraid of losing the other great love of his life, he took care of me, feeding me lots of homemade chicken soup—the soup that made Mel’s Famous legendary. Slowly, I put back on the weight I’d lost though I was still very thin by most standards. The obsessive desire that had almost consumed me was gnawing at me. Now six months away from the stage, I was aching to put on a leotard and my toe shoes. To dance for him.

Gustave had been my cocaine. I could never get enough of him. He would be showing me how he wanted my leg to extend and before I knew it, my legs were extended around him, and he was fucking me without mercy. It was like that. We would fuck anywhere, anytime we could. Between acts. During intermission. In my dressing room. Behind the curtain. On the stage floor after the lights had gone off. He knew how to arouse me like no other man could. Orgasms pirouetted through out my body. One after another after another.

I don’t know if I loved him. But for sure, I was obsessed. His beauty and sexuality were irresistible. He told me I was his. So when I found him humping Mira in my dressing room, I was crushed to the bone. I loathed her and all the other ballerinas he’d fucked. I was nothing to him. Just another beautiful body to fuck and control. My downward spiral began and accelerated at the speed of a bullet train until I was a shell of the person I was. Thinking back to the devastating events of the past year, self-loathing seeped into my bloodstream.

Don’t go there.

“What’s the matter, pumpkin?

The husky voice stopped me before I could descend into darkness. I looked up. My father. In his perpetually stained, floor-length deli apron over his ill-fitting baggy pants and a Mel’s Famous T-shirt. There was alarm in his voice and his warm chocolate brown eyes. His bushy brows furrowed.

“Oh, Pop! I just read the saddest book ever.” I showed him the cover.

My burly father smiled with relief as he wiped away my tears with the edge of his apron. “The author’s a regular. He comes in here from time to time.”

“Ryan Madewell? Really?” My tears subsided. “Do you think he’d be willing to sign my book the next time he comes in?”

My father’s smile broadened. “It doesn’t hurt to ask.”

“And, Pop, it doesn’t hurt to lose weight.”

Ryan Madewell showed up at my father’s deli exactly one week later. I recognized him instantly because I’d spent the whole week Googling him.

With a laid back but confidant gait, he strode up to the well-stocked deli case and surveyed the contents. An Indian summer kind of day, he was wearing black jeans and a simple white T-shirt. God, he was gorgeous. Tousled sandy hair, gemstone blue eyes, a movie star-handsome face, and a six foot-plus lean, buff body that shouted, “I work out.” In his Google images, he was gorgeous too. Just not this heart-stopping gorgeous. His hair was now longer, the scruff on his face thicker, and his muscles more pronounced, making him even more impossibly sexy.

I was minding the store while my father was at the bank making a deposit. Almost three in the afternoon, it wasn’t very busy. In fact, he was the sole customer.

My gaze stayed fixed on him while he lingered in front of the meat counter. Finally, he said, “I’ll have my regular—a pastrami sandwich to go with a side of slaw.

“Would you like it hot?” I asked, my eyes meeting his.

There was a short stretch of silence before he replied. “Yeah, I like it hot.”

His soft, raspy voice was so damn sexy. I swear my temperature rose ten degrees.

“What kind of bread?”

“Rye, please.”

Rye bread for Ry-an. I wondered what it would feel like to be sandwiched between him and a mattress. Oh God. This guy was making my mind travel to places it hadn’t been for a long time.

I prepared the sandwich for him. I was good at this, having made deli sandwiches ever since I could remember. Putting the slab of pastrami onto the meat slicer, I held out my plastic-gloved hand as one lean piece of meat after another fell onto my palm. After heating it, I set the three-inch high pile on the counter.

“Would you like mustard?”

“Just mayo, please.”

Without overthinking it, I squeezed some mayonnaise from a nearby plastic bottle onto the two slices of bread. Something about the way the creamy white condiment squirted out from the pointed cap sent a rush of tingles to my core. It was totally erotic. Jesus! What was I thinking?

I felt his eyes on me as I spread the mayo with a knife and then transferred the pastrami onto one of the slices of bread.

“That looks delicious,” he said as I completed the mouthwatering sandwich.

So do you.

I wrapped up the sandwich and threw it with the pre-packed slaw into a paper bag.

“Would you like anything else?” I managed.

“A cream soda would be great. In fact, I’ll have that now.”

Retrieving a bottle from the cooler, I handed him the soda, my fingers brushing against his. They were long, strong, and purposeful. The fingers of a writer.

He held the bottle in his right hand, and for the first time, I noticed the gold band on his ring finger as he popped off the cap with his other hand. His wedding band. I was surprised he still wore it. Obviously, he was still clinging to Allee. Maybe he wasn’t ready to let go. My stomach tightened. I tried not to linger on it or on what it symbolized and instead focused on his lush lips as he wrapped them around the nuzzle. Tilting his head back, his eyes closed as he savored the cold, carbonated beverage, and as he swallowed, a satisfied moan escaped his throat. A pulse beat between my legs, and I wondered if this is what he looked like after having an orgasm. In my head, I began to undress him, imagining how beautiful he must look in the raw. Then, I remembered his beloved late wife’s last words to him—telling him how beautiful he was. Indeed, he was.

“How much do I owe?” he asked, bringing me out of my reverie.

“It’s on the house if you sign my book.”

His beautiful squiggle of a brow arched and then he quirked a wry smile, made sexy by the way the left corner curled upward. “So, you know who I am?”

I quirked a shy smile. “Yes. I loved your book. Will you sign it?”

“Sure.”

I was taken aback. I suddenly realized that the book was upstairs in our apartment above the deli. “I have to get it. Would you mind minding the store for just a few minutes?”

“Not a problem.”

I hurried to the back of the restaurant and raced up the flight of stairs to the apartment my dad and I shared. The book was on a nightstand in my bedroom. I reread passages of the book every night before I went to sleep. I think it helped me from having the nightmares that haunted me.

When I jogged downstairs, book in hand, Ryan was behind the counter, attempting to cater to a twitchy elderly man. I had to bite down on my bottom lip to stifle my laughter. The customer, one of our pickiest, was asking for an extra lean roast beef sandwich, dressing on the side, and French fries well done. Poor Ryan. No matter how many pieces of meat he sliced, it was never lean enough for Mr. Picky Wicky.

Scurrying behind the counter, I said, “I’ll handle this while you sign my book.” He let out a loud sigh of relief.

“What’s your name?” he asked, taking my book from me.

“Willow. Willow Rosenthal.”

“Willow.” My skin prickled as he repeated my name. He made it sound like pure poetry.

“That’s a beautiful name.” He smiled a dimpled smile that rendered me breathless. It stretched across his magnificent face as he pulled out a pen from his back pocket. Being a writer, I guess he always carried one with him. You could never tell when or where inspiration would hit.

I took care of the curmudgeon while watching Ryan sign my book from the corner of my eye. I had mechanically signed dozens of ballet programs for fervent fans, but I hadn’t been on the other side of the table for a long time. It was simultaneously nerve wracking and exhilarating. After I got rid of Mr. Picky, I handed Ryan the bag with his sandwich. He, in turn, handed back the book.

“Thanks,” we said in unison, our eyes never straying from one and other.

A saucy grin spread across his lips as he headed to the front door with his sandwich bag in hand.

When he was gone, I eagerly opened my book. On the inscription page were these words:

Willow~

I look forward to seeing you again.

~Ryan

What did that mean? Did he want to go out with me? Or was he talking about coming back for another sandwich? My heart pounded with anticipation and anxiousness. The truth was I couldn’t wait to see him again.

CHAPTER 2

Ryan

Willow. I said her name aloud. I liked saying it. It was breathy and beautiful. And so fitting for this willowy, wisp of a girl. There was something about her I thought as I walked to the pub where I was meeting my best bud, Duffy McDermitt. We had a standing boys’ night out every Wednesday night. It was a way of staying in touch and keeping up with what was going on with Arts & Smarts of which he was now editor in chief. He had replaced me after I quit following a major and painful blow up with the publisher—my father—one I tried not to think about since my father and I were making amends. Slowly but surely with the help of a top Manhattan shrink. Duffy was doing a great job just as I predicted. The online “zine” was flourishing and advertising sales were at an all-time high, the latter being the only thing that mattered to my powerful, cutthroat father. Mr. Bottom Line.

It had been a long time since a girl had an effect on me. Almost five years. With the success of my memoir, Undying Love, and my family name, I was, like it or not, one of New York’s most eligible bachelors. A minor celebrity. I had no need—or desire—to put my profile up on one of those online dating sites like Tinder or Match.com Everyone, from my editor to my drycleaner, was trying to fix me up. Without meaning to sound boastful, I could have my pick of any girl in the city. Even top supermodels. There were drinks and scattered dates, but nothing beyond that. The truth, I wasn’t ready. I still couldn’t get the love of my life, Allee Adair, out of my head. Or out of my heart.

But, there was something about this girl Willow that got under my skin. Her wild, waist-length fiery red hair. The sparkle in her olive green eyes. And that lithe, legging-clad body that peeked through her deli apron. I couldn’t take my eyes off her tight heart-shaped ass or her long, shapely legs as she sprinted up the stairs to retrieve my book. She moved with the grace of a dancer. The fact that she really loved my book and wanted me to sign it was a turn-on too. And, man, she really knew how to make a man a sandwich. Why the hell didn’t I ask her out?

The pub was dark and crowded, especially at the bar, which was known for being a hot pick up spot. Eschewing the bar, I spotted my ginger-haired buddy at our usual booth toward the back. He already had a beer.

“Hey, dude,” said Duffy as I took a seat opposite him. An attractive blond waitress came by and I ordered what Duffy was drinking. A Guinness on tap. She eyed me flirtatiously before disappearing into the crowd.

“That babe has the hots for you,” said Duffy.

Ignoring his comment, I responded, “The last issue of Arts & Smarts was the bomb.” I still regularly read the magazine even though I was no longer editor or had any desire to be associated it with again.

“Thanks, bro.” Beaming, Duffy gave me affectionate punch to the chest and took a gulp of his beer.

“How’s my old man treating you?”

“He leaves me alone. I think he’s gotten used to the idea that A&S is his rebellious child.”

My father, Ryan Madewell III, was the founder and CEO of Madewell Media, a Fortune 500 company that controlled broadcast outlets and publishing entities around the world. He was worth 1.8 billion dollars the last time I checked. A&S was just a small cog in his vast media empire.

“How are things with you and Sam?” I asked as the flirty waitress returned and lowered my mug of beer onto the distressed wood table. Sam, short for Samantha, was his beautiful fiancée. Like Duffy, she came from Southern California and loved to surf. He had met her at my wedding to Allee. She was Allee’s friend and colleague at The Met. It was love at first sight for Duffy, who had never managed to score in the girlfriend department. Ironically, had I chosen Sam to show me a hidden treasure at the museum, I may have never married Allee. Sometimes, I wished I had so that I wouldn’t have had to endure the tragedy of Allee dying so young. Life could be just so fucking unfair.

Duffy took another took chug of his beer. “She’s great, dude. She’s starting to show. She’s nervous she’ll be as fat as a cow at the wedding.”

Duffy had been living with Sam almost from the beginning. Before Sam, he hadn’t gotten laid in years. When she discovered she was pregnant a couple of months ago, they finally decided to tie the knot. They were getting married in a few weeks in Malibu at a hotel close to her parents’ house. Aptly, on the beach since they both loved the ocean. Duffy had asked me to be his best man and I’d agreed.

“Cheers.” After clanking my mug against Duffy’s, I took a swig of my beer. “She’s going to a beautiful bride. How’s the wedding stuff going?”

“Bitchin’. Sam’s got it under control.” He stroked his scruffy beard. “But the daddy thing is already freaking me out.”

“Relax, man, you’re going to do great.” Inside, a pang of envy shot through me. A baby with Allee had not been in our cards. At least while she was alive. The frozen embryos that were being stored at a renowned Manhattan fertility clinic flashed into my mind. Having made a last minute decision not to include that part of my story in my memoir, no one knew about their existence—except my sister Mimi, who had offered to be a surrogate. I’d declined her kind offer because following Allee’s death I was in no shape or form to be a single parent. And after the release of the book, I traveled too much doing talk shows and book signings.

“So, dude, what’s up with you?” my buddy asked, catapulting me back into the moment.

I told him how the movie version of Undying Love was moving along. While I was in California for his wedding, I had meetings set up with the Hollywood producer who was bringing my story to the big screen. The studio had already approved the screenplay and selected a director. Both Ryan Gosling and Ryan Reynolds were being considered to play me. Emma Stone had already committed to the role of Allee. As much as I was pleased with this casting decision, no one could be my Allee.

“Man, that movie is going to be blockbuster. Every girl in America’s going to be in love with Ryan Madewell.”

I rolled my eyes at him. “Nah, they’re going to be in love with Ryan Gosling or whoever plays the part.”

Duffy snorted. “So, dude, what’s going on with the rest of your life? You get laid yet?” Duffster was constantly telling me that I needed to start dating again. It had been almost five years since Allee had passed away, and I wasn’t getting younger. He was convinced my dick was going to wither away and fall off.

I took a big gulp of my beer and then I said it. “I met someone.” A sharp pause followed before I took several more swigs of the frothy beverage.

“Hey, man, don’t go AWOL on me. Talk to me.”

I reluctantly told him all about Willow and our encounter. In the end, it actually felt good to confide in him.

“Seriously, dude, I can’t believe you wrote in her book that you wanted to see her again and you didn’t ask her out. Or jot down your phone number or email address. What a doof!”

Maybe I blew it. Maybe I just wasn’t ready. Maybe I really didn’t want to. Maybe, maybe, maybe, maybe. I drained my beer.

“Madewell, get your big dick back to that deli before it disappears and ask that chick out.”

“Okay, okay.”

“And buy yourself a pack of condoms.”

Duffy ordered another round of beers. I guzzled mine. The cold beverage seeped through my veins while a beautiful girl named Willow danced in my head.

My downtown loft was not far from the pub. I walked home. The buzz I got from the beer mixed nicely with the crisp autumn air. I wrapped my cashmere scarf, a gift from Allee, around my neck to shield myself from the wind.

When I got home, it was always the same. I came home to the ghost of Allee. As so soon as I stepped out from the freight elevator that took me to my loft, a former millinery factory, I saw her curled up on the leather couch she favored, reading one of her art books. Her dark wavy hair cascading over her shoulders, her espresso bean eyes meeting mine, already undressing me. I always imagined her beautiful and radiant, not the faded beauty she had become when she got sick. There were photographs of her everywhere.

“Hi, baby.”

“Hi, Madewell. Where’ve you been?”

“Just down the street at a pub. Hanging with Duff.”

“That’s good. You need to get out more, Golden Boy.”

“It’s hard.”

“I betch’ya it can’t be that hard.” So Allee-like. “Did’ya meet someone?

I cringed as if she had caught me cheating.

“You look different.”

My perceptive Allee. Always the voice of reason. Never one to hold back.

My cock stiffened. My balls ached. Fuck. When was it going to stop? I could taste her, smell her, feel her. My shrink told me I needed to move. Get a new place. A new bed. A new life. I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. I wanted to stay connected to her anyway I could.

I blinked my eyes, and then like magic, she was gone. Once again I felt so alone in my vast loft. Trudging to the kitchen, I checked my phone messages and then wound up the spiral stairs to our bedroom. I quickly shucked my clothes and put on some pajama bottoms and a T-shirt. I did my normal bathroom routine and then hopped into bed. The beautiful antique four-poster bed that I shared with the love of my life. Usually, I did a little reading before I went to sleep, but tonight I wasn’t in the mood. Besides, I needed a good night’s rest. Tomorrow morning I had an interview on Good Morning America, so I had to be up bright and early.

No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t fall asleep. My cock was throbbing. I needed relief. My eyes shut, I slipped my hand under the duvet and began jerking myself off. Harder. Faster. I imagined her long, limber fingers around my shaft, her warm breath heating my cheeks. The ends of her long hair dancing on my flesh. My breathing grew ragged. I was heading fast and furiously toward an orgasm. With a shudder, I exploded, spurting hot cum all over my hand. Still breathing heavily, I opened my eyes halfway. In the shadows of the night was the image of a beautiful girl. She had wild flaming red hair and glittering green eyes. Willow!

CHAPTER 3

Ryan

My segment on Good Morning America went well. Now that Undying Love was finally being made into a movie, the producers of the early morning talk show wanted to give viewers an inside scoop on my involvement in the production process. Truthfully, after consulting on the script, it was rather minimal although I did have casting approval. Of course, they were all over Lalaland Oscar-winner Ryan Gosling to play me—Ryan Madewell. One of the hosts asked me who I thought was better looking? “Me, of course,” I said with a laugh. The final question: “Was I going to see the movie?” My answer: a straight forward: “NO.” I was glad it was time for a commercial break so that I wouldn’t have to elaborate.

After the interview, I stopped at a Starbucks for a latte and then walked uptown to the office of my shrink. I had a standing appointment with him on Thursdays at ten a.m. His office was located in a stately pre-war building on Park Avenue and Sixty-Fifth Street, not too far from ABC studios where I’d taped the GMA segment.

I always felt at ease in his office. It was filled with unpretentious antiques, Hollywood memorabilia (his passion), and impressive awards and degrees. Like Father and me, he was Harvard all the way. The two of them, in fact, had been classmates. Class of ’74. Dr. Goodman had treated me as a child when I was going through a bout of depression, thanks to my dysfunctional family. He was like a surrogate father to me. The warm, loving, caring man my father never was. I felt comfortable telling him everything… well almost everything. While I’d written about the wild, passionate sex I had with Allee in my book, I refrained from talking about it during our sessions, and I hadn’t told him about the frozen embryos. For the most part, he was more interested in dealing with the present and the future. Rebuilding my life and making me whole again.

Seeing the state of despair I was in following Allee’s death, my sister Mimi, who’d had also seen Dr. Goodman during her conflicted teenage years, had urged me to seek his help. God bless, Mimi. Dr. Goodman, who was a saint, had been instrumental in helping me overcome my grief. When I got back from Paris, after scattering Allee’s ashes in the Tuileries Gardens, my pain morphed into anger. Or should I say rage. I was so fucking mad that Allee had been taken from me at such a young age. Mad enough to want to take someone down. My temper was never one of my strong points to begin with.

“Ryan, your rage is normal,” Dr. Goodman explained. “Especially when people you love die so young.”

She wasn’t even twenty-five when she passed away. It was unfair. So damn unfair that someone as young, beautiful, and talented as my beloved Allee could be denied the potential of her life. Dr. Goodman worked with me patiently, letting me express my feelings of pain, guilt, remorse, denial, and fear. There were times when I thought she might come back, and others when I hated myself for not being able to save her.

He was now working on getting me to accept Allee’s death and to move forward. To feel again. Trust me, feeling nothing was worse than depression. Way fucking worse.

“Will I ever be able to love again?” I had asked him recently.

“Yes, Ryan, you will. Broken hearts mend.”

“But I don’t think I can ever get over Allee.”

Dr. Goodman quirked a smile. “That’s because love never dies. But you are capable of loving another. The mighty heart has a lot of room.”

Today, as I lay down in the couch that by now probably had a permanent imprint of my body, I thought about those words; I was feeling very conflicted. I began by telling him about my interview on Good Morning America.

He listened intently behind his large mahogany desk without interrupting. “It’s very understandable, Ryan, why you would not want to see the movie version of Undying Love. It will certainly dredge up sad memories and evoke great pain, and there’s also the possibility that it will not live up to your emotional or artistic expectations.”

I had to say, Dr. Goodman was brilliant. Without thinking twice, I told him about my previous night’s masturbation experience. That I had imagined another woman jerking me off.

With a smile, Dr. Goodman nodded. “Ryan, that’s good. Progress. Tell me more about her.”

Without mentioning her name, I simply told him that it was some girl who worked at a restaurant. “She made me a killer sandwich.”

Dr. Goodman chuckled. “Any woman who knows how to make a good sandwich scores points in my book. Ryan Madewell, I want you to ask her out.”

It was an order. A firm order. That made two…Duffy and the Doc. Okay, I was going to ask Willow out. I just didn’t know when and how I was going to do it.

On the way home, I made a quick stop at Duane Read and picked up a box of condoms.

CHAPTER 4

Willow

Confession. When Ryan Madewell had agreed to sign my book, I clamored upstairs to my room and had a mini-panic attack. Or should I call it a love attack. My heart was beating a mile a minute, and butterflies swarmed my stomach. I could barely breathe. Sliding down against my bedroom door into a crouching position, I gulped in a big breath of air, ready to swoon. No one had ever had that effect on me…not even Gustave.

Over a week went by without hearing from him. Or seeing him. With each passing day, my heart sank deeper with disappointment. Maybe he’d had second thoughts. He probably was still suffering from the loss of Allee. The love of his life. I understood that.

Fortunately, my father’s restaurant was crazy busy, which helped keep me distracted. The Jewish holidays had snuck up, and the eve of Yom Kippur, the holiest of days, was approaching, this year falling on a Friday. All day long, people had been flocking here from all over the city to order platters from Mel’s Famous for their break-fasts tomorrow night. Mel’s had the reputation of preparing the finest deli and dairy platters in the city. There was no one—except my mother—who could make a more beautiful platter of bagels and lox than me. She had taught me how to do it. Over a bed of lettuce, layer the tender, shimmering pieces of smoked salmon around a mound of cream cheese, and then surround the edges of the plate with slices of lemon, onion, and tomato. Add some capers. Then pile the sliced, assorted bagels high in a separate basket.

I was exhausted but not alone. My father had a lot of loyal help—including the sandwich guys, servers, hosts, busboys, cashiers, and short order cooks—and everyone pitched in. My extended family. This was hard work, but it kept my mind off the dark places it could travel. And assembling the platters also kept my mind off Ryan.

As I sliced yet another onion bagel, a familiar raspy voice captured my attention with one breathy little word—“Hi.” My breath hitching, I almost cut myself as I looked up. Oh my God! It was him. Ryan Madewell. As beautiful as the day I met him in a ridiculously sexy leather bomber jacket and a pair of faded jeans. My gaze met his. A smile twitched on his gorgeous face. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he looked a little nervous. But there was no way he could be as nervous as me. Every nerve ending in my body was buzzing. The heart palps and butterflies were back with a vengeance.

“You should be careful with that knife,” he commented as I fumbled with it.

“I’m an expert,” I muttered, floundering for words. “Can I get you something?”

“No thanks; I’m good.” He paused, the sparks between us palpable. “Hey, I know this is spur of the moment, but I was wondering—do you want to catch a movie with me tonight?”

My heart was practically beating out my chest. His gorgeousness had no idea of the effect he was having on me. I should have been smiling brightly—even done a happy dance—I mean, he just asked me out, but instead I inwardly sighed with regret.

“I’m sorry; I can’t. It’s Yom Kippur. My dad and I are closing up early and going to temple for Kol Nidre.”

His face flashed a blank look. Then, I remembered he was the penultimate WASP. From a Mayflower descended family.

“My mom…she passed away.” My already heavy heart grew heavier. “We always go to temple on Yom Kippur to remember her.”

He surprised me.

“I’d like to come with you.”

Shocked, I uttered two letters: “O. K.”

The synagogue was packed. Every seat taken. Luckily, Pop and I had gotten here early and found three together. On the walk over, I told him that Ryan Madewell was joining us. “I didn’t know he was Jewish,” my father commented. I told him he wasn’t…that he was just interested in seeing what the service was like…maybe doing research for a new book. In my peripheral vision, I saw my father raise a skeptical brow. “Maybe he’s checking something else out.” Not responding, I left it at that.

Once we sat down, I kept looking out for Ryan and staving off congregants who were not too pleased that I was saving the seat next to mine. Just as the service was about to begin, Ryan came dashing through the entrance doors to the sanctuary. He was wearing a beautifully cut gray suit and an elegant blue tie that matched the color of his eyes. And looked dazzling. Scanning the sanctuary, he found us seated toward the back and quickly headed to the vacant seat. He breathed a quick hi to my father and me before sitting down. His warm breath heated my cheeks.

“Put this on,” I whispered to him. I handed him a white satin yarmulke, thinking that he probably wouldn’t have thought of putting on this mandatory skullcap. He adjusted it atop of his silky hair and I quirked a smile; God, he looked adorable. “Now wrap this around you.” I handed him a tallis, a fringed silk shawl. As he adjusted it around his broad shoulders, I couldn’t help thinking how handsome my companion looked as a Jew in disguise. He gazed into my eyes, with an expression that asked: is this okay? The little smile I shot back at him was his answer. Beneath my solemn black A-line dress, my heart was hammering.

Reaching into pocket of the seat in front of his, I handed him a prayer book. “You can follow along; there’s an English translation as well as a transliteration, and the rabbi is pretty good about telling us what page to turn to.”

“Thanks,” he said softly with an adorable dimpled smile as the service began with the traditional Kol Nidre cello solo. Silence fell over the sanctuary.

I loved this opening cello piece. The melody was so, so beautiful. And haunting. It never failed to send chills down my spine and tug at my heartstrings. Sadness surged inside me as I thought about the indignities suffered by the Jews over the centuries. And then about my mom. Later in the service I would say Kaddish, a mourning prayer for the dead.

The service was long, but I enjoyed it. I didn’t go to temple often nor did I consider myself a very religious or spiritual person. But when I did go, it was an emotional, otherworldly experience that got me both out of myself and in touch with myself. The beauty of the sanctuary with its stain glass windows and high Romanesque ceilings also awed me. It was one of the oldest in the city. Generation after generation had worshipped here, including my grandparents on both sides. My Nana, my only remaining grandparent on my mom’s side, unfortunately was not here tonight as she didn’t live in the city. Or socialize with my father.

In the middle of the service, the rabbi gave a moving sermon on forgiving and forgetting, fitting for this Day of Atonement. His profound words sank into me. Would I ever be able to forgive the man who had brought me to my knees? Brought me deep into an inferno of lust and despair. And would I ever be able to forget? A shiver skittered down my spine.

The Mourner’s Kaddish came near the end of the service. Everyone in the congregation rose. I mumbled the words in Hebrew. Ryan followed along with the transliteration. He, too, had someone to mourn. As tears poured down my face in memory of my mother, I gripped my father’s thick calloused hand. He gave mine a squeeze. There wasn’t a day that my father didn’t miss or mourn my mom. I jolted when my other hand was suddenly also occupied. Without looking my way, Ryan had taken it in his. His hand was soft and warm, the grip steady and firm. Maybe he just didn’t want to grieve alone.

“Oh seh shalom,” concluded the rabbi. The cantor, with his rich, operatic voice, then sang, repeating the word “shalom” over and over. Tears continued to spill down my face. Oh, mom! How I missed her and wished I could right the wrongs.

The choir and congregants joined in, including both my dad and myself.

Shalom. Yes, peace is what I was seeking. In the world. And in myself in the year to come. As the hymn ended, Ryan squeezed my hand. I held back a sniffle, but heard my companion inhale deeply through his nose. Unbeknownst to him, I turned to look at him, and saw a tear running down his magnificent profile. He was in mourning, profoundly affected by this service. I squeezed his hand back and then felt his thumb rub the side of my wrist. The magical connection between us at this moment couldn’t be put into words.

At the conclusion of the service, everyone filed out the back doors of the sanctuary. Since we were sitting in the back, we were amongst the first to exit. Pop and I said hello to many congregants we’d gotten to know over the years, many of whom frequented his deli. Ryan stood awkwardly by my side; he must have felt like such an outsider. Numerous women, both young and old, stared at him, some shooting him seductive smiles. I’m sure some even recognized him from his fame and fortune. His Waspy gorgeousness was definitely a head turner and a force to be reckoned with. Even men, gay and straight, held him in his gaze. I inwardly laughed as congregants sauntered up to us to wish us a Shana Tova. A happy New Year. Something I so needed after the last six turbulent months.

Before leaving, my father told me had to use the “little boys room,” and left me alone with Ryan in the synagogue lobby.

We stood awkwardly facing each other. I was a petite five foot four, and even in my three-inch heels, I was a lot shorter than he was.

“Did you enjoy the service?” I asked nervously.

“It was beautiful. Thank you for letting me come.” He neatly hung up the tallis on a stand and set the yarmulke into a nearby basket.

“My pleasure.” Sheesh. Couldn’t I come up with less mundane? Worse, the word “come” was whirling around in my head. Playing crude mind games.

His gray-blue eyes gazed into my pickle-green ones—my “deli eyes” as Pop called them. I didn’t know what next to say. Thankfully, Ryan spared me the trouble of coming up with something.

“Would you like to go out for a drink? There’s a really great wine bar that’s not far from here.”

Dammit, that sounded good…so good…exactly what I craved after the emotionally draining service. But I couldn’t.

“I can’t. I’m fasting.”

“Oh.” The infamous word when you didn’t know what else to say. His voice and face registered disappointment.

Before my heart sank, I had an idea. “Why don’t you come tomorrow night to my dad’s deli. He hosts an open house break-fast for the neighborhood—and any one who doesn’t have one to go to.”

Ryan’s face brightened. “I’d love to.”

The word “love” danced around in my head.

“Do I need to dress up?”

“No, it’s totally casual.”

“Great. I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

As he loped out the front doors of the synagogue, my heart was racing.

He could show up in his birthday suit and I wouldn’t care.

CHAPTER 5

Willow

At sundown on Saturday, the deli was packed with people from all walks of life. There were families with children and babies, grandparents, young professionals as well as college kids and some local street people. Every table and seat was taken and the noise level was high. My father was in his element, hopping from table to table, to see if everyone had enough to eat. Trust me, they did. There was nothing more my father loved than to than feed people. And watch them enjoy eating his food. There was a word in Yiddish for my good-hearted father: a mensch.

Dressed comfortably in black leggings, an oversized sweater, and ballet flats, I was helping our longtime servers lug platters of lox and bagels to the hungry patrons. One eye stayed on the front door—eagerly searching for Ryan. It was going on eight o’clock. Maybe he had changed his mind and wouldn’t show up.

Then, as I lowered a platter onto one of the tables, I felt a warm breath on the nape of my neck. I whirled around. My heart did a grand jeté at the sight of Ryan Madewell. A big Cheshire grin lit up his beautiful face.

“Hi.”

I don’t know how long my mouth stayed open in shock before I said “hi” back. My heart thudded as my stomach fluttered. God, he was gorgeous. He was wearing faded black jeans that molded to his thighs like a second skin and an open charcoal blazer. Beneath his jacket, his chiseled chest peeked out from the V of his pale blue T-shirt. He looked so damn sexy!

“Would you like a bagel and lox?” I asked, not yet having eaten a thing myself.

“Sure.” He grabbed one and bit into it. I watched as he swallowed. He licked a smidgeon of cream cheese off his sensuous lips.

“Wow! This is good.”

“Thanks. Mel’s has the best nova in the city.”

“Nova?”

“As in Nova Scotia Lox…smoked salmon.” I smiled, charmed by his naiveté.

“Right.” He grinned back with embarrassment.

My eyes stayed on him while he finished the sandwich. His fine upbringing was evident by the way he gracefully held the bagel in his elegant, long-fingered hands and chewed his food quietly.

When he was done, there was still a drop of cream cheese on his upper lip. With my index finger, I wiped it away, relishing the softness of his velvety lips. Hot tingles bombarded me.

As I pulled away, he caught my finger in mid-air. “I don’t want to waste a thing.” I practically fainted when he wrapped his mouth around my finger and sucked off the cream cheese. There must have been over one hundred diners in the restaurant, but I only had eyes for one. Ryan.

“Good to see you here, Mr. Madewell. Have yourself another bagel.”

I spun around. Coming our way was my father with a wide smile broadcast across his face. He, too, was carrying a large tray of bagels and lox.

“Thanks.” Ryan helped himself to another bagel and bit into it.

“How’s my daughter treating you?” asked Pop.

With the chunk of the bagel and lox masticating in his mouth, he couldn’t say a word. Nodding, he shot Pop a thumbs up.

“She’s a beauty, isn’t she? Just like her mother, may she rest in peace.”

Ryan’s twinkling blue eyes met mine as he swallowed. He nodded again. “Totally.”

I felt my cheeks flush. Did this gorgeous, talented Adonis really think I was beautiful? Or was he just placating my father?

Suddenly, I felt lightheaded. Everything around me became a messy blur, and the noise around me reduced to a distant din. Beads of sweat were clustering all over my body as all the blood in my head rushed to my feet. Like a swarm of bugs, little black dots clouded my vision.

“Pumpkin, what’s wrong?” I heard my alarmed father say, but words stayed trapped in my throat as the black dots multiplied and I grew dizzier.

The noise drowned out as everything turned to darkness. And then my knees buckled. I was going down! Spiraling to the floor like a limp strand of spaghetti. Just before I crashed onto the hard wood, two strong hands caught me. I blinked open my eyes and the next thing I knew, I was in Ryan Madewell’s arms, blanketed against his buttery cashmere jacket.

My father brushed a few stray strands of hair off my forehead. “Pumpkin, you just fainted. Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” I managed, finding my voice. But truthfully, I felt weak and queasy.

Ryan’s eyes stayed fixed on mine. “Sir, I think she should lie down.”

“I need to get back to work and help my father,” I protested, feeling a tad stronger.

My father gazed at me lovingly. “No, Ryan’s right. You need to get some rest.” He looked at Ryan. “Would you mind bringing her up to her room?”

“It would be my pleasure, sir.”

I loved the way he called my father “sir.” It gave the always-disheveled deli man dignity. Without making a fuss, I let Ryan carry me up to my room. He knew where the stairs was having seen me bound up it last week to retrieve his book.

I wrapped my arms around his neck as he effortlessly mounted the flight of stairs to my room. His silky hair brushed against the back of my hand. I stifled the urge to run my fingers through the tousled locks. As I leaned into him, I could feel the hard muscles of his chest against me as well as those of his sculpted biceps. He definitely was in great shape. And I could hear his heart beat. It felt good to be so close to someone’s heart…again.

The stairs led to a narrow, dimly lit foyer. A portrait of my mother graced the walls, and on the entryway table, there was a large vase of fragrant Asian lilies, my mother’s favorite flowers. Not only did they remind me always of her, but they also deflected the pungent scent of the deli below.

“Which way?” asked Ryan.

“Down the hall to the right.”

“You okay?” he asked as he strode to my bedroom.

“I’m fine.” And I meant it. Being in his arms had restored my strength, but I felt like I was in some kind of dream.

The door to my bedroom was open. Stepping inside, he delivered me to my bed. He set me down gently, propping me against my pillows, and then covered me with the fuzzy blanket that was folded along the edge. After making me drink some water, he brushed vagrant strands of my unruly hair out of my face. The tenderness of his gesture sent a tingly ray of warmth all the way to my toes.

“Is it okay if I sit down on the bed?”

“Sure,” I said breathlessly. A sudden wave of embarrassment and insecurity washed over me as he lowered himself next to me. Here I was in bed with Ryan Madewell IV, the drop-dead gorgeous, bestselling author of Undying Love. Holy shit!

His eyes swept around the room, taking in every detail.

“Is there where you slept as a child?”

“Yes,” I said diffidently. The room hadn’t been redecorated for years. It still bore my white wrought iron canopy bed and the painted cottage furniture my mom had found at the 26th Street flea market. The pink floral wallpaper matched my bedspread and the curtains that hung on the window. It was so embarrassingly princessey. And next to me on one of my pillows was my favorite stuffed animal—a worn out, little monkey.

“Who’s that?” asked Ryan upon eyeing it.

“Baboo. I’ve had him since I was a baby.”

Ryan’s eyes stayed on him. “I had one of those. His name was Monk. But my mother threw him out when I was five. I think that was the beginning of all my fuckedupness.”

“I’m sorry,” I said with compassion, remembering what I’d read about his mother in his book. Eleanor Madewell. She was an icy alcoholic with narcissistic tendencies. So unlike my warm, loving mother.

His gaze moved to my nightstand. He studied what was on it.

“Is that your mom?” he asked, pointing his long index finger at a framed photo. It was a portrait of a woman in her mid thirties with flaming red hair similar to mine. She held a little curly redheaded girl in her arms. Me.

“Yeah.”

“Your father is right. She was beautiful…like you.”

“Thanks,” I murmured, heating from the compliment.

Before I could say another word, his face brightened. “And you still keep a copy of my book on your nightstand?”

I felt my face flush and smiled shyly. “I like to re-read chapters before I go to sleep.” I paused. “Thanks again for signing it.”

“No, thank you for asking me.” His eyes burnt into mine. I was having a hard time breathing and I didn’t know what to say next. The heavenly scent of his light cologne drifted up my nose, making me feel heady.

His eyes surveyed the rest of the room. I’d read once that writers are observers.

His gaze fixed on the framed photos on my dresser—most of them of me, taken at various stages in my life, in leotards and tutus, some at recitals, others at classes. Then, he shifted his vision to the worn, pink satin toe shoes that dangled from my headboard. They were my very first toe shoes—I was only ten when I got them.

“Are you a dancer?” he asked.

My muscles tensed. “Yes.” Or should I say was?

“Do you perform?”

I hesitated before responding. “No.”

A half-truth. I hadn’t performed for over six months and I wasn’t sure if I ever would again. I didn’t want to get into details about my recent past. Or think about Gustave …at least right now.

His eyes stayed fixed on the little pink slippers as he gave them a light tap. Tied to the bed by their frayed ribbons, they swung back and forth like a pendulum.

“Willow, I want to ask you something.” He paused, turning to face me again, and held me in his gaze. “Will you let me kiss you?”

My lips parted in shock, and my heart practically stopped. “Yes, please,” I murmured. Now! I couldn’t wait a moment more.

On my next rapid heartbeat, he cupped my cheeks in his hands, leaned down, and crushed his soft, warm lips against mine. He nibbled my upper lip, then deepened the kiss, gnawing and sucking. Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god. I’d never been kissed like this before. A heat wave spread through my body, setting every cell in my body on fire. As a moan escaped my throat, his tongue parted my lips and found mine. They danced together, swirling and twirling, two strangers in the night discovering each other. The salty taste of the salmon lingered in his mouth and mixed with his sweet saliva, making him even more delicious. My fingers fisted his hair as our lips, tongues, and moans mingled. I had read about his kisses, but nothing had prepared me for the sensation of one. I thought I was leaving this planet.

He pulled out of my mouth slowly. I was gasping for air.

He inhaled and then blew out a loud breath. “You okay?”

I caught my breath. “Yeah. Except I’m famished.” I hadn’t eaten a thing all day.

“Do you want me to run downstairs and get you something?”

“I’m in the mood for something else.”

Ryan stared at me with a baffled expression on his face.

“Tell me what you want, and I’ll get it for you.”

Gosh, he was sweet. So, so different from…

“C’mon. Tell me.”

What I was hungering for was right in front of me. Ready to be consumed. My eyes traveled to the bulge between his thighs.

“Unzip your fly.”

I seriously don’t know what made me so bold. So unlike me. Gustave had dominated me. Choreographed every move. I inhaled a fortifying breath. Fuck Gustave. I banned him to the back of mind.

Meanwhile, Ryan’s eyes grew wide. The look on his face went from raw shock to raw want as he lowered the zipper.

A wry smile curved on his glistening lips. “So you want a hot dog I presume?”

“Yes, a big tasty one.”

“Mine?”

Speechless, I nodded. His innuendos were making me crazy wet. More ravenous than I already was.

Rather than pulling down his crisp cotton boxers, his cock shot through slit. It was my turn to go goo-goo eyed. Holy shit! It was divine! Long, pumped, and ready for consumption. He repositioned himself on the bed, so that he was kneeling and his member was aimed at me. I couldn’t wait to taste it.

Lowering my head, I began with tip. First little, fluttery licks to savor the flavor. A delicious blend of sweet and salty. He hissed, and then under his breath mumbled, “Jesus.”

Without wasting a second, I wrapped my lips, like a warm moist bun, around his thick, hard length and then took him in, inch after glorious inch. He groaned with pleasure as his penis expanded in my mouth, filling the hallows of my cheeks. My eyes squeezed shut, I came up and then hungrily went down on him again. He let out another groan, this one louder. I wrapped my fingers around the wide base, squeezing it and working it up and down with short quick strokes. My mouth picked up its pace, applying deeper pressure as it slid up and down, gorging on the hot, thick slab of flesh. His breathing grew haggard.

“Don’t stop,” he murmured. “So fucking good.”

Coming up for air, I caught sight of the ecstasy etched on his face. My wide-parted lips took him right back in. Oh God, he tasted delicious!

My mouth glided back down, and as it came up, he began to spasm in my mouth.

“Fuck. I’m going to come,” he rasped as I sucked his magnificent crown. Another loud groan filled my ears and then his release filled my mouth, spilling onto my lips. Swallowing, I gazed up into his eyes—two shiny half-moons that glittered on his dazed but glorious face.

Before either of us could say a word, heavy footsteps thudded in the near distance. For sure my father. Reality hit us fast and hard. I hastily moved away from Ryan and tidied my mane of hair. He, in turn, tucked his still swollen cock back into his jeans and zipped up his fly. Before standing up, he cursed under his breath and wiped my cum-coated lips with the back of his hand.

Pop lumbered into my room. I held my breath, wondering if he would suspect what had just gone down between me and Ryan.

Huffing, he wiped a bead of sweat from his brow. Sheesh! Going up a flight of stairs undid him. He so needed to lose weight and get into shape.

“They ate me out of house and home,” he panted, undoing his long, soiled apron.

I digested his words. That meant the grand break-fast was over, and my father had closed up. I glanced at my alarm clock—nine o’clock. Usually, he stayed open till midnight, but Yom Kippur was one of the few exceptions.

“How’s she doing, Ryan?” he asked.

I inwardly breathed a sigh of relief. He obviously had no clue of what had transpired because my father was brutally honest, not one to hold back.

“I’d say she’s completely recovered.” A sheepish smile curled on Ryan’s luscious lips.

“She looks flushed. Pumpkin, let me check your temperature.”

“Really, Pop, I’m perfectly fine.” I leaped out of bed and hugged him. My over-protective father.

“Did you at least eat something?” There was genuine concern in his voice as he shot Ryan a troubled look. “Sometimes my little girl doesn’t eat enough.”

“Don’t worry. I did,” I countered.

“I watched her eat,” chimed in Ryan.

And at that moment, I realized I had broken this year’s fast with a heaping portion of Ryan Madewell’s cock.

Suddenly, all of Ryan’s color drained from his face. He fidgeted with the gold band around his ring finger, and then without even saying goodnight, he bolted out of my room.

CHAPTER 6

Ryan

Jesus! What had I just done? I’d impulsively kissed Willow Rosenthal. And couldn’t get enough of her. I’d forgotten what it’s like to kiss a woman you find insanely attractive in every which way. It was rough and raw, hot and addictive, and it totally turned me on. Then, I let her give me a blowjob. Not just any blowjob. It was mind-blowing. My dick had gone to heaven and come back.

Yeah, I had masturbated a lot over the past several years, but I’d forgotten how good it felt to get head. My delicate deli girl was amazing. Fucking amazing. But my ecstasy was short-lived. An ambush of guilt and remorse snuck up on me. In a panic, I split, without thanking her or her father, leaving them both in a sea of confusion.

My cock throbbing and my emotions in a turmoil, I jogged home trying to make sense of my actions. I’d more than liked them. Admitting this should have been liberating, but instead I felt sick to my stomach. As if someone had given me a punch to my gut.

As I slogged out the elevator that opened to my loft, a massive dose of guilt surged inside me. Fuck. There was Allee. Curled up on the couch as usual, this time wearing only one of my crisp cotton dress shirts. The top buttons were opened, exposing her eye-worthy cleavage. Once upon a time, I had placed my cock in that beautiful space and let her rub her breasts against the shaft till I came all over them.

“I’m sorry,” I muttered, hanging my head in shame.

“About what, Golden Boy?”

I slowly raised my head and met her gaze. After the awful discovery of her sordid “other” life and later the cancer that had claimed her life, we’d vowed not to keep secrets from each other. Even if I tried to keep a secret, she would eventually pry it out of me. Sooner than later.

“I kind of had a date with a girl.” Each word was a struggle.

Her reaction shocked me. A big smile spread across her luminous face. “It’s about time, Madewell. You know you can’t mourn me forever.”

Allee’s farewell letter flashed into my head. She had told me that she wanted me to meet someone new after she was gone. I didn’t really believe her words when I first read them, but maybe she really meant them.

“So, what’s her name?”

“Willow.”

“Pretty. And two L’s… a good sign.” Allee had a thing for double “L’s.” She believed that Superman, her childhood superhero crush, had a thing for girls with double L’s in their names. Like Lois Lane and Lana Lang. She had once called me her Superman though sadly I could not save her in the end.

“So, tell me, what does she look like?”

I described Willow in detail.

“So, a lanky redhead. That’s a surprise. What’s she like?”

I went on to tell her that she was the daughter of the deli guy we always ordered take out from. And then I explained how we met and told her about my Yom Kippur outing, not going beyond the synagogue part.

“So, she’s Jewish?”

“Yeah, from the Lower Eastside.”

“Oooh… your parents are really going to like her.” Her voice was dripping with sarcasm…so very Allee.

“They’re getting better.” Seriously, they were. With the help of Dr. Goodman, I was slowly making amends with my father. Last year’s major stroke—it happened while he was fucking one of his mistresses—had changed him. Partially paralyzed, he was now wheelchair bound, slightly more open-minded, and he was keeping his pants on. My mother, who should have left him, nursed him back to health, the good trophy wife she was. He was beholden to her though he’d never admit it and now disabled, he needed her more than ever. His dependency on her gave her power. Though the marriage was still strained by most standards, his forced newfound faithfulness had saved it. And my mother was drinking less. Okay. A little less.

Allee rolled her eyes while I dwelled on her snippy comment. What made her so sure I was going to introduce Willow to my parents? What kind of mind game was she playing with me? Before I could challenge her, she asked me another question.

“So, what exactly did you do with Willow on your date?”

My stomach twisted; it was more what she did with me. I don’t know what made me do it, but I blurted out the words.

“Allee, I kissed her and then let her give me a blowjob.” Suddenly, I was feeling miserable again, consumed by a horrific sense of betrayal. How could I have let her do those things? I hardly knew her, and besides my heart belonged to another. When I thought about it more, it was my fault. I should have never kissed her, but I couldn’t help myself. Guilt mixed with remorse.

To my shock, Allee gave me a thumbs up. Her dark eyes twinkled as she smiled brightly. “Congratulations, Madewell!”

Actually, I was more than shocked. Her reaction hurt me. I mean, here was the woman I had loved—and still loved—with my body, heart, and soul. My wife, my lover, my light…the person for whom I would have given up my life…and she wasn’t even jealous. In fact, she looked like she might do a happy dance. Christ. Allee was feisty. A fighter. And she wasn’t even fighting for me. Not one bit. Fuck her!

Miffed, I muttered, “I’m going upstairs. Are you ready?” On most nights, I mentally swept her off her feet and carried her up to my bedroom.

“Not tonight, Madewell.”

“Fine.”

Hey, Madewell, you gotta remember…” Her voice grew softer, the expression on her face more wistful. “I can’t do those kinda things with you any more.” She paused. “Give Willow a chance.”

She had a point. It was no different from what Dr. Goodman or Duffy had told me. I was having difficulty letting go.

By the time I hit the sack, the throbbing between my legs had died down. I was exhausted but restless. I rubbed my eyes, tossed and turned, and kicked off the covers several times. Each time I managed to doze off, I would awaken, searching frantically for Allee by my side, her lovely limbs draped over mine. True to her vow, she never came upstairs.

Finally, God knows when, I drifted off. A dream claimed me.

I was in Paris strolling aimlessly through the Musée D’Orsay. Behind me, I heard footsteps. Those of a woman wearing heels.

“Can I help you?”

I recognized the husky, New York-accented voice immediately. Allee!

Spinning around, I gasped. She looked as stunning as I remembered her. In fact, more stunning, wearing that little black dress I’d bought her.

“What are you doing here?” I breathed out.

“I work here now.”

“No, you can’t! You belong in New York with me.”

“No, Madewell, I don’t. I belong here now.” She smiled. “I want to show you a wonderful new painting.”

Reluctant and confused, I followed her to an adjacent wing. The paintings were more contemporary. Like they could have been painted only yesterday.

“Look at this masterpiece,” she said, leading me to an exquisite large erotic canvas of a man and woman making love.

My heart leaped into my throat. I recognized the setting. The bedroom. It was mine. But the bed was different as was the woman who had her legs wrapped around me. Only her backside exposed, her long red hair cascaded down to her waist.

“Observe the impassioned expression on his face,” my analytic Allee said. “The energy in his motions.”

I stared at the painting, my cock hardening as I did.

“Now, step into the painting. Experience it. Feel what the subject is feeling.”

“What?” I murmured, mesmerized by the painting and the erotic high it was giving me.

Allee folded her arms across her chest. Her bossy stance. “Do it, Madewell. Do it for me. I’ll be watching.”

Mentally, as if in a trance, I did as she asked. Jesus. This lithe redheaded girl, sitting on my lap, felt incredible, her lightness of being contrasting with the strength of her thighs straddling mine. My cock fit perfectly into her sweet, tight pussy, and as I pumped her, she took me to the hilt, bucking me in perfect harmony, meeting every thrust. I clenched her slender hips while she gripped my shoulders and rode me with a skillful blend of grace and precision. Arching her back, the rosebud nipples of her pert tits brushed against my chest while the tips of her flaming hair skimmed my thighs. Ecstasy washed over her exquisite face as little moans, like musical notes, spilled from her lips. As I picked up my pace, the moans crescendoed as we came apart.

“Say my name!” she begged, her muscles shuddering around my cock.

“Willow!” I cried out, so ready to come. My release met hers as Allee looked on, a contented smile spread across her face.

Suddenly, with Willow’s name still burning on my lips, an alarm rung in my ears. I recognized it. My cell phone. My eyes snapped open, and in a cold sweat, I bolted to a sitting position. Grabbing the phone off my nightstand, I speed-dialed Dr. Goodman’s emergency number. The one that was reserved for suicides, overdoses, and murder attempts. In my book, this was an emergency. I couldn’t breathe, think, or function.

CHAPTER 7

Ryan

I was fucking lucky Dr. Goodman had a last minute cancellation at 11:00 a.m. on Monday. We usually met on Thursday, but I couldn’t wait that long. Reclining in his couch, I felt my heart palpitating and my stomach cramping. That’s how fucked up I was.

“So, Ryan, tell me what’s going on?” asked Dr. Goodman.

“That girl I told you about…”

“Yes…”

I hesitated and then the words tumbled out. “I let her give me a blowjob.” I fidgeted with my ring. “And I more than enjoyed it.”

“This is certainly no emergency. What’s wrong with that?”

“Everything. I belong to Allee.”

Dr. Goodman stroked his salt and pepper beard. “Allee is gone, Ryan. It’s been almost five years.”

“Only four and a half,” I corrected. “I fantasize about her every night.”

“That’s not uncommon. What do you fantasize about?”

“That she’s still in my life. That things are like they used to be. She’s always waiting for me when I come home.” I paused. “Last night, after the blowjob, I came home and I saw her. I told her about the other girl. What I did. I swear, she was happy for me. I don’t get it.”

Dr. Goodman adjusted his horn-rim glasses. “Ryan, Allee only exists in your subconscious. Last night, your subconscious was telling you that it wants you to let go of Allee. That it’s okay.”

I went on and told him about my dream.

“That’s a very interesting dream, Ryan. What do you think it means?”

“That I’m fucked up.”

Dr. Goodman chortled. “You’re not as fucked up as you think, Ryan. What this tells me is that two women can co-exist in your life. That you’re ready for a new relationship.”

I processed what the Doc just said. Was I really ready to move on?

Dr. Goodman cut my mental ramblings short. “Ryan, you like this new woman, right?”

I nodded. I had to admit that there were many things I liked about Willow even though I didn’t know much about her. She seemed smart, funny, and I found her attractive… make that sexy as sin.

“This is excellent. You have feelings toward her.”

Okay, so he forced me to admit I had some feelings about her…something I’d not had toward a woman—or just about anything—in a long while.

“So, Doc, what should I do?”

“Get to know her better.”

“O…kay.” That I could do. “Then what?”

“Sleep with her.”

Sleep. With. Her. The three words spun around in my head, colliding into each other like bumper cars. She may have slept with me in my dreams, but the reality of having her in my bed—the bed I’d shared with Allee—stabbed me in the heart. It was unfathomable.

“That’s not possible.”

“Why not?”

I fumbled for an excuse. “She lives with her father. I don’t think it would be too cool to bang her while he’s sleeping in the bedroom next door.”

“I agree. That’s not a good idea. But you have your own place and a bed.”

My blood heated as I bolted upright. “There’s no way I can fuck her in my bed! That bed’s sacred. It was my wedding present to Allee.”

“Then sell it and buy a new one.”

His matter-of-fact words ripped into me. I was reeling. I clenched my hands so tightly my nails dug into my palm.

“And it’s time for you, young man, to stop wearing your marriage band.”

My blood bubbled at his words. Fuck him!

Before I could utter a word—or punch him out which is what I really wanted to do—Dr. Goodman glanced down at his watch and announced that our session was over. Not thanking him for seeing me, I charged out of his office, feeling worse than I had when I’d arrived. Therapy was supposed to help you—make you feel better—but most of the time it made you feel like crap.

Still simmering, I waited impatiently for the elevator. I needed to get the hell out of here. Blow off some steam. Maybe go for a run or take my bike for a ride. I tapped my foot as I anxiously rubbed the gold band on my ring finger with the pad of my thumb. What was taking so long? Finally, the elevator arrived, and when door slid open, my eyes almost popped out of their sockets. I was face to face with the person I least likely expected to see. Willow Rosenthal.

Hope you enjoyed this sneak peek. I can’t wait to bring you the rest of Ryan and Willow’s love story! Endless Love will be coming to all retailers in Fall 2017. Add it to your Goodreads TBR list!

DEWITCHED

E.L. SARNOFF

ABOUT

After serving time for Snow White’s attempted murder, the Evil Queen is about to get a makeover. Just not the kind she expected. Thinking she’s been sent to a luxurious spa that will enable her to regain her beauty and recapture her title, Fairest of All, Jane Yvel instead finds herself at Faraway, a rehab center that caters to Fairytalelanders addicted to evil.

Upon confronting her love-hate relationship with her magic mirror and the demons of her past, she is sent back to the world of happily-ever-after. Her goal: to discover the true meaning of beauty. Her assignment: to work for Marcella, a demanding Princess-In-Waiting. Jane finds herself irresistibly drawn to Marcella’s dashing fiancé, Prince Gallant, and his exquisite seven-year old daughter, Calla Rose. Will the Evil Queen who had no heart end up with a heart that’s broken?

Wickedly funny, darkly shocking, and deeply moving, DEWITCHED unravels the Snow White story as we know it and will make you see the evil legend in a new light as she rewrites her life.

Copyright © 2012 by E.L. Sarnoff

Kindle Edition

All rights reserved

First Edition: 2012

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be re-produced in any form or by any means without prior written consent of the author, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

For Lilly and Isabella,

The lights inside my heart

BOOK ONE

Look in the mirror and one thing’s sure; what we see is not who we are.

—Richard Bach

CHAPTER 1

A mirror can be your best friend. Or your worst enemy. The only thing you can count on is brutal honesty.

I talk to my mirror. Lots of women do. Except mine talks back. It’s magic.

Time for our daily chat. I head down the long corridor toward the chamber where I keep my magic mirror, but I’m distracted by the sound of singing. I detour over to a window and peek between the thick, tightly drawn drapes.

Below in my castle courtyard, she’s standing idly by the wishing well. My stepdaughter. Snow White. Why the hell is she wasting her time wishing when she should be washing? Well, I suppose I’ll give her a little break today. After all, it’s her birthday. Her sixteenth.

Birds and butterflies dance around her. I don’t get it. Her whole life, I’ve piled her with a crapload of chores and dressed her in rags, yet she still looks ravishing.

I try hard not to scowl; the last thing I need is a deep, ugly crease between my brows. I know. I’m going to double her workload. What a perfect birthday present!

Enough. I yank the drapes closed and quicken my pace down the corridor. At the end, I crank open a heavy mahogany door.

The windowless room is dark and bare, lit only by candlelight. My mirror faces me. I stride up to it and meet my shadowy reflection.

“Mirror, mirror on the wall

Who’s the fairest one of all?”

Awaiting an answer, I admire my candle-lit face, flickering in the smoky glass. My creamy, unblemished skin. My cat-green eyes. My full red lips. And those high cheekbones.

I grow impatient. What’s taking so long? There’s only answer. ME!

Finally, the mirror responds:

“You are fair indeed, My Queen,

But there is someone fairer who is Sweet Sixteen.”

I let out a gasp so loud it echoes. The mirror continues:

“Even in darkness she is a bright light,

A princess who goes by the name Snow White.”

Her? Blood rushes to my head. I pace the chamber, zigzagging from corner to corner, in a frenzy. My mirror is a traitor! I rip off my crown and aim it at the glass. About to smash it into smithereens, I get an even better idea. Something I should have done ages ago…

Eliminate the competition. And I have just the perfect person to do it.

My faithful Huntsman.

Snow White can wish as much as she wants. This birthday will be her last.

The Huntsman cowers before me as I sit high on my gem-studded throne. Despite his imposing height and girth, the bearded man appears small to me today. Almost frail.

“Take Snow White deep into the forest and bring me back her heart,” I command.

“But—”

“There are no buts. Do as I say, and I will reward you.” I jingle a bag of gold coins.

“But—”

My icy stare silences him.

He bows his head. “Yes, My Queen.”

The hesitancy in his voice irks me. “If you fail me, you will pay the consequences.” With a wry smile curled on my lips, I slide a finger across my neck.

The Huntsman says nothing. He pivots around and plods toward the throne room’s massive double doors.

“Wait!” I shout out.

The Huntsman spins around. His forest green eyes glimmer with the hope I’ve changed my mind.

“Use this to bring me back her heart.” I toss him a small jeweled box. He catches it. His eyes downcast, he stuffs it inside his leather satchel, then disappears.

I grimace with regret. Such an elegant coffin. A potato sack would have sufficed.

All afternoon, I’ve been pacing the chamber that houses my magic mirror, struggling not to glance at it. We’re not speaking.

What’s taking that big-footed fool so long? I mean, how hard is it to plunge a dagger into a twig of a girl, rip out her heart, and bring it back? It doesn’t have to be gift-wrapped. In fact, I hate bows. They remind me of her.

The minutes crawl like hours. I’m getting antsy. Where the hell is he?

The door to my chamber swings open. Finally, The Huntsman, holding the jeweled box.

“Give it to me,” I order though I’m not sure what I’m going to do with my little souvenir. Dinner for the help perhaps?

The Huntsman’s lowers his head and silently hands me the box. He’s out the door before I can offer him the gold coins. Fine. I’ll save some money.

I give the box a little shake. It’s in there okay. I swear I can hear it still beating. Mission accomplished.

I stride up to my mirror and break into a wicked smile. Time for a little tête-à-tête.

“Mirror, mirror on the wall,

Now, who’s the fairest one of all?”

Studying my reflection, I await the answer with the eagerness of a child about to get a sweet.

Silence. What’s the problem? It’s not like I’m asking it to solve an impossible what-came-first riddle. I shoot my mirror a dirty look. Finally, it responds:

“My Queen, you are the fairest that I see…”

Yes! I am the fairest! My magic mirror can hold it right there. But the bigmouth rattles on:

“But near the hills where the Seven Dwarfs dwell,

Snow White is still alive and well,

And there is none so fair as she.”

What? That two-timing wimp didn’t kill her? She’s still alive? A stabbing pain pierces my heart. I don’t know whom I hate more—The Huntsman or my mirror.

Clutching the box, I storm out the door and race down the corridor. “You’re history!” I scream out, but it’s no use. The betrayer is gone, nowhere in sight.

I stomp back to my chamber and hurl the box at my mirror. I miss. It hits a wall. My mouth twitches, in horror, as its bloody contents splatter across it.

I have no choice. I’ve got to take care of Snow White myself.

Easier said than done. Over the past two weeks, I’ve ventured twice to the cottage where Snow White has taken refuge with a bunch of lowlife dwarfs. Seven of them—just like my smart-ass looking glass said.

The first time, I disguised myself as an old corset peddler and asphyxiated the wench with laces I was selling. So I thought until my magic mirror told me she was still alive and well. The second, in a different but equally repugnant peasant disguise, I talked her into trying out a comb I poisoned. After having the pleasure of watching her crumple to the floor once again, I had the misfortune of hearing my magic mirror report that I’d failed yet another time. Damn my mirror. And damn those dwarfs. After each attempt, they somehow must have rescued the tart before she took her final breath.

This time, I’m done wasting my time. Those runts can say adieu to their precious princess because I’ve come up with a foolproof plan. I’m wearing my newest and, I must say, best disguise. A butt-ugly hag get-up I picked up for nothing at a thrift shop. To make sure Snow White doesn’t recognize me, I’ve dyed my long hair gray, blackened out a front tooth, and added a honker of a nose made out of putty.

I stare at my reflection in my magic mirror. I don’t even recognize myself. The wart on my nose is such a nice touch. My disguise is brilliant! Best of all, this is the last time I’ll ever have to sacrifice my beauty to have Snow White out of my life.

Dressed to kill, I wind my way down the rickety stairs that lead to my favorite playroom. My dungeon. Time to check on my evil potion. It’s been brewing for hours.

Perfect! The mixture in the cauldron has come to a boil. The cackling bubbles are like music to my ears. I give it a stir with a long femur bone—probably the remains of one of my late husband’s prisoners.

“It’s as easy as pie,” said the instructions. I wouldn’t know since I’ve never made one. All I can say is that this is the most fun I’ve ever had.

Following the recipe to a tee, I throw in the final lethal ingredient—a dash of dragonstone extract. The potion sizzles, and snakes of smoke curl around me. I smile proudly. The mistress of disguise can chalk up another talent.

Now, for the tricky part. Carefully, I dip half of a big red apple that I handpicked from my orchard into the gurgling mixture. I count to three and strategically place it on top of a basket filled with other ripe apples.

“Satisfaction guaranteed or I’ll refund your money one hundred percent,” promised the sorcerer who sold me the potion. “One bite and Snow White will be asleep forever.” Frightening simplicity! And there’s nothing those damn dwarfs can do.

I can practically make the trek to the Seven Dwarfs’ cottage blindfolded. That’s not to say I enjoy it. In fact, I hate it. First, I have to row a boat across my moat to get to land and endure an hour of sunshine on my flawless, vanilla skin. Then I have to trudge through a dark forest with its monstrous trees and wild beasts and risk my life. Or worse, scratch my face. Let’s put it this way: I’m not exactly what you’d call the outdoorsy type. And I despise the sun.

Thank goodness, this trip will be my last. Near the edge of the forest, their so-cute-I-could-puke cottage comes into view. Holding the basket of apples in one hand, I crouch down behind a tree and impatiently wait for the dwarfs to leave. After twenty or so time-wasting minutes, the bearded mini-men file out, carrying their work tools. Snow White plants a kiss on each of them. It’ll be their last.

The tiniest one of the bunch is the last to exit. I count them again to play it safe. Seven for sure. In a perfect line, they march toward the mountains that lie behind their house. In no time, they disappear. Hi ho. Hi ho. It’s showtime!

I spring to my feet, my target in sight, when a loud hissing sound stops me in my tracks. My eyes shift left and right, then up. My heart jumps. Dangling from a branch right above me is a monstrous green and yellow snake. With its jaws wide open, it coils toward me. I’m paralyzed with fear. I don’t know what I dread more—its venom or the fang marks it will leave behind. I hold my breath as its black forked tongue flicks my cheek. That does it. I grab an apple and hurl it at the serpent. Without looking back, I run.

My relief is short-lived. A terrifying thought flashes into my head. Oh no! What if it was the poison apple I threw? I glance down at my basket and relax. It’s still there. Better yet, I’m still here. Nothing is going to screw up my perfect plan. Nothing!

As I near the cottage, I spy an open window. Switching into hag mode, I hobble up to it and pop my head inside. Snow White’s in the kitchen, singing (ugh!) as she scrubs a long wooden table. Always the perfect little homemaker. Not for long. Miss Tidy Whitey’s cleaning days will soon be over.

“Hello, dearie,” I call out in my finest hag voice. “I’ve got some delicious apples for sale.”

Startled, Snow White whirls around. Her face, drop-dead gorgeous as ever, nauseates me.

“I’m not allowed to talk to strangers anymore,” she says in her sickening sweet voice.

“But I’m just a poor old woman trying to make ends meet. And these apples will make a delicious apple pie.” I hold up my special apple. “You must try one.”

“What if it’s poisonous?”

She’s smartened up. No worries. I’ll show her how good it tastes. With a loud crunch, I bite into the apple. “See. I’m good as new. Now, you try it.”

Hesitantly, Snow White strolls up to the window and takes the apple. She beholds the shiny fruit in her hand. Why is she stalling? Just take a bite. Come on. Do it already. My heart pounds in anticipation.

At last, she raises the apple toward her face. It’s like a slow motion dream. Her lips part. Her mouth opens. Finally, her teeth sink into the other side of my juicy red apple. Crunch. Oh, what a lovely sound! Her big brown eyes roll back into her head, and she collapses to the stone floor in a crumpled heap. I smile wickedly.

Eternal sleep! At last!

Victory surges inside me. I’m tingling with excitement. I can’t wait to get back to my castle to ask my magic mirror one simple little question…

And with Snow White out of the picture, this time for good, there can only be one simple little answer…

The sound of heavy footsteps interrupts my reverie. The front door bursts open. My heart skips a beat. It’s those damn dwarfs! What are they doing back so early?

I’d better get out of here. Fast!

Too late. One of the runts has spotted me. “Stop her!” he yells, pointing his grubby little finger.

Having no choice, I dive through the window and make a mad dash for the mountains. The pint-sized twerps chase after me. I toss the basket of apples, hoping to trip them. I steal a look behind me. No luck. They’re picking up speed and getting closer. How the hell can they run so fast on those stumpy legs?

A sudden gust of wind fills my cape like a sail, making it impossible for me to move any faster. My hair whips across my face as I glance back one more time. The dwarfs are gaining on me. Calling upon every muscle in my body, I force myself forward.

An explosive clap of thunder startles me. I almost trip. As I regain my footing, the sky opens, and torrential rain starts pouring down. Dragonballs! The one day it had to rain in sunny Lalaland.

The earth quickly becomes a mud bath. Drenched, I slip and slide across the treacherous ground with the pack of dwarfs still on my back. And then…a dead end. I’m smack against the mountains.

“Get her!” shouts one of the dwarfs.

I gaze up at the jagged wall of rocks. I have no choice but to start climbing.

Gripping the wet, slippery rocks, I clamber up the steep terrain. The pouring rain is blinding me, and I have to keep dodging all manner of falling debris. The dwarfs are still right behind me and show no sign of slowing down. They must be part mountain goat. I, on the other hand, am panting like a dog. And my thighs are screaming they’re on fire. Once I get back to my castle, I swear I’m going to get out more and start an exercise regime. The Fairest is also going to become The Fittest.

The slope grows steeper and steeper. I’m practically on all fours. Ahead of me is a giant boulder. I scramble behind it. I can run no more. Not because I’m out of steam. I’ve reached the edge of the mountain. A cliff. There is no place to go but down. Far, far down.

I’m trapped! I peek around the boulder. The dwarfs are so close I can feel their breath on my face. Brainstorm! I’m going to flatten the runts. All seven of them at once! With all the strength I can muster, I push the massive rock. It won’t budge. I try again, this time using my entire body. Nothing. Not even an inch!

Claps of thunder synchronize with my thudding heart. I’m about to give up when the sky sends a bolt of lightning directly at the dwarfs. What good luck! They’re going to fry. What bad luck! They leap back just in time to avoid their fiery demise. My face grows wide-eyed with horror as nature etches a deep jagged line across the surface of the rocky precipice. Crack! It’s breaking off. I’m going down!

Blood flees to the bottoms of my feet as I squeeze my eyes shut. Life is so unfair. I’m finally again Fairest of All, and I’m going to be a goner! An icy sting shoots up my legs, then zaps my body. Is this how death feels? Daring to open my eyes, I find myself under water. I’ve landed in a river! I hold my breath, but as I sink deeper, my lungs may burst. Death still awaits me. I finally hit rock bottom. Instantly, I catapult upward.

My head powers through the surface of the water. I’m alive! Desperate for air, I open my mouth wide, catching raindrops on my tongue. Victory is mine. It’s time to wave bye-bye to that pack of vertically challenged losers. I look up, but I might as well kiss my life goodbye. The boulder is toppling toward me at dizzying speed!

A bolt of raw energy surges through my veins. Kicking and stroking furiously, I battle the fierce current and swim away a split second before the boulder crashes into the water. I hold on to dear life as the waves of its aftermath thrash me around like an angry dragon’s tail.

The next thing I know I’m lying facedown on a hard, muddy surface. Land! The river must have washed me ashore. As I stagger to my feet, my eyes light up. Straight ahead of me is my majestic castle sitting high and mighty on its perch. I can practically hear my magic mirror welcoming me home.

Except there’s no way my mirror will recognize me. Soaked to the bone, I must look like a drowned witch.

Not wasting a second, I rip off my stinking-wet hag rag and the nose. I toss everything into the river and let the current carry it away. It’s a good thing I threw on a backpack last minute with my don’t-leave-home-without-them necessities. It’s sopping wet, but otherwise intact. I tear it open, slip on my black velvet cloak, and apply my favorite red lipstick, charcoal brow liner, and creamy foundation with sun protection.

The final touch: my gold crown. I cradle it in my hands and admire it. It’s worthy of only one legendary beauty—yours truly.

Mirror, mirror. Ready or not, here I come. Suddenly, two bone-crushing hands grip my arms. I crank my head around and practically choke when I come face-to-face with my assailant. The Huntsman! He growls.

“You’re under arrest for murder!”

CHAPTER 2

Ha! They’ll never prove me guilty, I tell myself as spectators clamber into the courtroom where I’m being tried for Snow White’s murder. I bet every fairy-tale freak in the world is here. Giants. Gnomes. Ogres. Trolls. You name it. It’s a circus. And I’m the star.

Chained to a wooden chair that’s bolted to the floor, I laugh silently as the freaks make a beeline for the best seats. Sitting here, at least, beats being holed up in that cold, mirrorless dungeon for a month. Reporters from the Fairytale Tattler are lined up, falling over each other to get a good look at me. I plaster a charming smile on my face. Trust me, I’m going to give them a great story. With a happy ending.

The judge, a big fat woman, with spiky hair the color of a blood orange and a small gold crown, strolls up to her bench like a queen to her throne. “Order in the Court!” she roars in a deep, husky voice. She pounds her gavel. The room shakes. Obviously, she’s got a big fat temper too.

She calls the first witness. The Huntsman. As he lumbers up to the stand, rage and regret consume me. I should have never trusted the spineless twit. I should have done him in when he brought me back some beast’s heart, pretending it was Snow White’s. I should have ripped out his heart. Yes, that’s what I should have done.

I cringe as he confesses everything…how I bribed him to take Snow White into the forest and kill her…threatened his life. So, he brought a boar’s heart back. The wuss!

His forest green eyes stay riveted on me as a tear trickles down his thick dark beard. “I just couldn’t bring myself to harm that sweet, beautiful girl.”

Beautiful? My blood curdles. I want to sink my teeth into him like a mad dog.

The Huntsman faces the judge. “Your honor, Jane needs help.” His voice wavers. “Before she does more evil.”

How dare he call me by my first name! And how the hell does he know it?

The judge turns her jowly face toward me. I count her chins. Three!

“So, what do you have to say for yourself?” she asks.

I quickly compose myself. Time for a little self-defense. Rising, I tell the court, in my calmest voice, that what The Huntsman said is all a bunch of lies. To get back at me for firing him. And with Snow White dead, he can’t prove a thing. “There’s not an evil bone in my body,” I add, almost with a laugh.

Okay. I lied. I’m going to destroy this insolent traitor and those damn dwarfs as soon as soon as I’m free.

The judge looks back at The Huntsman and presses her heart-shaped lips into a hard, grim line. My heart hammers.

“Dismissed!” she thunders with a bang of her gavel.

Inwardly, I breathe a sigh of relief.

The Huntsman plods out of the courtroom, not once taking his eyes off me.

I sit back down. Score one for me.

“Next witness,” hollers the judge.

The Seven Dwarfs march into the court with a vengeance. They’re in their grungy work clothes. Good. That’s not going to help with their credibility.

“Do you recognize this woman?” asks the judge.

Fourteen eyes lay rest on me.

My body doesn’t move a muscle. But inside my heart is racing. Stay calm. Just stay calm.

The dwarfs study my face, then shake their heads in unison.

“We’ve never seen her before,” says the one wearing spectacles.

Ha! I’m out of here. Not so fast. The dwarf at the end of the lineup bashfully comes forward. I hold my breath.

“The woman who poisoned our beloved Snow White was a witch, not a beauty.”

How sweet of him to say! I purse my lips and blow the runt a kiss. He blushes.

The tiniest one with the big ears opens his mouth, but the judge bangs her gavel before he can utter a word.

“Dismissed!” she shouts, rolling her eyes with impatience.

The little suckers file out of the courtroom, and I breathe another deep sigh of relief. Smart thing I tossed my disguise into that river. There’s no evidence to prove I killed Snow White. In no time, I’ll be free to go back to my castle and lay it on the line with my magic mirror. “Let’s get one thing straight, smart one. I’m the fairest one of all.”

The judge’s thunderous voice catapults me back to reality. “Will the last witness please step forward?”

My eyes flicker around the courtroom. Who the hell is she talking about? There are no other witnesses. Well, except for that snake which I’m sure won’t be slithering in here anytime soon.

There’s a loud, collective gasp as the witness enters the courtroom. My mouth drops to the floor. It can’t be! But it is! Snow White!

Wearing the same puff-sleeve rag she’s always worn and that same revolting red velvet bow, she waltzes toward the stand.

My eyes fix on her face. Her lips are as red as blood, her hair as black as ebony, and her skin as white as snow. In fact, her skin is fairer than ever. Damn it! There’s nothing like a deep sleep to make your complexion glow. My body shakes with envy.

Facing the stunned courtroom, she tells the judge how the dwarfs kept her preserved in a glass coffin. The “sweeties” just couldn’t bear to part with her.

I don’t get it. She was dwarf-proof dead.

“So, how exactly did you get here?” snaps the judge, her interest piqued.

“This morning, a handsome prince rode by and woke me with a kiss,” she says dreamily.

With nothing but a kiss? Rage is shooting through me like a thousand crossbows. I paid a fortune for that evil potion. I deserve a refund.

“We’re getting married,” she beams.

What! She’s going to live happily ever after? I’m close to imploding as the courtroom erupts into raucous cheers and applause.

“Order in the court!” roars the judge, jiggling her layers of jowls.

As the courtroom quiets, Snow White’s eyes meet mine. Tears stream down her cheeks. “I feel for you,” she says.

I feel for her too. An unbearable hatred that makes me want to jump out of my skin. I want to kill her! I want her dead!

The judge reaches down under her bench and holds up something as if it were a dead rat.

My hag rag! It must have washed up on shore. My heart leaps to my throat. I’m doomed!

“Miss White, do you recognize this?” asks the judge, puckering her lips in disgust.

Terror washes over Snow White’s porcelain face.

“Yes, the woman who gave me the apple was wearing that,” she says, her voice trembling.

The judge shoots me a contemptuous look and then bangs her gavel. “Off with her head!” she roars.

I’m numb. My life is over!

“Your Honor, please be lenient on her,” pleads Snow White. “Everyone deserves a second chance.”

“Yes, I do deserve a second chance—this time to get it right and destroy you once and for all, Snow White!” My stepdaughter blanches, her snow-white skin turning whiter than ever. The judge fires me another dirty look and slams her gavel once more.

“I hereby sentence The Evil Queen to one hundred years in prison!”

One hundred years! The words reverberate in my head. One hundred years! What will I look like when I come out? That is, if I come out. The headline in tomorrow’s Fairytale Tattler flashes through my head: “Evil Queen’s Fairest Days are Over!”

CHAPTER 3

I’m back in that mirrorless dungeon. It’s the kind in the middle of nowhere you can never escape even if you think you can. I’m devoid of all worldly contact, except for a lowly guard. A dim-witted green ogre who brings me meals. Lousy meals I barely touch. Trust me, I’d rather eat green curds and whey.

Every day, I beg him to go to my castle to fetch my magic mirror. I want to know what I look like. Where I stand. I’ve even promised him a royal position if does me this one itsy bitsy favor. He can be my new Huntsman. No deal.

Seven years. That’s how long I’ve been here. The only way I know is by the monthly magazines the guard brings me. His wife works at some beauty center and gets all these style and beauty magazines free. Palace Digest, Princess, Royal Style to name a few. Rather than throwing them out when she’s done with them, her husband, the ogre, passes them on to me.

The magazines have helped me pass the time away. Even better, they’ve kept me up on the latest beauty trends. If I ever get out of this hellhole, I know what I have to do. Go to a spa! That’s what all the fairy-tale princesses are doing these days. I grit my teeth every time I think about Snow White living the spa-life—happily ever after—while I’m rotting away in this cell.

Yes, spa treatments! With a few deep-cleansing facials, body scrubs, and massages—okay, and a little makeup—I’ll knock Snow White right off her pedestal. And I’ll show my stupid-ass looking glass—in fact, any crappy looking glass—who’s Fairest of All.

While I’m reading about the anti-aging benefits of bulbadox juice (I could kick myself for wasting it on that evil potion) in my latest Princess magazine, a jingling sound distracts me. I look up. It’s the ogre, and he’s dangling a large metal key.

“You’re getting out of here.”

Did I hear that right?

“Read this.” He holds up a brochure with an illustration of a castle on the cover.

Tossing my magazine, I wrench it away from him through the rusty iron bars. I start reading.

WELCOME TO FARAWAY

FARAWAY is a unique treatment center that will give you the tools to find your inner princess. It’s a magical place where recovery and self-discovery happen every day. Guests reside in a magnificent castle where they can chill out and relax. Our tranquil center also features an enchanted forest, lush gardens, and a lovely hillside view.

We offer a personalized therapy program, developed by our renowned staff to meet your individual needs. Our unique program offers a variety of proven clinical methods, including one-on-one therapy and supportive group sessions. As part of our multi-faceted program, we offer hiking, Arts and Crafts, nutrition, yoga, and fine dining. You will eat like royalty.

Once we feel you are ready, you will re-enter the enchanted world of fairy tales and participate in our apprenticeship program. Each assignment is customized to meet your special needs and skills. When it is completed to our satisfaction, you will be able to resume your fairy-tale life.

We, at Faraway, provide a comprehensive mind-body experience that treats the needs of the whole person. No wonder our graduates report that their lives are better and more fulfilling in every possible way. You’ll look and feel more beautiful, inside and out. Get ready to live happily ever after!

You’ll look and feel more beautiful. I read the words over and over as the guard unlocks my cell door. I can’t believe it! I’m being sent to a spa! I’m being given a second chance to reclaim what is rightfully mine—my crown and my title, Fairest of All.

From a distance, Faraway promises to be everything the leaflet said it would be. Perched high on a hill, the castle looks quite luxurious. It’s even surrounded by a high stonewall and a moat. There’s nothing like privacy.

The coach crosses the drawbridge. As it follows the yellow brick road toward the guardhouse, my heartbeat accelerates. I can hardly wait for my first spa treatment. And, at last, to look at myself in a mirror.

The guard, a friendly giant named Gulliver, unlocks the massive iron gate and lets us in. The driver pulls up to the castle where a plump fairy godmother-type in a green uniform with wings is waving. Of course, she must be a spa attendant. Clever! A fairy spa-mother.

“Welcome to Faraway!” she says in one of those bubbly voices I so hate. “We’ve been expecting you, dearie.”

Dearie? Is she kidding? Doesn’t she mean “My Queen”? Or “Your Majesty” or “Your Highness”? I’d even settle for “Queenie.”

Before I can set her straight, she whisks me inside the castle.

Inside, Faraway doesn’t quite measure up to what I expected. The “grand entrance” is not so grand. The walls are painted dingy yellow, and in some places, there are signs of chipping. The shabby furnishings, for sure, are from some junk store. Nowhere is there evidence of the lush lounging areas I’ve read about in those beauty magazines. Perhaps, the place is about to undergo major renovations. It seriously does need an extreme makeover.

“Here, fill this out.” The fairy spa-mother hands me a sheet of parchment and a quill.

“Please answer all the questions below,” it states on top. Of course, the admissions form.

1.   What are your goals here at Faraway?

To get beautiful, then split.

2.   Do you have any hobbies and talents?

Disguises. Also, making evil potions.

3.   List some of the evil things you’ve done.

Not enough space to write answer.

4.   Have you ever had a best friend?

My magic mirror, but we’re not speaking.

5.   Have you ever been in love with someone?

Does “myself” count?

6.   I care about other people. TRUE OR FALSE?

Trick question! Not answering!

7.   What could improve your life?

A facial, massage, and definitely a new mirror.

8.   How do you feel about your mother?

NO ANSWER! It’s none of your damn business.

9.   What are you most afraid of?

Sunburn.

10.  On a scale of 1-10, with 1=My life is a horror story and 10=My life is a fairy tale, how would you rate your life?

10! I’m here, right?

Strange questions, but easy enough. Except for Question #8. Some things are personal. Very personal. Besides, what does my mother have to do with getting a facial or massage? She’s the last person I want to think about. Ever!

The fairy spa-mother snatches the application and reads it over. “Come with me for your first treatment.” She bounces into the air and then flies down the hall.

Yes! At last! She’s taking me for a facial. Anyone with two eyes can see I desperately need one. Following her, I wonder why I don’t see any princesses with blue facial masks and fluffy white robes. And how come there aren’t any mirrors on the walls?

Along the way, I pass a young woman, who’s so skinny it’s scary, mopping the floors. A good sign of a quality spa, I tell myself, having once read to beware of unsanitary conditions. She shoots me a smirk.

The loser’s just jealous. I almost feel sorry for her. I pick up my pace to catch up with the fairy spa-mother.

She finally touches down in front of a door at the end of the corridor. The words “Private Do Not Enter” are scrawled across it. A treatment room. I can’t wait to step inside.

To my surprise, the room is small and sparse. There’s a simple wooden chair, a small set of drawers, and a bucket of water. And it, too, is painted insipid yellow. Whoever did the interior decorating around this place should be fired.

The fairy spa-mother shoves me onto the chair and drapes a shabby yellow smock over my head.

“Hey, where’s my fluffy white robe?” I ask, shocked to be treated with such indignity. When I’m done with my facial, the first thing I’m going to do is complain and get her fired.

Two thumb-sized pixies, dressed in stretchy white uniforms, come buzzing into the room. One has green hair; the other purple. They circle my head in opposite directions.

“Say hello to the Hair Fairies.” The fairy spa-mother grins. “They’ll be taking over from here.” She flies out the door, slamming it behind her.

The two pixies immediately examine my hair, strand by strand.

“I haven’t had a good shampoo in ages,” I tell them as they run a spiky comb through my mane. Aah. It feels so good against my itchy scalp. At last, I’m beginning to feel like I’m at a spa.

Not for long. Without the courtesy of a warning, they dump the bucket of water over my head.

Aagh! It’s ice cold. I jump up from the chair.

Snip. Snip. The sound comes at me faster. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip.

What the hell? They’re chopping off my hair!

“I order you to stop!” I cry out, my voice more panic than power-driven.

The fairies accelerate their pace, each clutching the handle of a bone-shearing pair of scissors.

I swat at them frantically, but they’re too damn fast. Panic turns to dread. What if the maniacs butcher my face with the razor-sharp blades? I shield it with both hands.

“You have lice,” tisks the purple-haired fairy.

I scratch my head and gasp. “I want my hair back!”

“Don’t worry, it’ll grow back,” says her green-haired partner as another clump tumbles to the floor.

Grow back? It took me my entire life to grow my raven-black hair past my butt. That’s it. I’m going to snatch the scissors and clip their wings. Then stomp on them.

Too late. They fling the scissors across the room. I gaze down at a foot-high mountain of hair. My hair! Sick to my stomach, I run my fingers through what remains of it. All two inches.

“Give me a mirror!” I scream.

“There are no mirrors at Faraway,” says the green-haired fairy as she nosedives into the layers of hair and starts tossing them into the bucket.

No mirrors? She must be joking. No mirrors?? What kind of spa is this?

“You’re ready to meet Elzmerelda, your roommate,” says the other, scooping up more of my precious locks.

Roommate? Even in that disgusting dungeon, I had my own private room. Maybe it was just a stinky cell, but at least, it was all mine.

“You’re going to adore her,” she continues. “She’s one of our favorite inmates. She’s done so well here.”

“We always try to pair up a new patient with a recovering one,” the green-haired fairy adds. “We have found that a recovering addict can serve as an excellent role model for someone who has not yet set out on their road to renewal.”

Inmates? Patients? Addicts? I read in those beauty magazines—even in that brochure—that people at spas are called “guests.”

“What about my massage? My facial? My seaweed wrap? My aromatherapy bath?”

The two pixies stare at me as if they haven’t understood a word I’ve said.

My voice takes on desperation. “Or how about a swim in the mineral pool?” I read many spas have them. “I happen to be an excellent swimmer.”

The purple-haired pixie raises her brows as if I’m some kind of nutcase. “Honey, the only ‘pool’ we have here is a moat. And trust me, you don’t want to be swimming in that disease-infested swamp.”

“I demand to see a list of spa services,” I say in my most authoritative voice.

“This is not a spa,” say the pixies in unison.

Of course. I’ve been sent to the wrong place. It’s a mistake. A terrible, stupid mistake!

“Faraway is a recovery center for people who are addicted to evil,” says the green-haired fairy in a matter-of-fact voice.

A recovery center for addicts? I should have known it sounded too good to be true. It was all a bunch of lies. A horrible bunch of lies! I should start a lawsuit! That’s what I should do!

Suddenly, it all sinks in. I’ve been tricked. Faraway isn’t a spa. It’s an insane asylum!

Sloshing through my pile of hair, I bolt to the door.

I jiggle the knob, but it’s jammed. I slam my body against the hard slab of wood, hoping I can ram it down. Not even a dent. My hip roars with pain.

“I order you to let me out of here!” I scream.

The duo fires me a look that says I am crazy.

Beads of sweat are erupting all over me. Nausea rises to my chest, and the room closes in on me. And then blackness.

CHAPTER 4

Birds are attacking me! They’re circling my head. Ow! One of them is pecking my nose. Wakening from my nightmare, I snap open my eyes. Wait! This is not a bad dream. Birds are all over me! They’re trying to pull down my bed covers.

“Get lost!” I scream, swatting at them. I swear if one makes a dent on my face, they’re all dead.

Where am I? A ray of light filters through the darkness. I’m in a small square room. There’s a set of drawers, a couple of doors, and an empty bed next to mine.

A singsong voice pierces the air. “Rise and shine!”

A gangly woman in a drab flannel nightgown lopes toward me. She’s got to be at least six feet tall, and even in the dim light, I can tell she’s no beauty queen. Her nose is long and pointy; her eyes too close together, and her lips pale and thin. She adjusts a yellow bow over her mousy brown hair.

“Who are you?” I ask, still swatting at the birds.

“I’m your new roomie, Elzmerelda,” she says in a tone so cheerful it makes me want to swat her. “How was your first night at Faraway?”

Faraway? Then it hits me. Hard like a hammer to my head. My new reality. A living nightmare. I’m trapped in a loony bin with a lunatic. I’ve got to get out of here!

“Lalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalala….” Singing on top of her lungs, the lunatic pirouettes over to the window and pulls the curtains apart. Sunshine instantly floods the room through a grille of metal bars.

The jolt of bright light makes me squint. Shit! Squinting will give me lines! And lines will make me look old! I struggle desperately to pull a blanket over my head, but the damn birds won’t let me.

“It’s another beautiful sunny day,” the loony trills, peeking outside.

She is nuts. Doesn’t she know how bad the sun is for your skin? Freckles! Wrinkles! Age spots! Crow’s feet! You can even die! “Close the damn curtains!” I order as more birds whoosh through the bars and swarm me.

Ignoring me, the homely beanpole slips into a puff-sleeve dress that matches her bow. It’s so Snow White, I want to puke.

“You still haven’t told me about your first night,” she says.

After that dreadful haircut, I can’t remember a thing. I bet those wicked hair fairies poisoned me. With that comb they used. The nerve of them stealing my idea! I’m going to add that to my list of grievances when I get out of this joint and sue.

More birds! I dodge them while the lunatic brushes her limp waist-length hair.

Jealousy gnaws at me. How come she got to keep her worthless tresses? I stroke my head, hoping for magic. Forget it! My hair’s still the length of your average front lawn.

The loony shoots me a wide toothy grin that makes me want to knock out her large, crooked teeth. “You need to get dressed,” she says, prancing over to a closet. She returns with a bright yellow gown folded over her spindly arms. She lays it flat on my bed.

“What’s that?” I ask, eyeing the hideous garment as if it’s carrying the plague. Doesn’t she know I don’t do colors? I only wear black.

“The Good Fairies made it for you. It’ll make you cheery.”

I also don’t do cheery.

She makes her bed. “Hurry! You don’t want to be late for breakfast.”

Screw breakfast! I just need a cup of black coffee. Trust me, I’m even more evil without one.

“Lalala! Lalala!” She won’t stop.

What am I waiting for? While her back is turned, I bolt out of bed, charge through the swarm of birds, and sprint to the nearest door. I jerk the door open and slam it behind me on the beak freaks.

Dragonballs! Wrong door! The foul odor lets me know immediately where I am. The bathroom. Yet another reminder I’m not at spa. There’s a bucket for a tub, chamber pot, chipped pitcher, and a few ragged towels. Something’s missing. A mirror!

It’s not possible. Every halfway decent bathroom has a mirror, right? I check inside every drawer, under the tub, between the towels…even in the wretched chamber pot. Zilch!

I storm back into the bedroom “Where did you hide the mirror?” I shout at Elzmerelda.

“Don’t you remember?” She grins. “Mirrors aren’t allowed at Faraway.”

My body shakes, and sweat runs down the back of my knees.

I’m having major mirror withdrawal.

CHAPTER 5

Why the hell are we outside? More bloody sunshine! I’ve got a splitting headache and feel jittery all over. I need a cup of coffee. Desperately.

“This is our Enchanted Garden,” beams Elzmerelda. “We grow our own vegetables, fruits, and grains.”

It’s all one big green blur to me. I’m getting edgier and edgier. A rabbit scampers by me. I want to crush it. Turn it into rabbit stew. Seriously, if don’t get my daily dose of caffeine soon, I am going to cause some major damage.

“Get me my coffee!” I order.

A single, simple cup of black coffee. What’s so difficult about that? Even in that decrepit dungeon, I always got my morning coffee.

“Oh, we don’t drink coffee at Faraway,” she says in that sickening singsong voice. “We only drink herbal tea. It’s part of the healing process.”

My life is over. I’m never going to make it out of here without my coffee.

“Here’s a basket.” The loony hands me the extra one she’s holding. She’s so relentlessly cheery a fire-breathing dragon couldn’t melt her smiley façade.

I’ve had it. Coffee or no coffee. I’ve got to get out of here. My eyes search in every direction for an exit until Miss Cheerful and Deranged yanks me toward a patch of berries.

“What kind of tea do you like?” she asks. “My favorite’s chamomile.”

Mine is anything that will shut her up. Permanently.

“Lalalala!” sings a stout, silver-haired woman in a red frock and bonnet, waving a wand. When she turns her back, I catch sight of a pair of wings and a butt as big as a warthog’s.

“People, let me hear you sing it louder!” shouts another big butt woman in an identical green getup. I recognize her immediately. She’s that rude fairy spa-mother I met yesterday.

“Bring it on!” cheers a third wand-waving, winged woman in blue who could easily be the shorter, roly-poly sister of the first two.

How can they be so energetic so early in the morning? I bet they get coffee!

Singing their “lalalalas” in perfect harmony, the trio is supervising a pathetic group of losers who are picking berries and attempting to sing along. There’s a troll with glazed eyes and a pronounced limp, a woman about my age but triple my size, and the scary-skinny chick I saw mopping floors yesterday. She bears a strong resemblance to my new “roomie,” except she’s anything but cheerful. Who are all these freaks?

“This is the way we start our day,” Elzmerelda tells me. “The Good Fairies believe singing brings out the best in people.”

Is she kidding? It’s bringing out the worst in me. This “lala” stuff is driving me crazy. I know. It’s a conspiracy to prove I really do belong in this nuthouse.

“And they believe a rustic diet will restore our souls.” Doesn’t she ever shut up? I want to rip her tongue out. “We only eat things made from fresh fruits, veggies, grains, and eggs we gather ourselves.”

Peasant diet is more like it. What happened to the “you will eat like royalty” promise? Another lie. I am going to sue!

Elzmerelda frolics over to the others, leaving me alone. Brainstorm! While no one’s watching, I’ll run away and escape. The front gate can’t be too far off. Ha! By the time they notice I’m missing, I’ll be long gone.

So long, losers. I’ve hardly taken five steps when the three Badass Fairies touchdown in front of me and grab me forcefully by my arms. I try to wrestle myself free but am no match for their astounding strength. They’re like a pack of winged behemoths.

“Hello, I’m Fanta,” says the one in green.

“I’m Flossie,” says the one in red.

“And I’m Fairweather,” says the one in blue. “And you must be our new resident, Jane Yvel.”

My real name. I haven’t used it in years. At that dungeon, everyone called me The Evil Queen. Everyone!

“Welcome to Faraway!” they say together.

“Come join us for breakfast,” says Flossie as they haul me back to the berry patch. “We’ve baked some fresh muffins.”

All I want to do is tear off a pair of their wings and blow out of here.

“Don’t you love the Good Fairies?” asks Elzmerelda, biting into her muffin.

Seriously, I want to poison them but have to admit the muffin’s delicious. Warm, buttery, melt-in-your-mouth delicious. I haven’t eaten anything this good in years. It’s even gotten me over my coffee fixation.

Elzmerelda babbles on. “They used to be Sleeping Beauty’s fairy godmothers. When they retired, they came here. Now, they’re certified life coaches.”

Life coaches? What kind of nonsense job is that?

“They also teach cooking, sewing, and Arts and Crafts. Their classes are so much fun!”

Hardly my idea of fun. Maybe, there’s an advanced class on making evil potions.

“And on Sunday’s, they hold a talent show.”

“Don’t trust them; they’re spies,” says another voice. It’s the scary skinny girl that resembles Elzmerelda. Picking crumbs off the top of her muffin, she saunters over to the bench where we’re sitting.

“Jane, this is my sister, Sasperilla,” says Elzmerelda.

Sasperilla gives me the once-over with her dark, beady eyes.

“Why are you two here?” I ask.

“Mother made us come,” says Sasperilla, her tone bitter.

“She thinks if we get more in touch with our inner princess, we’ll marry royalty,” chimes in Elzmerelda.

“It’s all our stepsister’s fault.” Sasperilla rolls a crumb between her bony fingers. “If that cunning little bitch hadn’t snuck out of her room with the other glass slipper, Prince Charming would have been mine!”

“Cinderella’s not a b…bad person,” says Elzmerelda.

Sasperilla snorts. “Puh-lease. It takes one to know one. Right, Jane?”

So, she thinks I’m a bitch. Just wait. I’ll show her.

Another woman strolls over to us. The obese one. She has delicate features and long, lustrous red hair that I would kill for. I’d almost call her pretty if she weren’t so damn fat and freckled.

“Sasperilla, can I have your muffin?” she asks.

“Be my guest.” The skinny bitch tosses her the barely touched muffin. “One woman’s dread is another woman’s bread.”

Elzmerelda shakes her head in frustration. “Sassy, you’re never going to get of here if you don’t start eating like a normal person.”

Sasperilla scoffs at her sister. “Everyone knows princes only marry skinny girls. If I wanted to marry a poor cobbler, I’d look like Winifred.”

The heavy woman forces a smile. “At least, my husband’s a good man and loves me.”

“Yeah, right,” snickers Sasperilla. “He loves you so much he had you committed here.”

Winifred’s hazel eyes flare. “Here, you can keep your muffin.” She flings it back at the skinny bitch.

“Fattie!” screams Sasperilla, flicking crumbs off her frilly gown as if they’re deadly insects.

Winifred’s freckles explode like fireworks, turning her whole face red. Clenching her fists, she looks ready to charge.

Great. The party’s about to get bigger. The ugly troll is limping our way. His stony eyes fixate on me. What’s your problem, mister? On second thought, I don’t want to know. I’ve had it with these whackos.

“How’s everyone doing?” It’s Fanta. Her two big-butt sisters join her just in time to prevent a brawl between Sasperilla and Winifred.

“People, finish up,” says Flossie.

“It’s time for your morning meditation,” says Fairweather.

Meditation? Now, what poison are they springing on me?

Elzmerelda tells me that meditation teaches us to stay focused on the present while turbulent thoughts and emotions swirl through our heads. “Getting in touch with your inner spirituality is another part of the healing process.”

Inner spirituality? What the hell is she talking about? It gets worse. She rambles on, spewing more mumbo jumbo like “life affirmation,” “self-realization,” and “emotional awareness.”

“It’s a stupid waste of time!” snorts Sasperilla.

Reluctantly, the skinny bitch sits down on the grass with her sister, the fatty, and the catatonic troll in a cross-legged pose. Fanta leads them in some ridiculous “hang-out-in-the-light” incantation. I refuse to join in.

Flossie takes me aside. “Don’t worry, dear. Grass stains don’t hurt so please find a place with the others.” She gently takes me by the hand and then shoves me to the ground. The nerve of her! I’m going to file a complaint for excessive force. Fairy brutality! When they find out I’m a queen, they’ll shut this place down. And I’ll be free to go!

Right now, I have no choice but to chant along while Flossie keeps her stink eye on me. She’ll probably batter me with her wand if I don’t cooperate. And break my nose and knock out my teeth! I’ll never ever be Fairest of All again! Talking about turbulent thoughts! Chanting isn’t going to help me.

“Close your eyes and repeat after me,” says Fanta. Waving her wand, she chants:

“I am here to be helped.

To share. To be one with me.

On whatever level, I can find myself

To become the me I need to be.”

I have no idea what these words mean. But when I say them, a peacefulness saturates my body and mind. I’m no longer on this planet. I’m in a higher place. A place where everything is possible. Even going back to my castle and forgiving my mirror.

“Isn’t Fanta amazing?” singsongs Elzmerelda when our meditation ends. “She and her sisters were once able to put an entire kingdom to sleep.”

I hate to admit it, but I’ve never felt so good. I feel a glimmer of hope. Maybe, this place is some kind of spa after all. Okay, it’s a little run down and caters to a bunch of crazies, but nonetheless, it’s got spa potential.

Fairweather waddles up to me. She hands me a map showing the layout of the castle and grounds. “My dear, it’s time for you to meet your personal therapist.”

A therapist? Faraway is a real spa! At last, I’m getting a massage. A facial and quick body wrap can’t be far behind. In no time, they’ll let me out of this joint. Renewed! Refreshed! Revitalized! Ready to reclaim my place as Fairest of All.

Following the directions of the map, I find myself humping the never-ending spiral staircase of a towering turret. With every step, I get more and more winded. The massage room is located at the very top. What a stupid place to put it! Then again, maybe they deliberately want you to feel wasted to appreciate your massage. That’s if you make it. I may not.

At last, I reach my destination. Breathing heavily, I stagger into a small circular room. It’s sparsely decorated with only a simple round wall clock and a single piece of furniture—a burgundy velvet chaise lounge. Although worn and faded, the chaise looks comfortable and inviting. This must be where I lie down and get my massage. Wasting no time, I sink into it. I’m so ready to surrender my body.

Just as I relax, a tiny winged creature zips in like a streak of lightning, drenching me in a shower of sparkling dust. I cough. What the—

“Hello, Jane. I’m Shrinkerbell, but you can all me Shrink. I’ll be your personal therapist here at Faraway.”

What kind of massage therapist is this? She’s the size of a sparrow, with hands no bigger than a bird’s claws, and thick round spectacles that make her look bug-eyed. Buzzing around the room, she’s as calming as a mosquito.

“So that you know, Tinkerbell is my fraternal twin. She got the looks; I got the brains.” She runs one of her tiny hands through a messy pouf of blond hair. “Who do you think came up with the Peter Pan complex? Me, that’s who! It kills me that my in-your-face sister always gets the credit.”

Why is she telling me all this stuff? She’s taking precious time away from my massage. I’m going to demand an extra fifteen minutes if she doesn’t get going.

She swoops down from the ceiling. “Sorry for getting carried away with my issues. We’re here to talk about yours. First, do you have any questions?”

“Yes. Can you go deep?” I read in one of those beauty magazines that a deep tissue massage can magically restore your beauty.

“Yes, I like to go as deep as possible with all my clients. My goal is to find the underlying causes of their problems.”

Great, because I feel like crap. I’m not sure if it’s the lack of coffee, the climb, or mirror withdrawal. I still have a pounding headache, and my body is aching all over. Plus, that damn dust is stinging my eyes.

“Just one other little question. Can I borrow a mirror before we begin?” Someone around this joint has got to have one.

“Ah, yes,” she replies.

Finally! A mirror!

“I’ve read your case history. Quite complex, indeed. Has anyone ever told you what you look like?”

“Actually, I had a magic mirror that did a pretty good job until this little shrew named Snow White got it distracted.”

She zooms in closer and circles my head. Talking about someone being in your face.

“Your nose is too long; your lips are too big; your cheekbones are too high, and your eyes, although a lovely shade of green, are too far apart.”

Her words hit me like a cannonball. “Liar!”

“Jane, having to face the truth is the start of recovery.”

“Give me a mirror!” I demand.

She pulls out a tiny glass object from a pocket.

“Give me that!” I grab for it.

She zips off before I can snatch it. “No, Jane, this is my magic mirror.”

Clasping the small object in her tiny hands, she examines every inch of my face. I try again to snag the mirror, but her trail of fairy dust is blinding me.

“Ah! I’ve discovered a freckle.”

A freckle!? I bolt to a sitting position, clutching my stomach like someone’s punched it. I knew all the sunshine around this place would do me in. I’ll never be the fairest again! I’m ruined!

A mixture of rage and despair boils inside me. Grasping at air, I finally snatch the looking glass and hold it up to my face. I don’t see a damn thing. That’s because it’s a magnifying glass, not a mirror. I refuse to believe her. She’s deliberately messing with my head. She deserves to die!

I hold out my hands and get ready to smoosh her between my palms. Clap! She flits off just in the nick of time.

I rub my prickling hands together as she flutters overhead out of reach.

“You have numerous imperfections, but they come together in an interesting, attractive way. Remember, Jane, the whole is greater than the sum of its parts.”

“Are we done here?” I say, gritting my teeth.

“No, Jane, we’ve just begun.”

A chime from the clock sounds.

“Time’s up for today. I’ll see you here tomorrow at the same time.”

Like a shooting star, she’s gone, leaving a streak of sparkling fairy dust in her wake.

I choke. Obviously, I’m not getting a massage.

Every muscle in my body is twitching from that bogus therapist. She thinks I’m going to see her tomorrow? Not a chance in hell. I’m going to figure a way out of here. The good news is I’ve got a map. Following it, I head back to my room. I’ll take a quick nap to unknot my body and brain, then study it. Seriously, how hard can it be?

The moment I step foot inside the castle, Fairweather thrusts a bucket and mop at me.

“Ha-ha! It’s your day to do the floors,” snickers Sasperilla.

Flossie tosses her a feather duster. “You’ll be keeping her company.”

Scary-Skinny scrunches up her face in disgust.

Rage is rising inside me. I demand to know what’s going on.

“Everyday, after morning meditation, we have castle clean-up,” explains Elzmerelda as she polishes a bureau. “The Good Fairies believe that hard work builds strong bodies and minds.”

Is she joking? Haven’t those cheapskates heard of the word “servant”?

“Jane, what are you waiting for? Get going!” snaps Fanta, jabbing her wand into my back.

These Badass Fairies aren’t life coaches; they’re slave drivers.

“During clean-up, we all take turns meeting with Shrink,” Elzmerelda tells me after they fly off. “Winnie’s meeting with her now. Then it’s Sassy’s turn, What’s-His-Name’s, and finally mine.”

I’m hardly listening to a word she’s saying. I’m too busy squeezing water out of the mop.

Sasperilla tickles my nose with her duster. “Having fun yet?”

It’s bad enough I’m doing slave labor, but there’s no way I’m putting up with Skinny Bitch’s sarcasm. I toss the bucket of dirty water at her. She shrieks.

“Now, I am.” I smile. She looks like a drowned rat.

Before Sasperilla can retaliate, Fanta flies in, touching down between us.

“Look what she did to me!” screeches Sasperilla, wringing out her soggy curls.

“You can talk all about it with Shrink.” Grabbing her by the elbow, Fanta steers her toward the front door.

Sasperilla turns her head and sticks her tongue out at me. I give her my always-effective icy stare.

“Get back to work,” Fanta barks at me.

The Badass Fairy’s words echo in my head, and I’m suddenly a little girl again, scrubbing the gritty stone floor of the cramped, one-story flat I share with my mother. A chorus of voices coming from outside distracts me, and I peek out the window. Children are playing on the street. They’re laughing, singing, having fun. How I long to join them! “Jane, what are you doing?” yells my mother. Yanking me by my hair, she shoves my head into the bucket of dirty water. I hold my breath, counting the seconds, not daring to open my eyes to the sting of the septic suds. Thirty-one…thirty-two…thirty-three… Finally, she jerks me out. She throws a mop at me and hisses, “Get back to work!”

I mop the castle floor frantically to erase the memory. I hate you, Fanta.

CHAPTER 6

All this dreadful mopping has worked up my appetite. I’m starving. Finally, Flossie reappears and announces lunch.

This time our meal is indoors in a large banquet hall, if you can call it that. There’s nothing more than a few rectangular wooden tables with chairs and a buffet. The walls, like everything else in this dump, are painted yellow, and the floor-to-ceiling windows allow the sun to shine through brightly. There’s just no escaping the sun around this joint.

Fairweather toddles up to me. “Jane, you’re on table setting duty. The silverware is in the buffet. And tonight after dinner, you have clean-up. Now, get going!”

The nerve of her bossing me around! Hasn’t someone told these Badass Fairies that I’m a queen? Hello! I am the one who gives orders. Even in that dreary dungeon, they treated me with the respect I deserve. They didn’t make me do these awful fit-for-a-servant chores. And maybe the food wasn’t so great, but at least I got room service. If I don’t escape this joint, I’m going to demand a transfer back there.

“Lunch is one of our best meals!” says Elzmerelda. Holding a plate full of assorted cheeses, salads, and breads, she takes a seat at the last table I’m setting.

I fling the rest of the silverware on the table and head over to the lunch line. Ravenous, I pile up my plate. Miss Scary-Skinny is in front of me. She hesitantly puts a few greens on her plate. Miss Fat-and-Freckled, who’s behind me, eats for two, loading way more on her plate than me. She slyly sneaks an extra piece of bread into her pocket. Fanta catches her in the act and immediately confiscates it.

“Remember, Winifred, you are what you eat,” she chides.

Scary-Skinny directs a couple of pig-like snorts at the overweight woman.

“And the same goes for you, Sasperilla,” snaps the plump fairy. “You’re not leaving this room until you eat this piece of bread. And I’ll be watching every bite.”

“See, I told you they were spies!” sneers Sasperilla.

I’m beginning to believe her.

I take a seat at Elzmerelda’s table, between Sasperilla and Winifred. The troll, the last in line, teeter-totters over to another table and eats alone.

“So, what are you here for?” I ask Winifred after a bite of a surprisingly tasty cheese.

The fat woman gulps down a mouthful of buttered bread. “I had what they call a psychotic breakdown.” She gazes down at her plate, shamefully. “I tried to kill my own children.”

Cripes! And they thought I was evil. I merely tried to kill my stepdaughter. We weren’t even related by blood.

“Ha! I bet she tried to eat them!” snickers Sasperilla as she expertly sneaks her bread under the table.

Winifred chokes. Elzmerelda pats her on her back and shakes her head in dismay at her sister.

“And what about Gimpy over there?” I ask, pointing to the troll, who reminds me of those loathsome dwarfs. He keeps staring at me and is getting on my nerves.

“Oh, it’s very sad,” says Elzmerelda, squinting in his direction. “The Good Fairies told us he’s a notorious criminal. An extortionist!

That’s not sad. It’s just a little evil.

“But then some queen outsmarted him. He was so mad he stomped his foot into the ground. Waist deep. Then he tried to tear off his other leg.

That explains his limp. “How did he end up here?”

“The queen made her husband pull him out, then had him committed.”

She’s the evil one!

“He couldn’t remember a thing. Not even his name.”

“He has a classic case of dissociative amnesia according to Dr. Grimm,” interjects Winifred.

“Who’s Dr. Grimm?” I ask.

“An ogre with big ears who’s out to get us,” butts in Sasperilla.

“Don’t listen to her. He leads our group therapy sessions. You’ll meet him right after lunch,” says Winifred.

Maybe, they call it group therapy because we give each other massages? Fat chance.

“We have to call that little guy ‘What’s-His-Name’ until he can remember his real name,” says Elzmerelda. “Dr. Grimm says that’ll be his first step toward recovery.”

“Puh-lease!” Sasperilla rolls her eyes. “He’s a vertically challenged moron. I can’t believe I have to associate with people like him.”

Personally, I can’t believe I have to associate with any of these freaks. I don’t need a magic mirror to tell me where I stand among this sorry bunch of losers.

“So, why are you here, Miss Needs-to-Know-Everybody’s-Business?” asks Sasperilla.

“I thought I was here for a makeover.” There’s no way I’m sharing my life with these nut-jobs.

“You are here for a makeover. Only not the kind you were expecting,” says Winifred.

“What do you mean?”

“Trust me, you’ll see.”

Group is held in a small room on the main floor of the castle. Yet more of that dismal minimalist look—there are just six wooden chairs arranged in a circle. We each take a seat, leaving one for Dr. Grimm.

The chair is hard as nails. It’s digging into my back, not to mention killing my butt. Comfort is clearly not a priority around this sham-of-a-spa.

“Stop staring at me, you mindless midget,” snaps Sasperilla at What’s-His-Name.

“He’s not staring at you,” comes her sister to his defense. “He’s staring at Jane.”

She’s right, and I wish he’d stop it already.

Sasperilla crinkles her nose. “Why don’t you wear your spectacles? Mother paid a fortune for them. Or is it that you’re afraid they’ll make you uglier than you already are?”

Elzmerelda shrivels. “Sassy, please don’t tell her I lost them.”

Sasperilla shoots her sister a smirk but wipes it off her face when a tall, stringy man slumps into the room. He takes the vacant seat next to her. This must be Dr. Grimm.

“Good afternoon, group,” he says solemnly.

Grimm looks like his name. Gloomy and depressing. Dressed in a droopy black waistcoat, he seriously should be leading a funeral procession, not a group therapy session. His beaky nose and straggly gray hair don’t help nor does his unkempt beard—easily a nest for one of those rude birds. And Sasperilla’s right again. His ears are big. At least five inches long.

“I’d like everyone to say hello to Jane,” he says. “Our new group member.”

Sasperilla feigns a yawn. “We’ve already met the bitch.”

“Sasperilla,” says Grimm sternly, “you know we don’t use that kind of language in group. Please apologize to Jane.”

“Sooory.” She twists one of her long corkscrew curls around a bony finger, clearly not.

“So, Jane, is there something you’d like to share with us today?” asks Grimm.

“Yes, my back is killing me.”

Stroking his beard, Grimm gazes at me with bewilderment.

Sasperilla snorts with laughter. “He meant about your life.”

Is she kidding? There’s nothing I want to share with her or any of these psychos.

Grimm leans forward. “Jane, there has to be at least one thing you’d like to share.”

Fine. “I’m a Queen.” The way they treat me around this place they must have no clue.

“Wow!” says Elzmerelda in awe. “I knew you had to be royalty!”

“Big deal!” says Sasperilla. “Royals are a dime a dozen.”

“That’s not true,” says Winifred. “I read that only five percent of Lalaland’s population is a king or queen.”

What’s-His-Name’s eyes twinkle, finally showing some life.

“Does the word ‘queen’ jog your memory?” Grimm asks him.

Rocking his body, What’s-His-Name chants “n-nice queen” over and over. He is a major head case.

“Good.” Grimm nods. “Try to remember more things about this nice queen.”

“Hold on. I want to know more about this ‘Queen’,” cuts in Sasperilla. “So, Jane, were you born into royalty or did you marry into it?”

“I married a King.” Wait! Why am I telling this skinny bitch anything about my life?

“Did your mother bring you up to marry royalty? Teach you all the tricks?”

My mother. My stomach turns over.

“Leave my mother out of this!” I yell.

“Jane, do you want to tell us something about your mother?” asks Grimm.

“Go to hell! All of you!”

“Jane, I will remind you that we have a no tolerance policy for foul language. Just because you’re royalty doesn’t mean you get special treatment. We’ve had several kings and queens here before. I even recall an Emperor. The bottom line is everyone is treated as equals.”

That’s obvious. I don’t need a lecture from some shlump of a head doctor to make that clear to me. What’s just as obvious: I don’t belong here.

“Group is over,” announces Grimm as I spring to my feet.

Finally! There’s nothing I want to do more than say farewell to these losers. With the exception of poisoning them, Grimm included.

I’ve made up my mind. Whatever it takes, I’ve got to escape this madhouse.

“People, it’s time to indulge your creativity,” announces Fairweather upon meeting us in the corridor.

“What’s going on?” I ask Elzmerelda.

She explains that every day after group we attend one of three workshops: “Enchanted Arts & Crafts” with Fairweather, “Sew-La-Ti-Do” with Flossie, or “The Magic of Cooking” with Fanta.

“The Good Fairies believe creativity nourishes the soul and builds self-esteem,” she says.

What dragon dung! There’s only one thing I want to create. An escape plan.

I end up in the cooking workshop with Winifred. It takes place in the castle’s kitchen, which is surprisingly well equipped and elaborate compared to the rest of this rundown dump. Fanta tells us that today’s project is to make a “delicious crusty bread.”

“I’m going to leave you two girls on your own. I’ll come back in a little while.” She stops short at the door. “Jane, please make sure that Winifred doesn’t eat the dough before you bake it.” And then she’s gone.

Great! A chance to escape.

“I love making bread,” says Winifred, already gathering pans, bowls, and utensils. “It’s so therapeutic. It lets you take out all your hurt and anger on the dough, but still the bread turns out delicious.”

She’s obviously made bread before. Good. I’ll let her do all the work. When she’s not looking, I’ll split. With a little luck, I’ll be able to sneak a piece for my journey home.

Luck is not in my cards. Winifred immediately puts me to work.

“Jane, we need water, yeast, butter, and flour,” she says with authority.

How am I supposed to know where they are? I’ve never been in this kitchen. In fact, I haven’t been in a kitchen for years. When I was Queen, I had cooks.

“Hurry, Jane. We don’t have all day!”

Maybe it’s time to remind her that I’m still a Queen and don’t take orders from anyone.

With her hands planted on her wide hips, she taps her foot as though she’s counting down to an attack. The thought of her two hundred-pound body tackling mine motivates me. I’m not ready to die. I have a future ahead of me. A title to recapture.

I manage to find all the ingredients. Winifred mixes them together in a large earthenware bowl.

“Now we have our dough,” she says.

She sprinkles our butcher-block worktable with some of the flour and places the mixture on the surface. “Now, comes the fun part. We get to knead it.”

We? I want nothing to do with this big glob of goo.

“Watch.” She plunges her hands into the dough and starts to push, pull, and fold it. “Kneading is great for releasing stress. Try it.”

Cautiously, I put my hands into the dough and copy her motions. It’s soft and warm. And you know what? It does feel good!

“I used to think that making bread was like making love,” says Winifred, her voice wistful.

A spark of interest kindles inside me.

“When I first got married, I would caress the dough and stretch it gently. Over time, I started to whack and squeeze it hard.”

Something in her relationship changed. Despite my curiosity, I let it go.

“Think about someone you hate and pretend he or she is the dough,” she tells me.

Shrink! Grimm! This fat chick and the rest of those pathetic loonies! I hate them all! To my surprise, I find myself tugging at the dough and bashing it. I break into a sweat as I work the dough harder and harder.

“Good job, Jane.” Winifred takes the dough from me and forms it into a round shape. Still flat as a board, it hardly resembles a loaf of bread.

“Do we bake it now?” I ask.

“No.” She places a towel over the dough. “We have to wait a half-hour for it to rise.”

What! Now, I have to hang out with her?

“Would you care for some chamomile tea?” she asks.

A cup of coffee would be more like it. Strong and black.

“Sure,” I tell her.

She boils some water in the cauldron and then returns with a tray holding two cups of tea and a plate full of biscuits. “Have one,” she says. “They must be left over from yesterday’s class.”

I bite into a tasty biscuit and notice she’s not eating one. She stares at me, salivating with envy.

“You’re so lucky you’re so thin. I bet you can eat anything you want and never gain a pound.”

I feel a tinge of pity. It must be awful to be that fat.

“My husband won’t make love to me anymore,” she says forlornly.

I wonder why she would ever want to make love to the creep who sent her here.

“So, what’s your husband like?” she asks.

This is getting way too personal. I wish the damn dough would rise.

“He’s dead,” I say.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. He was a lot older than me.”

“Do you miss him?”

“Of course!” What a big fat liar I am! Why would I miss him? Our brief marriage was a joke. Old King Cold spent all his time doting on his daughter Snow White. Little Miss Perfect. I was almost happy when he died. Except I got stuck with taking care of the imp.

Winifred returns her attention to the dough. She removes the towel. I’m shocked. The dough has risen. It’s double its size!

She gently runs her fingers across the top. “Touch it. It’s like the skin of a baby.”

Hesitantly, I stroke the dough. It is like the skin of a baby. Smooth and silky. So new to the world. The memory of the infant I never got a chance to know fills my head. Trembling, I pull my hand away.

“Are you okay?” Winifred asks.

“I’m fine,” I stammer. The painful memory fades.

“Good. One last thing before we put it into the hearth,” says Winifred. “I’m going to let you do the honors.”

“Now, what do I have to do?” I ask, not really wanting to know.

“Imagine your worst enemy and punch it as hard as you can.”

Is she serious? Okay. Here goes. I look down at the perfect white mound, and to my astonishment, it comes alive. Oh my God! It’s Snow White! Hatred shoots through my veins.

With my right hand curled into a tight fist, I punch the dough with a force I never knew I had. But as I strike the mound, it’s no longer Snow White. The dough has morphed. It’s turned into the one person I’ve dreaded ever seeing again. Nelle Yvel. My mother! I shriek. The dough deflates. I shriek again.

“Perfect!” Winifred places the dough in the hearth. “Now, we have to wait until it bakes.”

More waiting? The image of my mother has knocked me for a loop. I’m drained and shaken.

In no time, a delicious aroma wafts through the air. It gets my mind off my mother. My heartbeat returns to normal.

“What’s the point of all this hard work?” I ask. “I mean, the bread’s just going to get eaten or turn moldy.”

“Look on the bright side. You’ve created something that will nourish others,” replies Winifred. “When I bake delicious bread for my family, it’s my way of telling them I love them.”

Her eyes grow watery.

“So, in other words, you’re baking love?” I say with uncertainty.

“I never thought about it that way.” She takes a sip of tea.

“Once my children got lost in the woods and scattered pieces of my bread to help them find their way back home.” A tear spills into her tea. “I miss them.”

Our conversation comes to a dead end, and we drink our tea in silence. The tantalizing smell of the baking bread grows stronger. It’s making me hungry. Finally, Winifred removes the dough from the hearth. To my amazement, it’s a big crusty loaf of bread. Winifred must be some kind of magician.

“Have some,” she says.

I tear off a piece of the warm bread and stuff it in my mouth. My eyes light up. It’s so good! Winifred bites into a chunk and moans with pleasure. Within minutes, we devour the entire loaf.

Winifred’s face falls. Why is she suddenly so glum?

“When Fanta finds out that I’ve eaten so much bread, she’ll ban me from dinner.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll tell her I ate the entire loaf.”

“Thanks, Jane. I owe you.” A cheek-to-cheek smile spreads across her chubby face.

I’ve made a decision. I’m taking Winifred off my hate list.

“Jane, how did it go today?” asks Elzmerelda.

We’re back in our room, freshening up for dinner. I say nothing.

“It was awful for me at first too. Don’t worry. It gets better. Honestly.”

Honestly? There’s no way I’m hanging around this dump to find out.

“Well, got to go. I have Dinner Prep tonight. See you later.” She skitters out the door.

Good. She’s gone. I can use this free time alone to plot my escape. Except I’m too exhausted to think. I plunk down on my bed and close my eyes.

When I re-open them, it’s pitch-black. For a second, I have no idea where I am. Elzmerelda’s singsong voice regrettably reminds me.

“I brought you back some dinner.” After lighting a candle, she lays a tray on my bed.

“What time is it?” I ask groggily, raising myself to a sitting position.

“It’s after nine. You fell asleep. When I came back to get you, I didn’t have the heart to wake you.”

I gulp down my soup and wipe the bowl clean with the bread. Shit! I missed clean-up. One of those Badass Fairies will probably give me one hundred lashes.

As if reading my mind, Elzmerelda says, “Don’t worry. I covered clean-up for you.”

Why is she so nice to me? I don’t get it. If it’s because she wants me to be nice to her, she can forget it. I don’t do nice.

Elzmerelda clears the tray, then slips into her nightgown. She crawls into bed and blows out the candle.

“Sweet dreams, Jane.”

No one has ever said that to me before. I shut my eyes again, but sleep betrays me. I can’t get the image of my mother out of my head.

CHAPTER 7

My next day at Faraway begins no better than the first. The chirpy birds wake me up too early; the sun attacks me; my caffeine deprivation gives me a headache, and Elzmerelda’s cheerfulness drives me nuts.

At breakfast, we gather fresh eggs in addition to berries. In a nearby shed, Winifred shows me how easy it is take an egg from one of the nesting hens. Trust me, it’s not. The nasty chickens are in constant attack mode. I narrowly escape being their breakfast.

I’m happy to go back to berry picking. I’ve actually gotten better at it. As I’m counting my haul, someone screams in the distance.

It’s Sasperilla, and she’s running toward us faster than any Gingerbread Man can. “Help! A wild beast is after me!”

Out of the clearing leaps a beautiful spotted fawn.

Elzmerelda makes a squinty face. “He’s lost!”

“The poor baby,” says Winifred. “I bet he’s trying to find his mother.”

The animal prances up to us. I admire his lithe body and long, graceful legs.

“Get him away from me!” shrieks Sasperilla, flailing her stick-thin arms.

Elzmerelda tries to calm down her sister. “Sassy, he’s not going to bite you.”

For some reason, the animal is attracted to me. It nuzzles its head up against my body and helps itself to the berries in my basket.

“The poor thing must be starving,” says Winifred. She orders Sasperilla to find some nuts and acorns. More than happy to oblige, Miss Scared and Skinny scurries off.

Watching this gentle creature, I’m transported to my childhood again. I’m dancing barefoot in the street. Passersby notice I have no shoes and throw an extra coin into my tin. I don’t dare tell them that my mother forbid me to wear shoes so they would feel sorry for me and be generous with their alms.

A kind-looking man dressed in regal clothes watches me dance. He must be from a faraway land because he uses words I don’t know. “Bambina, you are destined for greatness.” He tosses a gold coin into my tin. I smile. My mother will be pleased.

Not long after the man strolls away, I feel a warm, wet tickling sensation on my toes. I glance down. At my feet is an adorable brown and white spotted puppy that won’t stop licking me. When he gazes up at me with his big take-me-home eyes, I know he’s mine. I name him Bambi.

Wagging his tail, he follows me home. He’s so cute and smart. When I call out to him, he knows his name and runs up to me. I’m sure my mother will let me keep him because of the gold coin. I’m wrong.

“Jane, how dare you bring home this flea-ridden beast?” she shrieks. “The last thing we need is another mouth to feed!”

To my horror, she kicks the little dog. It whimpers. My poor little Bambi! As I fall to my knees to shield him with my body, a fiery pain rips across my back. I look up only to receive another lashing from my mother, gripping a frayed leather belt laced with my blood. “He’d better be gone when I come back,” she hisses. Emptying the tin with the gold coin, she stomps toward the front door, slamming it behind her as she leaves.

I scoop Bambi up in my arms. He licks my hot, salty tears. I can’t part with him. I cry myself to sleep, with the little pup hidden under my thin woolen blanket, curled up in the crook of my knees.

When I open my eyes in the morning, Bambi’s gone. “He ran away,” says my smirking mother.

Fresh tears sprinkle down my face. Grabbing my tin, I race to the village square where I dance, hoping he’ll be there. I dance all day until my feet bleed. The pup never shows up. Night falls. Hobbling from street to street, I shout out his name until I’m hoarse and cannot take another step. “Bambi! Bambi! Bambi!”

“Do you know someone named Bambi?” asks Elzmerelda, snapping me back to reality.

“Where is he?” I ask.

Winifred eyes me strangely. “Do you mean the deer? Sasperilla came back and scared him off. Remember?”

She must think I’m delusional. Maybe I am losing it.

We begin our morning meditation standing, with our arms raised to the sky.

“Draw in the sunshine,” instructs Fanta.

So, now they’re going to fry our insides. When I die from all this sunshine, they’ll probably find sunspots on my bones.

Surprisingly, the posture brightens my spirits. It makes me stronger. Energized.

Flossie leads us through a series of movements she calls “sun salutations.” They’re a bunch of weird poses that require a lot of flexibility. I can’t believe how flexible the Badass Fairy is. Fluidly moving from one pose to the next, she’s like a dancer.

Following along, I glance at the others. Elzmerelda is as graceful as a gazelle. Even maimed What’s-His-Name and super-plus size Winifred move with ease. Distracted, Sasperilla shoots me a what-are-you-staring-at look. Right back at you, bitch. She loses her balance and falls. She grimaces; I smile. Wickedly.

I focus my attention back on Fanta. She chants, “Om ravaye namah.”

Gulp! She’s casting a spell on us! She’s going to turn us all into frogs!

“Let it all go,” she says. “And say OMmmmm.”

Reluctantly, I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and prepare for the worse. When I open them, I’m surprised. I’m not some ugly ribitting frog princess. Oddly, I’m at peace with myself.

So relaxed, I’m not looking forward to my second session with Shrink, especially after all the insults she threw in my face yesterday. The nerve of her! She’ll be sorry if she pulls that stuff on me today. I’ll have her on her knees, begging for forgiveness. Then I’ll stomp on her and turn her into pixie juice.

“Hello, Jane,” says Shrink in her no-nonsense voice as she flies into her office.

Lying on the velvet chaise, I tilt my head up slightly and gaze at her with disdain.

“Jane is an interesting name,” she begins. “It rhymes with both ‘plain’ and ‘vain.’ Which one are you—a plain Jane or a vain Jane?”

Plain Jane. The two words send a chill down my spine. It’s been so long since I’ve heard them, yet I can still hear my mother’s deprecating voice as if it were only yesterday. “You waste of human space. You’re nothing but a plain Jane.”

“Well, Jane, which one are you?” Shrink’s words hurl me back to the moment.

“I’m not answering that question.”

“Well, then I’ll answer it for you. You’re a vain Jane. That’s why your best friend was a mirror.”

How does she know that my best friend was a mirror? Of course, she read my “admissions form.” Some enrollment application! It was just a bunch of trick questions to reveal my secrets. Sasperilla was right; they’re all spies around this place.

“What did you use to ask your mirror?”

“None of your business.”

“Jane, that’s not what you used to say to your mirror. Now, tell me, what you really asked it.”

“Mirror, mirror on the wall, who’s the fairest one of all?” I blurt out, unable to control myself.

“And why did you ask your mirror this question?”

“Because it told me I was the fairest.”

“And why did you need to hear this?”

“B-because…” I squirm.

“Because you needed instant gratification,” steps in Shrink. “Instant gratification is a fundamental part of an addict’s personality.”

“I am not an addict!” I shout, straightening up.

“And what happened when your mirror told you someone else was the fairest one of all?”

“I tried to kill her!” Wait! Why am I telling her all these things? What’s wrong with me?

“Yes, your addiction to beauty drove you to evil.”

“Stop it!” I grip the arms of the chaise. “You think you know everything about me, but you don’t!”

“Jane, you are here because you have a problem. And I am here to help you overcome your problem.”

“The only problem I have is that I’m stuck in this nuthouse. I didn’t ask to come here!”

“You agreed to come here.”

“It was all a bunch of lies! I was tricked! I thought I was being sent to a spa! I want to go back that dungeon!”

“It’s too late. You can’t go back.”

What! I’m stuck here? Rage crescendos inside me.

“Here’s the deal,” she says to my face. “Everyday at this time for the next three weeks, you are going to talk to me about your life. I will listen with a third ear and find the underlying cause of your addiction. Then I will share this discovery with you, and we will work together toward a complete recovery.”

I’m about to explode. There’s no way I’m going to spend three weeks opening up to this flying bug of a woman who has some invisible third ear.

“You can’t keep me here!” I shout. “I’ll run away. Escape! In fact, I’m going to say good-bye to this dump right now.”

I bolt off the chaise and head straight for the door.

“Good luck,” says Shrink. “But may I remind you of the high stone wall, the locked gate, and the armed guardsman. And I almost forgot, there’s a moat.”

I stop dead in my tracks. Why did she have to remind me? Rage becomes despair. I’m stuck in this madhouse!

The chime sounds.

“Time’s up for today, Jane. I’ll see you here tomorrow.”

Leaving a blinding trail of fairy dust, she zips out the door.

I’ve got to get out of here. I’ve got to! Before that insidious bug of a woman who calls herself a therapist makes me completely insane. That also rhymes with Jane. I tremble as I put them together. Insane Jane.

CHAPTER 8

“Group, I’d like you to meet our newest Faraway resident,” Dr. Grimm says as we file in for our afternoon session.

The last thing I want to do is meet another nutter.

Standing—or should I say posing—next to him is a tall, buff man in an open blousy shirt, shiny black boots, and tight white britches. In one hand, he holds a feathered felt hat; the other is hidden behind his back.

He’s definitely an improvement in the man-department over What’s-His-Name. His deep-set eyes are gray-blue like the sea, and a shadow of a beard lines his tan, weathered skin. Plus, he has the most fabulous hair I’ve ever seen—at least, on a man. Thick, black, glossy hair that grazes his shoulders and makes me miss mine. He catches me staring at him and winks. I pretend not to see it.

“This is James Hook,” says Grimm.

“Captain James Hook,” the man corrects with an air of arrogance. “King of the Pirates.”

“Are you sure you’re a king? You don’t look like one to me,” says Sasperilla, eying him from head to toe. Elzmerelda, flushed, also stares at him.

“Yo, Ho, Ho!” cackles the pirate. “I’m a legend. Ask anyone.”

Yeah, a legend in his own mind. He’s so full of himself.

“Group, today we are going to join hands to connect with one and other,” says Grimm.

Another waste-of-time activity.

“Who would like to hold Hook’s hand?”

Our eyes dart from one to another. Elzmerelda takes a step forward, then hesitates.

“Fine. I’ll do it,” says Sasperilla as if she’s doing us all a big favor.

“The pleasure is mine.” Holding out his hat, Hook bows graciously and offers the skinny bitch his hand. The one he’s kept hidden behind his back.

“Aagh!” Sasperilla jumps back. “I’m not holding that!”

My mouth drops. Hook’s hand is not a hand. It’s an iron claw!

“You poor thing! What happened to your hand?” asks Winnie.

Hook ignores her. His eyes linger on places of my body he has no right staring at. I want to take that hook and hang him by his eyeballs.

Grimm repeats, “Who would like to hold Hook’s hand?”

Again, there’s silence. No one volunteers. Hook keeps leering at me. Forget it! I’m not going near him. Finally, What’s-His-Name teeters over to him. Except he takes the swine’s good hand.

“I’ll hold his other hand,” says Elzmerelda bravely. She blushes as she wraps her long, spidery fingers around the pirate’s grotesque hook.

“Thank you, Elzmerelda,” says Grimm, stepping away. “Now, I’d like the rest of you to join in please and form a circle.”

I move next to Elzmerelda, and Winifred next to me. That leaves Sasperilla who’s forced to stand between Winifred and What’s-His-Name.

“Why do I always get stuck next to him?” Skinny Bitch grumbles.

What’s-His-Name squeezes her bony hand so hard she winces. He’s growing on me. I can’t say the same about Hook.

Standing diagonally across from me, he shoots me a smirk. I give him my signature scornful stare, the one I perfected in my magic mirror—cold, distant, and belittling. Instead of getting my message, he purses his lips and blows me a kiss.

The boar! He reminds me of the creeps my mother would bring home. The thought sends a shiver to the base of my spine. He had better stay away from me. Far away!

“Who would like to share today?” asks Grimm, standing in the middle of our circle.

Elzmerelda, breaking loose of my grip, raises her hand halfway. “I’ve always wanted to meet a real pirate.” She gazes dreamily at Hook.

“Why is that?” asks Grimm.

“To go on an adventure and sail the high seas.” She takes hold of my hand again.

“That’s really brave,” interjects Winifred.

“Winifred, you seem to admire bravery,” says Grimm. “Often, the qualities we admire in others are the very traits we lack and covet in ourselves.”

Bravery is sure not my problem. If that pirate doesn’t stop ogling me, I swear I’m going to yank off his hook and whack him with it. And I know exactly where.

Dr. Grimm presses on. “So, Elzmerelda, why do you want to go on a high seas adventure?”

“I’ve always wanted to get away.” Her palm is suddenly cold and clammy.

“From whom?” asks Grimm.

Silence. Elzmerelda’s bravery has melted into fear.

Sasperilla folds her arms across her concave chest. “You’re wasting everyone’s time. Tell him already.”

“Mother!” her sister blurts out at last.

Sasperilla’s eyes narrow into knife-like slits.

“Why your mother?” asks Grimm.

I shudder. He’d better never ask me why I dreamt of escaping my mother!

“B-b-because I want to live my own life!” splutters Elzmerelda. “I’m tired of her telling me what to do, what to wear, and whom to marry!”

Sasperilla gasps. “You indignant ingrate! I’m telling Mother on you when I see her!”

“Tell on me; I don’t care.” Elzmerelda’s voice shakes. “And besides, you’ve always told on me. You’ve always wanted to get me into trouble with Mother.”

“My children are always telling on each other,” comments Winifred. “They just want attention.”

“That’s an excellent observation, Winifred,” says Grimm. “Sasperilla, does your mother give you enough attention?”

“Never! She always dotes on Elzmerelda because she thinks she’s the pretty one.”

“That is so not true!” protests Elzmerelda.

An “is so/ is not” battle erupts and lasts until What’s-His-Name let out a startling roar that abruptly silences both sisters.

With the slightest trace of a smile, Grimm thanks the troll. His eyes shift from one sister to the other. “Fighting is not an acceptable way to resolve conflicts. I want the two of you to work on alternative means.”

Despite Grimm’s ultimatum, Sasperilla won’t give up. She manages to get in the last word.

“Guess what! I hope you sail away and get eaten by a whale, you little twit!”

Her hurtful words bring tears to Elzmerelda’s eyes. An unexpected wave of sadness sweeps over me. I know how it feels to be abandoned. To feel unloved. Elzmerelda’s quiet sobs tug at my heart. If Hook’s back to leering at me, I’m oblivious.

After group, Elzmerelda begs me to go to Arts and Crafts with her.

“I’m sure if we’re in class together Sasperilla won’t come,” she says. “I don’t think she likes you.”

That’s an understatement. The skinny bitch hates me. Though I was looking forward to cooking again with Winifred, I cave in to Elzmerelda’s plea. Unfortunately, Sasperilla’s already in the classroom when we get there. What’s-His-Name is there too.

Fairweather announces that today’s theme is jewelry. The only piece of jewelry I want to make is a lucky charm—the key to Faraway’s front gate to free myself from this prison. Instead, I opt to make a paper chain necklace. When it comes to art, I have little talent.

At a long metal table, Elzmerelda works as far away as possible from her sister. “What are you making?” I ask.

“Jewelry for feet—shoes!” she says proudly.

I examine her project. She’s constructed a pair of high-heeled shoes out of papier-mâché, painted them gold, and encrusted them with multi-color sequins. You know what, she’s actually talented.

At the back of the room, What’s-His-Name sits at a spinning wheel. He’s making something out of straw.

He limps over to me, holding his creation. “F-for you,” he stutters.

It’s a delicate golden bracelet with my name woven into it. “QUEEN.” Nice! Finally, someone respects me around this joint.

“Wonderful!” says Fairweather. “This is the first time he’s connected with someone at Faraway.”

I take the bracelet from him and slip it over my hand. It falls apart. What’s-His-Name looks crestfallen.

“It’s the thought that counts,” Fairweather tells him. “Next time, think of incorporating your name.”

Sasperilla saunters over to her sister. “Watch’ya making?” she asks nosily.

Elzmerelda ignores her.

Sasperilla snatches the shoes and tosses them onto the floor. “Let me be the first to try them on.”

“No!” cries Elzmerelda. But it’s too late. Sasperilla squeezes her long, bony feet into the sparkly shoes and completely destroys them. They’re nothing but a bunch of cardboard scraps.

Elzmerelda bursts into tears. “I worked so hard on them!”

“Such a pity!” tisks Sasperilla. “Because they went so nicely with what I’m wearing.”

I want to strangle the skinny bitch with the chain I’ve made. Too bad it’s only made of paper.

Elzmerelda will not get out of bed for dinner. She’s bundled under her covers, still sobbing.

“Come on, Elz, you’ve got to eat something.” It’s the first time I’ve called her Elz for short.

“I’m not hungry,” she sniffles.

There’s a loud knock at the door. It swings open. Winifred.

“I brought you something,” she says, plopping down on Elz’s bed. She digs into a pocket and plucks out a huge bar of chocolate.

Elz sits up as Winifred brushes away her tears. “Winnie, they’ll punish you if they catch you with that.”

“Let them.” The chubster shrugs. “They can take everything else away from me, but they can’t take away my chocolate. I have a secret stash in my room, so eat your heart out.”

Elz breaks off a chunk and savors it. “I feel so much better. You’re the best, Winnie!”

Winnie devours a large piece as well and sighs. There’s still a small piece left.

“You know, you’re going to get pimples from eating so much chocolate,” I tell them.

“That is such an old wives’ tale,” laughs Winnie.

I have to admit she does have gorgeous skin if you don’t count the freckles. Maybe she’s right.

“Have a piece,” she offers.

Hesitantly, I take the last piece of chocolate. It melts in my mouth. Euphoria! I want more.

Winnie must be a mind reader. She whips out three more bars and lays them on the bed. Like vultures, we dive in and devour them. With every bite, we moan with ecstasy. The chocolate must have magical powers.

“Come on, girlfriends,” grins Elz after licking the last bit of chocolate off her fingers. “Let’s not be late for dinner.”

The three of us band together at one table while Sasperilla sits by herself picking at her food at another. She makes a face at us. We ignore her.

“Isn’t Hook adorable?” asks Elz giddily.

“Not my type,” says Winnie, cutting into a hunk of cheese. “And besides, I’m married.”

He’s a total jerk, I say to myself, not wanting to offend Elz.

As if on cue, Mr. Total Jerk strides up to us. He straddles the empty chair next to mine.

“You don’t mind if I join you lovely ladies?” he asks, jabbing his hook into a slice of bread.

Elz flushes. “Is it okay with you girls?”

“Sure,” shrugs Winnie.

“No problem,” I say coolly. Liar! I don’t want him anywhere near me.

“Why are you here at Faraway?” Winnie asks him.

“I’m searching for my inner princess.”

The mockery in his voice makes me want to barf.

“That’s so beautiful,” coos Elz.

“I wish my husband would find his,” says Winnie.

I think she truly means it.

“What’s it like to be a pirate?” asks Elz with wide-eyed infatuation.

Hook recites the sordid details of his exploits as though he’s rehearsed them for days. Winnie and I roll our eyes. Elz, unlike us, hangs on to every word.

“Have you ever made someone walk the plank?” she asks in awe.

“Countless times,” boasts Hook.

“Wow!” exclaims Elz. The more dangerous he seems, the more attracted to him she becomes. Why can’t she see that this guy’s a creep?

A certified creep! To my utter disgust, the swashbuckler rubs his good hand up and down my thigh under the table. I jerk away. Who the hell does he think he is?

Winnie shoots me a perplexed look. Elz, immersed in Hook’s storytelling, doesn’t notice a thing.

“So, how did you lose your hand?” she asks.

A dark, sinister cloud falls over the swine. “Some faggot named Peter Pan cut if off and fed it to a crocodile.” His eyes become two steel blades. “Trust me, he’ll pay one day.”

The name Peter Pan sounds familiar to me. Where have I heard it before? I know. Shrink mentioned it during our first session. Something about a Peter Pan complex and her sister Tinkerbell.

I can’t help myself. “Do you know a Tinkerbell?”

Hook reddens with rage. “She’s the real reason I’m here! That two-timing imp! I should have never trusted her to lead me to Peter Pan.”

I would almost give my hand to sit in on a session between Shrink and Hook. It could get personal. Maybe, he’ll smoosh her.

Hook seethes. “Man, could I use a bottle of rum!”

“Let me pour you some tea,” says Elz sweetly.

“Real men don’t drink tea.” He storms off but doesn’t get far.

“Where do you think you’re going, mister?” asks Fanta, yanking him back by a handful of his gorgeous hair.

“You’re on clean-up duty tonight,” smiles Flossie. “Remember?”

“Move it,” snaps Fairweather.

Ha! You deserve clean-up duty, you pig.

Just my luck. I’m on clean-up duty with Hook. So is Sasperilla.

Hook scrapes the dishes with his handy iron claw, then passes them to me to scrub. I’m careful not to let him get too close. Sasperilla, meanwhile, sits idly on a counter, twirling her corkscrew curls. I bet, before Faraway, she never lifted a wannabe royal finger in her life.

“So, Hook, if you’re really King of the Pirates, you’ve probably found lots of buried treasure,” she says sheepishly.

“Yo, Ho, Ho!” laughs Hook. “Babe, I’m worth millions!”

Babe? He’d better not try that one on me. And I’m so not falling for his filthy rich act. I know his type. How many times did my mother fall for the same bullshit? The same asshole!

Sasperilla’s face lights up. She hops off the counter and heads our way. “Why don’t you let me give those dirty dishes to Jane after you’ve scraped them?”

She worms her emaciated body between us. As much as I despise the skinny bitch, I’m glad swineface is no longer breathing in my face.

“So, Hook, what exactly are you going to do with all that money?” she purrs, brushing up against him.

“I’m going to sail away with some babe to some romantic island and build myself a castle.”

Sasperilla’s eyes flutter.

“So, babe, do you want to go out on the town for a drink with me one night?”

Sasperilla is positively drooling. As her lips part to say “yes,” Hook leans over her and leers at me.

“So, babe, we’re on?”

Sasperilla cringes.

So do I. I want to throw a plate at the swine. There is no town. And there is no babe. Take that back. I want to throw the entire sink full of plates at him. Instead, I croon seductively. And convincingly.

“Sure. As long as you can get past the crocodile in the moat.”

Crash! When I say “crocodile,” Hook drops the stack of dishes he’s holding.

“OW!” screeches Sasperilla. “That was my foot!”

Clean-up has suddenly become fun.

Exhausted, I retreat to my room. It’s pitch-black. I tread lightly so I don’t wake up Elz.

As I slip on my nightgown, Elz’s voice filters through the darkness. “Jane, can I tell you a secret?”

“Sure.” To be honest, it’s the last thing I want to hear. I’ve heard way too much crap for one day.

“I think I’m in love with Hook.”

I don’t know what to say. After all she’s been through today, I can’t bring myself to tell her what I think of him.

“Great.” I crawl into bed. “Good night.”

“Sweet dreams, Jane.”

“Sweet dreams to you too, Elz.” I only hope Hook’s not in them.

CHAPTER 9

When I awaken in the morning, Elz is bawling. I don’t get it. Last night, she was deliriously in love; now; she’s deliriously in tears. I make a mental note: Reminder! My roomie is a loony. Proceed with caution.

“What’s the matter?” I ask.

“I’m so ugly,” she whimpers.

“No, you’re not.” Who am I kidding? She’s as ugly as sin.

“Yes, I am!” she insists. “In Lalaland, everyone called me Cinderella’s ugly stepsister. Hook will never fall for me.”

She’s right. What she needs is an extreme makeover.

I may be a master of disguise, but I’m not a makeover magician. Still, I’ve got to give it a shot. The poor girl is desperate.

Using every trick I know, I style her limp hair, make her bite down on her thin lips to give them a little color, and pluck a few of her unsightly chin hairs. One final touch—I tell her to lose the hair bow.

“How do I look?” she asks.

For once, I’m glad there are no mirrors at Faraway. She definitely looks more attractive. But you can only go so far with what you have. Okay. Let me put it this way: I haven’t exactly transformed her into a Rehab Goddess.

“I don’t feel beautiful,” she mopes.

“Elz, that’s exactly your problem,” says Winnie, who has stopped by on her way to breakfast. “Beauty is an attitude.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“Men are attracted to women who think they’re beautiful.”

What does this two hundred-pound bruiser of a woman know about beauty that I don’t?

“And besides, there are other attributes far more important than mere physical beauty for attracting a man,” she continues.

Now, she’s really got me curious. Elz is also all ears.

“It’s simple. Be confident. Be playful. Be interested. Men are fascinated by women who find them fascinating.”

What is she—some kind of seduction genie?

“Winnie, how do you know all this sh…stuff?” I ask with a tone of distrust.

“I landed a husband,” she says before forlornness edges out the pride on her face. “You know, I was thin once.”

At breakfast, Elz flutters around The Enchanted Garden, singing her “lalalas” louder than ever.

“Careful,” I overhear Winnie whisper to her. “Let him know you exist, but don’t be too obvious.”

To my amazement, Winnie’s words of wisdom work like a charm. Hook strides up to Elz and checks out her pillar-like body. Even in flats, she’s several inches taller than him.

“Elzmerelda, you’re looking particularly lovely today,” he says, flashing his pearly white teeth.

“Really?” She sounds more disbelieving than flattered.

He sneaks a wink at me. Asswipe! Fortunately, Elz is too enraptured to notice. I just don’t get what she sees in this pompous asshole.

“Puh-lease!” comes a sarcastic voice nearby. It’s Sasperilla. She moseys over to us.

“Captain, why are you wasting your time with her? Smiling coyly, she bats her eyelashes. “Everyone says I’m the pretty one.”

Elz frowns but says nothing.

Sasperilla twirls around to show herself off. Her frilly pink frock does little for her other than to expose the beveled edges of her rib cage.

Hook gives her the once-over. “Babe, you should put some meat on those bones.”

Sasperilla turns as pink as her dress and stomps off. I’m grateful for Hook’s brutal honesty despite how much I despise him.

“So, Jane—” he says, moving closer to me.

I cut him off. “Later. It’s time for morning meditation.”

“I’ll be meditating about you, babe.”

And I’ll be in some other world where he doesn’t exist.

I head over to Shrink’s office for my session after morning meditation.

Reclining in the chaise, I shift restlessly waiting for her to show up. Why do I always have to see bugface right after morning meditation and mess up the rest of my day? I mean, after meditation, I’m always so relaxed and empowered. After Shrink, I’m always so stressed and damaged. It’s not fair. I’m going to ask for a schedule change. I’ve been here long enough. Four forever days. I deserve it.

“Today, Jane, we’re going to play a little game,” says Shrink as she finally flits into her office.

Big whoop.

“Did you ever play any games as a child?”

Only one game comes to mind. When my mother was out with her latest male conquest, I would sneak into her room and dress up in one of her pretty gowns. Then, I would stand in front of her treasured mirror and pretend I was a beautiful princess, waiting for my handsome prince to come and take me away. Far away to a magnificent palace in a magical land. Far, far away from my mother.

“I used to play make-believe,” I say, omitting the details of my childhood fantasy.

“Perfect! Because that’s exactly what we’re going to play today. A game of make-believe.”

Ha! This should be fun.

“Jane, if you were an object, what would you be?”

What kind of stupid question is that? I have no clue.

“Jane, I’m waiting for an answer,” Shrink buzzes around the room impatiently.

I survey my surroundings. “This chaise lounge,” I finally blurt out.

“Why did you pick this chaise?”

“It happens to be here, right?”

“No, Jane. There must be a better reason. You could have picked the door, the clock, or your shoes. They’re here too.”

She has a point. Where is she going with this mind game?

Hovering above me, she looks straight into my eyes. “So, Jane, why did you really pick the chaise?”

“Because it reminds me of myself.” Why am I’m saying this? I don’t look like a piece of furniture.

“How so, Jane?” Shrink’s interest is stirred.

I sit up straight and examine the worn out chaise. My eyes take in its elegant lines and graceful curves. It’s actually a shame it’s so tattered.

“Because it’s long and lean like me,” I say.

“Yes, Jane, it is.” She seems pleased with my answer.

“At some time, it must have been beautiful.”

“What makes you say that?”

“It has good bones. I suppose, if it were re-upholstered, it would be beautiful again.”

“Jane, do you think you need to be re-upholstered?”

“That’s a ridiculous question!” I laugh. Though when I think about it, I could use a new head of hair.

“Fine, Jane. Then, answer this. What’s the difference between you and the chaise?”

Okay, now she wants to prove I’m stupid. Anyone with a brain knows the difference.

“Um…. I’m a person and the chaise is a piece of furniture?” I say with obvious sarcasm.

“That’s right, Jane. The chaise is an object. What’s the difference between a person and an object?”

Another stupid question! Who does she think I am—some dopey dwarf? Well, two can play at this game.

“Duh! A person can see and feel; an object can’t.”

“Jane, enough with the attitude,” says Shrink harshly. “Now, close your eyes and imagine the life of this chaise.”

Reluctantly, I close my eyes and fantasize where this chaise once lived. For sure, it must have inhabited a beautiful palace, full of riches and regal people. Generation after generation lounged on it until it was worn out and ultimately given away.

“It must have belonged to a royal family,” I tell her after opening my eyes.

“Yes. It did. A queen once nursed her infant twin sons on it. They grew up to be kind, handsome princes.”

In my head, I picture a woman cradling a baby boy in her arms. Her head is lowered, her lips pressed against his warm, silky skull. When she lifts her head, I see her face and jolt. The mother with the child is me!

“Jane, I’m going to ask you again; what’s the difference between you and this chaise?”

My lips quiver. “This chaise has known love.”

“Jane, did your mother love you?”

A painful knot forms in my stomach. I don’t want to talk about my mother. I can’t! Just in time, the chime sounds.

“Jane, time’s up for today. I’ll see you here tomorrow.”

Slowly, I peel myself off the chaise. I don’t want to leave it. Not today.

At lunch, I have no appetite. And I’m in no mood for conversation. I half-listen as Elz picks Winnie’s brain about her next move with Hook.

“Don’t forget to play hard-to-get. Remember, men are basically thrill seekers engaged by hunting instincts,” instructs Winnie.

The conversation turns to me. “Jane, how come you’re so quiet?” asks Elz.

“Was therapy rough?” asks Winnie.

How does she know? She’s a relationship guru and a mind reader?

“I thought therapy’s supposed to make you feel better.”

“Actually, most of the time it doesn’t.” Winnie passes me a bowl. “Have some of my vegetable soup. This will make you feel better.”

I sip a tablespoon of the warm, hearty soup. And guess what, it does make me feel better. I scoff down the entire bowl.

By the time group rolls around, I’m back to myself. And contemplating an escape plan.

In group, Elz heeds Winnie’s play-hard-to-get advice and sits as far away from Hook as she can. I end up sitting next to him. Regrettably.

“So, babe, how ’bout it tonight?” he whispers in my ear.

Pressing his thigh against mine, he gives me his smarmy you-don’t-know-what-you’re-missing-out-on smile.

I edge away from him before I punch him where it hurts and focus my attention on Grimm.

“Today, we’re going on a group hike in The Enchanted Forest.”

Fine with me. At least, I won’t be stuck sitting next to swineface for an hour.

“We’re going to engage in a non-visual intimate encounter with trees,” Grimm continues.

Great. This morning I had to pretend I was a piece of furniture, and now I have to hump a tree. Rehab is just all fun and games.

“I have randomly paired you up. Winifred will be with What’s-His-Name; Elzmerelda will be with…”

Elz looks longingly at Hook, hoping he’ll be her partner.

“…her sister, Sasperilla.”

“No way!” shrieks Sasperilla. “I’m not partnering with her!”

Poor Elz cannot hide her disappointment.

“…and finally, Jane will be with…”

I hear his name before Grimm says it. My luck! I’m stuck with Hook!

The rogue won’t leave me alone. As Grimm explains our tree game, his hook toys with the buttons on my dress. I inch away from him, only to have him move closer. Maybe some rabid squirrel will bite his nuts.

“The way this exercise works is that one person is blindfolded while his or her partner directs them to a tree that fits their personality. Blah, blah, blah, blah.” I’m so distracted by Hook that I hardly hear a word Grimm’s saying. The next thing I know, we’re flipping a coin to determine which partner will be blindfolded first. It’s going to be What’s-His-Name, Sasperilla, and me.

“What this exercise does is build responsibility and trust in a fun way,” says Grimm.

Sasperilla plants her hands on her jutting hipbones and fumes. “Elzmerelda’s out to get me! I can’t trust her!”

“You can trust me, babe.” Hook slaps my ass.

Cripes! How am I going trust him when he’s out to get me?

Grimm is such a liar. This is not going to be fun.

Grimm has assigned us different paths so we don’t bump into one and other. Just as I thought, being alone—and blindfolded—with Hook in the middle of the forest is no walk in the park. I can hardly wait for this stupid tree-hugging game to end.

“So, Jane, what kind of trees are you into?” asks Hook. “I bet you like them big and hard.”

I’m not answering that question.

“Have you ever felt the flow of life energy in a tree?”

“No,” I reply dryly.

“You’ve been missing out on a life-changing experience.”

“Just tell me where to go.” I can sense he’s no longer standing next to me. His voice sounds distant.

“Take ten giant steps ahead of you and then ten to the right. I think you’ll find your perfect tree.”

I’m anxious. “Hook, weren’t you supposed to hold my hand and lead me to the tree?”

“Babe, that’s a different game,” he chuckles.

I admit I really wasn’t paying attention while Grimm was explaining the rules. The good news is that I don’t have to hold the asshole’s hand—his hooked one or good one. Cautiously, I take one step after another. As I veer to the right, I hear a howl and then…

I’m thirteen again, somewhere in the middle of a dark forest, hunting for magical leaves that my mother uses to beautify her complexion. She’s been seeing a King and doesn’t want him to think she’s a day over twenty-nine. As I reach for a leafy clump, a voice startles me. “This is no place for a beautiful young girl to be by herself.” I whirl around. Facing me is a burly bearded man whose eyes are the color of evergreens. In his hand is the biggest knife I’ve ever seen—it’s at least two-feet long. He stomps toward me. My heart races. He’s coming after me! I bolt. As I run for my life, gnarled branches tear my dress and claw my skin. Vines wrap around my limbs, and thorns bite into me. The trees have become monsters, trying to gobble me up alive. And the heavy crunching steps of the knife-wielding man are close behind me. Fear propels my legs to run faster and to fight the burning sensation filling my lungs. At last freedom. And then home. Breathless, I swing open the front door, never so happy to see my mother. Her eyes narrow into slithers of glass. “Where are my leaves?” she hisses. I open my mouth to tell her about the man, but—whack!—a groan leaks out instead. She’s smacked me with my tin. My cheek stinging, I grab it and flee…

“You’re almost there.”

Hook’s voice whisks me back to reality. It sounds like he’s moved closer to me, but in my disoriented state, I can’t tell exactly where he is.

“Only two more giant steps.”

Eager for this game to end, I take them.

“Now, wrap your arms around the trunk and press your lips against the bark.”

I hug the tree. Its rough bark scrapes my face, leaving it raw and prickly; its sap burns my lips. I’ve had enough. But the tree wants more. It wraps its limbs around me, pressing my body against its hard trunk. So tight, I can’t break loose. The more I resist, the more it sucks the life out of me. Oh my God! This tree is a monster.

A shocked voice screams out. Elz.

“Jane! How could you do this to me! I thought you were my friend!”

With all my muscle-power, I wrench myself from the monster. Right in front of me is an erect Hook, wearing a proud smirk on his slimy lips. The pig! I should have known!

“Elz, it’s not what you think!” Oh, God! What have I done?

“I may need glasses, but I have eyes,” she cries.

“Yo, Ho, Ho.” Hook laughs snidely.

Game over! I slap him hard across the face. “I’d rather hug a one-eyed ogre than you!”

Stunned, he rubs the bright red welt I’ve left on his cheek.

Elz runs off into the woods, leaving her twig-of-a-sister behind.

“Don’t leave me, you traitor!” shrieks Sasperilla. Still wearing her blindfold, she slams into a tree.

“I think I broke my nose!” she wails. “Somebody help me!”

As I flee from Hook, I’m shaking like a leaf.

CHAPTER 10

I usually dread my sessions with Shrink, but today I can hardly wait. It’s been an awful twenty-four hours. Elz has totally avoided me. She sat by herself at breakfast and refused to lead a chant with me during morning meditation. She didn’t even wish me sweet dreams last night. It’s as if I don’t exist.

Lying in the chaise, I grow impatient. Shrink is usually late, but not this late. After fifteen minutes or so, I decide to split. I’m furious with Shrink for not showing up. Of all days!

Rising, I notice Shrink’s bug-eyed spectacles peeking out from under the chaise. That’s strange. I bend over and pick them up. The rims are dented. Maybe, she crashed into something. Seriously, with all that fairy dust, it’s easy to be blindsided.

Perhaps, she’s somewhere under the chaise. Stooping down to my knees, I run my hand beneath it. Uh oh! Something warm and fleshy. My heart skips a beat. A dead body? To my relief, it’s only a mouse. It scuttles away.

Taking a deep breath, I stand up. And there she is. Behind the chaise, sprawled out on her back. Her eyes are shut, and her little wings are outstretched. Her blond hair has fallen loose and cradles her shoulders. She looks like a fallen butterfly.

“Shrink, wake up,” I say, crouching over her.

She doesn’t move.

“Shrink, wake up!” I shout. “Wake up!” I fold her wings up and down like an accordion, but she still doesn’t budge.

Oh no! Maybe she’s dead. A fat tear rolls down my cheek onto her teeny weeny body.

“Is it raining in here? How many times do I have to tell them to fix that damn leak in the roof?”

Shrink! She’s alive! Feistier than ever.

“So, Jane, where were we?” she asks as she spirals into the air.

With a sigh of relief, I sink back into the chaise and talk about what happened yesterday with Hook. The words flow out of my mouth like a raging rapid.

“Why are you upset that Elzmerelda is not talking to you?”

“It’s not fair. I didn’t do anything.”

“That’s not really why you’re upset.”

“Okay, I feel rejected.”

“Yes, you feel rejected. But if Hook rejected you, you wouldn’t feel bad, would you?

“Hardly.” I’d do a happy dance.

“Do you understand why you feel bad about Elzmerelda’s behavior?”

I shake my head “no.”

“Jane, you feel bad because Elzmerelda is your friend.”

Silence.

“Have you ever had a friend before?”

Another flashback. This one to a little girl who’s seen me at the window. She’s motioning with her hand for me to come outside and play with her. My mother isn’t home. An opportunity. I toss my dust rag, dash out the front door, and slam into her on the landing. My mother, her lips clamped as tightly as her fists. “Where the hell do you think you’re going, Jane?” Before I can utter a word, she shoves me back into the house, with such force I tumble, scraping my knees on the cold stone floor. A warm river of blood seeps through my torn muslin skirt.

Tears burn my eyes as I shake my head. I never saw that little girl again.

Shrink adjusts her lopsided, dented glasses.

“Jane, let me tell you something about friends. Friends care about each other. You care about Elzmerelda. That’s why you’re upset she’s mad at you.”

I take in what she’s just said. I miss Elz terribly. “Will she ever talk to me again?” I ask tentatively.

“Yes, because she cares about you. Tell her the truth and give her a little time.”

The chime sounds.

“Time’s up for today, Jane. I’ll see you here tomorrow.”

As I step out of her office, feeling much better, she calls out to me.

“By the way, Jane, thank you for finding my spectacles. No more triple air flips for me.”

For the rest of the day, Elz continues to give me the cold shoulder. She won’t sit next to me at lunch and avoids me in group. When I join her in Arts and Crafts, she switches to sewing. Finally, we’re forced together for dinner prep.

In the kitchen, we hang out at different ends. I prepare the salad while she handles the main course. She’s still not talking to me. I sing a few refrains of “lalala,” hoping that’ll break the ice, but it’s as if she’s deaf. She completely ignores me.

Fine! Let her be an ice queen; two can play at this game, and I can play it better. I’ll just pretend she’s not here.

Singing louder (okay, so I’m deliberately being annoying; she deserves it), I tear up greens and slice tomatoes. A sudden sharp pain makes me yelp. Shit! I’ve sliced my finger. The cut is deep; blood is gushing out all over my hand. A rush of nausea passes through me. I can’t stand the sight of blood. It sickens me. That’s why I never had the courage to plunge a knife into Snow White’s heart myself and had to send that worthless Huntsman to do it for me.

My finger won’t stop bleeding. To tell the truth, I haven’t seen this much blood in my entire life. Except for the time I lost my child. A bed full of blood, my body soaked red. The painful memory stays with me as I gaze down at the scarlet puddle that’s spreading by my feet. I’m getting woozy.

Elz rushes over to me. “Oh my God! You’re bleeding to death!”

She’s right. I’m seeing stars. My life is almost over!

Elz grabs a dishtowel and presses it firmly against my wound.

“Jane, hold this tightly against your finger!”

Wincing, I do exactly what she tells me. The cut’s so deep that blood seeps through the thick cloth. I turn my head away.

My finger throbs. I’m getting woozier and woozier. I don’t think I can hang on much longer. “Am I really going to die?” I ask Elz, knowing full well it’s only a matter of time.

Elz is too busy to answer me. She’s feverishly tearing her white petticoat into long, ragged strips. Removing the blood-soaked towel, she begins to wrap them around my finger until it’s mummified. I take a deep breath as she ties the ends of the last strip together into a neat little bow at the base.

“I think we’ve got it under control,” she says, grinning proudly at her handiwork.

“Elz, you saved my life!”

“You weren’t really going to die,” she singsongs.

What! She tricked me into thinking I was going to die! What a mean way to get back at me! And for something I didn’t even do.

I glance down at my big-bandaged finger with its silly little bow. My rage melts into relief.

“Elz, thanks for being there for me.”

“It’s okay. You’d do the same.”

Would I? I wonder as she finishes making the salad for me.

I need to know. “Elz, why are you so nice to me?”

“Because you have a big heart.” She smiles.

No one has ever told me that. In fact, during my trial, the tabloids called me cruel and heartless. I’m on the verge of tears.

“About yesterday—”

She doesn’t let me finish. “Forget it.”

Does she know what really happened? Right now, it doesn’t matter.

“Friends?” I say.

“Best friends!” she beams as tears trickle down her cheeks.

“Why are you crying?”

“The same reason you are.”

I do something I’ve never done before. Not to anyone. I hug her.

CHAPTER 11

“Rise and shine, Jane!”

It’s great to hear Elz’s wake-up call again. Yet, it’s still a struggle for me to get up and face the sunshine despite being here almost a week. And truth be told, I’m still not one hundred percent over my caffeine addiction.

“Hurry! I need your help!”

I blink my eyes open. Elz is more cheerful than ever.

“What’s going on?” I ask.

“It’s Visitor’s Day. Mother will be here for dinner. I can’t wait for you to meet her.”

I’m confused. I thought she wanted to get away from her mother.

“Jane, will you help me pick out something to wear? I want to look my best.”

Okay. I’ll help. She’s thrilled with the dress I choose. Another version of the hideous Snow White costume she always wears.

“I wish I could see myself in a mirror!”

“Pretend I’m your mirror.” In a deep, put-on voice, I tell her she looks beautiful.

“You’re the best friend I could ever have!”

I think about my magic mirror and silently curse it. Why couldn’t it be there for me?

A hug from Elz brings me back into the moment. I’m happy how things turned out between us. Shrink will be proud of me.

“Who’s coming to visit you?” asks Elz cheerfully.

“No one.” I shrug. “I’m not allowed yet. I haven’t been here for a full week.” Though it feels like a lifetime.

“Look on the bright side as Winnie would say. Next week, you can have a visitor.”

Yes, maybe next week, that dumb-ass dungeon guard will show up. Or that whack-job judge. Of course, how could I forget? Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs! Come on! Who am I kidding? I have no one to visit me. No one!

Hold on. With any luck, I won’t be here next week. The thought of escaping brightens my spirits. Slightly.

The first person I encounter at breakfast is Hook. I’m still furious with him for pulling that stunt in The Enchanted Forest. Behaving as if nothing happened, he notices my bandaged finger.

“Yo, babe. Can I kiss your boo-boo and make it better?”

It happens to be my right middle finger. I shove it into to his face. He smirks, but I think he’s gotten the message. He turns his attention to Elz. Good.

“Elzmerelda, I must say you’re looking mighty fine this morning.” His eyes travel down her beanpole body with a few unnecessary stops. “What’s the occasion?”

“Mother’s coming! I’d love for you to meet her.”

“Wait till Mother hears what you did to me the other day!”

It’s Sasperilla. A thick bandage covers her swollen nose, and under her bloodshot eyes, she’s all black and blue. I bite my lip hard not to laugh.

Winnie, carrying a basketful of berries, lumbers over to us.

“My husband’s coming,” she sighs before popping berry after berry into her mouth.

Our resident expert on relationships is clearly dreading his visit. “Are your children coming as well?” I ask.

She lowers her eyes. “No, I don’t want them to see me here.” She polishes off the berries.

“Dr. Grimm thinks it’s a good idea for my husband to join us in group,” she says at last. “I’m not so sure.”

I’m actually looking forward to meeting him. If he’s not nice to her, I’m going to take him out.

I’ve been eager to meet with Shrink all morning. I couldn’t even focus during meditation.

Proudly, I tell her that Elz and I made up. We’re best friends again. Everything’s better than ever.

“Good,” she says flatly.

Is that all she can say? I thought for sure she’d do a single flip. And doesn’t she at least want to know what happened to my finger?

Clenching a rolled up sheet of parchment that’s twice her size, Shrink hovers over me and scowls. I don’t get it. Have I done something wrong?

“Jane, you lied to me yesterday,” she says angrily. “You told me that you never had a friend. But on this assessment, you wrote that you not only had a friend, but a best friend.”

What is she talking about? I can hardly remember anything I wrote on that stupid questionnaire. It seems like a hundred years ago.

“It says right here that your ‘magic mirror’ was your best friend.”

“Give me that!” I wrench the assessment away from her and read it. Damn it! She’s right. We even briefly talked about my mirror in one of our first sessions. How could I forget?

“Jane, why was this mirror your best friend?”

“It talked to me. It said nice things about me. What’s wrong with that?”

“Were you alone when you talked with it?”

“Yes.”

“So, you talked to it when you were lonely.”

“No! When I was alone.” I hate it when she puts words in my mouth.

“Fine. What happened to your mirror?”

‘That kiss-ass looking glass betrayed me.” Hatred courses through my veins. “The traitor!”

“Friends don’t betray each other. Especially best friends.”

She’s playing with my head. And I don’t like it. Not one bit.

She flutters closer. “Jane, the mirror wasn’t your friend. It was a thing. A thing that couldn’t really see, feel, hear…or talk.”

What is she saying? That my mirror wasn’t really magic? But I heard it talk. I swear I did.

“Jane, the voice you heard was your subconscious talking.”

I squirm. More Shrink-speak. What the hell is she talking about?

“This inner voice told you things you craved to hear.”

“Like how beautiful I was?”

“Yes, Jane. And things you feared to hear.”

“You mean…”

“That some young girl was fairer than you.”

My blood is bubbling like the evil potion that sent me here.

Shrink looks hard into my eyes.

“Jane, you may have played a game of pretend with your so-called magic mirror. But it played a game of reality with you.”

Anger mingles with confusion. I hate Shrink! And I don’t believe a word she’s just said. My mirror was magic!

She takes a spin around the room before I can swat her.

She returns, hovering above me but not within reach. “By the way, Jane, how do you feel about Visitor’s Day?”

Her words slash through me. How can she be so cruel? I wish this session would end.

To my relief, the chime sounds.

“Time’s up for today, Jane. I’ll see you here tomorrow.”

I’m in no mood for group. I don’t even care any more about meeting Winnie’s husband. I’m sick of this place. I’m sick of singing “lalala” and picking berries; I’m sick of washing dishes and mopping floors; I’m sick of people telling me what to do; I’m sick of not saying whatever-the-hell I want to. Most of all, I’m sick of being humiliated, shot down to nothing by some know-it-all bug of a woman who tells me bodacious lies about my magic mirror. From now on, I’m staying focused on my one and only goal—getting out of this hellhole. There’s no way I can stick it out here for two more weeks. More than ever, I need to get back to my castle. And that damn mirror.

Waiting for group to start, I contemplate an escape plan. But it’s futile; Faraway’s a fortress; there’s no way out. Out of the blue, I have an epiphany. I’ll bribe that giant of a guard, Gulliver. They probably pay him bubkus, so he’ll jump at the chance to make a little extra dough. But wait, where am I going to get the money? Dragonballs! This isn’t going to work.

I unfortunately have to put a new escape plan on hold when Winnie walks in with her husband John. With his strong chin and nose and head full of wavy auburn hair, he could be what I call good-looking, if years of hard work hadn’t prematurely aged him. He nervously takes a seat between Winnie and Grimm, who welcomes him to the group. Sasperilla glares at him as if he’s carrying some infectious disease.

“Does anyone have a question for John?” begins Grimm.

Elz raises her hand. “Why can’t women find shoes that fit?”

“Good one!” snorts Sasperilla.

“Elzmerelda, that’s not the kind of question I had in mind,” says Grimm, somewhat exasperated.

All eyes turn to What’s-His-Name. He’s rolling on the floor, in a fit of hysterical laughter.

Grimm thumbs his bristly beard and nods approvingly. “Good. You’ve remembered your sense of humor. Now, I want you to get up and concentrate on remembering your name.”

“C’mon, say it, matey,” shouts Hook.

What’s-His-Name makes an unintelligible grunting sound. “Ruhruhruh.” Frustrated, he limps back to his seat next to mine. I give his stubby hand a gentle squeeze. At least, he tried.

No one has any further questions for John; Grimm takes over.

“John, how do you feel?”

“Tired.”

That’s obvious by the dark circles and creases around his eyes.

Grimm continues. “Why do you feel tired?”

“I have to work and take care of the kids by myself. It’s exhausting.”

“Did your wife have to take care of them by herself?”

John fidgets with his fingers. “I suppose.”

“No, John, the answer is ‘yes.’ Say it, ‘yes, my wife had to take care of the kids by herself.’”

He reluctantly repeats Grimm’s words. Anger is rising in Winnie like bread in an oven. I’m worried. Where’s Grimm going with these questions?

“John, do you think your wife ever got tired of taking care of your children?”

“I don’t know,” he mumbles. Grimm’s wearing him down.

“Why don’t you know?”

“Because I never asked her.”

Winnie leaps up, her freckles flickering with fury. “You’ve never asked me anything about my life!”

“Winifred, can you elaborate?” asks Grimm.

“All he’s ever done is come home with his filthy hands, demand dinner, and go to sleep!” she shouts with rage I’ve never witnessed before.

“Is that true, John?” asks Grimm.

John stares down at his large, leathery hands. “Yes,” he says finally.

“How do you think your wife feels about your behavior?”

“I guess she’s not happy. That’s why she’s here.”

“Yes, John, that’s one of the reasons she’s here. Why else is she here?”

“Because she’s as fat as a cow!” blurts out Sasperilla. “Anyone with eyes can see that.”

Winnie is verging on tears. I want to kill Sasperilla.

John gazes at his wife with a mixture of pity and disgust. “She overeats.”

“Why do you think she overeats?” asks Grimm.

He shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

“I eat because you never pay attention to me!” shouts Winnie.

“John, your wife is an emotional overeater. Food comforts her. It’s a substitution for love.”

John says nothing. Grimm perseveres.

“Why do you think she tried to eat your children?”

What! She actually tried to eat her own children?

Winnie’s face contorts with pain. John’s turns ashen. Thunderstruck, we all gape with shock. Except for Sasperilla, who’s got I-told-you-so written all over her.

“Leave Hansel and Gretel out of this!” Collapsing back onto her chair, Winnie bursts into a tempest of tears.

I feel painfully helpless.

“Ha!” snickers Sasperilla. “It’s no wonder she’s not fatter. I bet eating plump kids can really pack on the pounds.”

Elz is horrified. “Sassy, that’s a terrible thing to say.”

Sasperilla huffs. “Can’t anyone take a joke around this place?”

“Too bad you don’t have enough fat on your bones to whet Winnie’s appetite,” chortles Hook.

I have to give it to Hook. His sick joke shuts the skinny bitch up. For Winnie, it’s no laughing matter. Bawling her eyes out, she faces her husband.

“I wasn’t really going to eat them! I just wanted you to notice me! For once!”

“I didn’t recognize you! You turned into a fat ugly witch!”

“You turned me into that!”

Grimm, showing no emotion, turns to her. “No, Winifred, you did it to yourself. You have to take some ownership of your problem.”

The ogre! My friend’s having a total breakdown! And he doesn’t give a dragon’s ass!

“John, when was the last time you made love to your wife?” asks Grimm, still showing no sympathy.

“I don’t remember.” His tone is flat, his eyes distant.

“When was the last time you told your wife she is beautiful?”

Shaking his head, he slumps deeper into his chair. “I don’t remember.”

I can’t contain myself any longer. “Every woman needs to be told she’s beautiful!”

“Who ever told you you’re beautiful?” snaps Sasperilla.

“Sasperilla, put a lid on it,” orders Grimm.

The skinny bitch makes a face but doesn’t utter another word.

Thank goodness, I don’t have to tell her—or any of them—about my mirror.

Hook shoots me one of his smarmy smiles. “Jane’s right. Flattery is the way to a woman’s heart.”

Just not mine, you pompous asshole. I’m back to hating him.

Grimm takes control again. “John, did you ever think your wife was beautiful?”

He stares at his sobbing wife. “Yes.” His eyes grow watery. “When I first met her, I thought she was the most beautiful woman on earth.”

“I was a lot thinner then,” sniffles Winnie.

“And I was a lot younger,” says John softly.

Their eyes meet.

“John, what do you want?” Grimm leans in to him.

Without taking his eyes off Winnie, John parts his quivering lips. “I want her back.” No longer able to hold back tears, he slides closer to her. “Sweetheart, please come home. I miss you. The kids miss you. We can’t live without you.”

My skin prickles as he takes her into his arms.

Winnie melts. “I miss you so much. And the children too.”

John strokes her long red hair. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I promise things will be different; I can’t lose you again.”

“I’m sorry too,” says Winnie.

John squeezes her wide, inviting body. “I love you, Winifred.”

“I love you too,” whispers Winnie.

Their lips meet, the two of them oblivious to our voyeuristic stares. Envy comes over me unlike any I’ve ever felt.

So, this must be love.

By dinnertime, I’m totally drained. All I want to do is crawl into bed, pull the covers over my head, and close my eyes. The last thing I want to do is have dinner with Elz, Sasperilla, and their mother. And to be honest, I should be working on an escape plan.

When I arrive at the banquet hall, Winnie and her husband, holding hands, are intimately engaged in conversation at the table in the corner. At another table, What’s-His-Name is with Hook. My spirits rise a little—at least, he’s not sitting alone for once.

Elz is at our usual table with Sasperilla and their mother, whose back is to me. As I head over to them, I overhear their conversation.

“Sasperilla, what in heavens happened to your nose?” asks their mother, sounding more disgusted than concerned.

“It’s all Elzmerelda’s fault!”

“It was an accident,” protests Elz. “I didn’t mean for it to happen.”

“Did so!”

“Did not!”

“Well, let’s hope it doesn’t leave a scar because no prince is going to marry a marred woman,” says their mother, cutting their argument short.

Elz is relieved to see me. She introduces me to her mother, Lady Germaine, who bears a striking resemblance to Sasperilla. She’s tall and bony with a pointy, aristocratic nose and sharp, jutting chin that could probably cut through glass. Dressed in an austere high-neck gray dress that matches the color of her upswept hair, she nods with a coldness that sends a chill up my spine. Her eyes fixate on my bandaged finger before shifting back to her daughters.

“I’m beginning to think I’ve sent you two to an emergency room, not a rehabilitation center,” she says, her voice brimming with contempt.

Sasperilla pushes a few peas around her plate with her fork.

“Why aren’t you eating, Sasperilla?” Lady Germaine asks.

“Mother, I’m having an issue with the food here. I’m eating less and less but getting bigger and bigger.” She gives me a hard kick under the table. “Jane, don’t you agree I look fat?”

“Yes!” I say, unable to resist. Truthfully, she’s scary-skinnier than ever.

“I knew it!” Sasperilla shoves her plate away. “I’m going to have to stop eating altogether!”

Seriously, how much skinnier can she get? My imagination doesn’t get far. Hook, as dapper as ever, swaggers up to our table. Sasperilla fixes her curls, then grimaces when she catches him winking at me. Luckily, Elz doesn’t notice. Her face radiates with excitement as she introduces Hook to her mother.

Lady Germaine runs her frosty eyes over him. They stay glued on his hook.

“So, Captain, exactly what royal army do you command?” she asks, her tone haughty and suspicious.

“Lady, I am a pirate,” he replies, full of macho pride.

Lady Germaine puckers her face in disgust while Elz gazes at Hook adoringly.

“Mother, when I get out of here, I want to sail away with him.”

Lady Germaine arches her brows. “What are you talking about, Elzmerelda? Have you gone completely mad?”

“Yes, Mother,” jumps in Sasperilla. “She’s totally lost her mind. She should be permanently confined to a mental institution.”

“Elzmerelda, you know perfectly well that I have spent considerable time and money grooming both you and your sister to marry a prince.”

“Mother, I’m perfect marriage material.” Sasperilla smiles smugly.

“Actually, I do know of one available prince. His name is Gallant. His wife died several years ago, and now he’s ready to remarry. We’d better hurry because I’ve heard there may be a princess-in-waiting ahead of you.”

“Then what are we waiting for?” Sasperilla leaps up like a frog. “Sign me out of here!”

“Actually, I thought he would be perfect for Elzmerelda.”

Sasperilla’s beady eyes narrow. “You always favor her!”

“No, she doesn’t,” protests Elz.

“Don’t lie, Elzmerelda. You were always Mother’s favorite.”

“Was not!”

“Was so!”

“I don’t even want to marry a prince!” Elz’s words shoot out like a burst of flames.

Lady Germaine gasps. Her pale skin flushes.

Fueled by her newfound determination and courage, Elz pushes her chair away from the table, stands up, and squarely faces her mother.

Go for it, Elz, I root silently.

“Mother, I’m tired of you shoving your agenda down my throat. You can’t control my life!”

Lady Germaine tries to say something but can’t get her lips to move. Her face grows redder.

“Mother, did you ever think that’s why Sasperilla doesn’t eat? Food is the one thing you can’t shove down her throat. The one thing you can’t control.”

Sasperilla’s eyes bug out. Ha! Elz has hit on a nerve. Don’t stop, roomie.

“Mother, your agenda is not mine. I don’t want to live out your dream! I want to marry someone who loves me for who I am!”

Lady Germaine clutches her chest. She hyperventilates, chokes, and finally keels over. Her head hangs limply in her bowl of salad, and her spindly arms dangle by her side. Cripes! She’s barely breathing.

“Mother, Mother! Wake up!” shouts Elz. She shakes her mother like a rattle, but there’s no response.

“Can’t someone do something?” scoffs Sasperilla.

Hook yanks up Lady Germaine’s head and presses his lips against hers, rhythmically blowing air into her mouth. “I saved a near-be-drowned matey this way,” he manages to say between breaths.

The three of us don’t blink an eye as he breathes life into Lady Germaine.

“What’s the matter?” asks Sasperilla impatiently.

Hook comes up for air. “The matter is she’s dead.”

“Elzmerelda, you killed her!” hisses Sasperilla.

“Oh God!” wails Elz. “What have I done?”

I’m speechless.

Still in her dress-up clothes, Elz is curled up in a ball on her bed. I’ve tried to convince her that she’s not responsible for her mother’s death. It hasn’t helped. She cannot stop crying.

Without asking, I crawl into her bed, lay my head down on her tear-soaked pillow, and cradle her shaking body in mine. Her sobbing grows softer. Neither of us says a word.

“Jane,” she says at last, “I’ve never asked you about your mother.”

“I don’t remember her,” I lie. The truth is I don’t want to remember her.

“Is she dead?”

“Yes.” Another lie. Okay, it’s a half-lie. In my heart, my mother is dead. I don’t know what became of her. What’s more, I don’t care.

“I’m sorry, Jane.”

Don’t be. I tell Elz she needs to get some sleep. In fact, we both do.

“Sweet dreams, Jane.”

“Sweet dreams, Elz.” How odd to say that after what’s happened tonight.

I’m lulled to sleep by Elz’s soft sobs and the rhythmic heaving of her body. In the middle of the night, I wake up screaming and drenched with sweat. I’ve just killed my mother in my dream.

CHAPTER 12

Lady Germaine is buried the next morning in a simple ceremony just outside The Enchanted Forest. Everyone at Faraway attends, staff and inmates alike. Winnie’s husband is also there. All activities, including therapy sessions, have been suspended.

Winnie and I flank Elz, holding her up by the arms for support. Her face is spotted, and her eyes are swollen-red from crying. She looks awful. Sasperilla stands by herself, twirling her curls. She looks bored.

In his eulogy, Dr. Grimm calls Lady Germaine “a beautiful, kind woman who loved her daughters more than anything.” Maybe, he never met her.

“Would anyone like to say something?” he asks at the conclusion of his tribute.

Elz bursts into tears once again. “Poor Cinderella lost her mother, and I was so mean to her. Do you think she can ever forgive me?”

Sasperilla furrows her brows. “Puh-lease. She should be apologizing to us for screwing up our lives!”

Grimm smiles. Seriously, how can he be smiling at a time like this?

“Elzmerelda, by acknowledging your dysfunctional behavior and asking for forgiveness, it shows you’re on your way to a full recovery. You’ll be ready to leave Faraway soon.”

“I just want my mother back!” Elz wails.

“Get over it!” snaps Sasperilla. “Mother was a bitch, and you know it!”

“How could you say that?” Elz croaks. “Everything she did, she did for us.”

Sasperilla breaks into jeering laughter. “You’re so pathetically naïve, Elzmerelda. Everything she did, she did for herself!”

Elz presses her hands against her ears and sings “lalala” as loud as she can, attempting to drown out Sasperilla’s voice.

“I know you can hear me,” taunts Sasperilla. “Honestly, do you really think Mother wanted us to marry royalty so that we could live happily ever after?”

Elz sings louder.

“Duh! She only wanted to keep herself out of the poorhouse.”

Poor Elz is close to collapsing. I can’t hold back any longer. Someone’s got to protect Elz from her despicable sister.

“You don’t really know what a self-centered, wicked mother is!” I lash out.

“And you do, Miss Know-It-All?” sneers the skinny bitch. “Why don’t you tell us more about Mommy?”

I’m trapped by my own words. I don’t want to talk about my mother. Not now! Not ever!

But Grimm gloms on to the idea. “Yes, let’s talk about our mothers. Who would like to share?” His eyes jump from face to face before landing on mine.

A giant knot forms in my stomach. I’m not sharing.

To my relief, Hook steps forward. “I loved my mother.” His trembling voice surprises me. “She deserved a better life.”

“Why is that?” asks Grimm.

Hook’s eyes wander into space and grow watery. Can Mr. Macho actually be on the brink of tears?

Shrink swoops in and looks straight at him. “You grew up in a noble house that seemed normal. But inside, it wasn’t, James; was it?”

Hook lowers his head. “My father drank.”

“A lot?”

Hook nods.

“And what did your father do when he drank?” she asks.

Silence.

“Answer me, James.”

“He hit my mother,” he says at last, his lips quivering.

“So, your father abused your mother. Like you do to others.”

His voice rises with anger. “I don’t abuse anyone!”

Yes, you do, you swine! I want to shout out. Admit it! The loving, compassionate look on Elz’s face makes me bite my tongue. Shrink jumps into the silence.

“James, let me remind you. You’ve made countless people walk the plank. You kidnapped an innocent young Indian maiden named Tiger Lily and threatened her. You even tortured a helpless little fairy.”

She must be referring to her twin Tinkerbell. Do I detect some feelings?

Hook fiddles nervously with his hook.

“And let’s not forget the fact that you crashed your ship because you were drinking and almost killed your crew!” she adds.

“Who told you that?” Hook barks.

“Your shipmate, Mr. Smee. You should thank him. He’s the one who let us know you needed help and had you committed to Faraway.”

Hook’s face reddens with rage. “So that’s who landed me here. That traitor!”

“Hook, you’re in denial,” says Grimm, taking over. “Your deviant behavior is a natural progression. You learned it from your father.”

Like father like son. A horrible thought occurs to me. Like mother like daughter? Am I just an extension of my wicked mother? Nausea slithers through me as Grimm perseveres.

“What happened to your mother?”

Hook descends into darkness. “She died when I was ten.”

“How did she die?”

A tear escapes his eye and rolls down his swarthy face. “She jumped into a river.” He swallows hard. “A crocodile attacked her.”

That explains Hook’s morbid fear of crocodiles. It goes way beyond his missing hand. More tears spring from his eyes. I almost feel sorry for him.

Grimm pushes on. “How did you feel?”

Hook’s eyes turn to steel. “I wanted to kill my father!”

Sasperilla suddenly interrupts. “This is all so fascinating, but can’t we wrap things up? It’s cutting into my grieving time.”

“Shut up, Sasperilla!” shouts Winnie, ready to pounce on her.

Sasperilla crinkles her bandaged nose and winces.

John proudly puts an arm around his outspoken wife. The Badass Fairies give her a collective thumbs-up. Thanking her, Grimm plows ahead with Hook.

“Who do you see when you make people walk the plank?”

Hook’s face contorts. “Who do you think, you idiot? My father! He destroyed my mother. The bastard deserved to die!”

I’m eager to find out if Hook’s father is still alive, but Grimm takes his questions in a different direction.

“So, why did you want to destroy Peter Pan?”

“Because he cut off my hand.” Hook bitterly flings his iron claw at Grimm. “What does Peter Pan have to do with my mother?”

“Dig deeper, Hook. Why did you really want to kill Peter Pan?”

Silence. Hook’s anger dissolves into despair.

“I wished I could be a boy like him. And have Wendy,” he says at last, his voice hoarse and tearful.

“Yes, Hook. By eliminating Peter Pan, you could have Wendy for yourself. To take care of you like a little boy. Admit it, Hook, you wanted Wendy to be your mother.”

“It’s true,” he says, choking on his words. “I wanted her to be my mother.”

“And when she rejected you, you tried to kill her.”

“Stop it!” Hook breaks down in tears, his shoulders heaving. I feel his pain. We’re cut from the same cloth.

Elz dashes over to the broken pirate and hugs him. “Thank you for sharing. You wanted your mother back. Like me.”

Hook bawls in Elz’s arms. Like a little boy.

Sasperilla’s veins pop with jealousy. “I’ve had it with all this nonsense!” She stomps off.

“Mama, mama!”

What’s a baby doing here? Wait a minute! I recognize that voice. It’s What’s-His-Name. He’s crawling on the ground like a one-year old!

“Me R-rumpelstiltskin,” he says in a baby-talk voice.

Can it be? What’s-His-Name has remembered his name! Grimm and Shrink exchange a smile. We’re free to go.

Hook spends the rest of the day with Elz. Winnie spends it with her husband John, who must go back to their children in the evening. Rumpelstiltskin spends it telling every living and non-living thing alike his name. And I spend it hopelessly plotting my escape.

Thank goodness, I didn’t have to talk about my mother. It’s only a matter of time before I’ll be forced to expose everything. Every painful thing! I’ve got to get out of here. I’ve got to!

CHAPTER 13

Sunday. A day of rest. There are no scheduled activities or therapy sessions. Thank goodness. After the past two days of breakouts, breakthroughs, and breakdowns, I’ve had enough. Finally, I can focus on my escape plan.

At breakfast, Fairweather reminds us that today is talent show day. “The show must go on!” she declares.

Dragonballs!

“We all feel it’ll be therapeutic. What everyone needs right now is a little fun!” says Fanta. Flossie adds that the three of them will be available to assist anyone who needs help with their act.

The only act that interests me is making myself disappear. I’ve been here almost a week and still haven’t come up with a single idea that works.

As I pop a boysenberry into my mouth, I have an unexpected breakthrough of my own. Boysen. Poison. Duh! I’ll find some poisonous berries and feed them to Shrink, Grimm, and those three blubbery fairies. Kind of like my old Snow White trick! Why didn’t I think of this before? With all the berries around this place, there’s got to be a few lethal ones; I mean, I only need five of them. Oh, yeah, and one for that armed guard Gulliver.

My eyes dart from bush to bush. How will I figure out which berries are poison? It’s not like I can go on a tasting spree. With the way my luck’s been going, the first one I sample will be poisonous, and I’ll be the one to go. I know. I can try them out on Sasperilla. The skinny bitch deserves to die. There’s just one big problem. Sasperilla won’t eat a thing!

Just another lamebrain idea. I’ll never get out of here.

Over lunch, Elz is eager to discuss our plans for the talent show. She’s surprisingly chipper given all she’s been through. Hook, who’s seated between us, probably has something to do with it. I’m still not sure I trust him even after his emotional breakthrough yesterday. In fact, I’m surprised he’s not wrought with anger after what Shrink and Grimm put him through. Maybe Elz is the quick fix he needs.

Elz tells us she’s going to sing; Winnie’s going to juggle, and Rump, who hasn’t stopped saying, “R-rumpelstiltskin is my name,” is obviously doing some kind of jig. He’s already practicing in the corner. The clickity-click of his clogs grates on my nerves.

“What are you going to do?” Elz asks me.

“I have no clue.”

Hook eyes me lustfully. “Maybe you and I can do a little number together.”

I’ve changed my mind. I definitely don’t trust him.

Elz, who’s missed Hook’s come-on, offers to sing along. A trio.

“I can’t sing,” I say. Honestly, I have one of the worst singing voices in the world. My “lalas” scare off forest critters.

“I bet you have some other secret talent,” Elz insists.

“Her only talent is trying to look like me!” says Sasperilla, pushing her way into our conversation. “Have you noticed how little she eats?”

I eat more than I’ve ever eaten around this place, but it’s not worth arguing with the skinny bitch. But she’s reminded me that I do have a talent! I can look like other people. I’m a master of disguise! I fooled my very own stepdaughter in those hag get-ups. Every one of them was brilliant.

“I’m going to do an impersonation.”

“Of whom?” asks Elz, dying of curiosity.

“It’s going to be a surprise.”

I smile wickedly. I’ve just hatched the perfect escape plan.

The talent show is right after dinner. I have less than six hours to get it together. To transform myself into Fanta and walk straight out the gates of Faraway.

Wasting no time, I obtain some green fabric from Flossie and ask her to help me design a frock that’s like the one she and her sisters wear. She helps me make the pattern, then hands me a needle and thread.

“Good luck, dear,” she says. “I must help Fairweather and Fanta set up the banquet hall for the show.” She flies off.

How dare she leave me! I don’t know the first thing about sewing. Now, I’m sorry I blew off her workshop.

Fumbling with the needle, I start sewing the pieces together. My stitches zigzag all over the fabric, and beads of blood are everywhere from pricking my fingers so many times. But somehow, I manage to finish. I hold up my costume. After all is said and done, it’s surprisingly quite good. Time to try it on.

Something’s wrong. Very wrong. I can’t get the dress over my head. Crap! I’ve sewn the edges of the neckline together. I rip them apart and slip on the dress. No problem—except for the sleeve I’ve accidentally torn off. The dress is ruined! And there’s no more green fabric.

I’m totally screwed. How am I going to disguise myself as Fanta if I don’t have a costume? Don’t panic! Think! Think! I can’t blow my perfect plan.

And then, the obvious comes to me. I still have a map of Faraway, the one Fairweather gave me when I first got here. I’ll check out where the three fairies sleep, sneak into their room, and “borrow” one of Fanta’s outfits. Frightening simplicity! Why didn’t I think of this before? Let’s just hope they don’t keep their room locked.

The fairies’ chamber is located on the second floor of the castle. Luck, for once, is on my side. The door’s unlocked. I slip inside. The room is small but fastidious with their three beds lined up in a row. There are two doors—one must be the closet. Eenie, meenie, miney, moe.

Bingo! The first one I open is filled with identical fairy outfits in red, blue, and green. Fanta won’t notice she’s missing a thing. I help myself to one of her cheesy green frocks and a matching bonnet. Then I spot a pair of wings. Why not go all the way! Who knows, maybe they’ll enable me to fly. I hide everything under my long skirt and split.

It’s time to get really creative. I find Fairweather in the Arts and Crafts room and ask her for some flesh-colored putty and gold paint along with a brush and black crayon. The busybody’s curious to find out what I’m up to. I tell her she’s in for a surprise. Wait till she sees me disguised as her sister!

Armed with all my materials, I head outside. All is need is a thick stick. I find one instantly and paint it gold. Ta-dah. My magic wand is complete. Maybe it’s not as magical as Fanta’s, but it’ll get me out the front gate.

Now, it’s time for me to work my magic. I hurry back to my room, relieved that Elz is not there. I undress and slip Fanta’s gown over my head. The dress hangs loosely on my thin frame as I expected. No worries. I crumple up a couple of hand towels and stuff them into my brassiere. Ha! I’ve got boobs! Big, sagging ones that hang down to my waist just like Fanta’s. Moving right along, I take my pillow and stuff it into my bloomers. I now have a butt as big as the Badass Fairy’s. It actually might be a little bigger, but come on, who’s going to measure?

Okay. Now for the challenging part that can make or break my disguise. Carefully, I apply the putty to my cheeks and my chin and blend it in with my skin. If only I had a mirror! I run my fingers over the surface of my face and crack a smile. My new plump cheeks and extra chin are works of art! I add a little putty to the tip of my nose and mold it to look exactly like Fanta’s upturned snout. Finally, I take the crayon and soften my arched eyebrows. As much as I wish I had one, I don’t need a mirror to tell me I’ve done it again!

I put on the bonnet, making sure it covers my snippets of hair, slip on the wings, and grab my magic wand. It’s showtime! And what do you know! The wings are magic! I’m actually flying out the door.

I stealthily fly into the banquet hall. No one notices me in the back of the room, hovering near the ceiling. All the better to make my grand entrance.

Dinner is over, and Hook starts off the show. “Yo Ho, Yo Ho, a pirate’s wife for me,” he sings with bravura. I have to admit his rich baritone voice is fantastic. Everyone, except Sasperilla, applauds wildly. Beaming, Elzmerelda gives him a standing ovation.

Next up is Rumpelstiltskin. Hopping from leg to leg, he recites:

“Y-yesterday I was b-blank, but t-today I knew

That once u-upon a t-time I used to spin

S-straw into g-gold for a s-selected few,

And the name I am c-called is R-rumpelstiltskin.”

Okay. He’s not going to win any awards for being funny, but he’s got everyone laughing, including me. Grimm was right. Once Rumpelstiltskin remembered his name, his memory would start coming back to him. And the other good news, he’s stuttering less.

Winnie, the third to go, performs an amazing juggling act, using muffins she ends up tossing into the audience. More claps and cheers. Elzmerelda follows her with a love song in her sweet soprano voice. From my vantage point, it’s obvious she’s directing it at Hook. The swine blows her a kiss. I hope he’s not leading her on.

“Sasperilla, your next,” says Fairweather, who’s been emceeing the show.

“There’s no way I’m participating in this freak show!” The skinny bitch makes a face. Ha! Her one and only talent. Ignoring a loud boo from Hook, she goes right back to playing with her food.

Finally, it’s my turn.

“Has anyone seen Jane?” asks Fairweather.

On cue, I swoop down onto the buffet. The landing’s a little rough, but I make it. Fairweather’s eyes pop. “Fanta, is that you?”

“I’m over here!” shouts a voice in the audience. It’s the real Fanta.

Fairweather does a double take and is speechless. In fact, everyone’s gaping with shock. I’m not sure if it’s because I can fly or because they’re seeing double.

I get right into it. In my best Fanta voice, I announce, “For our evening meditation…” I’m stopped by laughter in the audience “… I’d like everyone to close their eyes and chant to the moon with me.” Waving my wand, I chant:

“We have all that we need,

Full blessed children of space;

Light shines full on our face,

Giving Love, Illumination, Peace.”

I suspend my wand in mid-air and take a bow to signal my act is over. There’s no applause whatsoever. Only dead silence. Everyone in the room is in a trance. My little chant has worked like magic. To be honest, it was more fun putting people to sleep this way than with a poison apple. It’s time to knock Snow White off her pedestal. Mirror, mirror, I’m coming home!

I take one last look at the dozing group of inmates and staffers. An unexpected melancholy descends on me. I’m going to miss this motley crew of losers and monsters. Especially Elz and Winnie. Maybe one day, we’ll see each other again.

Enough. There’s no more time to reflect. I’ve got to stick to the plan and leave while they’re all still asleep. Tossing my “magic” wand, I leap into the air and take flight.

Flying is not as easy as it looks. Or as fun. Because the moon is a mere sliver, it’s hard to see anything in the dark of the night. I’m also not used to avoiding things like treetops, stars, and flying objects. I almost crash into an oncoming bat and narrowly miss catching my wings on the tip of a tree branch.

Finally, I get the flying thing down. And because I studied my map, I have some sense of where I’m going. Good. I can see the fortress wall in the distance. It’s just beyond The Enchanted Forest. All I have to do is get past that stupid armed giant at the gate, and I’ll be free!

Suddenly, out of nowhere, a blast of heat scorches my backside. A shooting star? A thunderous roar tells me this is not a cosmic phenomenon. I twist my neck and look behind me. My eyes make contact with a pair of angry, yellow, glow-in-the-dark ones. Two outstretched wings that must span fifty feet flap as madly as my heart. A monstrous, fire-breathing dragon is after me!

Unable to fly any faster, I zigzag across the night sky, hoping to lose the beast. Or at least tire it. No luck. The dragon chases me in hot pursuit. Panic sets in as the monster gains ground on me. It lets out another fierce roar. Something’s burning. Oh no! My wings have caught fire! I’m doomed.

My high-speed flying is reduced to a crawl. Then to a dead halt. Fanta’s magical wings have completely lost their powers. The dragon flies away, satisfied with its victory, as I tailspin toward the earth.

This was so not part of the plan. My life is over. I squeeze my eyes closed, not wanting to see the ugly end. A loud, ripping sound jolts them open. My crash-and-burn fall has been intercepted by a tree limb. Hanging by the sleeve of my dress, I’m dangling like an ornament on a Christmas tree. Fanta’s wings, now smoldering, are mere gossamers of what they once were.

How am I going to get down? A thought. Maybe if I shout out to that giant guard Gulliver, he’ll hear me. I bet he’ll be able to reach up and bring me down to safety. A strange splintering sound steals my attention. Crack! Crack! Snap! The tree branch is breaking off. Just when I thought I could smell freedom, I’m freefalling to Earth, clinging to a branch. For the second time tonight, I can kiss my life good-bye…

Or not. I land hard on a soft pile of compost. What good luck! And thank goodness for all my padding. I’m sore all over, but otherwise okay. I pick myself up, wipe off the yucky mulch, and yank off my tattered wings. They’re of no further use. I have no choice but to travel by foot.

When I take my first step, a sharp pain shoots up my right ankle. I wince. I must have sprained it. If this is nature’s way of stopping me, forget it. I break off a limb of the branch. Using it as crutch, I take off.

Despite my injury, I hobble through the dark forest with its monstrous trees and unknown sounds at astonishing speed. My childhood fears have come back to haunt me, so the quicker I can get out of here the better. My eyes dart left and right, watchful for thorny branches that will whip themselves around me, evil spirits who will jump out from nowhere and attack me, and that fire-breathing dragon. Who knows where it’s lurking. Fighting the pain in my foot, I pick up my pace.

At last, I reach the guardhouse. Gulliver waves to me. I hold my breath.

“Why good evening, Fanta. What brings you here?” he asks.

Either he’s dumber than he sounds or I’m a genius. Whatever it is, I’ve fooled him. He thinks I’m Fanta!

“Oh, I thought I’d take a little stroll.” I falter for an excuse. “You know, it gets so claustrophobic being inside that castle.”

The giant gawks at me. My heart hammers. Maybe he doesn’t understand the word “claustrophobic.” Worse, maybe he’s questioning my Fanta voice. It ultimately doesn’t matter. He unlocks the gate with a large metal key and lets me out. “Have a nice walk,” he says and then relocks the gate.

Yes! I’m out. Free at last! I want to jump for joy. But wait! The drawbridge is up! I can’t cross over to Lalaland! My body pulsates with anger and frustration. What am I going to do? Don’t panic. Think, Jane! Think!

My pulse rate slows down, and my emotions settle. I survey the dark, swampy moat. It’s about a half-mile wide. I have no choice. I know what I have to do. Jump into it and swim across to the other side. I’m a strong swimmer. I can do it! I’ve got to!

Wasting no time, I toss my makeshift crutch and dive into the black, stagnant water. It feels thick and warm like a blanket, but the stench is nauseating. A few minutes into my swim, a massive, rancid blob of flesh and fur assaults me. A monster! I frantically wrestle the muddy beast until I realize it’s only a dead boar. As dead as the boar whose heart The Huntsman stole. It floats away, and I swim on.

With each sludge-squeezing stroke, I grow more fatigued. Every muscle is cramping from the strain. Finally, I reach land. Heaving, I drag myself out of the muck and struggle to my feet. Dripping wet with scum, I stink. I’m exhausted. And I’m in agony. But I’m free. Really free! At last! Next stop: a real spa for a little beautification and then home to my castle. And my magic mirror.

“What are you doing here?”

The voice, a familiar one, startles me. I spin around and face a strapping, bearded man with unforgettable green eyes. The Huntsman! What’s he doing here?

There’s no way I’m letting him get in the way of my freedom this time with all I’ve been through. I make a run for it, hobbling as fast as I can. The Huntsman races after me. Every step is more painful than the one before, but pure willpower keeps me moving. The crunching sound of his heavy footsteps grows fainter. He must be losing steam. I run faster. Suddenly, I find myself tumbling to the ground; something—a rock?—has tripped me. As I scramble to get up, The Huntsman tackles me from behind. Kicking and screaming, I try desperately to free myself from his grip. I’m no match for his brutal strength.

Holding me down with the weight of his body, he pulls something out from his satchel.

My eyes widen. It’s his two-foot knife, and he’s pointing it my way!

“How would you like me to cut out your heart?” he breathes down my throat.

“Ha! You don’t have the courage.” I spit at him.

I’m wrong. Dead wrong. Without blinking an eye, I watch him lower the blade to my chest. Fear grips my insides. My life is over. This time for sure. I squeeze my eyes shut. An image of myself as a child reaching out to my mother flashes into my mind. They say you never know what you’ll see when you’re about to die.

One, two, three…I’m counting the seconds to my last breath. On the count of four, I’m yanked to a standing position.

The Huntsman throws me over his broad shoulders. “You belong at Faraway.”

CHAPTER 14

Feverishly, I twist and turn. Nightmare after nightmare assaults me, each one more frightening than the one before it. Dragons torch me. Monstrous trees strangle me. Sea serpents drown me. And giant knives cut me apart.

Periodically, I wake up, drenched with sweat. Sometimes it’s pitch-black. I’m terrified and scream. Other times it’s bright. Oh, how the light hurts my eyes. Objects and people float by me, but they’re all a blur. Not knowing where I am, I drift back into unconsciousness to escape the pain.

The horrific dreams won’t stop. One, in particular, keeps recurring. I’m a child again. An ugly witch holds me prisoner in a rat-infested cell. What am I doing here? I’ve been good. “Let me go! Please!” Howling with laughter, she sears me with her branding iron. Oh, the pain! But I don’t let her see me scream. I can’t! Biting my trembling lips, I reach deep into her pocket and wrap my fingers around the large metal key she keeps there. Do it! In one swift move, I stab the cold metal into the thick green vein that snakes up her neck. “You, bitch!” she shrieks as a fountain of blood spurts out of the puncture. Soaked with her blood, I quickly unlock the cell door. I run faster than I ever have, only to have the raving mad witch chase after me. My lungs burn as much as my seared skin. Finally, I can run no more. I’ve come to the end of the earth. And so has she. I have no choice but to jump off the edge into the gray sea miles below. Splash! I stroke furiously. I’m free! But, free to do what? The sea never ends. My tears mingle with the salt of the cruel sea as I wonder: Will I be swimming forever?

“I’m so tired!” I cry out, desperately hoping the sea will take pity on me and carry me back to land.

“Of course, my dear, you’re tired,” says a sweet voice.

The sea has heard my plea and now seems so nice!

I slowly pry open my eyes, one at a time. Yes, I’m on land! I can smell flowers. People are clambering around me. My vision is cloudy. I can’t make them out.

“You’ve been delirious with a raging fever for over a week,” says the voice I heard in my dream.

“Thank goodness, it’s finally broken,” says a second one.

“You almost died, dear,” says a third.

I blink my eyes several times. Slowly, everything comes into focus. I’m back at Faraway, lying in my bed. A vase of wild flowers sits on a stand next to me, and the Badass Fairies are hovering over me.

“You must have picked up something from that disease-ridden moat,” says Fairweather as she gently wipes my forehead with a damp cloth.

“I had to throw out my dress and bonnet!” tisks Fanta. “Flossie was able to repair the tears, but no matter how much I tried, I couldn’t get out the stains or that awful smell.”

The events that have brought me here come back to me with the mad rush of a rockslide.

“You’re lucky that nasty crocodile we keep in the moat didn’t eat you alive,” adds Fanta.

There’s really a crocodile in the moat? I thought I was making that up when I gave Hook the brush off. Truth be told, I’d be better off dead than back here. I wish the crocodile had gotten me. Or The Huntsman had killed me.

I’m near tears when Winnie tiptoes into the room. She’s holding a tray with a tea caddy and cup. Her presence brightens my spirits a little.

“Hi,” I say feebly.

She smiles at me. She looks different. Maybe my vision is still impaired. As she gets closer, I realize my eyesight’s just fine. She’s lost weight. She’s a lot thinner.

“We’ll leave you two alone,” says Flossie. She and her sisters fly out the door.

Winnie carefully sits down on my bed, placing the tray on the nightstand. She plumps another pillow under my head, then pours me a cup of tea. She holds it up for me. I feel like a helpless child.

“I always give tea to my children when they’re sick. It makes them feel better.” Her soft voice spreads itself like a blanket on my chilled body.

I take a sip of the hot beverage. Chamomile. Elz’s favorite.

“Where’s Elz?” I ask, sounding a little stronger. Her bed doesn’t look like it’s been slept in for a while.

“She’s gone.”

I bolt up, knocking the teacup out of Winnie’s hand. “She’s dead?”

“No, no, Jane! She’s not dead! She’s gone back to Lalaland. The staff felt she was ready to start a post-rehab apprenticeship.”

My heart sinks. Elz is gone? I didn’t get a chance to say good-bye to her.

“You missed her going away party. It would have been more fun if you’d been there.” Winnie reaches into her pocket and hands me a folded up sheet of parchment. “Elz made this for you.”

I unfold it. Before me, is a childlike drawing of two smiley girls hugging each other, one very tall and thin with long brown hair and a bow; the other, not as tall or thin, with short dark hair and a crown. Below the picture, the words “BEST FRIENDS FOREVER” are printed in big block letters.

I burst into tears. “I wish I was dead!”

“Jane, you must never say that! Never!” Winnie holds me close to her. “Let’s get some fresh air. It’ll do you good.”

She helps me out of bed, letting me grip her body for support. Though I’m no longer in any pain, it takes all my effort to stand up. Clutching Winnie’s arm, I take my first step. My legs wobble. My body trembles. I’m much weaker than I thought.

As I limp down the corridor with the only friend I have left at Faraway, I feel something I haven’t felt since I was a little girl. Vulnerable. The Evil Queen, who once upon a time was not afraid to kill, is now afraid to die.

At lunch, a huge banner above the buffet welcomes me back. Everyone has signed it, except for Sasperilla. Rumpelstiltskin’s signature, written in large, ornate letters, sticks out like a sore thumb. He must really be proud of his name. I’m touched; it takes everything I have to hold back tears.

The best part of being back from the dead is that everyone’s so nice to me. They bring me my meal and volunteer to do my yucky chores. Even Hook’s on good behavior though I’m not sure how long that’ll last.

I’m surprised, to say the least, when Sasperilla sits down next to me and wraps one of her scrawny arms around my shoulders. Could she have she possibly become a new person while I was sick?

“I have a welcome back present for you,” she says.

With a wide smile, she dumps her plate of food on mine and then saunters off. Shame on me for thinking she could be nice. She’s just jealous I’ve lost weight from my illness.

After lunch, I retreat to my room. I’m still not well enough to go to group or meet with Shrink. Which is fine by me because I dread going to either.

Slumped on the edge of my bed, I stare at the empty bed next to mine. God, I miss Elz. Her homely face. Her fashion-challenged bows. Even her annoying singsong voice and her “lalalas.” Who’s going to get me up in the morning? Those stupid birds probably won’t even show up now that she’s gone.

I suppose I should enjoy having the room to myself. It’s only a matter of time until I get a new roomie. A new loony who won’t replace my Elz. As I pull my covers over me, I take another look at the card she made. “Best Friends Forever.” Holding it next to my heart, I close my eyes.

CHAPTER 15

Lalala! To my surprise, the birds fly in the next morning and pull down my covers. Hello, my little feathered friends! I’m feeling much stronger. And I’m starving—guess I must have slept right through dinner last night.

After breakfast, I feel well enough to join the others for morning meditation. Our sun salutations make me even stronger. I’m ready to face Shrink.

The climb up to Shrink’s office isn’t easy for me. I have to stop several times to catch my breath. When I finally get there, she’s waiting for me. That’s a first.

“Jane, it’s good to see you.” She smiles. “You’ve been through an ordeal. Would you like to talk about it?”

“Not really,” I say, collapsing onto the chaise. “I want to know when I’m getting out of here.”

“That’s up to you, Jane.” Shrink does a figure eight across the room, then hovers over me.

“What do you mean?”

“What I mean is that you have to want to get better.”

“I do.” Surprisingly, I really mean it.

“Good. Then you must trust me. You must start opening up about your past so that I can understand the roots of your addiction and help you recover.”

My past. The words run cold through my veins.

“For tomorrow, I’d like you to write down as much as possible of what you remember about your childhood. Where you were born. Your earliest memories. Your relationship with your father as well as—”

“My father?” I cut her off. “I don’t know who he is.”

“Good. Include that detail. It’s important. And, of course, don’t forget about your relationship with your mother.”

My mother! My stomach knots up into a painful ball. Why can’t I just pretend she’s dead?

“You wrote on your assessment that your relationship with your mother was no one’s business. Well, it’s mine. I need to know about it.”

I take a deep breath. I’m not sure if I can go through with this.

“We’re running out of time for today, Jane. Do you have any questions?”

“Why didn’t The Huntsman kill me?” My eyes tear up. “I deserved to die.”

“No, Jane, you didn’t deserve to die. You deserved to live. That’s why he spared your life.” She pauses. “Did you know that he’s the one who committed you to Faraway?”

The Huntsman committed me?

The all-too-familiar chime sounds.

“Time’s up for today, Jane. I’ll see you here tomorrow.” She shoots out of the room, covering me in a cloud of fairy dust.

I linger on the chaise, unable to stop thinking about The Huntsman. Shrink practically made it sound like I should fall to my knees and thank him. Give me a break! The hatred I feel toward him cannot be put into words. There’s no one who’s more deliberately and underhandedly messed up my life. Not even Snow White. She couldn’t help being born beautiful.

After lunch at group, Grimm introduces two new members to me.

The first is a teenage boy in tan overalls named Pinocchio. I would actually call him beautiful if it wasn’t for his nose. It’s as long as a parsnip.

“Why are you here?” I ask.

The boy stares at me. His expressive brown eyes remind me of my puppy Bambi. “There’s nothing wrong with me,” he says.

He’s got to be kidding. Seriously, with a nose like that, he’s at least got to have girl problems. Suddenly, something happens that makes me almost fall off my chair. His nose grows three inches!

Grimm frowns. “Pinocchio, tell her the truth.”

“Okay, I’m a pathological liar. My father won’t stand for it anymore. So he sent me here.”

To my astonishment, the boy’s nose shrinks considerably.

“Good, Pinocchio,” says Grimm. “You told Jane the truth.”

Whoof! This place has gotten even more whacked.

The other new member is a frail, silver-haired man in a formal frock coat and bow tie, who must be in his seventies.

“I’m the Wizard. The Great and Powerful Wizard of Oz!” he proclaims.

“Yo, Oz. Show Jane some of your magic tricks!” mocks Hook.

The elderly man’s face and body twitch. He flushes with embarrassment.

Sasperilla bursts out laughing. “Maybe we should call him ‘The Wizard of Spaz.’”

God! Can she get any meaner?

“And, Sasperilla, we should call you ‘The Wicked Bitch of the West!’” says Hook.

“W-wicked Bitch! W-wicked Bitch!” chants Rump.

Go, Rump! His words shut the scrawn up. My hero.

To my surprise, Grimm moves the focus of the group on to me.

“Jane, would you like to share anything with us today?”

Is he out of his mind too? What makes him think I now have a reason to share my life with these whackos? “Thanks, but no thanks.”

“Fine. Does anyone have any questions for Jane?”

Hook raises his missing hand. “So, babe, do you want to ‘hook up’ later?”

That’s it. I’ve had it. It’s time to set him straight. “First, my name’s not ‘babe’; it’s Jane. And second, I’d rather make it with a one-legged stinky cheese man.”

Stunned, Hook rocks back on his chair and topples over. He mutters a curse. Ha! Serves him right.

“Group’s over for today,” announces Grimm.

Hallelujah! I can’t take a minute more of these pathetic losers. I’m going to work hard with Shrink to get out of Loserville once and for all.

After dinner, I return to my room and work on Shrink’s writing assignment. I have writer’s block. I can’t get started. Or maybe it’s more because I don’t want to. Okay, I admit it. I’m afraid of writing down my past.

It’s a good thing there was a roll of parchment waiting for me. Each time, I begin with “I was born,” I can’t write another word and tear up the sheet. There’s a mountain of shreds next to my bed.

I need a new approach to my life story. Wait! That’s it! I’ll try writing my life like a story. I start over again and the words flow.

Once upon a time, there was a little girl named Jane who lived alone with her poor but beautiful mother, Nelle. Little Jane was always curious about her father, but whenever she would ask her mother where he was, she would reply, “Who knows!”

On her fifth birthday, Jane’s mother handed her a rusty, old tin cup. Every day from that day on, she had to walk miles to the village square where she would dance until her feet bled. Passersby dropped coins into her tin. When it was all filled up, she would limp back home. Her mother would take all the money and spend it on new clothes and makeup. She never bought Jane anything, not even a tiny toy.

The little girl’s mother had a large mirror that she kept in her bedroom. It was her favorite possession. She loved to look at herself in the shiny glass. Every night, she would dress up and admire her reflection. Then she would go out, leaving Jane all alone.

One night, Jane snuck into her mother’s room. She put on one of her mother’s pretty dresses and looked at herself in the mirror. “Mirror, mirror, on the wall. Who’s the fairest one of all?” she asked. To her delight, the mirror replied, “Your mother is fair, but her beauty is bland; You, My Queen, are the fairest in the land.”

Jane loved this game of make-believe. She secretly played it again and again. Then one evening, her mother came home early and surprised her. “How dare you dress up in my beautiful clothes and look into my mirror!” she screamed. She beat Jane so hard that the little girl could not dance for weeks.

When Jane grew up, she married a King and became a Queen. She never had to worry about her mother or money. Ever again.

THE END

I quickly reread my story. It’s perfect. I even got in the no-father detail. Shrink will be pleased. Exhausted, I crawl into bed, surprisingly looking forward to my session with Shrink in the morning. I’m one step closer to going home to my castle. And my magic mirror.

CHAPTER 16

After morning meditation, I’m stress-free and determined. All the better to see Shrink. I’m not going to let her get to me today, I promise myself as I head over to her office with my story in hand. Actually, I bet she’ll treat me with the respect I deserve now that I’m opening up about my past.

Clutching the story to my chest, I lie restlessly on the chaise, waiting for her arrival. Things are back to normal. She’s late.

Finally, she flies in like a storm, showering me in fairy dust. Without a word, she wrenches what I’ve written away from me. My eyes stay glued on her as she shoves her glasses onto her head and immerses herself in my words. She’s actually quite pretty without those ridiculous bug-eyed spectacles. Maybe, if she’s nice to me today, I’ll do her a favor and tell her to stop wearing them.

She rolls up the parchment and flips her glasses back over her face. “Jane, you’re quite a wordsmith. You should consider a career as a writer.”

Is that all she can say after I’ve spent hours pouring my heart out? I honestly thought she’d do a somersault and, at least, schedule my release.

“What’s interesting about your story is that it’s written in third person and is completely devoid of emotion.”

“It just came out that way,” I say defensively. “Every time I started with the word ‘I,’ I got writer’s block.”

“That tells me you don’t like being the little girl in the story. You want to be detached from her.”

I tremble. It’s true. “I hated my childhood!” I blurt out.

“Good, Jane. You’re showing some emotion. Now, tell me why you hated it.”

The tears that have been welling up in my eyes roll down my face. “My mother.”

“Why your mother?”

Memories flee my head like prisoners that have been holed up for life. Tears of grief mingle with tears of relief as I start spewing the horrific things she did to me. The beatings…the burns… the dunkings…the lies…the nights alone…

“She abused you, didn’t she?”

I wipe my tears and nod.

Shrink looks at me kindly. “Jane, it’s understandable why you’re crying. You are in pain. You’re revisiting painful memories that you’ve suppressed for many years.”

She lets me weep for a few minutes before continuing.

“Jane, let’s dig deeper. Can you remember the meanest thing your mother ever did?”

How can I ever forget? “I found a little puppy. She killed it!”

I sob as I relive the memory. I’m doing the chore I dread the most—washing a load of my mother’s soiled clothes—in the river near our flat. Oh, how I hate the rancid odor left behind by her conquests; it nauseates me. Scrubbing the last of her many gowns, I glimpse a furry little body drifting by. Bambi! The river’s strong current is pulling him down stream. I have to save him! I jump into the river, and though I’ve never swum before, swimming comes naturally to me. All my mother’s dunkings have taught me how to hold my breath under water, and my arms are strong from years of hard labor. Battling the current, I catch up to my puppy and manage to pull him to shore. He stares at me with those big brown eyes, the same eyes that melted my heart when I first found him. Except now he’s a lifeless, little bundle of wet, matted fur. Tied tightly around his neck is a green scarf. My mother’s! My hands trembling, I unknot it and fling it back into the river as if it were a deadly snake. As it slithers out of sight, I cradle Bambi in my arms and watch my river of tears flow onto his cold, still body. I bury my sweet puppy, and for days, I remove the mud embedded deep beneath my fingernails to forget.

“Are you okay, Jane?”

Shrink’s voice brings me back to the moment. To my horror, I’ve bitten my fingernails down to the quick. They’re red-raw and sting from my tears.

“I don’t know why I’m crying so much,” I splutter. “I had my puppy for less than a day.”

“It’s okay to cry.” Shrink gently flicks away my tears. “People get very attached to their pets no matter how long they’ve had them. You loved Bambi, and he loved you back.”

My tears let up a little. I did love him.

Shrink presses on. “Jane, did you love your mother?”

My blood churns. I hated her for all she did to me. And for what she did to Bambi. “I wanted to love her,” I say at last.

“Did she love you?”

“No!” I bolt upright. “She only loved herself!”

Shrink flutters closer to me. “How do you know that?”

I close my eyes and see my mother all dressed up, leaning into her mirror. In a scarlet (her favorite color) dress, cinched tightly to accentuate her tiny waist and plump up her breasts; her thick, dark hair draping her shoulders like a cape; her thin, painted red lips pursed. “The only thing she ever kissed was her own reflection.”

“Ah, you’re referring to the mirror in your story.”

I bite my quivering lip and nod.

“Did your mother spend a lot of time in front of this mirror?”

I nod again.

“Jane, your mother was addicted to beauty. She was a narcissist.”

I’m in no mood for her fancy Shrink-speak words.

“Your mother’s narcissism explains your addiction to beauty. You, like your mother, are a narcissist.”

“Stop it!” I cup my ears, remembering how she and Grimm tried to trick Hook into admitting he was an alcoholic like his father.

“Jane, parents are role models. We model our behavior after them. Even if we hate the things they do. You need to admit that you’re a narcissist to recover from your addiction.”

“I’m not my mother!”

“No, Jane, you’re not your mother.”

“I’m better than my mother!”

“Is that what you wanted your mother’s mirror to say when you played make-believe with it?”

“I wanted it to tell me I was beautiful! And it did!”

Shrinks hovers over me and looks directly into my eyes.

“Remember, Jane, your mirror wasn’t magic. It didn’t talk. That’s what you wanted to hear. You imagined it saying you were beautiful because no one ever made you feel that way. Because no one ever loved you.”

Her words come at me like a shower of spears. Sobs shake my body. I hate Shrink! I want this session to end.

As if I willed it, the chime sounds.

“Jane, your story might say ‘The End,’ but we’ve got a long way to go. I’ll see you here tomorrow.”

I retreat to my room, collapse on my bed, and stare blankly at the crumbling ceiling. It’s as if all my blood has been drained from inside me. I’m sorry now that I opened up to Shrink about my past. She’s using it to torture me, not help me. She still wants to prove that I was delusional about my magic mirror. And it’s wearing me down.

I have no appetite for lunch and decide to skip group as well. I’m in no mood to be shot down by Grimm and a troupe of loonies. Hunger finally gets the better of me, and I show up for dinner. Hook brushes up against me as I listlessly work my way down the buffet table.

“Yo, Jane, where were you during group? We missed you.”

“None of your business.”

“Well, you missed a good session. My matey Rump finally remembered something about the queen he extorted. They’re going to let him out of this joint any day.”

Rump’s getting out too? A new wave of depression washes over me.

I push past the swine and take a seat at a table by myself. I’m not up for any conversation, especially with any of these nutcases.

Half-way through my meal, the boy with the parsnip nose sits down next to me. Pinocchio. What does he want?

He stares at me with his sad puppy eyes. “I want to tell you that you’re beautiful.”

To my astonishment, his nose shrinks. He must be telling the truth!

“Jane, come with me outside for a walk. Please?”

I cannot say no to those eyes.

Quietly, we slip away.

The warm summer air is calming as we walk in silence through The Enchanted Forest. Moonlight beams between the trees. With Pinocchio by my side, I’m not afraid.

“Pinocchio, is there something you want to tell me?” I say at last.

“Jane, a blue fairy made me a boy,” he says.

“With her magic wand?” I can’t help laughing.

“Yes. Now, I need a real woman to make me a man.”

He gazes at me with his puppy-brown eyes. They make me think again of my little stray Bambi. Of how much he needed me.

Slowly, the beautiful boy-man undresses me. I do not flinch. Only my breasts quiver against the summer breeze.

He stares at me. The scars left behind by my mother’s beatings shimmer in the moonlight. No one has ever seen them, not even my precious mirror.

Pinocchio’s eyes do not move; it’s as if he’s looking right through me. “You’ve suffered, Jane. That’s why I knew I could trust you.”

He peels off his clothes and stands naked before me. His body, though slight, is as beautifully sculpted as his face. The full moon illuminates his nascent muscles and smooth porcelain skin. It’s the body of a boy ready to be born into manhood.

He clasps my hands and pulls me closer. His mouth moves toward mine. I can taste his warm breath.

Suddenly, his nose grows. At least six inches, maybe more! He jumps back and glances down at the flesh between his legs, ashamed.

“Jane, I can’t.”

Silently, I watch his nose shrink to half its size.

He begins to weep.

I wrap my arms around him and caress his silky chestnut hair. The connection between us is powerful, almost magical. Seeing ourselves for who we really are, we’ve become each other’s mirror.

“We should go back,” he says.

“No, stay here with me,” I say softly. I cannot go back to the loneliness of my empty room. At least, not tonight. I want to be with him.

Together, we lie down side by side on the warm earth. I stare at the starry sky and silently curse the full moon for not being there to help me with my escape.

“Jane, I never had a mother,” Pinocchio whispers.

Lucky you.

“But if I had, I wish she could have been you.”

A tear travels down my cheek. Our souls belong together.

“You know, Jane, the Blue Fairy once told me that when you wish upon a star, your dreams come true. Let’s each pick a star and make a wish for one another.”

I take his hand in mine. Neither of us says another word. Under the watchful gaze of the stars and moon, two lost souls, who have saved each other, fall fast asleep.

CHAPTER 17

At breakfast, I gather berries with Pinocchio. We speak only through our eyes. Something inside each of us has changed. We’re happier, freer, wiser. I’m not even filled with dread when I report to my session with Shrink.

“So, Jane, let’s pick up where we left off yesterday,” Shrink says as she whizzes into her office.

Her entry takes me by surprise. Reclining on the chaise, I’ve been lost in thought about my night with Pinocchio. That’s something she’s never going to know about, though a part of me wants to tell her everything.

She zooms in close to me. “I reread your story. It ends rather abruptly. And there’s quite a big gap in time. The little girl stops dancing, then she’s all grown up and marries a king. What happened in between?”

My chest tightens. Reliving my past is no easier today. “My mother went out with a lot of men.”

“What kind of men?”

“Creeps. All of them. Even the rich ones.”

“What made them creeps?”

“They drank. Cursed. And stunk.” I scrunch my nose, still smelling the stench they left behind. A combination of stale beer, sweat, and semen.

“Did they ever—”

I cut her off. I know where she’s going. “No! My mother didn’t want me around. She kept me locked in a closet.”

“Was she jealous of you? Like how you were jealous of Snow White.”

I shudder. I never thought about my mother being jealous of me. Maybe it’s true. Like mother like daughter?

Hovering close to me at eye level, Shrink looks at me with intimidating intensity.

“Jane, I’m going to ask you a question, and I don’t want you to interrupt. Did any of your mother’s suitors ever touch you?”

The blood inside me rushes to my head. I feel like I’m going to implode. I can no longer keep it in.

“Snow White’s father came into my bed!”

If Shrink is shocked, she does not show it.

Tears flood my eyes as I relive the event that changed my life forever. “My mother had finally seduced a King. A widower with a young daughter. She was set to marry him.”

Shrink jumps in. “How did you feel about that?”

“I was excited about living in a big castle. And having a little sister. And now that my mother had gotten what she wanted, I was sure she would stop beating me—”

“And love you?”

Silence. How does she know?

“What happened?”

“We spent the night before the wedding at my castle. I mean, his.”

“You lured the King?”

Her hurtful question jolts me upright.

“No! Never! He was drunk and forced himself on me.”

My tears cannot blur the memory of his lustful assault. Hard. Harder. Heartless.

“Go on,” says Shrink, her voice still showing no emotion.

I find myself talking in present tense, the words crawling out like shell-shocked warriors.

“Suddenly, the chamber door slams open and a voice screams out, ‘How dare you wreck my life, you rotten little witch!’ My mother! Her bulging eyes fixate on me like a cobra ready to strike. The King rolls off me and—”

Crack! The sound explodes in my head. A razor-sharp pain rips across my chest. And then another loud crack, this one more agonizing. I clench the worn arms of the chaise, my body writhing.

“Jane, tell me, what’s going on?” Shrink’s voice cuts through the memory and pain.

“My mother…she’s whipping me with The King’s thick leather belt, the one he tore off his robe and flung to the floor. With every strike she hisses, ‘Witch! Witch! Witch!’”

Shrink lets me take a long pause, then asks, “What did The King do when your mother attacked you?”

The scene unfolds in my head as I recount the nightmarish events that follow. “The King, regaining his senses, struggles to wrestle the belt away from my mother. Then a tiny porcelain figure, lit up by moonlight, runs into the room and cries out, “Papa! Papa!” Snow White. The King’s precious three-year old daughter. To my horror, my mother swings the belt at her. Crack! The helpless child cries out in pain. The King, horrified, lunges at my mother to try and stop her, only to be whipped by her himself. Snow White wails louder, and I run to her side. To protect her. My mother charges toward me, wielding the belt. Prepared for the worst, I huddle over Snow White. But just at that moment, a large man bursts into the room and takes the blow for me. Saving me. His eyes meet mine, and I recognize him immediately. He’s the bearded man with the knife I encountered in the forest not long ago.”

“Who was this man?” asks Shrink.

“The King’s Huntsman.” I do not tell her about our previous encounter.

“The same Huntsman you sent to kill Snow White?”

I nod weakly.

“Jane, are you okay?”

The madness of that night swells in my head. I press my fingers against my pounding temples and muster the strength to continue. The scene plays on despite how much I wish I could pull the curtains on it.

“The Huntsman, undeterred by my mother’s wrath, pounces on her, knocking her to the floor. ‘Take her away,’ commands The King, holding the still sobbing Snow White in his arms. The Huntsman yanks my mother to her feet, gripping her by both arms. The enraged King confronts her: ‘If I ever see you again, I shall destroy you!’”

Shrink gets in a question. “How did your mother react?”

I close my eyes and knead the back of my neck. The memory of my mother fighting The Huntsman as he hauls her out of the castle fills my head. Kicking. Clawing. Howling. Foaming. She’s become a monster.

“She says one day we’ll all be sorry,” I say, reopening my eyes.

I’ll never forget the venomous look in her eyes as she hissed those words. Never.

“Did you ever see her again?” asks Shrink.

I shake my head. I was happy she was out of my life.

Shrink heaves a sigh. “I must admit it’s quite a page-turner of a story. What happened next?”

My sobbing subsides a little, and I switch over to past tense. “I married The King.”

“Why?” asks Shrink, a hint of surprise in her voice.

“I had no choice. I was carrying his child.”

“His second child,” notes Shrink. “What happened to the child?”

Sadness sweeps over me as I remember the pain, the blood…so much blood. “It was a very difficult birth. I survived, but the baby, he died.”

I sob heavily again, burying my soaked face in my hands. My poor little baby! I held him for only a minute. But I’ll never forget the touch of his dewy skin or his silky curls. Or the heartbreaking expression on his tiny face that cried out for life, not death, as the midwife pulled him away.

I don’t know long I’ve been crying when Shrink’s voice sounds in my head. “So, Jane, you lost The King’s son. His only heir. How did he feel?”

I raise my head slowly, remembering how much I wanted The King to hold and comfort me. Instead, he ranted, blaming me for the infant’s death. And then he punished me.

“He banned me from his bed.” My voice is hoarse from crying.

“That’s a lot for a young woman to handle. The loss of a child and spousal abandonment. Plus the trauma of your mother. How old were you?”

“Thirteen.” So long ago yet now it feels like only yesterday.

“You were practically a child yourself,” Shrink says with a gentle flutter of her wings. “How did you feel?”

“I felt nothing.” Sadness had numbed my heart.

“What happened to The King’s other child, Snow White?”

“She grew more and more beautiful every day. The King doted on her.”

“But he didn’t dote on you, his wife.” She’s getting tough with me again. “How did you feel about that?”

“I was jealous. I thought The King loved her more because she was more beautiful than me.”

“What did you do?”

“I was alone most of the time. I spent hours standing in front of my mirror—”

Shrink interrupts me. “What mirror?”

“My mother’s. She had ordered The King’s men to move it from our flat to the castle.”

“Ah, the mirror from your childhood. Remember, Jane, there was nothing magic about it.”

My stomach muscles clench at her words. I still don’t believe her. I go on, taking precaution to make her think I do. I so badly want out of this place.

“Every day, I stood before it, making myself as beautiful as possible, until I believed I was the fairest of all. The King still paid no attention to me. The more he ignored me, the more time I spent with my mirror.”

Shrink nods. “Of course. The more he ignored you, the more you felt unloved. Continue.”

While I’m sure I’ve fooled her, her words make my blood run cold. I take a deep breath before going on. “The King went off to war and left me in charge of Snow White.”

“How did you feel about that?”

“At first, I resented it. Then I saw an opportunity to bring her down. So I dressed her in rags and treated her like a servant.”

“Understandable. You modeled your parenting after your mother’s.”

Like mother like daughter. An image of Snow White on her hands and knees scrubbing floors flashes into my head. Singing no less! No matter how poorly I treated her, her beauty remained intact. In fact, with every passing day, her beauty was more evident. I was nervous that my little plan was backfiring.

“And tell me, what was going on between you and your mirror?” asks Shrink, interrupting my thoughts.

“My mirror continued to assure me that I was still the fairest of all.” I pause. “Then it gave me a scare.”

“How so?” asks Shrink sharply.

“On the day Snow White turned seven, it told me she would one day be fairer than me.”

“Correction.” Scowling, Shrink adjusts her spectacles. “Your mirror didn’t say a word. You were merely facing reality.”

“Right.” I nod like one of those bobblehead toys. Why can’t I believe that my mirror wasn’t magic?

Shrink gives me a fleeting smile. “How did you feel when you realized that Snow White could possibly be more attractive than you?”

“I panicked. I worked her harder. Fed her practically nothing.”

“You wanted her out of your life.”

I say nothing.

“Just like how your mother wanted you out of her life.”

“No! It’s not like that!” I shout back.

“I don’t understand, Jane. Explain to me what you mean.”

“I thought that if I could starve or work her to death, The King would finally love me.”

“In other words, Jane, you were still searching for love. Desperate for it, in fact.”

I’m so confused. How did this suddenly get back to love?

“What happened to The King?” asks Shrink.

“He died in battle.”

“How did you feel?”

“On one hand, I was glad he was dead because he didn’t love me. On the other, I regretted I never had the chance to make him love me.”

“How did Snow White react?”

“She cried a lot. She missed her father terribly.”

“How did that make you feel, Jane?”

“It made me hate her more.” More than anyone or anything.

“Why, Jane? The King was dead. It no longer mattered.”

“She wrecked my life!”

Like how you thought you wrecked your mothers?”

Shrink’s question brings on another round of tears. I’m unbearably sad and perplexed. What if I’d never slept with The King? What if he had married my mother instead of me? What if I had never talked to my mirror? The what-ifs pile up like dirt, burying me alive. Would things have turned out a lot differently?

Shrink’s voice cuts through the madness. “Jane, listen, to me. You didn’t wreck your mother’s life. She wrecked it herself.”

“I just wanted her to love me!” I cry out, from somewhere deep inside my soul.

“Your mother was sick. She was incapable of loving you.”

Shrink’s words swirl around in my head. They do little to console me. No matter what I did, I could never own a place in my mother’s heart. My chest heaves in pain as I cry uncontrollably.

Shrink gently brushes away my tears. “Jane, you have to move beyond your past and come face-to-face with the person you’ve become. But not in a mirror.”

The chime sounds. My sobs drown it out.

“Time’s up, Jane. I’ll see you here tomorrow.” Like a flash of light, Shrink disappears.

Unable to move, I realize my vanity had blinded me. It wasn’t Snow White’s beauty I envied. It was her knowledge. She knew what love was.

I’m practically a zombie as I do lunch set-up with Winnie. She, in contrast, is like a wind-up toy.

“Jane, I won’t be in group today,” she says cheerfully.

“How come?” I should feel a pang of jealousy, but I’m too worn out from my session with Shrink to feel anything.

“I’ll tell you later. I have a meeting with Shrink.”

She’s skipping a meal to see Shrink? I don’t get it. On second thought, maybe that’s how she’s been losing weight.

“Who would like to share today?” begins Grimm.

“I would,” says Pinocchio.

My heart skips a beat. Oh no! He’s going to tell everyone about last night!

He stands up. “I’m gay,” he announces.

Hook leaps up. “I’m not sitting next to some fag!”

Rage races through my bloodstream. “He’s a person! If you had half the heart he had, I’d find you appealing.”

Hook snarls. “So, that’s it, Jane. You like your men to be pretty boys.”

“Sit down, Hook!” orders Grimm.

Hook reluctantly lowers himself to his chair, sitting as far away as possible from Pinocchio.

I gaze at the beautiful boy-man. His nose has returned to normal size. It’s exquisite. As if someone sculpted it to perfection.

“Thank you for sharing, Pinocchio,” says Grimm, looking pleased. “Now that you’ve come out with the truth of who you are, you no longer have to live a life of lies.”

Pinocchio’s eyes connect with mine. We exchange a smile, knowing we’ll always have our unspoken moment of truth.

Grimm’s eyes rotate around the group, stopping on each of us. “We all hide behind protective screens. Each of you must come forward—like Pinocchio bravely just did—and face the reality of who you really are.”

Oz begins to sob. His face twitches; his body shakes.

“I’m not a great and powerful wizard. I’m a fake. My name is really Oscar Zoroaster Phadrig Isaac Norman Henkel Emmannuel Ambroise Diggs. I’m just a washed-up old magician.”

“Ha! You’re a joke!” snickers Sasperilla.

Grimm ignores her. “Oscar, getting old is difficult. Sometimes, we need to reinvent ourselves. Rewriting our lives is good as long as it doesn’t hurt anyone.”

The wannabe wizard hangs his head low. “I’ve let down so many people.” His spasms lessen.

“Oscar, you’ve acknowledged your problem. That’s healthy,” says Grimm.

He addresses the group as a whole. “Sometimes we put a pompous title in front of our name like Wizard, Queen, or Captain to make us feel self-important. It’s a tell-tale sign of an addict. They tend to have a tremendous sense of self-importance and an extremely low sense of self-esteem.”

Hook and I exchange a nervous glance. It doesn’t take a genius to know Grimm’s referring to us.

“Are you implying I’m not important?” snaps Sasperilla.

“Sasperilla, have you ever thought you’ve sought to marry royalty to gain a title and self-importance?”

Sasperilla is taken aback. I have to admit Grimm is good. He’s really getting to her.

“You are important, Sasperilla.” The skinny bitch smiles smugly. “Except not as important as you think.” Her smile falls off her face like a scab.

“You suffer from an enormous amount of insecurity. You starve yourself to give yourself a sense of empowerment.”

Sasperilla fumes. “I’m not taking this bullshit from some dweeb who puts the self-important title ‘Doctor’ in front of his name. You’re as phony as the rest of us!”

Although I wouldn’t mind seeing Grimm come apart for once, he’s unfazed by her words.

“Sasperilla, I worked hard for my title; you, on the other hand, think you’re entitled. The truth is, you’re entitled to nothing. Not even to tomorrow.”

Grimm’s words shut Miss Bitchy-and-Entitled up.

“Would anyone else like to share?” asks Grimm.

“I would.” A giant lump forms in my throat. I’ve just uttered the two words I’ve most dreaded saying in group.

“What a joke!” snorts Sasperilla. “The selfish, self-centered bitch is actually going to share?”

Pinocchio springs to his feet. “You’re wrong! Jane is a beautiful, sensitive woman.”

“Like you’re an expert on women!” snickers the skinny bitch.

Poor Pinocchio looks like a hurt puppy. I want to rescue him.

“Sh-shut up, Sasperilla!” roars Rump as in her face as he can get without touching her.

She cowers in her chair. Thanks, Rump.

Slowly, I stand up. I clear my throat to free the words. “I have a problem. I’m addicted to beauty.”

I’ve finally said it.

“Puh-lease. That’s a problem? Every woman is,” sneers Sasperilla.

Pinocchio gazes at me with his soulful eyes. He gives me the courage to continue.

“My addiction to beauty drove me to do terrible things.”

“Can you elaborate?” asks Grimm.

“I tried to kill my stepdaughter Snow White. I was jealous of her,” I say tearfully.

The entire group is in a frozen state of shock. Except for Sasperilla who leaps out of her seat.

“I’m getting out of here before she does something terrible to me!” she shrieks.

Grimm shoves her back onto her chair. “Don’t move, Sasperilla!”

She shrivels like a child who’s about to get spanked.

Grimm refocuses his attention back on me.

“Jane, are you sorry you tried to kill Snow White?”

If he’d asked me that question when I first got to Faraway, the answer would have been a loud and clear “NO!” Now, I’m unsure.

“Well, Jane, yes or no?”

“YES!” I finally blurt out, sobbing uncontrollably. “I wouldn’t be here! Would I? I wouldn’t be so fu…” Sobs trump my words, and my voice trails off.

“Jane, you’ve made a tremendous breakthrough!” Grimm steps behind me and gently squeezes my heaving shoulders. “Group’s over for today.”

One by one, my fellow inmates follow him out, staring at me as I weep. All except Pinocchio who sits down beside me and holds my hand. My misery gives way to an unexpected lightness of being. Peace.

At dinner, I tell Winnie about my breakthrough. She’s all ears, and I’m surprised how much calmer I am. I feel closer to her than I ever have. After a proud hug, she eagerly tells me her news.

“Jane, I’m going home tomorrow! Shrink and Grimm think I’m ready to start my post-rehab apprenticeship.”

My heart sinks like a cannonball. I should feel happy for her. But I don’t. And, it’s not jealousy. It’s sadness. An awful eat-your-heart-up-alive sadness. First Elz. Now, Winnie. I’m losing another friend.

“That’s wonderful!” Finding my voice, I give her a perfunctory hug. “What will you be doing?”

“Shrink won’t tell me until the very last minute.”

My eyes grow watery. “I’m going to miss you, Winnie.”

“The same,” says Winnie, wiping away my tears. “You’ll be released soon too.”

The tears keep coming. I haven’t cried so much in one day since the loss of my child.

“Will you come to my birthday party after dinner?”

Birthday party? That’s odd. She’s never mentioned an upcoming birthday.

“It’s not really a birthday party,” she continues. “It’s more of a going away party, but there’s a birthday cake because you’re starting your life anew.”

“Of course, I’ll be there.” I force a smile. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

After dinner, we all gather around a mammoth, candle-lit chocolate cake the Badass Fairies have baked in honor of Winnie and sing “Happy Birthday.” A big smile spreads across every face in the banquet hall, except Sasperilla’s.

“I should be getting out here, not her!” she snivels.

The day she gets out of Faraway is the day I’m checking myself back in. That is, assuming I make it out of here.

“Make a wish, Winnie, and blow out the candles,” says Fanta.

With a smile, Winnie closes her eyes for a few seconds. When she re-opens them, she inhales deeply and then extinguishes the candles with one big breath.

Cheers and applause. She’s radiant. I bet she wished for something good for her kids.

Fairweather cuts the cake and then hands out a slice to everyone.

“No thank you,” says Winnie with all the will power she can muster.

I notice how baggy her dress is. She’s lost a ton of weight since her husband’s visit.

“Winnie, you’ve got to try it!” I insist. “Have a bite of mine.”

She caves in. “Okay, just one teeny weeny bite.”

I feed her a forkful of my cake. Then I take a bite. The two of us moan in ecstasy. I’m reminded of the night she, Elz, and I devoured her secret stash of chocolate. The memory makes me smile wistfully.

Sasperilla loiters over to us. “Winifred, I have a going away present for you.” Smirking, she thrusts her plate of cake at Winnie.

“And I have one for you,” says Winnie.

Before I can blink an eye, she smooshes the cake plate into the hollows of skinny bitch’s smirking face.

Sasperilla shrieks, unable to get her chocolate-covered jaw to close.

“I’ve always wanted to do that!” grins Winnie.

God, I’m going to miss her.

CHAPTER 18

By breakfast, Winnie’s already gone. I’ve been spared a tear-fest.

“You look like you’ve lost your best friend,” says Pinocchio.

“I have.” Two of them, I add silently.

He takes my hands in his.

“Thanks for being there for me in group yesterday,” I say.

“The same to you. That was a pretty heavy session. I’m glad I came out. Grimm told me I’ll be getting out of here pretty soon.”

Now, my new best friend is on his way out? With a heavy heart, I wander through The Enchanted Garden, aimlessly gathering fruit.

“Yo, Ho, Ho!”

I whirl around and find Hook standing behind me. He stabs a cherry I’ve picked with the sharp tip of his hook, then licks it with his tongue. Disgust rises in my chest.

“I came clean about my drinking.” He swallows the cherry whole. “I’m going back to Lalaland at the end of the week.”

What! He should be going straight to hell.

“So, Jane, what about it?” he says, moving closer to me.

“What about what?” I move away.

“You and me. It’s your last chance.”

“You and I belong in Neverland.”

Hooks smirks. What part of “never” doesn’t he understand?

Before I can pivot away, he hooks me by my neck and yanks me toward him.

“You’re hurting me! Get that claw of yours off me!” I scream.

Hook releases me and edges away. “I get it. It’s my hand, isn’t it?”

I actually feel a tinge of pity for him.

“No, Hook, it’s not your hand,” I say, more gently. “It’s just that I’m not that into you.”

“You don’t need to explain.” He storms off.

Some men obviously can’t take rejection.

After morning meditation, I trudge up to Shrink’s office, feeling blue every step of the way. Shrink flies in, full of energy, and circles around me.

“I heard you had a major breakthrough in group yesterday,” she says brightly.

“I suppose. I admitted I was addicted to beauty.”

“How do you feel?”

Should I tell her depressed, lonely, or confused? Or all of the above?

“Winnie’s gone,” I find myself saying instead.

“How do you feel about that?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you feel jealous?”

“No, I’m happy for her. She deserves to go home to her family. She’s a good person.”

“That’s a healthy reaction. I must say, however, that your look belies your happiness.”

“What do you mean?”

“Jane, you seem sad.”

“I am sad!” My voice rises. “I miss her. Is that okay?”

“It’s more than okay. It’s excellent. You’ve connected to another person.”

She’s right. I’ve also connected to Elz, Pinocchio, Rump, and, in some way, Hook too.

“What’s special about Winifred?” asks Shrink.

“She cared about me. We had fun together.”

“Did you care about her?”

“Yes, of course, I cared about her.” I’m getting irritable. Where is she going with these stupid questions?

“Remember, that’s what friendship’s all about. Caring. Being there for each other in good times as well as bad.”

My mind flashes back to Winnie caring for me when I was sick. Other memories drift through my head…Elz fixing my bloody mess of a finger…Pinocchio standing up for me in group… Rump telling Sasperilla off.

Shrink hovers over me. “Jane, if I asked you today to write down the answer to this question—Do you have a best friend?—what would it be?”

I’ve answered that question before. On that bogus admissions form.

“Can there be two answers?”

Shrink’s face tenses up. “Only if you have to.”

“Then, Winifred and Elzmerelda.”

Shrink’s face relaxes. “That’s wonderful, Jane. I thought for a minute you were going to say Winifred and your ‘magic’ mirror.”

It takes a moment for her words to sink in. My mirror, magic or not, is no longer my best friend. I hardly miss it.

“Will I ever get to see them again?” I ask.

“Yes, Jane.”

In my next life, I suppose.

“Start packing your bag. You’ll be going back to Lalaland tomorrow morning. Both Dr. Grimm and I believe you’ve made significant progress here and are ready to continue your recovery there.”

I’m leaving Faraway? Bolting up, I gaze at Shrink with a mixture of shock, disbelief, and pure joy.

“But I still have evil thoughts.” Wait! Why am I telling her that when I’ve just gotten this great news?

“Give me an example.”

“Sometimes, I want to strangle Sasperilla.” I don’t dare tell her about my pixie juice fantasy.

“Many patients have said they’ve wanted to kill me.” So, I’m not alone. “But there’s a big difference between thinking evil and doing evil.”

I listen intently.

“Everyone has evil thoughts. Even I do.”

“Like what?” I ask, intrigued.

“I’d love to put my show-off sister Tink to shame once and for all and…Enough about me! We’re here to talk about you.”

She pauses reflectively. “Jane, do you think you’ve changed?”

I’d better be careful how I answer her questions. The last thing I want to do is blow my chance of getting out of here. I nod. “Yes, I feel like I’ve turned a corner.”

“No, Jane, you haven’t turned a corner.”

Oh no! I’ve blown it.

“You’ve become a whole new person. Someone who has shown compassion and kindness; someone who has demonstrated the meaning of friendship; someone who has felt both joy and sadness; someone who has even saved a life.”

Yes, hers! My skin tingles. I have done all these things!

Shrink smiles at me warmly. “Jane, you are ready.”

The chime sounds.

“Time’s up for today, Jane. I’ll see you here tomorrow. It’ll be our last session together.”

Shrink zooms out of her office, covering me, as usual, in a pouf of fairy dust. But today, it feels magical. I can’t believe it! I’m going home! To my castle! At last!

On my way to group after lunch, Hook grabs me in the corridor and pins me against the wall. After I’ve rejected him a gazillion times—even a few hours ago—why won’t he give up? At least, I won’t have to put up with him much longer. I’m going home in less than twenty-four hours.

“Come on, Jane. You know you want me,” he says, pressing his chest hard against mine.

“Hook, the only thing I want is to go to group. Don’t make me late for my last session.”

He flicks his tongue at me.

I’ve had it. With all I’ve got, I kick him in the shin.

Wincing, he backs away.

“Why did you do that?” he asks, massaging the dent I’ve left on his shiny black boot.

“I hate you.”

“You love me.” He winces again.

Suffer, swineface! I march down the hall to group with Hook hobbling behind me. I’m going to share again today. It’s time to tell everyone what a pompous asshole he is. They deserve to know.

When I get to group, the door’s closed. Damn! They’ve started without me.

Tentatively, I open the door.

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY!” Everyone’s there singing on top of their lungs. My fellow inmates, Grimm, Shrink, and the Badass Fairies. Even Gulliver and the two hair fairies. I never thought I’d ever be happy to see them again.

I feel bad I was so mean to Hook. He was just trying to bide time so I wouldn’t blow my surprise party.

“Hook, you’re okay,” I say with a humble smile.

He shoots a smile back at me. It’s not one of his smarmy smirks. This one’s genuine. Almost sentimental. Yes, we’ve been through a lot. I’ll miss him in some strange way.

I gape at my cake, perched on a chair in the middle of our circle. It’s a towering confection frosted in a bright yellow. For the first time, that color is beautiful to me. A dozen or so flickering candles—all colors of the rainbow—sit on the top layer.

“Dear, blow out your candles and make a wish,” says Flossie.

I behold the cake. No one has ever baked one in my honor. My heart swells with emotion. I want it to last forever. Finally, with one big breath, I extinguish the candles. A head-to-toe tingly sensation spreads through my body. I’ve been reborn.

Grimm slices the cake. “Who would like to share?” Ha! He’s trying to be funny.

For the remainder of the session, we feast on the scrumptious cake. We exchange hugs and “I’ll miss you’s.” How close we’ve all become in such a short time, old inmates and new ones alike. Everyone wishes me good luck, except Sasperilla.

“Can someone please tell me why she’s getting out and I’m not?” she sulks. No one’s listening.

Rump teeters over to me. “I-I made this for you.”

It’s another woven name bracelet. This time it says “JANE.” He carefully puts it on my wrist.

Tears trickle down my face. “It’s beautiful, Rump. I’ll never take it off.” I bend down to hug my little hero. He blushes.

I’m going to miss my Faraway family. I really am. I’ll let you in on a secret. I wished for everyone here to live happily ever after. Except maybe Sasperilla.

When I return to my room in the evening, giddy with happiness, I discover I have a new roommate. She’s lanky like me, with sinewy arms, intense violet eyes, and raven black hair that’s cropped as short as mine. Slumped on the edge of Elz’s bed, she looks glum.

“Hi,” I say cheerfully. I’m not going to let anyone get me down, now that I’m going home. “I’m Jane. Who are you?”

“Gothel.” Her voice is deep and husky, almost like a man’s. She runs a hand through her hair and grimaces.

“Lice?” I ask.

“Hell no,” she snarls. “Two frickin’ fairies butchered my hair like Rapunzel’s. They wanted to give me a dose of my own medicine.”

I’m not up for hearing her life story. “Don’t worry. It’ll grow back.”

She lets out a scathing snort.

“How’s your first day going otherwise?”

“It sucked.”

“Don’t worry. It gets better.” Honestly.

“Dragon dung!”

I wonder if she knows I’m getting out of here tomorrow. I’ll break the news to her in the morning.

“Sweet dreams,” I say, climbing into bed.

“Fuck you.”

Whoof! She’s got a long road to recovery.

CHAPTER 19

“Good morning, birdies,” I chirp as they pull down my covers. “I’m going home today!”

I don’t need caffeine to get me out of bed. I’m pumped up enough.

“Lalalala,” I sing on top of my lungs. It’s my last day at Faraway.

“Shut up!” grumbles my new roommate Gothel. Her head is buried under her pillow. I don’t blame her. My singing is painful.

“Why are you so friggin’ cheerful?” she asks, finally getting out of bed.

It’s time to tell her. “It’s my last day here. I’m going back to Lalaland this morning.”

“Go to hell.” She swats at the birds. “And take these freaks with beaks with you.”

I know just how she feels. Trapped and hopeless. “Don’t worry,” I say. “You’ll get out of here one day too.”

Breakfast. After today, no more berry picking. And no more sunshine. Tomorrow, when I wake up, I’m going to have real meal. A big cup of steaming black coffee served to me in bed. My bed in my castle. And then, my magic mirror and I are going to have a little chat about the future.

Hook swaggers up to me. Now, what does he want?

“Jane, I want to apologize for my behavior and wish you good luck back in Lalaland.”

Wow. He actually has a conscience. Maybe the swine really is on the road to recovery.

He brushes up against me. “So, do you think you can introduce me to your new roommate? She’s a real babe!”

Some things just never change.

My last morning meditation with Fanta, Flossie, and Fairweather. With my eyes closed, I chant my final OM. When I open them, I decide I’m going to make meditation a part of my new life. It releases stress and empowers me. I’m going to send peace and healing into the world and make those three Badass Fairies proud of me.

I bound up the spiral stairs to Shrink’s office, taking two steps at a time and counting each one. I think back to the first time I made the climb and was panting every step of the way. Now, it’s effortless. I reach Shrink’s office in no time—333 steps in all.

I lie down in the chaise in the same position I’ve assumed every day at this time for the last three weeks (except for the time I was ill). Instead of relaxing, my heartbeat accelerates from excitement and anticipation.

As usual, Shrink’s late. How rude of her! The least she could have done is get here on time knowing how eager I am to go home.

At last, she makes her grand entrance, flying into the room at lightning speed. Fairy dust surrounds me.

“Jane, since it’s our last session together, I’ve brought you a little going away present.”

A present for me?

She hands me a small blue box that’s wrapped with a messy white bow.

“Sorry about the wrapping. I’m not good at those kinds of things.”

“It’s okay.” I’m touched by the gesture. Besides, I’m not a bow person anyway.

I carefully unwrap the package. Inside is a shiny gold locket on a chain. It’s beautiful.

“I’d like you to stand up and open the locket,” Shrink says.

I rise and almost collapse back onto the chaise. Inside the gold case is a mirror, about the size of the magnifying glass Shrink used in our first session.

“Jane, take a look at yourself.”

I’m trembling all over. The locket shakes in my hand. It’s been over seven years since I’ve seen myself in a mirror.

Slowly, I raise the mirror to my face. My heart hammers with apprehension.

I gasp as I meet my own eyes. My face looks fuller with my short hair, and I’ve got not just one freckle, but many. I even have a few fine lines.

As I study my reflection, the shock dies down. Actually, I don’t look that bad with my hair this length. It brings out my high cheekbones and wide-set eyes. I could get used to it. And I could probably cover up the freckles and lines with some makeup. I risk a smile. And my reflection smiles back.

“Jane, who do you see?” asks Shrink.

What is this? Some kind of trick question? “Me!” I snap.

“Yes, Jane, when you stand up close to a mirror, you are the whole universe.”

Where is she going with this?

“Now, we’re going to play a game.”

Not another one of her stupid games! Doesn’t she know how eager I am to go home?

“I want you to move the mirror away from you about a foot.”

Fine. I’ll do anything to get out of here. I extend my arm. Magically, the freckles and fine lines disappear.

“Now, who else do you see?” asks Shrink, hovering behind me.

“I can see you.”

“Yes, Jane. You are no longer the only one in the universe. Now, move the mirror further away from you, and tell me what else you see.”

“I see the wall clock,” I say after moving the mirror another foot away from me. For the first time, I notice the hands don’t move. The clock can chime, but it can’t tell time. No wonder Shrink’s always late.

“Yes, Jane, the further away you are, the more you discover.”

I’m shocked by the results of her little experiment. I don’t know what to say.

Flying halfway around my head to face me, she continues her lecture.

“Interestingly, a mirror can be a gateway to the world around you. A tool for learning and growing. But if used incorrectly, it can be an instrument for evil.”

I process what she’s saying. It’s a lot of information.

“Jane, by connecting with other people at Faraway, you’ve traveled beyond yourself, beyond the close-up in your mirror.”

All at once, memories of all the people I’ve connected with at Faraway swirl around in my head. My best friends Elz and Winnie who were always there for me. Kind Rump. Sweet Pinocchio. Even full-of-himself Hook and nasty Sasperilla. Good times and bad times. We’ve been through so much together. Swamped with emotion, I sob.

Still holding the mirror at a distance, I watch the tears roll down my face. I’ve never seen myself cry. I am a different person. I snap the locket shut.

Shrink helps me brush away my tears. “You must continue your journey when you return to the land of fairy tales.”

“I’m not fully recovered?” I sniffle.

“Jane, the road is long, and there’s still a distance to go. You must find the true meaning of beauty.”

“How do I do that?” I ask, my throat burning.

“All I will tell you is that beauty is not in your face. It is a light inside your heart.”

I fidget with the locket. Her words make no sense to me.

“Our time’s almost up. Is there anything you’d like to ask me?”

“Has my castle been cleaned up for my return?”

“Ah, yes, I almost forgot to tell you. You’ll be boarding at a prince’s castle. You’ll be the personal assistant to his PIW.”

My heart tumbles like it’s fallen down a wishing well. How could she do this to me? I was so looking forward to going home.

“What’s a PIW?” The words fly out of my mouth like angry bees. I’m back to despising her.

“A Princess-in-Waiting. This job, if you wish to call it that, will test all the interpersonal skills you’ve learned here and help you discover the true meaning of beauty. If you succeed and hence fully recover from your addiction, you’ll be free to return to your castle. And resume your life.”

I am disappointed, resentful, and anxious. Almost sick. “And what if I fail?”

“I’m afraid you won’t be able to remain in Lalaland nor will you have another chance.”

The hair on the back of my neck bristles. I have to stay hopeful and focused. I must!

“Jane, we have time for one last question. Make it a good one.”

I swallow hard, pushing the anger and pain down my throat. There is something I’ve been thinking about since I’ve been here. “Are people born evil or do they become evil?”

Shrink flutters up and down like a yo-yo. “That is a good question, Jane. One I’ve wrestled with myself. We could talk about it for hours. All I will say now is that people are like apples.”

Apples? My stomach churns. Why couldn’t she say watermelons, or bananas, or some other fruit when there are so many to choose from? I bet she’s trying to prove that she still knows how to get to me. How cruel! Especially on my last day here.

I resist the urge to swat her as she continues. “All of us start off as blossoms, then mature into beautiful fruit. A few of us remain perfect while most others get blemishes. Those that stray too far from the tree often get stepped on or infested by a worm. They can grow rotten to the core.”

Like Sasperilla. As much as it unnerves me, I have to admit her apple theory makes sense.

“I almost forgot,” she adds as if an afterthought, “people, like apples, can be poisoned by the human hand.”

Her words sting me like a hornet. I want to hurt this insipid insect of a woman just like she’s hurt me.

“And I almost forgot,” I blurt out, “you should lose the glasses and wear your hair down. You’d look a lot prettier.”

For a split-second, she’s speechless. That’s a first. Then she thanks me for the beauty advice. “And by the way, I never thanked you for saving my life.”

Shrink smiles at me warmly. My anger melts away. I smile back. I’m actually going to miss her. I slip the mirrored locket over my head. It lies on my chest, close to my heart. Another round of tears is on its way.

I’m saved by the chime. It’s the last time I’ll ever hear it.

“Jane, it’s time for you to re-enter the world of fairy tales and find that light.”

A coach to take me back must be waiting for me. I rise from the chaise.

Before I can take a step, Shrink spins around my body like a tornado. Her tiny figure becomes a blur as her sparkling fairy dust envelops me.

My feet are no longer on ground. It’s as if my body is leaving me. I’m being transported to another world!

Shrink’s fairy dust was magical after all.

BOOK 2

“Beauty is as Beauty does.”

—Anonymous

CHAPTER 20

One minute, I’m in Shrink’s office; the next, I’m standing at the entrance of an imposing castle. Unfortunately, it’s not mine.

I’m surprised when a little a girl wearing a red velvet bow opens the oak door. She is, in a word, exquisite. Her skin is as white as lilies, her lips as red as rosebuds, and her hair as golden as a harvest moon. She can’t be more than seven. The age Snow White was when my mirror first betrayed me. Sheesh! I’ve hardly stepped foot in Lalaland, and I’ve already got Snow White on my brain.

Her chocolate brown eyes twinkle with a hint of mischief. “You must be Marcella’s latest assistant.”

I’m not sure what she means by that.

“I’m Calla Rose. What’s your name?”

“Jane.” Plain Jane, I say to myself, glancing down at my simple servant’s uniform. I have no idea where it came from or how it got on me. Probably more of Shrink’s magic. At least it’s black, my favorite color, and I’m still wearing her mirrored locket and Rump’s name-bracelet.

“Marcella asked me to give you this.” The little girl hands me an envelope.

I tear it open. Inside is a note with instructions scribbled in red ink.

TO-DO LIST FOR THE BALL

1.   TOP PRIORITY! Arrange for the delivery of all 2,552 invitations. Make sure you handwrite a little note from me on each one: “Can’t wait to see you there~xoxo Marcella”

2.   IMPORTANT! Find out what every princess is wearing. I don’t want to be caught dead wearing the same thing. BTW, I haven’t gotten a new gown yet. HINT! HINT! Please handle.

3.   SHH! Set up private dancing lessons for me. Find out where those twelve dancing princesses go. Keep your mouth shut about this. I want to surprise The Prince. SCRATCH THAT! He won’t be surprised when he gets the bill.

4.   DO ASAP! Contact the Fairytale Tattler. Make sure they cover the ball. Tell them I want a front page story about me soon, or I’ll cancel my subscription.

5.   EXTREMELY URGENT! Research the latest diet fads. I need to lose five pounds FAST! A liquid diet potion would be best.

6.   DON’T FORGET! Set up a spa appointment on the day of the ball. Be sure to include the following: mani-pedi, facial, massage, and makeup. And don’t forget excess hair removal. Convince them to throw that in free.

7.   REMINDER: Tell The Prince to pick out my engagement ring. It had better be at least ten carats. P.S. Make sure it’s flawless.

8.   MANDATORY! Find a babysitter for Calla on the night of the ball. On second thought, don’t bother. That’s YOUR job.

Whoa! I’ve barely set two feet into this house, and I’ve got all this to do? Damn Shrink for sending me here.

“If I were you, I wouldn’t bother doing any of this stuff,” says Calla. “You’ll probably be fired by tomorrow.”

Good. I’m already packed to leave.

Calla flashes me a dimpled smile. “I like your hair.”

I run my fingertips through my scalp to see if it’s magically grown back. It hasn’t.

The little girl skips away, leaving me alone to explore the castle.

The interior is nothing like my dark, drafty castle. Bathed in sunlight, it’s a vision of blissful domesticity—in fact, it feels more like a cottage than a castle despite its grandness. Brightly colored floral fabrics cover the seating and drape the windows. The furnishings, though formal, look lived-in and comfortable. Vases of white roses and lilies are everywhere and fragrantly scent the air. I stop to smell a bouquet sitting on the fireplace mantle.

“Hello. You must be my fiancée’s new assistant,” comes a voice from behind me.

Startled, I swivel around and see a tall, strikingly handsome man, about my age with a short flaxen ponytail, descending the sweeping staircase. He looks a lot like Calla except his skin is bronzed and his eyes are blue. He must be the child’s father. The Prince. Marcella’s husband-to-be.

“Yes, I’m Jane,” I say, gazing into his eyes as he strides toward me. They’re the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen. The color of aquamarines.

“Pleased to meet you.” He bows. “I am Prince Gallant.”

Gallant? I swear that’s the prince Lady Germaine mentioned before her untimely passing. How weird!

“Nice to meet you, too, My Lord,” I force myself to say. Even after Faraway, humbleness doesn’t come easily to me. I half-heartedly tack on a quick curtsey.

“The formalities are not necessary. And I prefer to be called by my first name.”

Gallant. That’s a pretentious name. It must go with his personality.

“Is there anything I can get you?” he asks.

Funny you should ask. How about some basics for making evil potions and a magic mirror? I’m regressing so quickly. Get a grip, Jane.

“I’m fine,” I say instead.

“Good morning, my love,” I hear a shrill voice call out.

Good morning? Judging by the light, it must be close to noon.

A curvy woman in a body-hugging purple gown slinks over to The Prince and flings her arms around him. If I had to guess her age, I’d say she was trying hard for thirty. She’s very made-up, very blond, and very busty. In fact, I’ve never seen such big boobs. They’re cannonballs.

Gallant introduces me. “Marcella, this is Jane, your new personal assistant.”

The PIW bats her charcoal eyes several times as if she’s shocked to me.

Silence. Her eyes clash with mine. Her gaze grows so scathing I don’t dare move.

Finally, with a snap of her perfectly manicured red-lacquered fingers, she says, “Get to work.”

The PIW wasn’t kidding when she said get to work. She hasn’t given me a moment’s rest since my arrival. And I haven’t even started on her To Do List.

“Step on it,” she hisses.

I’m standing in her huge, ostentatious chamber, knee-deep in beauty magazines and Fairytale Tattlers. Now that I’ve made her gold-leafed four-poster bed a dozen times, picked up her crusty underwear, and thrown out a week’s worth of vermin-infested leftovers, she wants me to arrange her reading material alphabetically and in chronological order.

Fuming inside, I begin to organize the magazines. They must go back ten years. I recognize some of the beauty magazines from my dungeon days.

Marcella, meanwhile, sits in front of her vanity, fluffing her perfectly coiffed shoulder-length hair.

I have to admit she’s extremely attractive in a brazen way. I, on the other hand, must look like a rag doll. I don’t need a mirror to tell me. Even if I were brave enough to take a peek.

Marcella is so consumed with her own reflection, she doesn’t notice me. Fine by me. I hastily stack the magazines in two random but neatly arranged stacks. Chances are she’ll never know the difference.

Done. I’m out of here. As I skulk away, I hear something behind me crash. Then, OW! Something hits me hard in the head. I wheel around. Marcella has snagged a magazine from the middle of one of the piles, causing it to collapse like a brick tower, and thrown it at me. The nerve of her!

“Where do you think you’re going?” She folds her arms under her cannonballs. “My closet needs a makeover.”

With a snap of her fingers, she points to the closet. I drag myself over to it. She swings the door open and shoves me inside.

My eyes pop. Her closet is the size of a store. Gowns and shoes are everywhere, except on hangers and shelves.

“I want you to clean up the mess left by my last total-waste-of-time assistant.” The PIW kicks a pair of shoes out of her way. “And I want everything color coded.”

Is she kidding? This will take hours. The PIW stomps out, slamming the closet door in my face. A shoe topples onto my head. Click. Double click. I twist the doorknob. She’s locked me inside.

“And don’t forget to pick out something fabulous for me to wear tonight,” she calls out. “The Prince and I have been invited to Cinderella’s palace for dinner.”

This is the best news I’ve heard since I’ve been here. I’ll be free of her tonight! Hastily, I arrange her gowns and shoes. Every gown is a version of the one she’s wearing—shiny, slinky, low-cut. And there’s a pair of shoes to match each one. I want to burn them all.

Twenty minutes or so later, I hear the door unlock. Marcella struts in and scrutinizes the closet. Silence. “What did you pick out for me to wear tonight?” she says at last.

Rage is bubbling inside me. Randomly, I grab a purple gown that resembles the one she’s wearing, except for the feather detail on the bottom.

She rips it off the hanger and tosses it in the direction of her bed. She misses. One more thing for me to pick up.

I’m beyond exhausted, but there’s no rest for the weary. Marcella orders me to clean her powder room.

Another major disaster area. Scattered all over the pink marble counters are open tubes of lipsticks, powders, and other beauty essentials. Dirty towels are crumpled on the tiled floor, and both the massive tub and sink are lined with green rings. It’s in a word: revolting.

“When did your last assistant quit?” I venture.

Marcella fires a scathing look at me. “Your orders are to speak only when spoken to.” She huffs. “Well, if you really must know, yesterday.”

Only yesterday? I don’t visibly react, but inside I’m registering shock. She’s capable of this much damage in only twenty-four hours?

“Make it snappy.” She grabs a red lipstick and storms out.

Battling fatigue, I file all her makeup in a cabinet above the sink. There’s another, floor-to-ceiling cabinet against the wall behind me, but it’s sealed with a padlock. I wonder what she keeps inside it. I’m probably better off not knowing. Just more work.

Getting down on my knees, I scrub the grungy tub with a filthy, smelly sponge that’s lying inside it—a welcoming present from Marcella’s previous assistant. Memories of my mother-the-slave-driver flood my head. I got down on my hands and knees so many times they were permanently bruised. Trying to wash away the memories, I scrub harder until my knuckles are red and raw. Finally, I conquer the green grime—and just in time. Marcella reappears and inspects the bathroom. I hold my breath. To my relief, she nods approvingly.

I’ll live without a thank you. I’m done for the day. I dismiss myself, telling her that I want to get to work on her To-Do List. Honest truth, I want to find a place to collapse. Somewhere. Anywhere. Far away from her.

The PIW beats me to the doorway and blocks it with outstretched arms. A patronizing smirk crosses her lips. “Haven’t you forgotten something?”

What could I have possibly forgotten? I’ve done everything asked of me. Okay. So, I cheated on the magazines, but I’ve got to restack them anyway.

She sneers. “I expect a curtsey every time you see or leave me.”

What! She’s not even a princess yet. She should be curtseying to me! I am still, after all, a queen!

Gritting my teeth, I force myself to curtsey. Marcella moves to the side and shoes me away with a dismissive wave of her hand.

I’ve had it. I hate this job. And I hate Marcella. I want to poison her. So much for fairy-tale rehab.

Thank goodness, I managed to get Marcella dressed for her soirée and out the door with The Prince. I’m able, at last, to retreat to my chamber. It’s small but cheerful. There’s a single bed with plump pillows and a thick flowery duvet, a nightstand, and a dresser. But no mirror. I’m sure Shrink’s doing.

I set Elz’s “Best Friends Forever” card on the nightstand, sink into the bed, then blow out the candles. After all of Marcella’s abuse, I’m craving a good night’s sleep. The comforter envelops me, soothing my tired, aching body. I haven’t slept in such a comfy bed in years.

I close my eyes, but can’t fall asleep. Indignation is raging inside me. After all I went through, the nerve of Faraway to place me with an idle, stiff-lipped prince, a pesky, know-it-all child, and that lazy, self-centered PIW. I have no idea what any of this has to do with finding the true meaning of beauty. Or what “interpersonal skills” this so-called apprenticeship is testing except my willpower not to kill someone. It’s just another one of their tricks. To make me suffer. Poor Elz and Winnie. I bet they’re miserable wherever they are too.

This time, I’m not going to let that waste-of-time rehab center get away with it. First thing in the morning, I’m going write Shrink a letter demanding to stay in my castle until she finds a new position worthy of me. Like being an assistant life coach. I would be good at that! Even enjoy it!

That’s fair. And truthfully, it’ll do me good to be home. I’m sure my magic mirror’s still there. Pining for me. We’ll rebuild our relationship after I lay down the rules. Keep it short; keep it simple; and just tell me what I want to hear. But wait! What if my smart-ass looking glass talks back and tells me Snow White’s still Fairest of All?

A loud knock-knock-knock at the door stops me in my thoughts. Dragonballs! It must be Marcella. Now, what does she want me to do?

Lighting a candle, I stumble out of bed and unbolt the door. A petite, golden-capped figure looks up at me. It’s Calla.

“I’m scared of the dark.” Her big brown eyes are begging me to let her in. “Can I sleep with you tonight?”

I’m taken aback. “Why don’t you bother Marcella?”

“Because Marcella wears earplugs and never hears me knocking.” She pauses. “And besides, I don’t want to sleep with her.”

“Fine.” I’m too tired to argue.

The little girl follows me back to my bed and crawls under the covers with me. She clasps her hands together and mutters something quietly to herself.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m praying Marcella doesn’t fire you.”

Please pray she does.

“Jane, would you give me a goodnight kiss?”

Now, she’s really pushing it and getting on my nerves.

“Go to sleep,” I tell her impatiently as I lean over to blow out the candle.

“Okay,” she says. “Sweet dreams.” Just like Elz.

“Sweet dreams to you.” I’m surprised how the words flow out so effortlessly.

In no time, she’s sound asleep. I close my eyes and am finally lulled to sleep by the little girl’s soft breathing.

Deep into my sleep, I have a dream. A tall chiseled man with a full-face black mask tiptoes into my chamber, startling me. He puts a finger where his lips should be, signaling me not to scream. I say nothing. He takes my hands in his, his grip warm and firm. I should be afraid of him, but strangely I’m not and give myself to him. In a heartbeat, we’re soaring into the sky, floating like two bubbles, toward clouds. I ask the masked man, “Who are you and where are you taking me?”

A shrill voice snaps me out of my dream. “JAAAANE! I need you!”

Blinking my eyes open, I bolt to a sitting position. Calla is gone from my bed. Did I oversleep?

“JAAAANE!” the voice screeches again. “Where’s my liquid diet potion?”

Damn it! It’s Marcella! My second day back in Lalaland is about to go from bad to worse.

CHAPTER 21

I can forget about writing a complaint letter to Shrink. I simply don’t have the time. Seriously, compared to what I have to do now, my days at Faraway seem positively enchanted.

In less than twenty-four hours, I’ve learned that being Marcella’s personal assistant means doing all the stuff she doesn’t want to do. Which is everything except sleeping, preening, and reading gossip magazines. I’ve already lost weight from running her errands and picking up after her. Plus, I have calluses the size of toad warts from handwriting so many invitations. And I’m only up to the B’s.

To add insult to injury, on top of all my chores, I’m expected to entertain Calla. Marcella, her soon-to-be new mother, wants little do with the child. Actually, make that absolutely nothing.

At lunchtime, Calla begs to go on a picnic. Marcella backs off. She has a private dance lesson—one thing off my To-Do List. After that, she’s going to spend the afternoon in bed, scanning magazines for ball gown ideas. So, I’m stuck with the picnic thing.

“It’s going to be so much fun,” says Calla as we head out the door.

Believe me, hanging out with an irksome imp is so not my idea of fun.

Calla leads the way. I keep my eyes on her as she skips across the front lawn of the castle toward the gated entrance. Her long golden tresses fly behind her, and her sheer dress bellows in the early autumn breeze. Birds and butterflies follow her as if they’re magically drawn to her.

As I trudge along carrying a blanket and picnic basket, I feel a tinge of envy. Not so much of her youth and beauty, but rather her freedom and joy. I’m also a little jealous that her fair skin is impervious to the sun while I’m probably getting another layer of freckles. Okay. I confess. I’m a lot jealous.

Crossing a field of flowers, we come to a sparkling lake. Lake Sunshine. That figures. Calla finds the perfect spot for our picnic—under a large, leafy tree, not far from the shoreline. She helps me spread out the blanket. Famished, we both dig into the picnic basket she’s filled with fresh fruit and muffins. Suddenly, it just happens…

A fart! The longest, loudest, stinkiest fart I’ve ever heard. Mine!

“You’re the one who dealt it. But I’m the one who smelt it!” Calla bursts into laughter.

Mortified, I’m at a total loss for words. Until Calla farts right back at me. I, too, laugh uncontrollably.

The two of us cannot stop rolling with laughter. I’ve never laughed so hard in my life. I laugh so much it hurts.

“Are you okay?” asks Calla, fighting her giggles.

“I’m fine.” I laugh harder.

Finally, after the stench of my faux pas and hers has faded into the fall air, we’re able to calm down.

“What do you think of Marcella?” asks Calla, picking a dandelion.

Skank. Bitch. Wench. Witch.

“She’s okay,” I say instead. “How do you feel about her?”

“That woman’s a FREAK!”

Good one! This kid is growing on me.

“I don’t know why Papa likes her.” She twirls the fuzzy flower. “It’s as if she has some kind of spell on him.”

My curiosity is piqued. “How did your father meet her?”

“Papa hired her to be my governess. She speaks French, at least she thinks she does. Her accent’s so fake! Then I guess he figured I needed a new mother and decided to marry her.”

“How do you feel about that?” I ask, deepening my inquiry and sounding a little Shrink-like.

“C’est tout à fait stupide!” she says with a perfect French accent. Though I don’t speak much French, what she’s said is obvious.

She raises the dandelion to her lips. “Do you know that when you blow on one of these flowers, you make a secret wish?” With a single breath, she scatters the fuzzy petals all over our blanket.

I pick a dandelion of my own and blow on it. Silently, I wish for Marcella to magically disappear. I bet Calla wished for the same.

Eager to get off the subject of Marcella, Calla suggests we play hide-and-go-seek. As she animatedly explains how the game works, I unexpectedly flashback to myself at her age… hiding under my bed or in the closet from the loud, squalid men my mother would bring home. Hoping they would never find me. I tremble for a moment, but Calla doesn’t notice.

The game is simple and actually fun to play. Way more fun than Grimm’s stupid tree-hugging game. We take turns hiding. The best part is finding the other person, which always results in an explosion of laughter.

It’s Calla’s turn to hide again, and my turn to find her. Slowly, I count to ten. “Ready-or-not-here-I-come,” I yell.

Finding Calla hasn’t been that difficult, but this time there’s no trace of her. I call out her name, wanting to know if I’m getting warmer or colder. No response. I’m getting worried. It’s nearing dinnertime. Marcella will go off the deep end if I’m not back in time to supervise the cooks and lay out her evening wear. Where can Calla be?

I make my way closer to the lake, looking behind every mossy tree trunk and up at every leafy limb. Calla, where are you? This game is so not fun anymore. As my worry turns to anger, a cry makes my heart jump—Calla!

“Help! Help!” she keeps shouting. Where on earth is she? I frantically turn my head in every direction. Finally, I find her. Oh my God! She’s in the middle of the lake, flailing her arms. She’s drowning! I sprint to the water, dive in, and swim at breakneck speed.

She sees me and desperately calls out my name.

“Hang on, Calla!” I shout out to her. An image of my floating puppy flashes into my head. I swim faster, my arms and legs pumping as hard as my heart.

She is finally within arm’s length. Blue in the face, she’s gasping for breath.

“Hold on to me!” I tell her, reaching out my hand. Her icy, little fingers grasp mine, and I breathe a deep sigh of relief.

Towing her back to shore is much more difficult than I anticipated. Her added weight (though she’s a mere waif) slows me down, and the current is strong and moving against me. My lungs are burning and so are my limbs. Each stroke I fear will be my last.

The current grows so strong we start drifting backward. Calla clings to me as I battle to stay afloat. Suddenly, something beneath the water tugs at my body. I kick my legs furiously but can’t break free. Panic grips me. It must be a water serpent!

My life is passing before me. I can already see the Fairytale Tattler headline: “Evil Sea Monster Devours Rehab Queen and Princess Fartsalot!” Wait! What am I thinking? I’m not going to see this headline; I’m going to be dead!

With a forceful splash, the serpent’s head bolts from the water. Its eyes meet mine. I gasp. It’s not a monster. It’s The Prince!

“Papa!” exclaims Calla.

Shit! I’m in such deep water—and I don’t mean the lake. The Prince will have my head! A sea monster might as well have eaten me alive. My life is over any way you look at it.

Wrapping a strapping arm around the two of us, The Prince combats the fierce current and pulls us back to shore.

“Papa, that was such a fun ride!” beams Calla as if nearly drowning was a carnival attraction.

The Prince hugs her. “My Little Princess, thank goodness you are alright.”

The look in his eyes is intense, loving, and all-encompassing. I look on with envy and sadness, never having known that gaze myself. From a mother or a father.

His turns toward me, his expression drastically changed. His chiseled jaw is tight, and his piercing blue eyes are shooting daggers my way.

He is beyond furious. How could I have let Calla go into the lake? Didn’t I know the child couldn’t swim? How could I be so irresponsible? So stupid? Every word is a stab wound.

Calla cuts him short. She recounts her adventure. Vividly with no detail spared. In full drama queen mode.

“…And so, Papa, I tripped on a rock and fell into the water, and if Jane hadn’t found me and jumped in—with her clothes on and everything!—I would have been a drowned rat. Well, not really a rat. But you know what I mean.”

The Prince’s face softens until any trace of anger is gone. “Jane, I am beholden to you for saving my daughter’s life,” he says with sincerity. “I lost her mother; I cannot lose her.”

“Forget it,” I say, unable to meet his gaze.

My eyes shift to Calla, who is back to being her free-spirited, inquisitive self, searching for bugs amongst the rocks that dot the shoreline. The sun plays its own game of hide-and-seek, disappearing behind a cloud. Cold and soaked, I hug myself to keep warm. Oh no! I’m missing Shrink’s mirrored locket. It must have fallen off in the lake!

A wave of despair washes over me, and then Calla runs up to me. “Look what I found!” She unfolds her small hand.

My locket! A smile of relief spreads across my face.

“Thanks,” I say, resisting the urge to hug her. I slip the necklace over my head.

“Jane, you are shivering,” observes The Prince. He gently drapes the jacket he left on shore over my shoulders. The soft, rich royal blue velvet warms me.

My eyes survey his bare, toned, golden-haired chest and matching arms and make their way to his regal face. His nose is straight, his jaw strong and angular, and his lips, lush and full. And then…those eyes. Those gemstone eyes. He catches me staring at him and meets my gaze.

“Thank you, My Lord,” I stammer, taken aback by his unexpected kindness. And manliness.

“Jane, please call me Gallant; I insist.”

Fine. I’ve got to get used to saying his pompous name.

As the sun emerges from its hiding place, we head back to the castle on Gallant’s white stallion. Calla is tucked snugly into her father, loving every minute of the ride; I’m behind him, my arms locked around his strong, rippled body. His damp hair, loose and wild, glistens in my face. A sudden gust of wind reminds me that I’m heading into a storm. The Wrath of Marcella.

CHAPTER 22

“Where have you been?” shrieks Marcella. “And why are you so wet?”

The PIW’s lounging on her lavish bed, surrounded by piles of Fairytale Tattlers.

“I took a bath,” I lie. The lake incident is none of her business.

“Do you realize the ball is less than two weeks away, and I have absolutely nothing to wear?”

Hello! Has she done a reality check lately? Her closet is so stuffed with gowns and shoes she could turn it into a resale shop. Except for the fact it’s always such a pigsty, no matter how often I straighten it.

“Chop! Chop! Let’s get to The Trove before it closes.” She throws off her fur coverlet and pushes me out the door. I’ll have to pick up the dozens of tabloids strewn all over the floor later.

The drive to The Trove, whatever the hell that is, is awful. The road is full of bumps, and I have to put up with Marcella’s non-stop babble about her ball gown. Her Royal Skankiness is so wrapped up with herself she doesn’t notice me gazing out the coach window.

Lalaland seems different from how I remember it. Then again, I didn’t get out much so maybe I missed a few things. Everything seems cleaner, newer, and bigger. More than once, I notice the name MIDAS blazing across monumental buildings in big gold letters. MIDAS Memorial Hospital…MIDAS Publishing…MIDAS Realty…MIDAS Free Clinic…MIDAS Orphanage for Lost Boys. Whoever this Midas guy is, he must be mega-rich.

And then, about a half-hour into the ride, I leap out of my seat. To the right, perched high on a cliff, the silhouette of a massive castle with towering turrets and shooting spires comes into view. I recognize it immediately. It’s mine!

“Stop the coach!” I scream out.

Marcella shoots me a dirty look. “Jane, I’m the one who gives orders. Driver, step on it!”

The coach speeds up. While Marcella buries her head in a Fairytale Tattler, I gloomily watch my castle fade into the distance. Soon, I’ll be back there. Just not soon enough.

The coach turns down a wide cobblestone street. Midas Drive. A giant fortress with multi-color turrets, towers, and spires is straight ahead of us. Coaches are lined up to get inside the gilded gates.

Marcella looks up from her tabloid. “We’re here. Finally.”

We join the long, slow-moving line. “Can’t we cut ahead?” growls the PIW, her arms folded tightly under her cannonballs.

“Remind me, Jane, to fire this driver!” she says as we finally pull up to the valet. Yet another thing to add to my To-Do List.

“And one more thing. While we’re here, buy a toy for Calla and tell her it’s from me.”

A large banner with blazing gold letters greets us as we enter the complex.

WELCOME TO THE TROVE

ANOTHER MIDAS MALL

Midas again! Before long, I bet Lalaland will be called Midasland.

“Move it,” shouts Marcella, giving me a shove.

She takes off as if launched by slingshot. I follow her, dragging my feet. Why do I have to put up with her before I can return to my castle? It’s just not fair.

Losing sight of Her Royal Skankiness, I mope through the mall, taking in my surroundings. The Trove is like nothing I’ve ever seen. It’s a retail fantasyland catering to the whims of royals and wannabes alike. There’s a store for everything, from crowns to corsets. The shops, one after another, line a pristine walkway that’s packed with princesses, princes, and other assorted nobles, all chicly dressed and carrying eye-catching shopping bags. They all seem so happy. Of course. No one’s banned them from their homes.

The PIW is literally prancing when I catch up to her. “I love shopping!” she croons. Finally, another activity she loves besides torturing me.

In fact, as I quickly discover, if there’s such a thing as an addiction to shopping, she’s got one.

For openers, she drags me into a bookstore. Barons and Noble. Wasting no time, she immerses herself in the latest tabloids. “I don’t understand why I’m not front page news!” she grumbles. “Jane, get on it!”

While she tears through the tabloids, I browse through the store. There are so many books. Near the entrance, a crowd is clambering for copies of a thick hardcover book that are piled up high on a table. Grimm’s Fairy Tales: Based on True Stories. What! That glum-ugly head doctor wrote a book about us!? Sasperilla was right. He was spying on us the whole time! Using us for his own publish or perish ends! I’d better not be in there or I’m going to sue! Elbowing my way through the mob, I grab a copy.

“Put that rubbish down!” barks Marcella as I flip through the pages. She thrusts a heavy bagful of magazines at me and yanks me out the door. “We’ve got major shopping to do.”

Can this day get any worse?

A few doors down, she shoves me into another store. Forever Princess. We’re the only shoppers over twenty; everyone else is no more than sixteen. The youthful fashions and gorgeous, young royals make me feel old. And jealous. I avoid looking at myself in a mirror.

Marcella, unfazed, holds one frock after another up to her curvaceous body. “Jane, how do I look in these?”

What I want to tell her is they don’t make her look a day over forty. What I end up saying is they make her look like she’s twenty-one.

“Perfection! I’ll take them!” She jerks me out of the store, loading me down with six more overstuffed shopping bags.

Next door is a lingerie and sleepwear store. Aurora’s Secret. Marcella snaps her fingers, signaling me to follow her inside. Aisles of the skimpiest undergarments I’ve ever seen line the store. Royals, regardless of shape or size, can’t seem to get enough of them. While I stand frozen in shock, Her Royal Skankiness snatches up a dozen frilly briefs with matching corsets in assorted colors. I have no idea how they’ll hold up her cannonballs. She also can’t resist a leopard-print negligee that’s trimmed with feathers “The Prince will love it!” she coos. It’s the cheesiest thing I’ve ever seen.

A pretty, young maiden bags her purchases. Marcella pouts. “I need coffee! All this shopping is wearing me out.”

That makes two of us. And actually, I haven’t had a cup of coffee since I’ve been back here. Marcella briskly leads the way to a nearby café, The Coffee Queen, and orders two black coffees. The cheap bitch makes me pay for mine. To add insult to injury, when I put the hot beverage to my lips, I don’t want to drink it. Everything—the smell, the taste, the color—repulses me. I’m outraged. Thanks to Faraway, I’ve completely lost my taste for coffee.

Marcella finishes her coffee and mine. I struggle to follow her as she charges out the door and races through the mall. She’s obviously gotten a coffee buzz. A major one. Bogged down with her purchases and exhausted, I can’t keep up with her. In no time, I lose her.

Mmm. Something smells delicious. Unbelievably delicious! Following my nose, I’m lured inside a charming bakery. Sparkles. Behind the counter are dozens of the most amazing cupcakes I’ve ever seen. Each one, a little work of art—piled high with frosting and topped off with sparkly sprinkles. I can’t resist, and fortunately, I have just enough money to buy one.

When I lick the rich chocolate frosting, I practically melt. It arouses memories of my chocolate-fest with Elz and Winnie. I’m instantly in a much better mood. Recharged to resume my shopping expedition with Marcella, who’s nowhere in sight.

I’m quickly detoured again. Still on my chocolate high, I stumble upon The Enchanted Spa.

“Spaaaaah!” Just saying the word makes me relaxed. I’ve got to check it out. Maybe this will be the real thing. A spa experience is exactly what I need after my depressing castle encounter. I deserve it! I’ll squeeze in a facial. A quickie. Before the shopaholic discovers I’m missing.

Inside, The Enchanted Spa is everything I wanted Faraway to be and more. Luxurious! Pampering! And magical! “Can I have a facial?” I ask the dewy-skinned nymph at the reception desk.

“Jane, what are you doing here?” The voice is familiar.

I whirl around. Marcella!

“I’m setting up your spa appointment—#6 on your To Do List,” I stammer. It’s a lucky thing I remembered.

“Good. When you’re done, meet me at The Ballgown Emporium.” She tears out the door.

I set up her spa day, then arrange for my facial. When I find out how much it costs, I slink away.

Right next door is a toy store. Mother Goose. I’m reminded that Marcella wants me to buy a toy that she can give to Calla. I eye a beautiful porcelain doll in the window. Calla will adore it. And Marcella will score points with The Prince. There’s nothing like buying love. I think about my mother and how she used to buy all kinds of presents for Snow White—whom she secretly despised—to impress The King. Using the money I earned. And, of course, she never got a thing for me. Not even a tiny toy.

Inside, the store is a child’s dream-come-true playroom. Amazing toys, games, and crafts are everywhere. Wow! There’s even a princess dress-up kit. I would have loved that as a child.

I gasp. Smack in the middle of the store, a menacing life-size green dragon soars to the ceiling. It’s just a toy, of course, but still, it reminds me of my life-and-death encounter with the real thing at Faraway. A little boy in velvet knickers (obviously some young prince) is trying to slay the beast with his pretend sword, much to the dismay of his worn out nanny.

A trim woman, holding a large staff and wearing an enormous bonnet that hides her face, marches up to the little boy. She slams down the staff.

“Excuse me, young man. You’re going to hurt the dragon. Mother Goose says to put down your sword,” she says in a threatening, put-on voice.

Startled, the youngster drops his sword and flies into the arms of his nanny. He sticks his tongue out at the big-bonnet woman. What a brat! Mother Goose doesn’t flinch; she simply steps down hard on the dragon’s foot. The dragon roars and, out from its fanged mouth, shoots a breath of fire. I jump away. It’s way too real! Yelping, the little brat and his nanny bolt out of the store.

Pleased with herself, Mother Goose walks away from the dragon. Her face is finally visible. It’s freckled, and she has long red pigtails. Oh my God. Can it be?

“Winnie!” I scream.

“Jane!” she screams right back at me.

I drop all of Marcella’s purchases and run over to hug her. Our arms tangled, we jump up and down like two little kids in a toy store.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

“I’m on a late lunch break. I’m actually doing my post-rehab apprenticeship next door at Sparkles.”

A bakery? And no ordinary bakery. Why would Shrink and Grimm put a woman with an overeating problem to work at a place filled with zillions of tempting sweets? There must be a reason to their madness because Winnie looks fabulous. She’s half the size of when I saw her last.

“I come over here during lunch because I enjoy helping out with the children. Plus, I get a big discount whenever I buy something for Hansel or Gretel. What are you up to?”

Quickly, I tell her about my PIW position. How awful it is.

“Marcella makes Sasperilla look like a sugarplum fairy. At least, the skinny bitch didn’t boss people around like she owned the world.” I tell her the only good thing about my job is Calla. “I want to buy her a doll. That one in the window.”

“A great choice!” Smiling, Winnie heads over to the window and scoops out the doll. When she returns, she gently places it in my arms.

I examine the beautiful doll, noticing that it bears an uncanny resemblance to me, once you get past her long, silky hair and richly detailed royal attire. Sewn into the backside is a label that puts a big smile on my face. “Hand Made by Pinocchio” Pinocchio! He must be out of Faraway, doing his post-rehab apprenticeship nearby. With luck, I’ll run into him.

Winnie carefully wraps up the doll, then hands it to me in a shopping bag bearing the store’s insignia, a golden goose. She glances down at her watch. “My lunch break’s almost over. I’d better get out of this costume and back to Sparkles.”

And I’d better catch up with Marcella before she sends a pack of big bad wolves after me. After hugging Winnie, I hastily gather up Marcella’s purchases and dash out of Mother Goose. I can hardly wait to give the doll to Calla; she’ll love it. Shopping’s put me in a much better mood. And, at least, I know where to find Winnie. I can’t wait to see her again.

Wandering through the mall, I bump into Her Royal Skankiness as she breezes out of a palatial store called Lordstrom. Yet another shopping bag.

“Where on earth have you been?” she snaps. “And what do you have in that silly goose bag?” She cranes her neck to peer at Calla’s present.

“It’s a d—”

“Whatever! I’ve wasted valuable shopping time looking for you. Let’s go!”

She points a finger at The Ballgown Emporium and shoves me along. “Move it before some princess wannabe gets the dress I want!”

The Ballgown Emporium is dazzling. As big and grand as a palace ballroom, it’s built on three levels, with a sweeping spiral staircase connecting each one. An enormous crystal chandelier hangs in the center.

All around it, spectacular gem-colored ball gowns dangle from the soaring ceiling, ready for their first dance. Weird! The gowns are multiplying. My eyes dart around the store from corner to corner. I see myself everywhere. What’s going on? Then it hits me. The walls of The Ballgown Emporium are mirrored from floor to ceiling. Wall-to-wall mirrors! Everywhere! My heart quakes; my body shakes. All the bags I’m carrying fall to the floor.

Get a grip, Jane! I inhale deeply and attempt to meditate. But it’s too late.

“Mirror, mirror on the wall,

Who’s the fairest one of all?”

The mirrors respond:

“You, My Queen, are the fairest at the mall,

But a golden-haired child is fairer than us all.”

“Who are you talking about?” I cry out.

Silence.

“Tell me!” I yell louder. “TELL ME!”

“Dahling, are you okay?”

I snap my eyes open and find myself sprawled on a purple velvet fainting couch. A burly man, in a sequined chinoiserie robe, looms above me, fanning me with a peacock feather. I must have passed out. Collecting myself, I sit up. I tell him I’m fine. That the mirrors made me feel a little dizzy. No big deal. No big deal? They’ve turned me into a delusional basket case. Wait! Can these mirrors be magic too?

“I love your style,” the flamboyant man says effusively.

I glance down at my plain black dress. He’s got to be kidding.

“Black is the new pink, but no one believes me. I’m Emperor Armando. Let me know if I can show you something for the ball.”

He thinks I’m going to the ball? He’s the delusional one.

“You’re quite the shopper; I placed your bags over there.” The Emperor gestures to a corner. I’m relieved to see Calla’s gift among them.

“Later, dahling.” He sashays over to hug a buxom, regal woman with short white spiky hair, a small gold crown, and a crimson heart-shaped dress that pushes her barrel-sized chest up to her chin. She looks and sounds strangely familiar to me.

“Armando, dear, how’s my ball gown coming along?” she asks in a deep, booming voice.

“It’s to die for!” gushes The Emperor. He takes her by the arm and whisks her away.

Where’s Marcella? To be dead honest, I don’t really care. The wall-to-wall mirrors are still making me dizzy. Not moving from the couch, I close my eyes and banish them from my sight. Before I know it, I drift off…straight into my dream from the other night.

Wearing an ethereal ivory tulle gown, I’m floating like a feather, high in the sky. Birds flutter around me. Suddenly, the mysterious man with the black mask leaps out from behind a cloud. I float toward him, right into his arms. He swirls me around our heavenly dance floor, our bodies moving in perfect harmony. Like we’ve danced this way forever. “Who are you?” I ask, my heart pounding. Silence. And then an earth-shattering scream hurls me back to reality.

“AAAAARGGGH!” shrieks The Emperor. “What are you doing?”

My eyes flit to Marcella. She’s recklessly yanking down the dangling gowns with both hands.

“You know, mister, I could use some customer service around here,” the PIW grumbles.

Armando frantically gathers up the gowns scattered on the marble floor, crumpled up as if they’ve swooned.

“Do you know who I am?” Marcella huffs. “I am the future wife of Prince Gallant, and my ball’s the only reason you’re still in business.”

The Emperor doesn’t care who she is. Doesn’t she know how much these gowns cost? (Thousands!) How much time it takes him to make them? (Years!) How each one is a work of art? (They should be hanging in museums!)

“Whatever,” replies Marcella. She demands to try them on.

Practically in tears, The Emperor escorts her to the fitting room, located on the third level. Marcella looks down from the spiral staircase and snaps at me. “This is no time to be resting!”

Jumping to her beckon call, I exchange a rescue-me look with the distraught Emperor.

Dressing and undressing Marcella is a nightmare. As if the complexity of the gowns isn’t enough, I’ve got to contend with the cannonballs on her chest. Plus, she’s a total slob. Hasn’t she ever heard of hanging things up neatly after trying them on? I’m on major damage control, terrified that she’ll ruin one of The Emperor’s magnificent creations.

The Marcella fashion show is no less challenging. The PIW parades before the mirrored walls in one gown after another. She hates everything. No matter how stunning the dress, there’s something wrong with it. From being too frou-frou (“Who the hell wants to look like Bo Peep?”) to being too blue (“Ugh! It’s so Cinderella.”). I have to swallow my tongue when she complains that the last one makes her look flat-chested. Trust me, an army of giants could trample over her without flattening out those cannonballs.

The Emperor’s beside himself, and I’m exhausted. After trying on a dozen more unacceptable dresses, Marcella lights up with an idea. She wants Armando to custom design her dress.

Armando rushes off to get his sketchpad, then sketches one incredible gown after another. Not one of them works for Her Royal Skankiness.

Finally, a dozen sketchpads later, Marcella has a vision. She can see it now. A dress, the reddest of reds—the color of blood—body-clinging with a halter neckline and a detachable twenty-foot long train. Size 6. Armando madly sketches away.

When the PIW sees the finished sketch, she bubbles. “Look at what it does to my cleavage! The Prince will love it. And I’ll be the envy of every princess at the ball.”

The Emperor breathes a sigh of relief. And so do I.

She scowls. “One last thing.”

The Emperor pales.

“It had better be ready for the ball.” She eyes me with the contempt that’s reserved only for a servant. “I’ll send my new assistant to pick it up.”

“How will you be paying for it?” asks The Emperor, clearly relieved.

God knows how much this custom creation will cost.

“Send the bill to The Prince.” She smiles smugly and dashes off.

“Chop! Chop!” she shouts out to me. “We need to get new shoes.”

You mean you need to get new shoes. I need to get a new job.

Emperor Armando, back to being his effervescent self, hugs me good-bye. “Jane, dahling, I’ll see you soon.”

How does he know my name? I don’t recall telling him.

The shoe store, a few doors down, is called The Glass Slipper. Its motto: “For the Perfect Fit Shoe.”

Whereas The Ballgown Emporium was large and grand, this store is small and intimate. A boutique. Dainty, candle-lit chandeliers bathe the upholstered pale blue walls in a warm glow and make the shoe samples scattered on glass shelves sparkle like jewels. The boutique’s namesake centerpiece—a giant glass slipper sculpture—sits smack in the middle of a large, circular silk couch.

The couch is lined with dozens of royal women, trying on stacks of shoes. An army of elves runs helter skelter, assisting the demanding customers. I bet every princess in Lalaland must come here. My heart skips a beat. What if I run into Snow White?

Marcella strolls around the store in a trance, salivating over every pair of shoes. I should have brought a bucket.

“Hello, can I help you?” comes a voice from afar.

That voice! I know it! Again, it can’t possibly be…

From a back room, in lopes a tower of a woman wearing white, jeweled cat-eye glasses. She looks at me. I look at her. We scream simultaneously, then run to hug each other. I can’t believe it! Elzmerelda!! This is too much. First, Winnie. And now Elz!

“I love your spectacles!” I tell her. She’s one of those people who actually look better in glasses than without them. They make her nose seem smaller and draw attention away from her other homely features.

“Thanks!” says Elz in her singsong voice. “I designed them myself.”

Marcella shimmies up to us. “Do you two like know each other?”

“We’re old friends,” I reply.

“Good! You can get me a discount.”

You don’t pay me enough, skank.

Elz asks Marcella her shoe size.

“Can’t you tell? I’m a sample Size 6!”

A six, my foot! Her feet are the size of overgrown bananas.

Marcella demands to try on every shoe. Without flinching, Elz retreats to the stock room. She returns with two towers of glass boxes, all marked Size 6. Marcella goes at them like a vulture. With grunts and groans, she tries to squeeze her long, veiny feet into one pair after another. No matter how hard she tries, she can’t; they’re simply all too small.

“These shoe boxes are either mismarked, or you’ve carelessly placed the wrong size shoes in them,” Her Royal Skankiness grumbles. She orders Elz to bring her another pair of Size 6 shoes in every style.

On the floor is a mountain of discarded shoes. Pig! I help Elz match up the shoes and return them to their proper box. Carrying the twin towers of perfectly stacked glass boxes, she heads back to the stock room.

“What’s taking so long?” asks Marcella. Steam is shooting out of her nostrils. She’s going to blow. Hurry, Elz! Hurry!

Just in time, Elz reappears with two new stacks of shoes. Something’s weird about the boxes. It takes me a minute to figure it out. I know. They’re upside down. The top lids where Size 6 is marked are now on the bottom. Ha! The shoes are actually Size 9 (6 upside down!). Marcella doesn’t notice; she tries them all on, in rapid-speed succession. They fit her perfectly.

“Told you I was a perfect sample Size 6!” she gloats. “I’ll take them all.”

I can’t believe it. She still hasn’t figured out the shoes are really Size 9. As she waltzes around the boutique in a pair of her new shoes, Elz and I shake our heads in astonishment.

Suddenly, Marcella screams out, “I’ve got to have them!” She’s discovered yet another pair of shoes she can’t live without. A pair of sparkly ruby slippers. The perfect shoes to wear with her new red ball gown.

“They’re Size 6!” she squeals. “And they’re ON SALE!”

“They’re the last pair,” says Elz.

Just as Marcella’s about to swoop them up, the portly, white-haired woman I saw earlier at The Ballgown Emporium snatches them. “Ring them up,” she commands Elz in her familiar booming voice.

“Those are MINE!” shrieks Marcella. “I saw them first.” Do something!” she yells at me.

I’m clueless. What exactly does she want me to do? Tackle the woman? And then I gasp.

Her Royal Skankiness charges at the buxom woman and slams her to the ground. She grabs for the shoes, but her opponent refuses to let them go and kicks Marcella smack in the groin. Marcella kicks her right back, catching her heel in the folds of the woman’s jutting stomach.

Holy crap! I don’t believe this—a shoe fight! Marcella and the older woman are at each other like two fire-farting dragons. Clawing! Biting! Hissing! Kicking! The ruby slippers go back and forth between them, like a pair of hot potatoes. Elz bravely tries to break the twosome up, but Marcella won’t stand for it. Dodging a punch in the gut, Elz finally gives up.

The other royal customers crowd around the dueling divas and cheer them on. This is insane! The battle rages on in the buxom woman’s favor. But right when she thinks she’s got the shoes tucked safely in the thick fold of her cleavage, Marcella lunges at her and tears her gown down the middle. The spectators let out a loud “ooh.” I’m not sure if they’re appalled or amused. Pouring out of her corset, Marcella’s opponent is one overstuffed pastry puff. As she fumbles to cover herself up, Marcella snatches the shoes.

“Bitch!” roars the woman. “You can have them!” The crowd gasps.

“Bigger bitch!” retorts Marcella, clutching the ruby shoes.

Her opponent turns crimson. The crowd gasps louder.

“Awf…awf…awf.” The woman blows out short puffs of air, as though she’s trying to calm herself down.

Not bothering to try on the shoes, Marcella triumphantly tells Elz she’ll take them. “You know what they say. If the shoe fits, buy it.”

Holding the edges of her torn gown together, Marcella’s defeated opponent marches out the door. Her body jiggles with rage.

I think Elz just lost a customer. Her hands shake as she rings up Marcella’s trophy shoes.

“Wrap them up with the others and send the bill to The Prince,” orders Marcella. “And don’t forget the discount you promised.”

That’s my discount, skankface! Don’t I get a thank you?

Elz shoots me a look that wavers between deep compassion and utter disgust. “I’ll have them delivered to your coach,” she says, sparing me the job of having to lug them myself.

It takes an army of elves to carry the glass-encased shoes out the door. Marcella fluffs her brassy hair and refreshes her makeup.

“Let’s go!” She snaps her fingers at me.

Finally! We’re done with shoe shopping.

The PIW yanks me out the door, leaving me no time to say good-bye to Elz. Schlepping her boatload of bags, I follow Her Royal Skankiness back to the valet. Our coach pulls up, and I let our poor soon-to-be fired driver help me load the bags into the shoe-filled carriage. Wait! One’s missing. The bag with the golden goose. Calla’s doll! I must have left it at The Glass Slipper. Panic grips me.

“I’ll be right back,” I tell Marcella, without any explanation.

“Make it fast!” Thankfully, she’s still in a pretty good mood from shopping.

I tear through the mall. My heart races. I hope no one’s taken the doll.

I fly into The Glass Slipper. Oh no! The bag with the doll is gone! My heart sinks.

“Looking for this?” Out comes Elz from the stock room, with the bag in her hand.

“You’re a lifesaver!” I give her a huge hug.

As I turn to leave, my eyes are drawn to a pair of shoes. They’re black and shiny with six-inch high spiky heels. I cradle them in my hand. They’re wickedly beautiful. I even love the little bow near the pointy toe.

“They’re part of my new Fall Stiletto Collection,” beams Elz.

I continue to admire the shoes, imagining what they’d look like on my feet.

“Try them on, Jane,” insists Elz. “They’re calling your name.”

Talking mirrors. And now talking shoes. I’ve spent way too much time at the mall. Besides, though I happen to be a sample Size 6, I don’t think any pair of shoes would fit my tired, swollen feet.

“Next time,” I say.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch glimpse of a dark-haired woman wearing a big red bow. My heart skips a beat. Snow White?

“Elz, I’ve got to go.” I say nervously.

She frowns, but then her face brightens.

“Winnie and I are having a Girls’ Night Out tomorrow. Come with us!”

Obviously, she and Winnie have connected since leaving Faraway.

“Count me in!”

“Great! My coach will pick you up at nine o’clock.”

A reunion! I can’t wait! The only question is how will I escape Marcella.

CHAPTER 23

Calla’s bedroom is nothing like the rat-infested closet where I slept as a child or the servants’ quarters where I kept Snow White. It’s fit for a princess with a whimsical hand-painted mural filled with fairies and flowers, a velvety pink rug, and a shelf full of children’s books and stuffed animals. Curled up on her lacy canopy bed, she cuddles her new doll.

“It’s a gift from Marcella,” I say.

Calla gazes at me sheepishly.

“What are you going to name her?”

“She’s so pretty and nice.” She pauses to hug the doll. “Lady Jane!”

I’m touched. She knows the truth. This little girl’s even smarter than I thought.

“Let’s get you ready for dinner,” I say. Grabbing a silver comb from her night table, I sit down next to her and run it through her long golden locks. As I admire her beauty, the memory of that other beautiful little girl unexpectedly flashes through my mind. Snow White. And then I flash forward to the poisoned comb I sold her. The image of Snow White collapsing makes me shudder. Calla’s comb slips out of my trembling hand and onto the bed.

“Can Lady Jane come to dinner? Please, pretty please with a cherry on top?” begs Calla, unaware of my inner state.

Marcella bursts into the room and snaps me back to reality.

“Jane,” she says in a panicked voice, “the cook and his staff have just quit so I need you to get downstairs and prepare dinner. Now!”

Okay, so now in addition to being Marcella’s personal slave, I’m also the family cook.

“And FYI, I’m on a major diet. I want to look fabulous in my new ball gown!”

“What’s a diet?” asks Calla, innocently as she retrieves the comb.

“Something you’ll never have to worry about.” I quickly finish combing her hair.

The castle kitchen is enormous. Way more elaborate than the one at Faraway. There’s a giant built-in hearth, a huge iron cauldron, hundreds of meticulously arranged pots hanging from the ceiling, and a gazillion utensils lining shelves—most of which I’ve never seen before. Large wooden tubs, clustered on the paved stone floor, overflow with flour, grains, assorted fruits and vegetables, and fresh eggs. Chopping blocks, workstations, and storage closets are scattered everywhere.

Meals at Faraway, along with Fanta’s cooking class, were based on the principles of rustic cooking. Simple, good, old-fashioned home cooking. While I mastered basic culinary skills there, I’m not prepared to cook a meal fit for royalty. I have no clue where to begin.

Okay, think. Think! I know. I need a cookbook. I’ll find an easy recipe, the kind that you can whip up in no time. You don’t have to be a culinary genius to follow directions.

I search the shelves for a cookbook. Nothing. There’s got to be one somewhere. I open a storage closet. Aagh! Two large gutted animals dangle before me. Maybe, they were going to be tonight’s main dinner attraction. Not anymore! I slam the door shut.

After several more dead ends, I finally find a cookbook in a workstation drawer: The Joy of Royal Cooking. I open to the first page and begin to read.

INTRODUCTION

Blood, choler, phlegm, and melancholy, the elements found in all living things, and their corresponding natures—hot, dry, wet, cold—must be considered by the cook whenever making any royal recipe. BEWARE! Food not prepared with its humors in mind is unhealthy and can cause death to the person who consumes it.

Blood! Choler! Phlegm! Who wrote this cookbook? They sound like ingredients for an evil potion. I randomly flip to one of the recipes—Page 172, Roasted Tail of Boar with Jellied Eels. Eww! That’s it. I’ve read enough of this royal crap and toss the book in the garbage. Where it belongs.

Outside the large kitchen window, the sun is setting. I feel the onset of panic. Help! What am I going to do?

Think, Jane, think! Suddenly, I know. I’ll do what I know how to do. I’ll make The Prince and his family (hmm…I’m not sure if Marcella counts) some “rustic” dishes I learned how to prepare at Faraway. A hearty soup, a fresh salad, and a crusty loaf of bread. And maybe a simple dessert.

My spirits perk up. Singing “lalalala,” I prance around the kitchen in search of anything I can throw into the giant bubbling cauldron. And what riches I find! Tons of fresh vegetables, grains, and herbs. With a long wooden spoon, I stir the ingredients. In no time, the broth starts to smell delicious. You simply can’t go wrong with soup.

While the soup simmers, I start on the bread. A quick rising one. I find all the ingredients I need and mix them together. The dough is perfect—soft but not too sticky. Now, on to my favorite part—kneading. For three delicious, stress-releasing minutes, I massage the dough, pressing and pulling it in different directions. How good it feels to plunge my fingers into the warm, stretchy mixture. I flashback to the first time I made bread with Winnie and remember I should be thinking about someone I hate. Marcella! Dough, it’s time for you to feel some pain. I tug wickedly at the dough, enjoying every minute.

After letting it rest for a few minutes, I shape the dough into a round loaf, slash the top with a sharp knife—did you feel that, Marcella?—and place it into the hearth.

While the bread bakes, I quickly pull together a salad in a large ceramic bowl. I throw in a bunch of assorted fresh greens and then top them off with a dash of oil and vinegar. I take a taste…not bad. Marcella will appreciate it. Salad, the sustenance of Sasperilla. The perfect diet food.

Okay. Now for dessert. Hmm. What can I make? The desserts we prepared at Faraway were limited and usually made from the fresh fruit we picked. Searching through the myriad of barrels, I stumble upon a mountain of apples. Beautiful, rosy red apples.

An evil thought lurks in my head. Maybe, I should poison one of them and give it to Marcella. My mind is racing. Yes! I’ll concoct an evil potion using a recipe from that bogus cookbook and dip one of the apples into it. Then, at dinner, I’ll convince Her Royal Skankiness to eat the poisonous fruit by telling her that apples are good for your health. They can even help you lose weight!

“Stop it!” shouts a voice inside my head. “STOP IT!!” the voice says again louder. Okay, I hear you! Enough! Taking a deep breath, I force myself to stay focused on making dessert.

I know. I can bake an apple pie. I made one once with Winnie at Faraway. Okay. Confession. Winnie did most of the work. I merely cut up the apples and swished them around in the sugary mixture. But I think I can handle it. I mean, how hard can it be to add a little crust? If my calculations are correct, it’ll take me twenty minutes to make the pie and an hour to bake it. My dessert will be ready just when The Prince, Calla, and that woman finish the soup and salad. Warm apple pie! Won’t they be impressed!

I gather up the ingredients Winnie used and then quickly peel the apples. As I cut them into thin slices, Shrink’s theory of good vs. evil pops into my head. On an apple scale of one to ten, Marcella’s definitely a one—rotten to the core. Calla, on the other hand, is a ten—unblemished. God’s perfect fruit. I’m not so sure where The Prince fits in. And come to think about it, nor where do I. Maybe, like Snow White, the human hand poisoned me. My mother’s. Trembling, I almost cut myself with the knife.

Jane, get a grip! Focus! Stop thinking about all this nasty stuff! Cooking’s supposed to be fun and get your mind off things. I take another deep breath and scoop the slices into a bowl. I add the other ingredients, except for the flour and the butter. Swish. Swish. I pop one of the sugarcoated slices into my mouth. Yum! So far, so good!

On to the piecrusts. Winnie told me a proper apple pie needs two crusts—one on the bottom to cradle the apples and one on the top to blanket them. “The apples are like the baby,” she said.

Using a well-floured rolling pin, I roll out two crusts. I don’t get it. Why won’t the dough roll out into perfect circles like Winnie’s? Mine are ugly, jagged blobs. Oh, well. They look enough like piecrusts.

I transfer one of the crusts to a deep round earthenware dish, pressing it firmly into the bottom and over edges of the rim. Easy enough. I load the apples onto the crust, piling them high in the center, precisely the way Winnie did. And now the tricky part…placing the second crust over the heap of apples. Carefully, I lift up the limp dough and edge it over the top of the pie. But then it happens. The dough breaks apart. I manage to glue the two pieces together, but I can’t make the patched-up crust cover the filling no matter how much I stretch it. Losing my patience, I tug harder and harder. The dough, now as thin as parchment, breaks into a dozen jagged pieces. I have no clue how to splice them together, and there’s no time to make a new crust. I want to cry.

Putting the sad-looking pie aside, I run over to the cauldron to taste my soup. I’m instantly cheered up. The ingredients have blended to perfection. I dash over to the hearth to check on my bread. The crust is golden brown, and it smells scrumptious. Time to take it out and put in the wannabe pie.

Dinner, my friends, is about to be served.

The Prince, Calla, and Marcella are seated around a long formally set, candle-lit table in the dining hall. The Prince, dressed in a billowy white linen shirt and royal blue velvet vest, is on one end; Marcella, wearing a tacky, low-cut hot pink gown, is on the other, and Calla’s in the middle. Right beside her is Lady Jane, propped up on pillows in her own chair. A carafe of red wine graces the table.

“Marcella, thank you for my dolly!” exclaims Calla with a big fake smile. She’s good!

The PIW glowers at her. “Child, what on earth are you talking about?”

Calla rolls her eyes, then exchanges a wink with me.

Chuckling inside, I have to steady the heavy silver tray that’s holding my three-course dinner. I plunk it down on the table, nearly spilling the tureen of soup on Marcella.

“Jane, I want my dinner served on the table, not my lap,” she sneers.

Duh! I serve the salad first. I hold my breath as everyone takes their first bite.

Bad news. Her Royal Skankiness spits it out and screams. “There’s dressing on this salad! I told you I was on a diet!” She shoves the plate away.

“Yum!” says Calla. “Can I please have more?” I serve her a second helping. She alternates between gobbling the salad and pretend-feeding some to her new doll. “Lady Jane loves it too!”

The Prince’s face brightens. “It has always been a struggle to get Calla to eat her greens.” I take his words as a compliment.

I clear the salad plates, then serve the hot soup and bread. The Prince dips his spoon into his steaming bowl and lifts it to his lips. I hold my breath again.

“Mmm! What do you call this?”

Crap! I have no idea what this concoction of vegetables is called. Think! Think of something quick! “Um, uh Potage de Meeshmash,” I stutter.

“Ah, it’s French.” He scoops up another spoonful. “Where did you learn how to cook like this, Jane?”

Rehab. No, wait! I can’t tell him that. “I went to cooking school in France,” I stammer.

“Vraiment?” comments Marcella, her tone snippy.

Whatever. I smile at Calla who’s giving little “tastes” to Lady Jane.

Marcella hasn’t touched a thing. She’s practically frothing at the mouth, watching Calla and The Prince wipe their bowls clean with the crusty bread. Finally, she can no longer take it. In one swift swoop, she grabs her bowl of soup and scoffs it down. Then she snatches the bread and bites off one chunk after another. Sheesh! How much can she stuff into her mouth?

“Marcella, you hogged the rest of the bread!” sulks Calla. “Not fair!”

The PIW’s eyes narrow; her lips pucker, and her fists clench. “Jane, why did you let me eat all that bread!” she yells as if I’m responsible for her lack of will power. “You’ve made me fat!”

Rescue me! She’s way worse than Sasperilla! The skinny bitch, at least, had self-control and didn’t blame others for her shortcomings. The smell of something burning cuts my thoughts short. The apple pie! It’s still in the oven—probably burnt to a crisp!

I hurry back to the kitchen to check on the pie. The good news is…only the edges of the crust have burnt. The bad news is…the filling is now the consistency of applesauce. And it’s starting to bubble like molten lava.

Panicky, I jerk it out from the hearth and yelp. I’ve burnt my hand on the red-hot dish. To my horror, my flesh is glued to the rim. I peel it off. Ow! Why am I such a doof in the kitchen? I flashback to my finger-cutting incident at Faraway, then flash forward to my reunion tomorrow night. I can’t wait to see Elz and Winnie. It gets my mind off the pain.

Using my good hand and a large potholder, I bring the once-upon-a-time pie to the table. “My pièce de résistance,” I say in my best French accent.

I have to admit the aroma is tantalizing and wonder if it will taste as good as it smells. I slice a generous piece for everyone. What I really need is a ladle.

“Pass!” grunts Marcella, raising her hand like a stop sign and turning her head.

“Jane, this is simply wonderful!” says The Prince after his first bite. Taking another forkful, he savors my apple mush as if it’s his last morsel of food.

Calla’s equally ecstatic. “Super duper yummy!” she squeals. “Papa, may Lady Jane and I have another piece? Please? Pretty please?” she implores with the coquettish charm that only a little girl can get away with.

The Prince cannot say no to his little princess. I serve Calla and Lady Jane their second helping. There’s only one piece left.

Marcella stares at it, her mouth watering. I’m enjoying every minute. Suffer, you wannabe skinny bitch!

“Jane, I shall have the last piece,” says The Prince. “This splendid pie should not go to waste.”

As I serve The Prince, he notices the burn on my hand; it’s now a big red ugly welt.

“What happened to your hand?” He sounds genuinely concerned.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” I reply. “Un petit cooking faux pas.” Am I kidding myself? My hand is killing me!

“Let me take care of it before it gets infected.” He reaches into his vest pocket and pulls out a white monogrammed silk handkerchief. He gently wraps it around the burn. My hand trembles and my heart pounds. I’m weak. It must be a more serious wound than I thought.

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Marcella rolling her eyes in utter disgust.

“That’s much better.” Proud of his makeshift bandage, The Prince holds my hand in his. I keep it there longer than I need to, then hastily pull away.

“Thank you, My Lord.” I quiver. “I mean, Gallant.” Our eyes meet briefly. My heart races; my body tingles. I don’t know why I feel so weird and wonderful.

What I do know is that I’ve learned a valuable lesson: When life gives you apples, make apple pie.

After dinner, The Prince sends Calla up to her room; she’s had a big day and needs some sleep. The little girl protests but finally acquiesces.

“I love you, Papa.” She gives her father a big hug.

“I love you, too, My Little Princess,” says The Prince, holding her tightly.

Their embrace gives me the chills. Maybe, it has something to do with never having a father to kiss me good night. Knowing my mother’s taste in men, it’s just as well I didn’t.

“Good night, Marcella,” says Calla coldly before heading upstairs.

Marcella pays no attention to the child and dismisses herself from the table.

“My love, I need my beauty sleep with the ball so close.” She blows The Prince a kiss, then slinks off.

Ball. Shmall. Personally, I think Her Royal Skankiness wants nothing to do with clean-up. To tell the truth, neither do I. I don’t want to think about how much there is to scrub.

And then I have one of my brainstorms. When they’re all upstairs asleep, I’ll toss all the plates. Tomorrow, I’ll tell The Prince I accidentally broke them and blame it on my burnt hand. That’s sure to get his sympathy. And, come on, he can easily afford a few new dishes. In fact, I bet he and the PIW will get an entire set of new china for a wedding present.

I’m such a creative genius. Okay, so not all my plans work—the poison apple scheme bombed as did my escape from Faraway—but this one’s a sure-fire no-brainer.

Singing “lalala” to myself, I start hauling plates and serving pieces into the kitchen. The Prince orders me to stop.

“Please share some wine with me,” he says.

“I have to clear the dishes,” I reply, slightly taken aback. Seriously, I wish he’d go upstairs. I want to get going on my kickass toss-and-clean plan.

“There is no need,” says The Prince, already pouring two goblets of the red wine. “The cook and his staff shall be here in the morning. Trust me, they must have had another spat with Marcella. They always quit and come back the next day.”

Holding the wine, The Prince escorts me through double doors that open to a small but beautiful garden. It’s filled with hundreds of lilies and roses, in varying shades of white. Fireflies, a holdover from the summer, dance around the blooms like sprinkles of fairy dust. The Prince leads me to a stone bench, where we sit and sip the wine.

I inhale the sweet scent of the flowers and the fresh night air. The wine, the first I’ve had in ages, is soothing and as smooth as velvet. It goes down easily (perhaps too easily) and makes me relaxed.

“What a lovely garden,” I say. On second thought, maybe I should have said, “What lovely wine.” I’m not thinking one hundred percent straight.

The Prince’s expression turns wistful as he refills my goblet. “My late wife designed this garden herself. Lilies and roses were her favorite flowers. She named our daughter, Calla Rose, after them. After she died, I scattered her ashes here.”

Eww! I’ve been walking on the remains of some dead person. I want to dust off my shoes. “How long has it been?” I ask, careful not to show my disgust.

“A little over five years.” There’s sadness in his voice.

The power of the wine enables me to prod further. “How did she die?”

“A snake bit her. Right here in this garden.”

I nervously survey the grounds to make sure no snakes are nearby. Phew! Not one in sight.

The Prince pauses; his eyes grow hooded. “I could not save her,” he says at last.

Not knowing quite how to respond, I ask, “Does Calla remember her?”

He sighs. “No. She was too young.”

“Perhaps, it’s for the best.”

The Prince creases his brows. “What makes you say that?”

Because my mother was a witch! She used and abused me. I wish I could erase every memory of her! I wish she never existed! That’s what I want to say, but instead I settle for some clichéd comfort.

“It’ll be easier for her to move on. To accept a new mother.”

“I hope you are right.” He sips his wine. “She is having difficulty warming up to Marcella.”

Marcella. The mere mention of her name makes my stomach churn. Maybe, now’s a good time to tell him how Calla really feels about her prospective new mother.

“She’ll adjust,” I say instead. “She’s an amazing girl.”

“She is indeed. I cannot thank you enough for saving her life today.”

A smile flashes across The Prince’s face. Dimpled like Calla’s, it’s dazzling. I can’t get my eyes off him.

He plucks a perfectly formed lily from the earth. “This is for you.”

I hold the flower to my nose and inhale its intoxicating scent. I don’t know what’s happening to me. I gaze up at The Prince’s chiseled face, but words get stuck in my throat. I can’t even squeak out a simple “Thank you.” My head is swirling, and little explosions rock my body inside. It’s got be the wine. It’s got to be!

“My daughter seems to have a special affection toward you,” says The Prince. “Perhaps, you can help me out with something.”

Anything you want. Anything, Gallant! My Lord! My Master! What is wrong with me?

“Calla’s seventh birthday is in three days. I would like to throw her a surprise party. Originally, I asked Marcella to plan the event, but with all the arrangements for the ball, she has had no time to handle it. So, I am hoping you will take over.”

I feel like I’ve been hit over the head by a brick. A birthday party!? He wants me to put together a birthday party? Does he have any idea of how big my workload is? And he actually thinks Marcella is handling the details of the ball? Between ball preparations and Marcella’s other ridiculous requests, I barely have time to breathe. Or pee.

“No problem.” I must be out of my mind.

I chug the rest of my wine. On second thought: When life gives you apples, dip them in poison. All of them!

CHAPTER 24

I can’t sleep; my hand is throbbing, and my head is spinning from the wine. The intoxicating smell of The Prince lingers on my bandaged hand and mingles with the sweet scent of his lily, now in a vase on my nightstand. Why didn’t I toss the damn flower after he asked me to plan Calla’s surprise birthday party? I’ll do it tomorrow. And make sure he’s watching. That’ll send him a message.

I finally doze off and enter dreamland. The masked man is back. Our heavenly dance continues, his brawny arms wrapped tightly around my waist. Wordlessly, he draws me closer to him. The heat of his breath seeps through his mask. “Why do you wear a mask?” I ask, growing flushed. Silence. That’s it. I want to know what he’s hiding. I curl my fingers, readying to yank it off…

And a pounding on my chamber door wakens me. It’s got to be Marcella. Dream wrecker! What can she want at this wee hour of the night—or is it already morning? I’m sure she’s not here to discuss birthday party arrangements.

I light a candle and unlatch the door. Once again, it’s Calla. She’s clutching Lady Jane and trembling.

“Can Lady Jane and I sleep with you? I begged Marcella to tell me a good-night story, and it gave me a really bad dream.”

“Of course, you can.” I put an arm around the frightened child and usher her into my room.

We climb into my bed together. I give her one of my pillows and pull the thick down cover over us. We lie side by side. The blackness of the night embraces us.

“What was Marcella’s story about?” I ask, surprised that the lazy skank actually told her one.

“Oh, it was soooo scary,” replies Calla in full drama queen mode. “It was about this really, really mean woman who turned little children into rats if they didn’t go to sleep. And if the rats didn’t go to sleep, she sent a giant snake to eat them!”

“Oooh, that’s awful!”

“Snakes really scare me. You know, a big ugly snake bit my Mama and killed her.”

I know.

“Do you remember anything about your mother?” The Prince said she didn’t, but I’m curious to find out for myself.

“No, but everyone says she was really, really pretty,” Calla replies.

My fingertips caress her exquisite face. I’m not surprised.

“So, tell me about your dream,” I say, eager to move away from a sensitive subject.

“I don’t remember it!” she giggles.

“I don’t remember a lot of my dreams either…especially the bad ones.” Liar! I could fill a book with all the unforgettable, horrid dreams I’ve had.

“Will you tell Lady Jane and me another story?” begs Calla. “Please! Pretty please!”

How can I say no and let her down? The truth is, I don’t know any. My mother was not one for tucking me in at night and telling stories. Actually, most nights she never came home.

“Calla, why don’t you get me started?” I say, stalling.

Calla jumps right in. “Once upon a time…”

And then I continue. Having no idea where I’m going…

“…there lived a little girl who was very lonely. None of the other girls in the kingdom would play with her because they thought she was weird. What they didn’t know was that she was actually very sad because she had to take care of her sick mother all the time. One day a fairy godmother came to visit the girl and told her she could have three wishes granted. The girl thought for a moment and then said: ‘I wish for all the stray dogs and cats in the world to find happy homes. I wish for kingdoms to stop fighting. And finally, I wish for my mother to be well again.’ The fairy godmother granted the little girl all three wishes. The little girl soon became the most popular girl in the kingdom. Everyone wanted to be her friend, even the girls who used to be mean to her. She was never lonely ever again.”

“THE END.” I’m exhausted. It’s as though I’ve given birth to my imagination.

“Jane, what happened to the little girl when she grew up?” asks Calla, inquisitively.

Dragonballs. I didn’t get that far in my head. How am I supposed to know the life story of someone I fabricated only a minute ago? Okay. Think. Think harder! Yes! Of course!

“She married a handsome prince and lived happily ever after.”

“Wow! I loved that story. Can you tell me another one?”

Don’t push your luck. “It’s time for you, Lady Jane and me to go to sleep.”

Without her asking, I plant a kiss atop her head. She’s sound asleep before I can wish her sweet dreams.

Lady Jane is tucked in her arms. Calla’s slender body is cradled in mine. Our hearts beat together as if we are one.

Like a thief afraid to be caught, I steal a glance at her luminous face. How peaceful she looks. Like an angel. I caress her golden curls and hope the demons that brought here won’t return. Sweet dreams, my sweet girl!

Sadness blankets me as I close my weary eyes. If only I could have had someone to comfort me in the darkest hours of the night. If only I could have had a fairy godmother to cure my mother of her sickness. If only I could have had the chance to live happily ever after.

CHAPTER 25

The next morning I awaken at the crack of dawn, greeted by a headache and dread. I slip out of bed, careful not to disturb Calla, and tiptoe downstairs. My spirits lift quickly. Tonight’s my Girls’ Night Out. I can hardly wait. Only I still have no clue how I’m going to escape Marcella.

When I wander into the kitchen, Gallant-Shmallant is already there. Damn it! I left his stupid lily upstairs. A missed opportunity to shove it down the drain.

“Can I pour you some tea?” he asks.

“Fine,” I say in spite of myself. Maybe, it’ll help me get over my hangover.

“How is your hand?”

“I’ll live.” I’ve taken off his handkerchief. Mental note: Burn it in the hearth tonight. And make sure he’s watching.

Gallant hands me a cup of tea. A fragrant blend of orange blossoms, rose petals, and lavender trickles into my nose. I take a sip. It tastes delicious, almost magical. The Prince gazes at me with his piercing blue eyes. I get that tingly-all-over feeling. My teacup shakes in my hand.

“Jane, I shall be visiting my father tonight. So, please tell the cooks there is no need to prepare dinner for me. They should be back any minute.”

“Is Marcella, by chance, going with you?” How perfect would that be?

“No, it is official kingdom business.” A resentful tone accompanies his words.

So much for wishful thinking.

The Prince furrows his brows. “Please excuse me. I must prepare for the meeting. My father shall be displeased if I do not come with a formal agenda.” Taking his tea, he marches toward the kitchen door. He turns to me before exiting.

“And, Jane, please keep me posted about Calla’s birthday party.”

I want to throw my teacup at him but spill the remains down the drain instead.

Despite my anger and queasiness, my stomach begins to growl as soon as Gallant is gone. I’m starving. I grab a handful of oats and search for the barrel of eggs.

“Jane, you poisoned me!” comes a deep, raspy voice from behind me.

Startled, I swing around. It’s Marcella. She’s almost unrecognizable. Her brassy blond hair is plastered to her head like a helmet, and her complexion is a ghastly shade of green.

“I didn’t sleep a wink last night,” she croaks.

How could she have in that clingy leopard-print duster? It’s bursting at the seams. And those feathers would have driven me crazy.

“It’s all your fault! It had to be something I ate!” Ha! Serves you right for hogging the bread, you pig. “If it weren’t for the fact that I think I’ve lost three pounds, I’d fire you right now!”

“Can I get you something?” I don’t know whether I want to laugh or punch her.

“The only thing I want is my liquid diet potion. And if you don’t have it by tomorrow morning, you will be fired!”

Great! Tomorrow could be my lucky day.

“I’m going back to bed. I’ll be there all day. Whatever you do, don’t disturb me!”

Let’s hope she’ll be there all night. And I promise, I won’t disturb her.

As she staggers out the door, the cook and his staff return.

With Marcella in bed all day, I’m able to get a lot done for the ball. I start working on the seating arrangements. It’s weird. I can’t seem to find Snow White’s RSVP. In fact, I don’t recall seeing her invitation. It must have been among the two thousand or so I sent out. Marcella invited every princess in the universe. I make myself another mental note: Talk to PIW about Snow White’s invite status. On second thought, why bother? The less I have to do with my stepdaughter, the better.

Next, Marcella’s liquid diet potion. I have no idea what to do. Or where to get it. That sorcerer who sold me that bogus evil potion? Nah. He’s probably out of business. And then, bing! A brainstorm! Another one of my genius ideas. I’ll make it myself.

Returning to the kitchen, I throw together sugar, lard, honey, and some cocoa. I pour the thick gooey mixture into a bottle and label it “Lose Pounds Fast.” It’s going to be the best tasting liquid diet potion ever. And the most fattening. Hee-hee. Her Royal Skankiness will love it!

Dinner is just Calla and me. Gallant’s gone to his meeting with his father, and Marcella still hasn’t left her room. All Calla wants to talk about is her birthday. A mixture of guilt and anxiety eats away at me. I still haven’t had a chance to get going on her surprise party. The truth is, I don’t know where to begin. The only surprise birthday party I ever had was at Faraway. And that doesn’t really count.

“I want a puppy for my birthday,” says Calla. “Did you ever have one?”

I tell her about my little pup Bambi, leaving out all the painful, sordid details. Tears sting my eyes.

“Jane, why are you crying?” asks Calla.

“Because I still miss him,” I sniffle, thinking about his cruel fate.

Calla gives me a hug. It makes me feel better.

After dinner, I put her to bed. I make up a cute story about Bambi, bid her sweet dreams, and kiss her good night.

Perfect! I couldn’t have planned it better. With Gallant gone, Marcella locked in her room, and the cooks back to take care of Calla in case she wakes up, I can escape for a few hours and have my GNO with Elz and Winnie.

I sneak out of the castle a little before nine o’clock, and before I can even inhale the crisp night air, a coach pulls up, almost running me over. The vehicle oddly resembles a giant gilded pumpkin. “The Glass Slipper” is scrolled across it in big flowery letters.

I’m shocked to see Elz in the driver’s seat. Winnie, seated next to her, looks relieved to see me. I climb aboard.

“Whee-Ha!” shouts Elz, slapping the horses on the rear. The coach takes off like a bolt of lightning. I’m not sure about this.

Elz is a total speed demon. Who would have thought that this shy, timid girl would ever be driving a coach? And like a maniac! Then again, she’s the one who wanted to go on a high seas adventure with Hook. As we race through the dark, bumpy countryside, the wind rips through me, threatening to blow me away. I exchange a this-is-it look with Winnie and cling to her for dear life.

I have no clue where Elz is taking us. Or if we’ll make it there alive. Finally, we come to a small tavern somewhere in the middle of nowhere. It’s called Puss ’n Boots. Elz brings the coach to a screeching halt, causing my stomach to lurch forward. Grateful to still be alive, I heave a sigh of relief. So does Winnie.

Inside, the tavern is dark and smoky and reeks of piss, puke, and vinegar. Loud, swarthy men line the bar along with an assortment of your usual fairy-tale freaks. Their eyes swivel our way as we head toward the counter. We’re the only women here.

The nauseating stench is getting to me. It reminds me of the men my mother used to bring home. The boar head on the wall is not helping. I bet my damn Huntsman donated it.

“How did you find this place?” I ask Elz, wishing we could leave.

“Hook. We come here all the time.”

My eyes widen. Is Elz seeing Hook? Before I can find out, she orders each of us a mug of beer. The beverage is cold and refreshing. I chug mine and get an instant buzz. I order another.

“I’m convinced Shrink placed us in our post-rehab positions for a reason,” says Winnie, nursing her beer.

“What makes you say that?” I ask, silently cursing the thinks-she-knows-it-all therapist for placing me with Marcella.

“Since I’ve been working at Sparkles, I’ve lost my craving for sweets. I haven’t had any for weeks.”

“Wow!” chirps Elz. “I can’t believe you can resist those yummy cupcakes, especially the ones with the creamy surprise inside.”

I know exactly what she’s talking about, and it’s making me ravenous. Damn! There aren’t even any munchies around this joint. Time to change the subject.

“How’s it going with John?” I ask.

“Now that I’m working, he’s pitching in a lot more.” Winnie smiles. “And he’s paying a lot more attention to me.”

“He should be. You look amazing!” Her weight loss really is astonishing.

“Thanks.”

“She’s had to buy a whole new wardrobe,” chimes in Elz.

I hope she’s burned her fat-girl frocks, destroyed them for good. “How are your kids doing?”

“Hansel and Gretel are doing great. I really want you to meet them.”

Her sage eyes glisten. Winnie and her family have obviously put the past behind them.

“I’d love to,” I say and switch subjects again. “So, Elz, how’s life in the shoe biz?”

“Crazy busy!” She launches into her story.

“When I got there, the store was going out of business. I couldn’t believe it. I mean, women can never have enough shoes, right? Customers complained the shoes weren’t fitting properly. They were either too big or too small. And they didn’t care for the dated styles.”

Winnie takes over. “So, Elz started to design fashion forward shoes and worked with John to perfect the fit. He developed a new concept—half sizes—for those in-between feet.”

Elz continues. “I begged the owner to let me give the store a makeover and stock it with our chic, comfy shoes. I came up with a new name—The Glass Slipper—and John came up with the catchy motto ‘For the Perfect Fit Shoe.’ Within twenty-four hours, we were sold out.”

“John is now Elz’s business partner,” adds Winnie, proudly. “He also thought of the see-through glass boxes. It makes it a lot easier to find your shoes, especially when you have hundreds of them. And they help preserve them.”

Little glass coffins. Like the glass coffin the dwarfs built to watch over Snow White. I shudder and take another swig of beer.

“You’ll never guess who came in!” exclaims Elz.

My heart stands still. I bet she’s going to say Snow White!

“Cinderella!”

“No way!” I say, relieved.

“See, Jane, it’s all meant to be,” says Winnie.

“I told her how sorry I was about being so mean to her. She couldn’t have been nicer. She was even sorry to hear about my mother.”

Her story is getting better by the minute.

“And guess what, she was so wowed by my collection of hard-to-find Size 4 1/2 heels that she loaned me money to buy the store.”

“And her old coach,” adds Winnie.

Too bad she didn’t throw in driving lessons.

Elz pauses to slurp her beer, then tells us she has some other news. Her face lights up.

“I’m seeing Hook; we’re kind of a couple.”

I have mixed feelings about the news. Hook’s such a pompous asshole. Maybe he’s changed. Maybe.

“What’s Hook up to?” I ask.

“Oh, he’s working at an orphanage,” beams Elz. “He’s like a mother to all these poor lost boys.”

It must be that orphanage built by that Midas megalomaniac.

“What about Sasperilla?”

Elz’s face loses its glow. “I’m not sure she ever got out of Faraway. It’s weird, but I miss her.”

“Because she’s still family,” says Winnie.

Ah! Winnie’s words of wisdom.

Elz brightens and signals for another round of beers.

I guzzle mine. Elz and Winnie are so happy. Their post-rehab stints are perfect for them. Elz is using her artistic talent and has finally become her own boss, and Winnie has managed to control her eating and improve her marriage. Mine, however, in a word, sucks.

I fill Elz and Winnie in on everything I’ve had to put up with as Marcella’s personal assistant. “She’s a total nightmare!”

Elz, having met the skank, vouches for me. “With all you’re doing, that’s so mean of her not to invite you to the ball,” she singsongs.

I seriously want to shake her.

“Don’t worry about Calla’s birthday party,” says Winnie. “I’ll take care of everything. It’ll be a piece of cake.”

That’s a relief! At least, another thing on my To-Do List will get done. Thank goodness for best friends.

“Shrink promised I could go back to my castle once I complete this rotten gig,” I go on, “but I’m not going to survive Marcella.”

“Hang in there,” says Winnie. “Trust me, everything’s happening for a reason.”

Trust me, I can’t think of a single good reason to be slaving for Her Royal Skankiness. I’m supposed to be finding some meaning and light, but I don’t even have the time to find my way to the bathroom.

“I should poison the bitch!” I say, rage rising inside me.

Winnie and Elz shoot me a don’t-go-there look.

“I don’t understand what The Prince sees in her.”

“She’s blond, busty, and brazen,” says Winnie, the relationship guru.

And I, former Miss Fairest of All, am overworked, rundown, and as flat as an unbaked loaf of bread.

“What’s Gallant like?” asks Elz.

The mere mention of his name makes my stomach flutter and temperature rise. What’s wrong with me? It must be the beer. It has to be.

Elz’s attention suddenly turns to someone else.

Hook. He pushes through the crowd toward the bar. Elz’s bespectacled eyes sparkle.

“Yo, Ho, Ho,” Hook says to the bartender. “Give these fine ladies another round and throw in a bottle of rum for me.”

The swashbuckler chugs his rum and sets the bottle down hard. So much for Faraway’s cure.

“Whatch’ya been up to, babe?” Hook leans in close to me, pressing his thigh against mine. Something hard digs into me. I glance down and gasp. A massive ivory-handled sword is lodged inside his belt.

I take a gulp of beer and edge away. With a flick of his hook, the swine yanks me back to him. Elz frowns. Shit! I wish he’d leave me alone. Or that a one-eyed ogre would come up to me and start a conversation.

My rescue-me prayers are answered.

“Give everyone another one on me!”

All eyes turn toward a dashing, long-legged man who has burst through the front door with such force the room quiets. He’s dressed in formal military attire and wielding an intimidating sword. My heart drops to my stomach. It’s The Prince!

My pulse goes into overdrive. I can’t let him see me here of all places. I quickly hide my face behind my mug, but it’s too late. Recognition flickers in his eyes. Sliding his sword into his belt, he heads in my direction. I chug my entire mug of beer in one gulp. I feel sick. Very sick.

“Jane, what brings you here?” he asks, brushing up against me.

A giant lump forms in my throat. Swallowing hard, I ask him the same question.

“Just letting off a little steam.” He orders a beer and downs it. “I had another argument with my father; he does not understand me. I always stop by here after seeing him. It is quite refreshing to be with real people instead of a bunch of headstrong royals.”

“Introduce us to your friend,” insists Winnie.

My lips quiver. “This is Prince Gallant.”

All Winnie and Elz can say is “Oh.”

Oh is right. I’d better get out of here. Fast!

Gallant grabs me by the elbow, holding me back. “Please don’t leave, Jane. I need someone to talk to.”

He gazes at me. His blue eyes are glazed over. He’s drunk. Really drunk. I struggle to break free from his tight grip.

“Leave the lady alone!” says Hook, slurring his words.

“Who is she to you?” asks Gallant.

“None of your bilge sucking business!”

And then the unthinkable happens. Hook takes a whack at The Prince, and The Prince whacks him right back. Holy crap! They’ve begun a bar room brawl!

“Remember what they say,” says Gallant. “The wise man hits first; the better man hits last.”

“Well, I’ll show you who’s better,” responds Hook. He packs a powerful punch that sends The Prince to his knees, gasping for air.

“You like pain? I’ll you show you pain,” says Gallant, getting back on his feet. At full force, he charges at Hook and knocks him down. Pinning his opponent to the sawdust-covered floor, The Prince delivers a series of hard blows, one right after the other.

Poor Elz winces with every blow and, finally unable to stomach it any more, buries her head in her arms. My heart hammers. Gallant’s going to do the pirate in!

Suddenly, Hook whips out his sword with his good hand and slices Gallant across his neck. The Prince recoils, freeing Hook. Oh my God. Blood is trickling down his neck. I’m going to be sick.

Undeterred, Gallant staggers to his feet and draws his sword. “I challenge you to a duel for the fair maiden’s heart!”

I can’t believe this is happening! The Prince must be drunk out of his mind.

“My pleasure,” says Hook. Without wasting a second, he lunges at The Prince, who ducks his assault.

Clinkity-Clink. Our Girls’ Night Out has now turned into a life-or-death jousting match minus the horses. The pub-goers crowd around the dueling duo and cheer them on. They’re even placing wagers.

“Round 2 goes to the challenger,” someone shouts out. Gallant gives a nod of acknowledgement as he holds off Hook.

Elz peeks up at the fight and bites her lip. “It’s all my fault,” she says tearfully. “I should have never brought you guys here.”

Winnie consoles her with a hug. “Life happens.”

“But Winnie, what if death happens?” asks Elz, her voice shaking.

“Good question.” Winnie ponders. “Let’s think on the bright side.”

Forget it, Winnie! There is no bright side! If Gallant kills Hook, Elz will never forgive me. And if Hook kills Gallant? Oh, God! I can’t even begin to imagine the consequences. And then, there’s the third scenario: they kill each other…

A loud gasp from the crowd stops my thoughts cold. Gallant has knocked Hook’s sword out of his hand, sending it flying across the room.

“You think you’ve got me?” says Hook, red with rage. “Well, you’re wrong!”

The Prince doesn’t see it coming. Neither do I. In the blink-of-an-eye move, the pirate whacks Gallant in the head with his heavy metal hook. The blow is more than The Prince can bear. He crumples to the floor as I gasp.

Hook retrieves his sword with his good hand and brandishes it victoriously above his head. “This time, drinks all around on me!” he shouts boastfully.

The crowd charges to the bar as I race over to the unconscious Prince.

“Hook! You’ve killed him!” screams Elz, in hysterics.

“He’s alive!” I yell on the top of my lungs. “Help me get him out of here!”

Winnie and Elz rush to my aid. Elz calls out to Hook for help. He ignores her. He’s too busy drowning himself in another bottle of rum.

Elz fights back tears. The poor girl! I despise the swine more than ever.

“Come on, Elz. Let’s get The Prince into your coach and take him home,” I say, surprised I can still think straight. Or think at all.

Winnie and Elz each take a leg while I take his arms. On Winnie’s count of three, we lift him up.

“He must weigh a ton!” grunts Winnie.

“He doesn’t look like he weighs that much,” says Elz. “What do you think, Jane?

I want to smack her. Who cares! All I care about is getting him home.

Somehow, we manage to carry him out the door. There’s only one “little” problem: Elz’s coach is no longer parked outside the tavern. It’s gone!

“Read that!” says Winnie, pointing straight ahead at a road sign.

TOW AWAY ZONE

PARK AT YOUR OWN RISK!

We silently read it together. Winnie and I shoot Elz a scathing look that reads something like: We’re going to kill you even if you’re our best friend.

Elz shrivels with guilt. “That sign must be brand new,” she squeaks meekly. “I’ve parked here dozens of times.”

We are so screwed. Now what are we going to do? Maybe we should toss The Prince’s body into the gutter and make a run for it.

And then, out of the corner of my eye, I spot a handsome white horse parked just outside the tow-away zone. I recognize the animal instantly. It’s Gallant’s steed. What good luck! We’ll get him on the horse and send them both home.

Using all the strength we have left, we hoist up The Prince and slide him over the saddle. His arms and legs dangle lifelessly over the beast’s flanks. The horse doesn’t mind.

“Beat it, horsey!” I give the animal a slap on his rear. “Go home!” I don’t think the horse understands me. He doesn’t budge. Damn it! I wish I knew the horse’s name. Maybe that would help.

There’s only one solution. I’m going to have to ride the horse and take The Prince home. While I’ve ridden a few times, I’m not what you would call an experienced equestrian. Coupled with the fact that I’ve had a couple of beers or three or four or more, this is not going to be fun. Oh, and did I mention, I have no idea where we are? Let’s hope the horse will know the way back to the castle since Gallant mentioned he’s been here before.

“What about you guys?” I ask Winnie and Elz.

“Don’t worry about us,” says Winnie with her usual optimism. “We’ll figure out a way home.”

“Maybe I can get someone to take us to the local impound,” chimes in Elz. “It’ll be easy to spot my coach.”

Winnie and I roll our eyes. Remind me never to come back here.

Except for the fact that my inner thighs are killing me, the ride back to the castle goes smoothly. Lucky for me, the steed indeed knows his way and gallops confidently across the dark countryside. I’m just nervous that The Prince, who’s draped over the saddle in front of me, will fall off. Or that I will in my tipsy state.

I let out a big sigh of relief (and so do my thighs) when we at last reach the gated castle. Gallant is still out cold. The guardsmen let us in without saying a word. It’s as though they’ve seen The Prince like this before.

I lead the horse to the front entrance. So far, so good. Suddenly, something spooks the animal. A snake! Hissing, it slithers across the cobblestone path. The steed rears up, catapulting us to the ground.

It takes me a minute to come to my senses. I’m straddled on top of The Prince, his torso rising and falling beneath me. With every breath he takes, his taut chest presses deeper into my ribs. Even in this lifeless state, he’s so strong. So powerful. I gaze at his moonlit face. The blow he received from Hook is beginning to swell, but other than that, he looks so peaceful. And so handsome. I resist the urge to run my fingers over his fine features.

In the distant meadow, the horse is grazing. “Get your ass back here, horsey!” I shout, staggering to my feet.

The animal trots off. It doesn’t really matter because there’s no way I could have gotten The Prince back up on it by myself.

Okay. So, now what am I going to do? I can’t leave him here. I mean, a wild beast could come along and eat him alive. Or a storm could erupt, and he could drown or get struck by lightning. Or that snake could come back and bite him. Poor Calla would never get over it if he died just like her mother.

Think! Think! The problem is I’m exhausted and have had way too much to drink. I can’t think. Luckily, the obvious comes to me. I take hold of The Prince’s muscular arms and drag him face up to the castle entrance. Cripes! He is heavy!

The front door of the castle is unlocked. I kick it open and pull him inside, hoping not to wake up Calla. She’ll freak out if she sees her father in this state. Marcella doesn’t concern me. I remember what Calla told me. She sleeps with earplugs. Nothing could wake her. Not even a cannonball blowing through her window.

Taking a deep breath, I rest for a moment. Now, all I have to do is get The Prince up to his chamber. Forcing myself back to work, I slide him across the entry hall, then lug him up the grand staircase. Each step is torture. Pure torture.

Finally, we reach the top of the stairs. I’m a sweaty, wheezing, woozy mess. I take another breather, then haul him down a long, dark corridor. It seems much longer than I remember. And he seems to be getting a lot heavier. His chamber is unfortunately at the very end. When my head slams against a wall, we’ve hit a dead end and made it.

The door to his chamber is unlocked. Swinging it open, I poke my head inside. It’s pitch-black; the drapes must be pulled. I can’t see a damn thing. I glance down at The Prince lying by my feet; he’s still out cold. It’ll be easier to leave him here at the doorway and come back for him after I locate his bed.

This is my first time inside Gallant’s personal quarters. The room must be very spacious because I can’t find his bed. Stumbling blindly, I knock into chairs, tables, candelabras, and statues. When I dip my hand into a water tank filled with finger-nibbling fish, I almost take a fall. Let’s hope he doesn’t have any loose swords lying around.

A thought crosses my mind. A new problem. If I ever find the bed, how will I remember my way back to it with Gallant in tow? I remember the story Winnie told me about her two kids. How they got lost in the woods and left a trail of bread crumbs to find their way home. That’s what I’ll do! But wait, I don’t have any crumbs or bread. Maybe I can find some parchment and make spit balls.

But why get ahead of myself? I still can’t even find his bed. Weary and wasted, I’m about to give up when I stumble over what could be a boot and tumble head first into a mound of fluffy down. Heaven! Gallant’s bed! It’s fit for a king with its luxuriously thick duvet and array of luscious, plump pillows. And it smells so fresh and inviting. I wish I could curl up right here, right now, and call it a night.

I force myself to get up. Rolling out of the bed, I knock something over. Crash! It must have been a vase because water is seeping through my shoes. I scoot down, find the vase still luckily in one piece, and fumble for the flowers scattered on the plush rug. They smell like roses. And there’s dozens of them. Brainstorm! Forget stinky beer-breath spitballs. I’ll scatter rose petals along the floor. Jane, you clever, clever, girl!

Creating a fragrant path with the velvety petals, I crawl back to the entrance and retrieve Gallant. With one hand gripping his collar and my nose to the floor, I inch back across the rug, sniffing away. My little plan is working though not exactly like a charm. By the time we get to the bed, my knees are stinging from rug burns; the smell of roses is sickening me, and I’m exhausted from lugging Gallant. I actually wouldn’t be surprised if my arms fell off.

Staggering to my feet, I gaze down at Gallant. How the hell I’m going to get him into the bed? Without over thinking, I grab him by his wrists and miraculously manage to heave him onto the duvet.

Okay, I can get out of here. I so need to get sleep. My head is swirling, and I don’t know how much longer I can stave off waves of nausea. As I creep away, Gallant groans. He groans again, this time louder. Of course! He must be miserable in his tight britches, those boots, and that buttoned up jacket.

I start with the jacket. Yet another challenge. Fumbling for the buttons, my fingers run down his chest, feeling the ripple of every finely honed muscle along the way. My fingertips feel like they’re on fire. With each button, I find myself growing hotter and fighting the urge to rip the jacket right off his body.

Grabbling for the last one, my fingers graze a hard bump between his legs. This is not a button. I hastily pull my hand away.

Suddenly, Gallant comes to.

“Branch, I want you. Come to me,” he mutters. At least, that’s what I think he’s saying. Holy crap! He’s into that tree-hugging game too?

I’m out of here. As I pivot around, he grips my arm and pulls me on top of him. To my shock, he gropes my breasts and strokes my neck with the tip of his warm tongue as if he’s painting me. The sensation arouses a divine tingling deep inside me. Moving his fluttering tongue to my chest, he wraps his muscled arms firmly around me. I struggle to break away, but he’s too damn strong for me in his drunken stupor. Or I’m too damn weak in mine. Rhythmically, he slides his body against mine. Up and down. Slowly. Then faster. I find myself rocking in perfect harmony. Inside, I’m throbbing. Moaning. I don’t want him to stop. It feels good. So good. Oh God! Too good!

The Prince lets out a long, loud sigh and falls back to sleep. I tiptoe out of the room, careful not to knock anything else over and relieved that I didn’t take his britches off first.

I hope The Prince remembers none of this tomorrow. And I hope neither do I.

CHAPTER 26

I wake up early again the next morning with a pounding headache and my tongue pasted to my palate. How many beers did I drink last night? I stopped counting after the first.

Downstairs in the kitchen, I encounter the last person I want to see. Not Marcella. Gallant!

Given all he went through last night, he looks miraculously good. There’s only a faint bruise on his forehead where Hook whacked him and a small, almost indiscernible gash on his neck from Hook’s sword. But that’s all. Even his blue eyes have regained their clarity. Let’s hope his memory hasn’t.

“I must have fallen off my horse last night,” he says, sipping a cup of that fragrant tea.

Oh shit! He remembers!

“I am sore all over.” He rubs the back of his head. “And I have this bump. But I honestly cannot recall when or where it happened.”

Phew! He doesn’t. I do and turn my head away. After last night, I can’t look him in the eye.

He pours me a cup of the tea.

“After learning how much Calla enjoyed her picnic with you, I have decided I need to spend more quality time with her. So I have planned a special outing.”

Great. He’s going to take her shopping at The Trove. I saw lots of fathers and daughters there.

“We are all going apple-picking this afternoon.”

What?

“It should be great fun.” He finishes his tea. “You, me, Calla, and Marcella.”

Marcella? Great fun? This is what I call misery. Pure misery.

“And perhaps tonight, you can make another delicious apple pie.”

I toss my tea into the sink.

“I can’t wait to go, Papa!” squeals Calla as we finish lunch. She’s already holding a basket with Lady Jane tucked inside.

Marcella, on the other hand, isn’t the least bit excited about apple-picking. She protests it will wear her out for the ball.

“The exercise will invigorate you,” says The Prince.

“My love, picking apples is for peasants.”

Great! Her Royal Skankiness hates apple-picking. Maybe she won’t go.

Her face brightens as she gulps down the last bit of my liquid diet potion. “On second thought, my love, you’re so right. I’ll burn lots of calories and lose weight!”

Dragonballs! She’s coming along. I think of Winnie’s mantra: “Look on the bright side.” An image of Marcella falling out of an apple tree and breaking her neck pops into my head. Maybe it will be fun.

“The coach is waiting,” says Gallant, rising from the table.

Why are we taking the coach when there’s surely an apple orchard on The Prince’s property, only a short walk away?

Inside the coach, Calla and I sit opposite The Prince and Marcella. I gaze out the window to avoid eye contact with Gallant. The bumpy ride does little to calm my nerves.

Calla rattles off her secrets to finding the best apples. The best ones are always on the tree; the “yucky” ones on the ground.

Marcella, bored to death, sips more of her “diet” (Ha!) potion and reads the latest Fairytale Tattler.

“I can’t concentrate,” she grumbles. “Calla, can you please shut up.”

Calla makes a face but complies. Maybe it’s because Marcella said “please” for once.

The PIW tears through the tabloid pages. “Jane, why isn’t there any gossip about what I’m wearing to the ball?” Venom fills her eyes.

I make a mental note. Add to To-Do List: Leak Marcella’s gown.

The route we’re taking is familiar. It’s as though we are going to The Trove. We pass Midas this and Midas that. I swear the number of Midas properties has multiplied since I last traveled down this road. When I get back to my castle, maybe I’ll invite him over and have a little chat about expanding my empire.

My cliffside castle soon soars into view and that burning desire to reclaim it surges inside me. My eyes grow wide when the coach turns into the narrow road that leads to it. What is going on here?

The road is long and lined with potholes, bumps, and debris. With each fault we pass over, my heart slams harder against my chest. Is this some kind of surprise? Am I finally free to live in my castle?

“Are we there yet?” asks Calla.

“Almost,” smiles the Prince.

We’re at the base of my property. The moat is gone, completely filled in. No big deal. It was a nuisance to cross anyway. My eyes travel up the jagged hillside to my majestic castle. It’s shrouded by a thick, billowy cloud.

My eyes stay peeled to the window as the coach circles halfway around the mountain. I want to jump out, run up to my home. As the coach comes to a sudden halt, my stomach lurches.

A large sign with bold, gold writing is posted into the earth.

SOLD!!

ANOTHER MIDAS LUXURY HOTEL COMING SOON!

What! They’ve sold my castle to this Midas creep? Without asking me? My mouth opens so wide I think everything inside me will leap out.

“There is an amazing apple orchard here,” says The Prince.

I should know. This is my castle!

“The owner shall not mind,” Gallant continues.

Why don’t you ask? my head screams. You’re looking right at her!

The apple orchard is exactly as I remember it. Hundreds of trees ripe with fragrant red fruit line the base of the cliff. As I stand in its midst, memories mingle with madness.

I’m going to sue that Midas bastard. Take him to court. With luck, I’ll get that whack-job judge, and she’ll take off his head.

On second thought, forget about suing. It’ll take too long. I’m going to hunt him down and destroy his life the way he’s destroyed mine. Poison him if I have to. Whatever it takes, I’m going to get my castle back.

“How about we have a contest to see who can pick the most apples,” says The Prince, oblivious to the rage blazing inside me.

“That’s ridiculous,” scoffs Marcella.

For once, she’s right. I’m in no mood for fun and games to say the least. Unless the prize is Midas’s heart.

“Papa, I’m going to win!” shouts Calla who’s already running to a tree abundant with fruit. Using a long stick she’s found, she knocks off several apples.

“Look, Papa!” she says with excitement. “I already have five apples!”

“Excellent!” says The Prince.

Marcella rolls her eyes. She clearly can’t wait for this day to be over. Neither can I.

The four of us scatter around the orchard. I spot The Prince and Calla in the distance, but Marcella’s nowhere in sight. She’s probably gone back to the coach to read her tabloid.

I wander aimlessly from tree to tree. Rage mixed with shock is ravaging me. Just wait until I get my hands on that Midas!

My heart skips a beat. Straight ahead of me is that one unforgettable tree—the tree that bore that one unforgettable perfect apple. The apple I picked and dipped into poison. The apple I gave to Snow White.

Calla, carrying her basket with Lady Jane, runs over to the tree.

“Don’t pick apples from that tree!” I sprint up to her, almost knocking her down.

“What’s wrong with this tree?” asks Calla, puzzled.

“Nothing.”

Yes, nothing. Except the thought of eating apples from this tree is making me even sicker to my stomach. Ignoring my plea, Calla shakes the tree, and an apple falls into her basket. A big red rosy apple. Exactly like the one I gave to Snow White.

“Jane, look at this apple!” exclaims Calla. “It’s perfect!” She raises it toward her rosebud lips.

As her mouth descends on its shiny exterior, I yank it out of her hand and toss it as far as I can.

Calla gives me another bewildered look. “Jane, you’re acting all weird today. Are you feeling sick?”

“No, I’m perfectly fine.” Perfectly fine? Chances are I’ll never make it through this day.

What has this madman Midas done to my castle? I’m desperate to find out.

When Calla skips off to check on her father, I hurry off. Every nerve in my body is charged with anticipation as I stomp up the steep, winding road that leads to my home. Yes, my home! Kicking rocks and debris in my way, I’m surprised how easy it is for me to make the climb. The daily trek up to Shrink’s office has gotten me into better shape than I’ve ever been. I can be thankful to Faraway for that. But that’s all. Shrink led me to believe I could go back to live in my castle, but now that’s just another wicked lie.

The cloud cloaking the castle lifts as I make the ascent, and by the time I get to the top, my home is in full view with its myriad of towers, spires, and towers.

My heart plunges. Walls are crumbling; windows are cracked; the vegetation runs wild. It’s a ghost of its former glorious self.

As I circle around to the rear, I hear whistling. And then I see them. Seven little men busily working away. Hammering! Sawing! Bashing! Trashing! I can’t believe my eyes. It’s those abominable dwarfs! First they wrecked my life. Now they’re wrecking my castle!

Desperation overtakes me. I furiously gather up an armful of rocks. I’m going to pummel those runts before nothing remains of my former life.

Then one of them spots me.

“Hey, lady, what are you doing here?” he says, not recognizing me. “This is a construction zone.”

What am I doing here? Hey, Grumpster, this is my property, and you’re destroying it! I should get you arrested and thrown into jail! That same dark, dreary dungeon you sent me to!

I aim a rock at his ugly oversized head but stop when, out of the corner of my eye, I notice one of the home wreckers hauling something out of the back entrance. My heart goes haywire. It’s my magic mirror!

“Where are you going with that?” I cry out.

“Taking this piece of junk where it belongs.” He sneezes, blowing boogers all over my beloved looking glass.

Letting go of the rocks, I race after him, but it’s too late. He hurls the mirror into a dumpster. I hear it shatter.

A loud voice inside my head urges me to leave. “Jane, don’t go there!” it says. It sounds like Shrink’s. I ignore it.

Frantic, I hoist myself up into the dumpster. On top of the rest of my bashed up furnishings is my treasured mirror. I heave a loud sigh of relief. It has only broken into six chunks. I’m able to piece it back together.

My magic mirror! We’re together at last. Unable to resist, I look into it. And scream. I’m horrified by my reflection. The cracks, snaking across my skin, have disfigured my face. I’m dizzy, weak. Almost faint. It’s as if the mirror is possessing me. Tell me:

“Mirror, mirror once on the wall,

Who’s the fairest one of all?”

Silence. I bet it doesn’t recognize me. How could it?

I ask again, this time louder. “Tell me!” I scream. “TELL ME!”

The mirror at last responds. Its voice sounds strangled.

“You, My Queen, are still fair, I suppose;

But the answer to your query is Calla Rose.”

“Calla?” I gasp. “What happened to Snow White?”

No response. I grow impatient. “Tell me, you smart-ass looking glass!”

To my horror, the mirror’s cracks multiply. A terrifying cobweb of cracks spreads across my face. I’m a monster! As I shriek, the mirror shatters into a million little pieces. Tiny shards of glass are scattered everywhere. There’s no way I can put it back together. It’s beyond repair! Ruined! Gone forever!

Shaking all over, I climb out of the dumpster. Shock gives way to rage. Everything inside me is screaming. That two-timing, worthless piece of glass! It betrayed me again! My former best friend, still nothing but a traitor! And now, I have to compete with Calla!

Still trembling, I take one last look at my castle. Someone behind me tugs my arm. I spin around.

It’s one of those damn dwarfs. The tiniest one. He’s holding a shovel that’s double his size.

“What do you want from me, you little twerp?”

The dopey-looking runt says nothing. He keeps pointing to the ground as if he’s trying to tell me something.

I glance down and gasp. Winding its way toward me at wicked speed is a monstrous green and yellow snake. I take a giant step backward. Then another and another…until I’m standing at the cliff edge of my property. A nauseating feeling of déjà vu shoots through me. There’s nowhere I can go—but down! But this time, there’s no river to rescue me.

Picking up its pace, the snake slithers right up to my feet. It fixes its unblinking yellow eyes on me. One hiss and I know. I’m going to be history!

The snake flicks its forked tongue on my ankle. It tickles, but I desperately want to scream. Frozen with fear, I can’t find my voice. It flicks its tongue again; I don’t need to look down to know it’s going to strike. And then, just as its venomous fangs prick my skin, the tiny dwarf charges toward me with his shovel. In one swift, seamless move, he scoops up the snake and tosses it over the cliff.

I’m too stunned to say anything.

The mini-mute makes a wavy motion with his free arm, snaps his teeth, and rests his head on his hands as if pretending to go to sleep.

What is he trying to tell me now?

Confused, shaken, and wanting nothing to do with any of these Snow White fanboys, I flee. And don’t look back.

Back at the orchard, my jittery fingers pluck out slivers of glass embedded in the threads of my dress. I wish we had never come here. My castle belongs to another, and my magic mirror has betrayed me again. In the course of a few minutes, my emotions shift from despair to anger and then to self-pity.

A voice coming toward me distracts me, and I stab my thumb. Damn that mirror!

“Guess what! I think I won the contest! Look at how many apples I have!”

It’s Calla…Calla with her cascading curls, her angelic face. She is fairer than me. But why am I not consumed by that insane, flesh-eating jealousy that used to besiege me? Why do I feel a lightness in my heart as I watch her skip toward me?

Full of energy and excitement, she pokes her head into my empty basket. “Jane, don’t worry. I’ll give you some of my apples so you don’t come in last.” She fills up half my basket with her apples.

I don’t get it. I’m supposed to hate this child—want her out of my life—but I don’t. I can’t. How could anyone loathe a child so sweet and pure?

I wish I’d never talked to my mirror. My stupid, stupid big mouth mirror.

Calla adds a few more apples to my basket. The cherubic smile on her exquisite face completely melts me. I kneel down beside her so that we’re face to face. I can see my reflection in her twinkling eyes. The image of the person I have become.

And then it hits me. The truth. Hard. Direct. Pure. Shrink was right. My mirror was never magic. It was just a worthless piece of glass that messed with my head. And played with reality. Why could I not see this before?

I draw Calla closer until we’re heart to heart. Every part of me tingles. Calla is what’s magic.

She adds yet another apple to my basket.

“Thank you, my sweet girl.” Thank you for everything.

“Time is up. Let us determine a winner,” calls out The Prince, striding up to us.

I spring to my feet. So much of me wants to share my amazing revelation with him. But he’d never understand. He’d probably think I’m a nutcase and have me confined to some mental institution. Ha! Faraway!

The Prince’s basket is loaded with apples, but he clearly doesn’t have as many as Calla. Even after sharing her apples with me. We each do a count. Calla comes in first, The Prince, a close second, and me, a not-so-distant third.

“Hooray! I won! I won!” exclaims Calla, jumping up and down.

“Not quite yet, My Little Princess,” says Gallant. “You shall have to wait and see how many apples Marcella has gathered.”

On cue, Her Royal Skankiness staggers toward us. A thick coat of dirt covers her from head to toe. She must have taken a fall.

Calla cups a hand over her mouth to suppress her giggles. I risk a smile. Gallant, too, is amused.

The little girl runs up to Marcella and then races back to us.

“Six! I counted them! Marcella only has six apples, and they’re all rotten! That means I’m the winner!”

“Get me out of here!” screeches Marcella. She flings her basket, sending the apples flying in all directions.

Fighting her clingy gown and high heels, she inches toward the coach.

Calla calls out, “Watch out for that—”

Rotten apple. But it’s too late. Marcella trips over it. She lands face down, smack on her cannonballs.

This time Calla cannot contain herself. She explodes with laughter. I adore this child; I really do. Screw my stupid, piece-of-junk mirror! I’m glad it’s history.

“What are you laughing about?” Marcella struggles to stand up. “Can’t you see I’m hurt?”

She brushes herself off, adjusts her gown, and begins to hobble. She’s faking. I know because it’s exactly how my mother taught me to feign a limp. To over-exaggerate it and make believe you’re in a lot of pain. “Pity breeds generosity,” she preached. Her scheme worked like a charm. Whenever I begged for money, passersby would always give me an extra coin, thinking I was a cripple. She even forced me to carry a crutch, which came in handy the day she kicked me hard in the shin.

“My love, I don’t think I can make it to the coach,” moans the PIW.

Gallant wraps his strong arm around her, letting her lean on him for support. I want to ram her back onto the ground.

“Papa! Look over there!” exclaims Calla, pointing straight ahead of us.

Out of the clearing comes a young spotted deer—Bambi! I’d recognize him anywhere. Recognizing me, he prances over to us. The sweet animal eats one of my apples. With gleeful laughter, Calla offers him one of hers.

He nibbles her apple, then butts his budding antlers against Marcella. She freaks. “My love, save me from this flea-ridden beast!” She takes several giant steps backward. So much for her twisted ankle.

Still falling for her act, The Prince gallantly sweeps the bogus bitch into his arms. I want to puke.

“Papa, can we take him home?” begs Calla. “Please! Pretty Please! He could be my prize for winning the contest. Or my birthday present!”

“My Little Princess, I’m afraid he already belongs to someone else.”

At the edge of the clearing, another elegant young deer appears. Bambi leaps over to her and nuzzles her head. She must be his new mate. Side by side, they prance into the orchard.

The Prince carries Marcella back to the coach. “My hero,” she says, with a smug smile directed at me.

Calla and I exchange a despondent look. She takes my hand in hers, squeezing it gently.

I glare at Gallant. He, too, belongs to someone else. I have another startling revelation. No, it’s not Calla I envy. It’s Marcella.

CHAPTER 27

Thank goodness for Winnie. She’s planned Calla’s entire surprise birthday party right down to the party favors. After yesterday’s apple-picking excursion with all its extreme ups and downs, there’s no way I could have handled it, even if I’d had the time. My battered heart has shut me down.

As I sit on the edge of Calla’s bed, braiding her hair, I wonder for the umpteenth time: what am I doing here? Shrink promised that I could go back to my castle if I completed my apprenticeship. But now, what’s the point? My castle belongs to that Midas creep, and my mirror is no longer of any use to me. When Marcella (walking perfectly fine) flung a shoe at me this morning for not delivering her daily Fairytale Tattler to her in bed, why didn’t I throw it back and just call it quits?

“Do you think Papa’s going to get me a puppy?” asks Calla, snapping me out of my funk.

Gallant. I can’t get him out of my head. Though I’ve tried to avoid him, he did mention at breakfast that he and Marcella had something very important to do today, and now they’ve been gone for hours.

“I hope so,” I sigh. “I’m sorry I haven’t had the time to get you something,” I add with remorse.

Instead of a frown, Calla’s lips curl into a dimpled smile. “You are a gift.”

Her unexpected, beyond-her-years words light up my heart, and I smile despite myself.

Calla has no clue about her surprise birthday party. My job has been to keep her occupied until Winnie gives me the signal to bring her into the courtyard. We’ve played checkers, read a book together, and given Lady Jane a bath. In my gloomy state, it’s not been easy, and I’m running out of ideas.

Just as I finish with her hair, a rock hits Calla’s bedroom window. Finally, the signal.

“Come on, birthday girl. Let’s get some fresh air and play hide-and-seek.” Calla reaches for Lady Jane, then takes my hand.

The warmth of her little hand in mine radiates throughout me. She’s the reason I’m still here.

“Surprise!” shouts Winnie and a group of one hundred or so children, mostly boys, I’ve never seen before.

“Happy Birthday, Calla!” I say, joined by the others.

Calla is overwhelmed. “Wow!” is all she can say.

Wow is right. Winnie, dressed up as a fairy godmother, has created the ultimate Princess Birthday Party. There’s a magic castle playhouse, pretend tiaras and crowns for all the children, and a pony ride. She’s even brought along that giant dragon from the toy store. How did she manage to get it here? I’m probably better off not knowing.

“Who are all these children?” I ask.

“They’re from the local orphanage,” replies Winnie. “I thought it would be more fun for Calla if she had other children to play with.”

Despite Winnie’s good intentions, my blood runs cold. I bet they’re from that Midas Orphanage for Lost Boys. I hate that Midas!

I recognize one of the children—that unruly boy I saw the other day at Mother Goose. Much better behaved today, he’s showing Calla how to make the dragon roar by stepping on its foot.

“Who’s that?” I ask, pointing at him.

“That’s Curly,” says Winnie.

“He’s an orphan?” I’m surprised. “Didn’t I see him with his nanny the other day?”

“Oh, that was his latest foster parent. He’s been in and out of the system for years. No one wants to keep him.” Winnie pinches her lips together and shakes her head. “It’s sad because he’s really not a bad kid.”

The boy makes Calla roar with laughter. After her initial shock, she can’t get enough of the fire-breathing dragon. What a wonderful birthday she’s having. Sadly, I can’t remember turning seven. In fact, I can’t remember any of my childhood birthdays. It was just another day to scrub floors and beg for money. My mother didn’t give a damn. She didn’t buy me a thing; she was too busy shopping for new clothes for herself and seducing men. In a way, I was an orphan too. Maybe, worse off.

Winnie forces me back to the present by bringing two youngsters over to meet me, a boy and a girl. “These are my children, Hansel and Gretel.” Of course! They look just like her with freckled faces and flaming red hair. The little girl’s the spitting image of her brother, except she has long thick braids. I bet they’re twins.

“Pleased to meet you, Your Majesty,” they say in unison as they bow before me.

Huh?

“I told them you’re a queen,” Winnie whispers in my ear.

I smile at the two children. “Just call me Aunt Jane.” Why not? Winnie’s like a sister to me. “And the next time you see me, I’d prefer a hug to a bow.”

The two of them giggle.

Winnie waves her pretend magic wand over them. “Now, children, magically disappear.”

Hansel and Gretel giggle again. After hugging Winnie, they scamper off to play with Calla and Curly. Winnie squeezes my hand and smiles. How lucky Hansel and Gretel are to have her as their mom. And how lucky she is to have them.

To the children’s absolute delight, Winnie is a one-woman show. She sings; she dances, and she even juggles cupcakes. For her finale, she tosses the cupcakes into the audience. Just like at the Faraway talent show that now seems like ages ago. The rapturous children clamber to catch and eat them.

Taking a much-deserved break from entertaining Calla and her newfound friends, Winnie sits down with me on a stone bench, ironically the one where Gallant first asked me to arrange this party. Finally, a chance to tell her about my castle and mirror.

With out a single interruption, she listens intently as the words fly out. By the end of my story, my mouth is dry, and my throat is burning with anger.

“It’s all meant to be,” she says.

Is that all she can say?

“Elz and Hook broke up,” she says before I can tell her about my plan to hunt down Midas.

Poor Elz! I knew that sleazeball would break her heart.

“Don’t feel bad for her.” She’s such a mind reader. “Elz dumped Hook.”

Good for her! After how he treated her the other night, he deserved it. I’m proud of my roomie. She’s really taking control of her life.

“How’s Elz doing?” I ask.

“She’s doing great. It’s Hook who’s a shipwreck.”

“How are my young mateys doing?” comes a familiar voice from behind us. Talking about the devil…

It’s Hook! Who invited him? Then I remember. He’s in charge of the children at the orphanage. The Midas Orphanage…maybe he can lead me to the bastard.

Hook surveys his wards at play. “It looks like they’re having a whale of a time,” he smiles. “But their ship is about to sail.”

“Please let them stay a little longer,” begs Winnie. “At least to have some birthday cake. Which reminds me, I need to get the cake ready.”

Winnie dashes off, leaving me alone with Hook. I have to admit he looks like a wreck. With his bloodshot eyes and thick layer of stubble, he probably hasn’t slept for days.

“Do you know Midas?” I ask him right away despite his sorry state.

“Never met the bloke.”

Dragonballs! My mouth twists with disappointment.

“I’m sorry about the other night,” he says in a surprisingly humble tone.

The other night…I flush at the memory.

“I’ve gone cold turkey. I’m off booze for good.”

“That’s great.” I wonder how long that’ll that last.

He moves much too close to me. “Now, that it’s over between me and Elzmerelda, maybe we could give it another shot.”

God, he just won’t give up. “Hook, let’s just be friends, okay?”

“What do you mean by that?” he asks, sounding confused.

Luckily, I don’t have to answer his question. Calla comes to my rescue.

“Jane, it’s almost time for my cake. Where’s Papa?”

Good question. Where is The Prince? I can’t believe he’s missing his daughter’s birthday party.

The sound of singing fills my ears. “Happy Birthday to You.” It’s Winnie with the cake—a glittery castle made of hundreds of chocolate cupcakes with colorful candles stacked to look like spires. How creative of Winnie! She must have had it custom made at Sparkles. Unfortunately, it makes me think again about my castle and that Midas monster. I can’t wait to get my hands on him.

All the children gather around the cake and sing along with Winnie. Hook joins them and finally so do I. Hook’s beautiful baritone voice harmonizes with the choir of children. Calla, holding Lady Jane, beams with joy.

“Calla, make a wish and blow out the candles,” says Winnie.

“I’m only seven. So how come there are eight candles?” asks Calla.

“One’s for good luck,” says Winnie.

With any luck, The Prince will show up before this party’s over.

On Winnie’s count of three, Calla takes a deep breath, winks at me, then blows out all eight candles. Everyone shouts “Happy Birthday.”

“What did you wish for?” I ask her.

“I wished that Papa would—”

Winnie cups a hand over Calla’s rosebud lips and then reprimands me.

“Shame on you, Jane. Don’t you know that if you say what you’ve wished for, it won’t come true?”

Right! I should have known that from my “birthday party” at Faraway. Silly me!

A bellowing voice in the distance diverts my attention.

“What is going on here?”

The Prince. Finally! With Marcella hanging on his arm, he lopes over to us.

“Where have you been?” I ask, not hiding my anger.

“We went shopping!” croons Marcella. “Want to see what I—”

Gallant cuts her off. “Who are all these children, and what are they doing here?”

“They’re children from the local orphanage. They’re here to celebrate Calla’s birthday,” I reply.

“Eww, orphans!” says Marcella as if they’re rabid rodents.

“Get them out of here. Now!” orders The Prince. “I cannot have my daughter exposed to all these germs. Who knows where these gamins have been!”

“But Papa, they’re my new friends!” protests Calla.

“My Little Princess, this is none of your concern.” Gently pushing her aside, he accidentally knocks Lady Jane out of her hand. The doll tumbles onto the cobblestones.

Calla crouches down to pick up her precious doll. “Papa! Look what you’ve done!” she cries. The doll’s beautiful porcelain face is cracked all over.

In a fit of tears, Calla runs off, Lady Jane dangling from her hand. Her sobs are like pins in my heart.

The Prince stands there motionless.

“My love, it’s only a stupid doll,” says Marcella. “She’ll get over it.”

She moseys over to the cake and dips a finger into the frosting. As she licks it off, I want to strangle her.

“Well, I guess the party’s over,” says Hook. He gathers the orphans. “Ahoy, my mateys. It’s time to sail.”

“Aye, aye, Captain,” respond the orphans with a salute.

They form two straight lines. To Hook’s credit, they’re all exceptionally well behaved and respectful. Curly included. Perhaps, Hook, too, has found his meant-to-be calling.

“Children, don’t forget your party favors,” says Winnie.

She hands them each a woven gold name bracelet. They’re almost identical to the one Rump made for me. The children’s faces brighten. And for a fleeting moment so does mine. Rump must be back in Lalaland.

“Hook, I’ll go back with you,” says Winnie. She takes Hansel and Gretel by their hands.

I’m sad to see them go.

Before departing, Hook strides up to Gallant. “By the way, matey, sorry about the other night.”

The duel! My heart leaps to my throat.

Gallant glares at Hook. “Sir, I have no idea what you are talking about.”

Phew! He still doesn’t remember anything about the other night.

“She’s a great woman,” continues Hook. “Definitely, worth fighting over.”

“Why, thank you!” says Marcella. The stupid cow has no clue Hook’s referring to me.

Hook struts off and catches up to Winnie. They lead the children off the grounds of the castle. Calla’s birthday party has ended disastrously. My blood is churning. It’s time for me to give Gallant a piece of my mind. Prince or no prince.

“You can’t keep Calla in a bubble forever,” I bark. “She needs to be with children her own age. She needs friends.”

The Prince furrows his brows. “And Jane, how do you know all this?”

“Because I didn’t when I was her age,” I say hotly.

Gallant is taken aback. I’m not done with him.

“And on your little shopping trip with Marcella, I can only hope you remembered to buy your ‘Little Princess’ a present. In case you don’t know, she wanted a puppy.”

The glimmer in his blue eyes vanishes. He lowers his head. He can’t hide his guilt and shame. At least not from me. Let him sulk. He deserves to feel bad.

“I am going inside to pour myself a drink,” he says finally and marches off. So he thinks he can drown his sorrows. Ha!

Pleased with myself, I clean up the mess the children have left behind. Marcella saunters up to me, stuffing her face with a gigantic piece of cake. So much for her diet. In fact, she may be over it. She’s silently crooning la-di-da-da.

“Jane, look what I got!” The PIW thrusts her left fist under my nose. On her fourth finger is a sparkling diamond, the size of rock.

My heart sinks to my stomach. I’m numb all over. But not for long. The numbness gives way to madness. I want to tear the ring off her finger and shove it down her throat. And watch her choke on it.

“Congratulations” is all I say.

Back inside the castle, The Prince is slumped at his desk, nursing a drink. Sensing my presence, he gazes up at me with forlorn eyes.

“Calla is inconsolable. She refuses to see me.”

“What do you expect? You blew it.”

“I was somehow unable to break away from Marcella.”

There’s regret in his voice, but the mention of her name makes bile bubble in my throat.

Gallant’s eyes do not leave mine. “Please, Jane, I beg of you to talk to her.”

“What do you want me to tell her?” I ask, my tone softening.

“Tell her that I am sorry for everything and that I shall buy her a new doll. A hundred of them, if she wants.”

“I’ll do what I can.” No matter how much I want to stay mad at him, I can’t.

Calla’s chamber door is locked. Muffled sobs seep through the thick slab of wood. I knock gently.

“Calla, can I please come in?”

“No!”

“Pretty please with a cherry on top?”

“Maybe.”

I take that as a “yes” because I hear the door unlock.

Back on her bed, Calla is curled up with Lady Jane, her face soaked with tears. She caresses the doll’s cracked face.

“Your father feels really bad about today,” I say, sitting down beside her.

“All he cares about is Marcella,” she wails.

“That’s so not true. He loves you more than anyone in the whole world.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I just do.”

We share a stretch of silence. Calla’s sobbing reduces to whimpers.

“Your father told me he’ll buy you a new Lady Jane,” I continue.

Calla bursts into tears again.

“I don’t want a new Lady Jane. I only want this one!”

I examine Lady Jane. The doll’s once perfect porcelain face is now lined with a maze of cracks. Its close resemblance to my reflection in my cracked “magic” mirror sends a shockwave through me.

“I wish she was still beautiful,” sobs Calla.

“She is,” I say, calming down.

“I don’t believe you.”

“I’m going to prove it to you.” I pull out Shrink’s mirrored locket from under my dress and snap it open.

Intrigued, Calla stops crying. “Who gave that to you?”

“Someone special. It’s magic.”

That really gets her attention.

“Now, I want you to let Lady Jane take a look at herself in my magic mirror.”

Calla props her dolly up in front of the mirror, then peers at Lady Jane’s reflection. “What’s so magic about that?” She frowns. “Her face still looks all cracked.”

“Keep moving back, but make sure Lady Jane can see still see herself in the mirror.” Calla, holding Lady Jane, slides back on the bed as far back as she can go. “Okay, stop!”

A shocked Calla blinks her eyes several times. “I can’t see Lady Jane’s cracks anymore. They’ve disappeared!”

“See, I told you my mirror was magic. Lady Jane is still beautiful.”

A bright smile replaces Calla’s frown. She kisses the doll on her cracked cheek.

I smile too, proud of my “magic.” Scooting next to her, I fold an arm around her thin shoulders. “Now that you’re seven, I want to tell you a grown-up secret. Do you think you’re ready?”

Calla’s eyes light up as she nods.

“Someone once told me that beauty’s not in the face; it’s in the heart,” I whisper in her ear. Okay. Those weren’t exactly Shrink’s words, but close enough.

Calla cocks her head like a puzzled puppy. “What does that mean?”

Dragonballs. Now, I’ve got to makeup something. I still haven’t figured out what Shrink meant.

“It means that you must love Lady Jane even more. Especially now that she’s a little hurt. Do you think you can do that?”

Remarkably, what I’ve said makes sense to Calla. She nods again and hugs the precious doll.

“Time for you to go to sleep.” Smiling, I tuck her under the covers and plant a kiss on her forehead.

“Sweet dreams,” I say softly.

Clutching Lady Jane in her arms, Calla closes her eyes.

Quietly, I slip out of the room. As I close the door behind me, Calla’s sweet voice calls out to me.

“By the way, Jane, thank you for my birthday party. It was the best one I ever had.”

The memory of another little girl who turned seven flashes into my head. Snow White. How could I forget? It was on that fateful day my “magic” mirror first played with my head, warning me that she would one day would be fairer than me. As I descend the staircase, I tremble, wishing that mirror had never existed.

Gallant is still at his desk. The blaze in the fireplace basks his face in a warm amber glow. Hearing my footsteps, he rises.

“How is she?” he asks, moving toward me.

“She’ll be fine.” I gaze at his face and my body quivers.

The Prince places his strong hands on my shoulders and meets my eyes. “Jane, I am forever beholden to you.”

“It’s no big deal,” I reply, tingling from his touch.

“Jane, you know so much about children. Have you taken care of them before?”

“No,” I stammer and look away, shamed by my past.

How horribly I treated poor Snow White. She was a sweet little girl—an orphan—who cared nothing about beauty and asked for nothing. She was always so kind to me. But I wanted nothing to do with her. I dressed her in rags and made her sleep with the servants. And as she grew older and more beautiful with every passing day, I wanted her out of my life. I even I tried to kill her. How’s that for my child-care experience?

And then there was another child. My beautiful stillborn son. The child I never got a chance to care for and know. Perhaps if he had lived, my life would have turned out so differently. The King would have loved me, and we would been one big happy family.

Tears prick my eyes as guilt and grief rip me apart.

With his thumb, The Prince brushes a tear off my cheek with a tenderness I don’t deserve. “What is wrong, Jane?”

“Nothing.” Everything. “You’re so blessed to have Calla.”

“I know and that is why I overprotect her.” The Prince pauses reflectively. “But you are right, Jane. I have to let go. She needs to have friends. Perhaps, you can help me find a good school for her.”

“My love, I know the perfect school for Calla. Lots of royal tykes go there.”

Marcella! My body stiffens as she glides toward us.

“Tell me more,” says Gallant.

“It’s a boarding school in France.” Her tone is as obnoxious as the big fat diamond on her finger. She throws her arms around The Prince and shoots me a patronizing smile that clearly says, “He’s mine!”

I eye her frostily and step away. “Good night. It’s been a long day.”

The PIW twists her ring. “Jane, didn’t you forget something?”

Screw her curtsey. I stalk out of the room.

“Jane, wait!” shouts Gallant.

I do not turn back to see his expression.

CHAPTER 28

I wake up early the next morning with the bad taste of Marcella still lingering in my mouth. Tucked under my chamber door is one of her scribbled notes. I bet she’s firing me. I crawl out of bed and retrieve it.

J—Missing my emerald earring. Need it for tonight’s dinner party at The King’s palace. Check the shed; it could have fallen off there. Don’t bother coming back until you find it. And BTW, don’t tell The Prince about this.—M

I crumple the note in my fist. Yet another thing to do. Maybe Calla will be better off going to a boarding school faraway from her selfish, self-centered mother-to-be.

As I make my way out of the castle, the sun is rising. Its rays mingle with the early morning mist, creating the illusion of fairy dust.

Having no idea what shed Marcella’s referring to, I stumble upon a pebbled path and follow it. This is the first time I’m actually exploring the vast property on my own. I feel like an adventurer staking out a newly discovered land. It’s rather empowering and gets my mind off Marcella.

Following the meandering path, I’m awestruck by the beautiful gardens. The flowers and shrubs are artfully arranged—indeed, someone’s well thought out vision. Most likely, I bet, the handiwork of The Prince’s late wife. There are potted plants, flowers of all colors, grapevines, and orchards. The scents blend to form a fragrant chorus.

Further on, I pass by horse stables, a wishing well, and a carriage house. Shortly after crossing an olive grove, I come upon a small, shingled structure with several boarded up windows and a thatched roof. Maybe this is the place Marcella means.

The door is unlocked. I venture inside cautiously. My mouth drops. It’s not a shed. It’s a museum!

There are paintings everywhere. Landscapes, still-lifes, portraits, and more. Hanging on the walls. Stacked in corners. Standing on easels. If I had to guess, two hundred paintings, at least.

The paintings are astounding. You don’t have to be an art scholar to appreciate them. Each one is a masterpiece.

The artist has managed to breathe life into all his subjects with his masterful strokes and a subtle but beautiful use of light. I pause to admire a garden scene—a luminous patch of white lilies. The droplets of dew on the outstretched petals are so well done they seem touchable, practically real. Wait! They are real! What I mean is that I remember seeing this very patch of flowers in Gallant’s late wife’s garden.

Obviously, the artist must be someone in the service of The Prince. I recognize a portrait of his white stallion that’s so full of action the horse is practically leaping off the canvas. There’s another equally splendid portrait of The Prince himself. His blue eyes stand out, glistening with a vibrancy that’s missing now.

Rummaging through the stacked canvasses on the floor, I discover a charming portrait of a beautiful, brown-eyed infant with gilded curls. It’s unmistakably Calla. The artist has admirably succeeded in capturing her magic, even at this tender age.

In the far corner of the room, I come across what must be a large canvas propped on an easel. It’s hidden from view by a sheet of thick damask. Curious to see what lies beneath, I carefully edge down the fabric.

“STOP!”

I freeze, then wheel around. Gallant! His eyes are narrow; his lips tight.

“What are you doing here?” he asks.

“I’m searching for one of Marcella’s earrings.” I act calm but inside my heart is racing. “I thought it might be here.” My question is: What is he doing here?

“This is my studio,” Gallant says solemnly.

The Prince painted all these works of art? I’m in awe. I had no idea he was so talented.

“I’m sorry to be intruding on your space and time,” I say humbly.

The Prince apologizes for his outburst. “Please continue your search. I only came by because one of the guards reported hearing a strange noise in here last night.”

“I’ll leave. I don’t want to distract you from painting.” He must be working on the covered canvas.

“I no longer paint,” he says wistfully.

He goes on to tell me that after the death of his wife, he could not bring himself to pick up a paintbrush. The world lost all its color. Everything seemed so futile.

The sadness in his voice moves me deeply. He lost both his true love and passion.

The Prince’s eyes grow distant. “After she died, I could no longer find the true meaning of beauty in the world.”

The true meaning of beauty. Shrink’s haunting words echo in my head. So, Gallant knows the answer. Or at least, once he did. Now, is he searching for it like me?

I yearn to ask him, but the words stay trapped in my throat. I pivot toward the door.

The Prince places his strong hands on my shoulders, stopping me in my tracks. “Jane, please stay.”

To my delight, his mood brightens, and he gives me a whirlwind tour of his studio. He springs to life as he talks about the inspiration behind each painting. Never having seen him so animated and passionate, I find myself engrossed in his every word. Stimulated. Sharing my reactions and interpretations. Asking him questions. Challenging him. Challenging myself.

“You’re a master,” I say, meaning it. “Your paintings belong in a museum for the world to behold, not hidden from the human eye.”

Finally, we come to the covered painting. “What’s under there?” I ask with curiosity.

The Prince takes a deep breath, then sweeps off the damask cloth. Before me stands a large canvas. It’s obviously a work in progress. A portrait of a woman picking flowers, still at the outline stage.

Gallant’s eyes, glimmering just moments ago, are laced with melancholy. He turns away from the canvas and remains silent.

“My last painting,” he says at last. “A portrait of my wife. I was going to surprise her with it on her twenty-first birthday. But she died before I could complete it. I have not been able to paint since then.”

So, grief shut him down. Is that what love does?

“My Lord, you should finish the painting. You owe it to yourself. You owe it to Calla.” I stare at the unfinished portrait. “And you owe it to her.”

With a sigh, Gallant carefully re-covers the painting and changes the subject.

“Forgive me. What did you say you were doing here?” he asks as if we’ve just met up.

I tell him again about Marcella’s missing earring. Uh oh. I was supposed to keep this under wraps. Oh well. Whatever the consequences, I can’t undo what’s been done.

“I am sure it is not here,” says Gallant. “My studio is off limits to everyone, including Calla.

“Then I’d better get going.” Truthfully, I don’t want to leave him.

A mutual loss for words forces us to lower our eyes.

“Look!” We say it simultaneously. As if we had timed it.

There it is on the ground…Marcella’s emerald earring. Right under the easel holding the unfinished portrait of Gallant’s wife.

We squat down together. Meeting face-to-face, we’re very close—our eyes just a palm’s width apart. His warm, sweet breath blows on my face. My cheeks grow flush, and I’m getting tingly hot all over. My heart thuds so loudly I can hear it.

The Prince studies my face. I gaze at my reflection in his piercing blue eyes. What does he see in me?

With his long, skilled fingers, he delicately traces my features. It’s as if he’s drawing me. My skin prickles from his touch, but I don’t dare blink an eye.

His mouth curls into a smile that renders me breathless. “You are meant to be painted.”

I don’t know what to say. No one’s ever said that to me before. Not even my “magic” mirror.

We each reach for the sparkling earring. Our fingers touch; a spark flies between us, and then we quickly pull apart. I let Gallant pick it up. As he hands me the jewel, our fingers interlock. This time he doesn’t pull away.

“I’ve got to go,” I stammer, struggling to my feet before my knees give in.

“Jane, please do not leave yet,” he says, tightening his grip.

“Marcella will have my head if I don’t get back,” I force myself to say.

As I finally manage to pull away, a rustling sound distracts me. It’s coming from outside. Has someone been watching us?

I hurry to the door. Clutching Marcella’s earring, I sprint back to the castle and wonder—how did it end up where it did?

CHAPTER 29

ME

Those are the two colossal gilded letters carved into the daunting gate outside The King’s palace. Can you imagine—ME!—how much more egocentric can you get? Well, I suppose if it were my palace, I wouldn’t exactly inscribe “YOU” on the front gates. My house is your house. Now, there’s a concept.

“Papa! We’re here!” squeals Calla with excitement.

“Jane, calm her down,” snaps Marcella as she fiddles with her emerald earrings.

She never even thanked me for finding the missing one. The ungrateful skank! I hope Calla chews her ear off. It would serve her right. She went off the deep end when Gallant asked me to come along—especially since it was going to be her first time meeting his parents, recently back from their six month diplomatic trip abroad. Finally, she backed off when he told her it was more of a babysitting gig. I could occupy Calla while they enjoyed an “adult evening” with The King and The Queen.

The paved road leading into the King’s palace goes on for miles. Seated opposite Gallant, I stare at his handsome face. He looks tense. Almost withdrawn. He catches my eyes on him, and suddenly I feel embarrassed, like I’ve been trespassing on his private space. I quickly turn my head and peer out the window.

The palace comes into view and gets my mind off Gallant. It is a castle of monumental proportions—much grander than mine—with countless towers, turrets, and spires. Lit by the full golden moon, it resembles a gigantic, gilded jewel box.

A drawbridge leads to a stone gatehouse, where two armed guards greet us. They’re delighted to see The Prince and Calla. I get the feeling they are like family though they’re only hired help. Our carriage lets us off in front of the palace, where we’re met by a fleet of welcoming valets.

Inside, the palace is equally grand. It’s filled with fresco-painted walls, richly embroidered draperies, and sumptuously upholstered furnishings. Gilded touches are everywhere, including a massive candle-lit chandelier that hangs from the high vaulted ceiling. I bet it’s made of real gold.

An elderly, barrel-sized man, holding a golden staff, descends an elaborately carved gilded staircase. He is, undoubtedly, The King. He has the same sharp blue eyes as Gallant and, beneath his neatly trimmed beard, the same square jaw. And once upon a time, I bet he sported the same lean, athletic body.

“Grandpa! Grandpa!” shouts Calla. Her face lights up as she runs over to him.

“Bambina!” beams The King, lifting her high in the air.

Bambina? How odd to hear that word again after so many years. Could he possibly be the man who gave me a gold coin on that fateful day? Even if he were, he’d never remember. I’ll never forget.

“Hello, father,” says The Prince, his voice cold and distant. He’s clearly on edge tonight. What’s eating him?

“Son, introduce your guests to me says,” says The King.

Marcella tugs at her clingy green gown, then puffs her chest. “My love, what are you waiting for?” She elbows Gallant, jolting him out of his other worldliness.

The PIW cringes when he turns to me. “Jane, this is my father, King Midas.”

King Midas!? The Prince’s father is King Midas!? The ruler of the Midas Empire. The me behind the ME. The man with the golden touch, who owns just about everything in Lalaland, including my castle! My house is your house, I scream silently.

Every muscle in my body clenches as my mind transforms into a raging inferno with Midas trapped inside. I force myself to curtsey as I mentally char the bastard to a crisp. Nice to meet you, Mide-ass! Now, give me back my castle!

“I’ve heard so much about you,” says The King.

You won’t live long enough to find out more. I exert so much control to keep my mouth clamped—and my hands to myself—my neck may snap.

Marcella shoots The Prince a dirty look. “What about me?”

Hastily, Gallant introduces Marcella to his father, not mentioning she’s his fiancée.

“Enchantée, Your Majesty.” The PIW’s cannonballs shoot out of her deeply décolleté gown as she curtsies.

“The Prince didn’t tell me that you’re so svelte,” she says in the most sickening kiss-up voice I’ve ever heard.

“Oh, Marcella,” chuckles the hefty King, his eyes glued to her chest. “You know exactly what to say to make my day.”

And what to do. She loads her ammunition back into her gown.

A horrifying thought flies into my head. Holy crap! This slut will one day own my castle if I don’t get it back. Burning bile rushes to the back of my throat.

While Gallant remains silent and detached from the conversation, Calla jumps right into it, unaware of the turbulent emotions raging inside me. “Grandpa, Jane’s made a yummy pie with apples we picked at that spooky castle.”

“Ah, my new property,” says The Kings.

My old property, I seethe.

The bastard claps his thieving hands. “Splendid. I can’t wait to eat it!”

Dragonballs! Another missed opportunity. Had I known I was going to meet the property thief, I would have figured out a way to poison his slice of pie. One bite and he would have been history.

Marcella plumps up her breasts, then clears her throat with an attention-getting cough. “Your Majesty, I’ve also brought you a yummy dessert. Homemade vanilla cupcakes.”

Homemade cupcakes? You had me order them from Sparkles, you lying witch!

Marcella shoots me a nasty keep-your-mouth-shut look.

“I can’t wait to bite into one,” says The King, his eyes exactly where the skank wants them to be.

“Trust me, Your Majesty, after you eat one of my cupcakes, you’ll never want to eat that apple pie.”

Flaunting her boulder-size engagement ring, The PIW slaps me with a smirk. As much as I want to kill Midas, I want to kill her more. Much, much more.

“Grandpa, where’s Grammy?” asks Calla as we gather in the great room for pre-dinner cocktails.

“You know, Grammy,” chortles The King. “She can never make up her mind what shoes to wear.”

At that very moment, a buxom woman, with skunk-white hair and a scarlet satin gown, makes a grand entrance. “Hello, everyone,” she says in a thundering voice.

“Grammy!” Calla races over to hug her.

Wait! I know this woman. She’s the one Marcella battled at The Glass Slipper! For those glittery ruby slippers! She’s The Prince’s mother!? The wife of King Midas. Marcella’s future mother-in-law?

Marcella also recognizes her. Her body lurches forward, and her eyes almost pop out of their sockets. She seriously may have a seizure.

“This is my beautiful wife, The Queen of Hearts,” says King Midas affectionately.

Marcella practically tumbles out of her chair to curtsey.

To my astonishment, The Queen doesn’t recognize Marcella, who has her hair, blonder than ever, pulled back in a regal chignon. Maybe she’s blind as a bat or suffering from some extreme form of dementia. Whatever it is, she’s as gracious as can be. Relieved, Marcella plasters a sickening smile on her face and puts on her enchantée-I-speak-French act.

“Your Majesty, your shoes are so très faboo! You must tell me where you bought them.”

I want to vomit. Oh God. Can this night get any worse?

The banquet table in the grand dining hall is ornately set for eight. A huge vase of exquisite heart-shaped red roses graces the table. On the wall facing me is a striking, life-size portrait of The Queen. I recognize the artist’s hand instantly. Gallant. He has transformed his matronly mother into an immortal beauty—albeit, with a few nips and tucks.

We take our seats, but two chairs remain empty.

“Where is Cinderella and that other son of ours?” roars The Queen.

Prince Charming is Gallant’s brother? What other family surprises do I have in store?

“Dear, you know that Cinderella. She is always late,” replies The King.

The Queen pounds a fist on the table like a gavel. Everything shakes, including me.

“I’m going to sign that girl up for a time management class once and for all,” she says though clenched teeth. “In any event, we’re not waiting for them. I’m famished. Let’s eat!”

She still looks and sounds so familiar to me. But my mind is too jammed with Midas madness to figure out how I know her. I stop dwelling on it when an army of servants brings an elaborate meal to the table.

Wine begins to flows as The King and Queen pass an assortment of delectable tarts, purées, and breads. Being in the same room as Midas has killed my appetite. I feel sick. All I manage is some wine. I’m not alone. Gallant, seated across from me, isn’t eating either.

“We are vegetarians,” says The King, helping himself to a generous portion of everything. “Although sometimes I could die for a good leg of lamb.”

I make a mental note: Be sure to bring an entire lamb the next time you see the property thief. That is, if there’s a next time.

The Queen, draining her second goblet of wine, loosens up. “Dear, what have you done to your hair?” she asks Gallant, noticing for the first time that he’s wearing it loose, instead of in its usual ponytail. “I rather like it.”

Actually, I do too, my mood lifting just a little from the wine.

Gallant speaks for the first time since we’ve sat down. “Thank you, Mother. It is quite liberating.”

“Well, I think it makes you look like a girl!” grumbles The King.

Let me at him.

The Queen turns her attention to the skank. “Marcella, do you like croquet?”

“Mais oui. It’s one of my favorite dishes,” she mutters, stuffing her face.

Calla’s about to burst out in laughter but claps a hand to her mouth just in time. Despite myself, I want to laugh too.

“And how are the arrangements for the ball coming along?” continues The Queen after another gulp of wine.

Her Royal Skankiness barely looks up from her plate as she wolfs down her meal like a starved stray. I guess she forgot her “diet” potion.

“Oh, Jane’s handling all the details. She can tell you better than I,” she says, helping herself to another whopping serving of everything.

The Queen looks my way.

“Great,” I say. Great? The ball is only a week away, and there’s so much to do…flower arrangements, finalizing the menu, selecting the music…and let’s not forget squeezing Marcella into her ball gown. And squeezing the life out of Midas.

“Excellent!” says The King. “I’m expecting this to be our biggest-ever Faraway fundraiser.

Faraway? What does this ball have to do with Faraway? I thought it was to celebrate Gallant’s engagement to Marcella.

Then it hits me. Of course, Gallant’s going to announce their engagement to his parents tonight. I gulp. That’s what’s been on his mind.

“Father, Mother, I have an important announcement to make.”

And here it comes.

Marcella’s eyes light up like lanterns. She lurches so far forward her that her cannonballs graze the gravy on her plate. It’s her big moment. By tomorrow, her official engagement to The Prince will be headline news in the Fairytale Tattler. Everyone will know.

My heart sinks as the Prince rises.

“Father, I don’t want to rule the world; I want to paint it.”

My heart bounces back up. A tremor of excitement ripples through me.

“Son, what are you talking about?” shouts the shocked King.

Only Marcella is more horrified. Her jaw hangs wide open, her mouth spilling over with mashed up bits of turnip pie.

“I want to abdicate my right to the throne.” Gallant’s voice rings with confidence. “I want to be an artist, not a king.”

I smile; Marcella gags.

“I told you, dear, he took after my side of the family.” The Queen beams, eyeing her portrait and obviously pleased with her son’s decision. “He wants to use his God-given gift to make the world more beautiful. How marvelous!”

The King rants on. “Son, you have spent your entire life preparing to take my place!”

“No, Father,” responds The Prince, holding his own. “You have spent your entire life preparing me for a life I have never wanted.”

Oh God. He’s more handsome and powerful than ever. I desperately want to fling my arms around him and tell him how proud I am of him. Calla, too, is glowing with pride; almost nothing he does can disappoint her.

“Charming can rule the Kingdom. He’s perfectly capable,” continues The Prince.

Midas fumes. “Charming is such a cow—”

Marcella jumps up and cuts Midas off. She’s frothing at the mouth like she’s gone mad.

“My love, you’re out of your mind!” she shrieks. “You think I’m going to let that ditz Cinderella become Queen? You are going to become King, and I am going to be crowned Queen and that’s that!”

Suddenly, a guard charges into the room. My jaw drops. The Huntsman! The one person whose life I want to destroy more than Midas’s and Marcella’s combined. What is he doing here?

I break into a cold sweat. What if he recognizes me? He’ll tell them everything! I quickly hide my face in my napkin. To my relief, he pays no attention to me. Something far more urgent is on his mind.

“Your Majesty, the palace of Prince Charming and Cinderella has caught fire!”

“Have the stable boys prep the carriage. We must go at once!” commands The King, showing himself to be a fast-thinking, in-control leader.

“Have Calla stay behind with the help!” orders The Prince.

“No, Papa,” cries Calla. “I want to go with you.”

There’s no time for Gallant to argue with his little girl. I grasp her hand and follow the royal family out to their carriage.

“Jane, how dare you leave me alone with all this food!” shrieks Marcella. With her mouth stuffed, she joins us.

CHAPTER 30

As the King’s carriage races through the countryside, we huddle next to each other in silence. Even Marcella doesn’t say a word. I manage to smother my loathing for Midas by keeping my gaze focused on Gallant. His anxious eyes never leave mine.

Within minutes, the blaze is visible. Colossal puffs of orange smoke light up the night sky. As we get nearer, I see flames shooting out of the palace. Everywhere!

Upon entering the palace gates, the flames and turmoil freak out the horses, and we are forced to come to a halt. The Prince, the first to jump out, whips each of us out of the carriage. The smoke is intense; embers are flying everywhere. My eyes sting, and I cannot stop coughing. Calla, too, is choking. I drape her head with my shawl to protect her.

Chaos surrounds us. Servants and villagers run back and forth, armed with hoses and buckets of water to quell the flames. Some lead spooked animals away from the palace while others carry the royal couple’s salvaged treasures to safety.

“Brother!” chokes a voice in the near distance. It must be Prince Charming.

Gallant runs over to him. For a second, I think I’m seeing double. Except for his cropped hair, Charming is the spitting image of Gallant. They must be identical twins.

“Where is Cinderella?” asks Gallant.

“She’s still in the palace.” Charming winces as a villager wraps gauze around his raw, blistered hands. “I’m going back in to find her.” Coughing, he breaks away from his attendant.

Gallant holds him back. “Brother, you can’t in your condition. Let me go.”

“No!” roars The Queen. She blocks Gallant with her boulder-like body, but The King pulls her away.

“Gallant must do what he needs to do,” says Midas solemnly. He places his large hands on The Prince’s shoulders. “May God be with you, my son.”

Gallant embraces his father and takes off. As he sprints toward the blazing palace, he becomes a silhouette in the clouds of smoke.

“Papa, come back!” cries Calla, bursting into tears.

I lift her in my arms and hold her close to me.

“He’ll be okay, my sweet girl,” I say, smoothing her hair. The tongues of flames licking the sky tell me something else. The truth. The Prince may die! My heart almost stops as I squeeze back tears of my own.

Marcella marches up to me, shielding her face with her forearm. To be honest, I forgot about her.

“Where the hell is Gallant?” she hisses.

“Inside the palace, searching for Cinderella.”

“Stupid idiot!”

Is she outraged because Gallant may die or because he may rescue the future Queen? It doesn’t matter. She makes me sick. I need to get away from her. Still carrying Calla, I make my way through the bedlam over to The King and Queen. Standing close to Charming, they hold hands in silence, awaiting Gallant’s return. Worry is etched deep into their faces.

Suddenly, Midas bolts into action to help a villager fill up a bucket with water from the nearby well. Rolling up his sleeves, he immediately gets to work.

The King looks our way as he fills up yet another bucket. With a sincerity that moves me, he says, “We must help these kind, brave people put out the fire.”

“I want to help Grandpa,” says Calla, wriggling out of my arms. The Queen joins the courageous little girl, and putting my hatred of Midas on hold, so do I. Charming, too, pitches in despite his burnt hands. We’ve formed an assembly line. The King catches Marcella slinking by us and tosses her a bucket. “I can’t believe I’m doing a peasant’s job!” I hear her mutter.

The laborious work gets my mind off the fate of Gallant and Cinderella. I don’t stop, not even to wipe the sweat and soot off my face. And then, an enormous explosion almost knocks me off my feet. A fireworks-like display of embers shoots into the sky. Oh no! The main tower of the castle has collapsed!

“Cinderella’s private quarters!” cries Charming.

“Papa’s dead!” sobs Calla. I cradle her in my arms, but nothing I do or say can comfort her. An unbearable sadness swells inside me.

“We must call for a clergyman,” says The Queen, her eyes brimming with tears. The King, near tears himself, draws her in close. Grief, as mighty as love, has united them.

Something moving slowly toward us catches my eye. A disoriented beast? Blinded by the dense smoke, I can’t make it out. It gets closer, and finally, I can tell it’s a person…a man…and he’s carrying something…or someone…in his arms. Oh God! Please! Can it be…?

“Look!” I shout out, pointing in their direction.

“Papa!” It’s Papa!” cries Calla. She scrambles out of my arms and races toward him. The King, hopeful yet skeptical, commands the rest of us to stay put.

We wait anxiously in silence. The minutes pass like hours. At last, The Prince returns to us, carrying Cinderella in his arms and Calla piggyback style on his back. He’s weary and battered. Like a worn-out soldier returning from battle.

Our smoke-filled eyes connect. I so badly want to run up to him, caress his ash-covered hair, and bathe his seared face.

“Welcome back, son,” says The King, clearly proud of his heroic would-be heir. The relieved Queen gives Gallant a king-size hug.

“I thought I’d never see you again, my darling!” chokes Prince Charming, taking Cinderella into his arms. Even covered in head-to-toe soot, she’s stunning. A pang of jealousy stabs me. Yet another beautiful princess rescued by a handsome prince.

Marcella darts up to Gallant and dramatically throws her arms around him. “My love, you had me so worried. I simply couldn’t imagine my life without you!”

Of course, you were worried, you two-faced cow! You could imagine your life without him. NO humongous castle! NO closet full of extravagant gowns and matching shoes! NO kingdom to bow down to you. And NO Jane to do all your crap!

I’m burning up inside. The palace blaze meanwhile begins to subside. Miraculously, most of the castle has survived.

“Cinderella and Charming can stay with us while they rebuild their palace,” Midas tells the Queen.

I think about my palace. I want to hate this man for destroying it. Instead, I’m moved by his kindness and strength.

Thanking villagers and servants for their help, Midas leads the way back to our coach. We haven’t gotten far when a guard runs up to him. I don’t believe my eyes. The Huntsman. Again! I quickly lower my head, not trusting the thick smoke to mask my identity.

“Your Majesty, we have apprehended a suspect.”

“Bring him to me at once,” The King commands. “I want to know who he is.”

The Huntsman rushes off and then returns with the suspect in chains. Except the suspect is not a he; it’s a she. Holy crap! It’s Sasperilla!

“It’s you again!” says Prince Charming, his voice shaking. “I should have known. Why can’t you leave us alone?”

“I’ll never leave you two alone until you’re MINE!” shrieks the stalker, scary-skinnier than ever.

Foaming at the mouth, she lunges at Cinderella. The Huntsman, acting quickly, pulls her back. She lunges again. This time at me. Her wretched eyes clash with mine. She recognizes me! I stand frozen in time as she shoots me that same scathing smirk she’s sent my way so many times before.

I’m doomed! She’s going to reveal my identity. In a matter of moments, everyone will know I’m The Evil Queen! Just as the sicko’s parched lips part, The Queen of Hearts roars.

“Off with her head!”

Off with her head! Oh my God! I know how I know this woman. Of course! She’s the hotheaded judge who sentenced me to one hundred years in that dark, dreary dungeon! One hundred years! How could I forget? Her hair’s white now and she’s two chins thinner, but still. Maybe, I didn’t want to remember. But it’s no wonder she hasn’t recognized me. I am so different now.

A sudden chill in the air sends a shiver through me. Is this all meant to be? That The Prince’s father is the man who took away my castle….and his mother, the woman who took away my life. Seven years of it! I should destroy them for what they did to me. But strangely, I feel no hate. I feel no anger. All I feel is emptiness.

Midas wraps his ample arm around his wife. “Dear, let’s not go that far! You don’t want to go back to anger management classes.” The Queen inhales deeply and calms herself down as The King orders The Huntsman to take Sasperilla away. “Lock her up once and for all. No more second chances!”

Poor Elz! How will she feel when she finds out about her sister? At least, Midas spared the skinny bitch her life—and The Queen mine, once again, in a way. I breathe a deep sigh of relief. Safe for now. But how long will it be before my past is revealed? I can’t hide it forever.

The near-tragic night comes to an end. The King and The Queen walk toward the carriage, arm in arm. Prince Charming helps Cinderella mount his stallion and follows them. Gallant swoops up Calla in his arms and falls hopelessly under Marcella’s spell yet again.

I’m left standing all by myself. Once more, I’m that little girl. Alone in the dark. Afraid of evil.

CHAPTER 31

The day of the ball comes fast and furious. Though exhausted from all of Marcella’s demands, I wake up earlier than usual. Gallant’s already downstairs in the kitchen when I get there. He’s forgone his usual cup of tea, yet he’s especially upbeat and energized. Of course. Tonight, he and Marcella will at last officially announce their engagement to the kingdom. A heart wrenching pain hits me deep in my gut.

“Jane, there is something I need to show you,” Gallant says eagerly.

I try to beg off. The ball’s only hours away, and the last minute details are overwhelming. First on my list: Picking up Marcella’s gown from Emperor Armando. Okay. The truth. I can’t bear to be with him.

Gallant won’t take no for an answer. I bet it’s yet another last-minute thing Marcella wants done for the ball. I’m surprised when he instead leads me outside. His white stallion awaits us, ready to ride. He lifts me up onto the saddle, then mounts the majestic horse. This time I’m sitting in front of him, his brawny arms wrapped tightly around me. My heart is galloping. Where’s he taking me?

As the sun rises, we trot down a familiar path. I know—the path that leads to his studio. Great! I’d love to see his paintings again. Maybe he’s painted something new.

Gallant’s been a different person since breaking the news to his father about his true ambition. He smiles often and laughs. I’ve even heard him sing. What a voice! Best of all, to Marcella’s chagrin, he’s been spending a lot more time with Calla—playing with her, telling her stories, and helping her with her French. He even took her shopping at The Trove. Ha! You should have seen the expression on the PIW’s face when her future stepdaughter came back with a coach full of new clothes—including a gown for the ball. So much for Calla not going and me having to babysit her.

I was right. Gallant has taken me to his studio. He unlocks the door and lets the early morning sunshine slip in. The streak of light makes the paintings more radiant than I remember. My eyes bounce from one canvas to the next. Each, be it a portrait, landscape, or still life, moves me more deeply than before.

The studio smells different this time. I can’t identify the scent. Then I see an easel. Tubes of paint and various size brushes are scattered on it. Ah-ha. Gallant has begun to paint again.

In the back corner, the unfinished portrait of his late wife is still mounted on an easel and covered. Has he worked on it? Before I can ask, The Prince takes my hand and pulls me over to it. In a single swoop, he sweeps off the damask and reveals the canvas. Oh my God! I’m going to pass out!

Gallant has completed the portrait of his late wife. It’s a masterpiece. A woman, whose beauty is beyond all others, smiles at me as she picks a bouquet of lilies and roses. Her wavy dark hair is held back by a big red bow while her matching red cloak floats in the summer breeze. What’s most outstanding is her milky-white skin. It’s fairer than the blooms she’s holding.

The Prince beholds the painting with pride. “Jane, you inspired me to follow my dream, my passion. And to complete the painting that means the most to me.”

I’m paralyzed. I can’t get my mouth to move or my brain to think.

Gallant turns to me. “Jane, you look as if you have just seen a ghost. Are you okay?”

Am I okay? Is he kidding? I have seen a ghost. And not just any ghost.

“I’m a little overwhelmed by the painting,” I stammer. A little overwhelmed? That’s got to be the understatement of all times. I’m in a state of shock!

“Be honest, what do you think?”

I think I’m going to die! I can’t move. I can’t breathe. I can’t even feel my heart beating.

“Jane,” he continues, “I want to hear your thoughts. You have such a keen mind when it comes to art.”

“She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,” I manage to say.

“Yes, she was,” says Gallant with growing excitement. “Tell me more. What about the colors?”

“Th-they’re perfect,” I splutter. “Her skin’s as white as snow; her hair as black as ebony, and her lips as red as blood.”

“Amazing!” Gallant’s blue eyes sparkle. “That is exactly what I wanted to convey.”

The Prince pauses to smile at the portrait. “Jane, I am beholden to you. Completing this painting has made me feel whole again.”

I, on the other hand, feel like a million little pieces. Like a jigsaw puzzle that can’t be put together. Or a shattered mirror.

“I have even started to work on another painting,” he adds, his face beaming.

Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpse another large canvas across the room—the beginnings of another portrait. I’m too shaken to focus on it.

“I’ve got to go.” I hurry toward the door.

“Jane, wait!”

Gallant dashes after me. Hooking his arm around my waist, he stops me in my tracks. He spins me around and draws me to him. Our bodies meet. We’re so close I can’t tell whose heartbeat is whose. Cradling my face in one hand and holding me tightly against him with the other, he lowers his head and presses his lips on mine. Our tongues dance. A fire rips through my body, awakening every part of my being. It’s like nothing I’ve ever felt before. No matter how much I will it, our lips will not separate. To be truthful, I don’t want it to end.

Suddenly, The Prince pulls away. I feel like I’ve been catapulted out of a dream. My head is spinning, my body throbbing.

Gallant lowers his eyes and steps back. “I could not help myself. Please forgive me, Jane, if I have offended your honor or dignity.”

Offended me? I’ve just kissed the husband of the woman I tried to murder! My stepdaughter. Gallant’s wife. SNOW WHITE!

I spend the rest of the morning pacing the castle in a state of total panic. My lungs are burning; my stomach’s churning, and my head is whirling. I should be working on last minute ball preparations, but I’m too distraught from my shocking discovery. It’s all I can think about.

Why didn’t I figure it out? I should have known that The Prince’s late wife was Snow White. I mean, the clues were in my face. Right there in front of me!

Clue #1: Calla’s snow white skin; A dead give away; no pun intended.

Clue #2: Calla’s red velvet bow. They’re probably a dime a dozen, but still.

Clue #3: That despicable Huntsman showing up all the time. A coincidence? Not!

Clue #4: Those damn dwarfs. No wonder, they worked for The King.

Clue #5: That unforgettable night when The Prince, drunk out of his mind, called me Branch. Now, I know what he was trying to say—Blanche, French for white. Damn it! I wish my French didn’t suck.

Clue #6: The cottage-y feel of the Prince’s castle. Okay, it wasn’t giveaway, but still a clue.

Clue #7: The unfinished portrait. I should have recognized the outline of Snow White’s signature cloak and bow.

Clue #8: Marcella’s obsessive collection of old fairy-tale tabloids; they must be filled with Snow White gossip. Of course, she’d want to know everything about The Prince’s #1 wife. What #2 wife wouldn’t?

Clue #9: One of the most obvious clues of all. No RSVP to the ball from Snow White. Dead people don’t do balls.

Clue #10: My stupid-ass looking glass. No wonder, my “magic” mirror didn’t mention Snow White’s name in the dumpster. Duh! She was history!

And, of course, only her gorgeous little daughter Calla Rose could take her place. How could I be so stupid? So clueless? So totally clueless? If only in the dumpster, for that one time only, my mirror had been magic. It could have said something, and I wouldn’t be in this horrible, horrible mess.

Questions pummel me like rocks, each one coming harder at me than the one before. What am I going to do? How can I stay possibly stay here? What am I going to tell The Prince? And Calla? Oh, by the way, sweet girl, I forgot to tell you that I despised your mother and tried to kill her. Not once. But three times. Actually, four times if you count The Huntsman. Oh and do you want to hear something else? I kissed your Papa today! And guess what! I liked it!

Who am I kidding? I more than liked it! It wasn’t me who pulled away! Oh God, why did I have to run into The Prince this morning? Why did Shrink make me work at this castle? Why did I have to do rehab at Faraway? The Huntsman should have let me rot in that dungeon or done me in when he had the chance. None of this would have ever happened. None of it! This wasn’t meant to be!

I’m an emotional wreck. I desperately need to talk to someone. Someone who can help me navigate my way through this miserable maze of confusion, guilt, and shame. “Oh, Gallant, I’ve got a little confession to make…” No, NOT The Prince! I need someone like Shrink who could listen with her “third ear” and offer me advice.

What’s the point of dreaming? It’s futile. There’s no one I can talk to. No one. I’ve got to get my mind off what’s happened. “Hard work makes strong minds,” the Badass Fairies preached at Faraway. I compulsively start straightening and polishing everything in sight. When I glance down at the polished surfaces, I see my reflection. My evil self! Aagh! I try a couple of bars of “lalalala.” That’ll cheer me up. Forget it. I know. I’ll try meditating. Perhaps, if I can silence my mind, I can…

“JAAAANE!” My meditation is shattered by Marcella’s shrill scream. Still sitting cross-legged on the floor, I pop open my eyes and find her looming above me.

“Where’s my ball gown?” she snaps. “And what are you doing in that ridiculous position?”

Oh no! I’ve totally forgotten about Marcella’s gown. I’ve got to get to The Trove before it closes and pick it up from Emperor Armando.

The Trove! A glimmer of hope flashes before me. Yes! I’ll talk to Winnie and Elz. They’ll know what to do.

CHAPTER 32

“This is awful!” says Elz.

“It could be worse,” says Winnie.

“How could it be worse?” I gasp. I’ve just relayed my recent, life-shattering events at an emergency meeting with my two best friends at Sparkles. A plate full of chocolate cupcakes lingers on the table. No one has taken a bite.

Thumbing her lips, Winnie ponders my question. Finally, she says, “You’re right. This is bad. Very bad!”

Let’s face it. My life is a disaster. A living nightmare beyond all nightmares. “What should I do?” I plead to my friends.

Elz thinks I should tell Gallant the truth. The truth is always better than not telling the truth. I remind her of the time she confronted her mother with her true feelings and sent her to her grave. Tears well up behind Elz’s spectacles.

“How could you say that!” snaps Winnie. “Especially after what happened last week with Sasperilla.”

Yes, the fire was headline news. Elz bawled her eyes out over her sister’s heinous crime. I hate myself for making the cruel comment about her mother. I apologize. I’m not in my right mind.

Truthfully, I’d be better off dead. I should stick my head in the hearth or jump into the lake with a boulder strapped onto my body. Wait! It’s simple. I can whip up an evil potion—I’m sure I can rustle up the right ingredients—and chug it. I’ll fall to the ground and die instantly. People will say I died by my own hand. She got what she deserved. That’s it…

“I’m going to kill myself!”

“SHUT UP!” shout Winnie and Elz in unison. I’ve never seen them so angry with me.

“You’re being irrational,” says Winnie. “There has to be a reason why this is all happening.”

I adore Winnie, but I’ve had it with her “everything’s meant to be” attitude. Shrink had no clue what she was doing when she placed me in the Prince’s household. There’s only one reason this is happening: I’m evil! I’m being punished for all the terrible things I’ve done.

“Come on, Jane. Look on the bright side,” she continues.

And enough with this bright side crap. For once, can she not say that? There is no bright side. I want to explode! Self-destruct!

“Winnie has a point,” chimes in Elz. “He kissed you.”

Oh God, the kiss! That unforgettable kiss. A fire resurges inside my body.

“What was it like?” asks Elz, with wide-eyed curiosity.

My heart pounds madly. The truth is, I’ve relived it all day. His mouth parting my mouth, my breath warmed by his, our bodies one.

“I can’t explain it.” The magical kiss that saved Snow White has awoken every fiber of my being. Yet, I’m at a loss for words.

“Why do you think he kissed you?” asks Winnie.

I don’t know. I just don’t know.

“I’ll tell you why,” says Winnie. “Because he’s in love with you.”

Her words reverberate in my head. The Prince…in love with me?

“And you, girlfriend, are in love with him.”

Me…with him? Why does Winnie always have to be right? Oh my God! I am! I’m in love!

I burst into tears. Unstoppable, scalding tears.

“What should I do?” I splutter. “He’s marrying Marcella!”

“Don’t let him go,” says Elz. “Your prince comes along only once in a lifetime.”

How does she know? Hook doesn’t count.

“Elz is right,” says Winnie, the relationship guru. “Don’t let him go.”

Don’t let him go. The words whirl around in my head and cloud my thoughts. Only one thing is clear. If Gallant were mine, I could never live with myself knowing what I did to Snow White. Never. A greater force has conquered my desire. My conscience.

Remembering Marcella’s gown, I leap up from the table without saying good-bye to my friends. Or thanking them for their advice. This time, girlfriends and chocolate did not have magical powers.

With tears storming down my face, I stagger about the mall, unsure if I’ll make it to The Ballgown Emporium. I hate Marcella but hate myself more. So much more.

Armando’s Ballgown Emporium is pure mayhem. It’s packed with last minute shoppers, buying gowns for the ball. As I stumble into the store, I bump smack into The Queen of Hearts. Folded over her blubbery arm is an extravagant heart-print gown.

Trying to stay calm, I hastily curtsey before her. I keep my head bowed, hoping she won’t notice my tear-soaked face. She doesn’t.

“My dear, are you here to pick up your gown for the ball too?”

She actually thinks I’m going to the ball? Me? The woman whose head she wanted for the attempted murder of her late daughter-in-law?

My lips quiver. “Um, I’m actually here to pick up Marcella’s gown.”

“I understand she and Gallant are making a very important announcement tonight.”

I fight back tears. Of course. Their engagement before the entire kingdom.

“Ta-ta,” says The Queen with a dainty little wave. “See you at the ball.”

Aided by a swarm of sprightly pixies, Armando is crazy busy with last minute alterations. He has a tape measure around his neck; a pair of shiny scissors in one hand and, in the other, a felt cushion filled with pins and colorfully threaded needles. Oh God! Why does the pincushion have to be a big red apple with bright green leaves? And remind me of Snow White?

As I’m verging on another onslaught of tears, The Emperor spots me. He sashays up to me, planting his signature kiss on both cheeks.

“Dahling, what’s wrong?” he asks. “You look like you’ve lost the love of your life.”

I have lost the love of my life. How did he know that? I catch a glimpse of myself in one of the mirrored walls. With my swollen red eyes and tear-streaked cheeks, I look beyond terrible. This is all too much for me.

“I’m here to pick up Marcella’s gown,” I say feebly, averting his question.

“I just finished it!” He orders his pixie assistants to retrieve it.

With a thumbs up, the tiny fairies zip off. In seconds, they’re back with the red satin gown. It takes more than a dozen of them to hold up the twenty-foot train, their wings drooping from the sheer weight of it. The Emperor relieves them of their burden.

“Isn’t it to die for!” he gushes.

Totally. It’s a work of art! Marcella will indeed be the belle of the ball. And how fabulous she’ll look on Gallant’s arm. Tears flood my eyes yet again.

The Emperor carefully places the gown inside a long, protective muslin bag and folds it over my arm. It’s almost as heavy as my heart.

“Dahling, I must go.” He gives me a big hug. “I’ll see you later.”

Later? He must mean when Marcella shows up tomorrow to order her custom wedding gown. My blood churns.

“And dahling, please don’t cry. It’s so bad for your complexion,” he shouts out as he rushes off to help a princess in distress.

Dragging the gown, I slump out of the store. A flurry of pixies surrounds me.

“Lalalala!” they sing in perfect harmony. “You’ve just won our Be Our Guest sweepstakes.” One of them hands me a flyer.

HOORAY FOR YOU!

Be our complimentary guest at The Enchanted Spa.

Offer expires Sept. 30th

September 30th? That’s today! My chest tightens. What am I going to do? The ball is just hours away. I’ve got to get back to the castle with Marcella’s gown. And get her ready.

I read on about the spa’s services…a relaxing aromatherapy massage with magic hot crystals…a soothing mineral bath in their mermaid lagoon…a deep cleansing facial. And that’s just for starters.

God, this sounds divine. And it’s all mine—FREE! Temptation gnaws away at me. Maybe, I can squeeze in a visit—it’s exactly what I need to clear my head and figure out my complicated mess of a life. A little voice in my head says, “Go for it!” “GO FOR IT!” it says again, this time louder. Yes! Hooray for me! My decision is made.

The Enchanted Spa is all that I remember it to be and more. A luxurious, tranquil wonderland with creamy marble walls and floors, gurgling fountains, and lush lounging areas. Scented candles are everywhere.

Several gorgeous princesses, holding muslin bags like mine, are reading beauty magazines on a plush velvet divan. One of them looks up at me and makes a horrified face. Do I look that bad?

I recognize the front desk receptionist—that peachy-skinned nymph from my previous brief visit. Her head is buried in her reservation book. “What time is your appointment?” she asks me, without lifting her head.

“I don’t have one.”

“Sorry. We’re all booked up today because of the ball.”

I slap the flyer down in front of her. She takes one look at me and shakes her head. “I’ll squeeze you in.”

I must look that bad. My fairest days are definitely over.

“Beauty is our duty,” says Miss Peaches and Cream. She tosses me a white fluffy robe and whisks me off to my first treatment…a deep cleansing facial.

Inside a small, sterile room, an attractive woman, who calls herself Fiora, plunks me down on a pink leather reclining chair. She applies a hot towel to my face. It feels good.

“Beauty is pain,” she says. Removing the towel, she squeezes my pores.

OWW! She wasn’t kidding.

“Your complexion is beautiful,” she says, still poking my face. “I know so many princesses who would kill to have skin like yours.”

The irony of her words tenses up every muscle in my body. I think of Snow White again. Of how I so envied her fair skin. Her incomparable beauty. I wanted her dead, out of my way. My body quakes. How can I ever face Gallant again?

I can’t get Snow White out of my head. That is, until Fiora transforms into an ogress right before my eyes. I almost fall off the chair from shock.

“Don’t freak. It happens every day at this time,” she says. “My husband loves me this way. He’s an ogre too.”

I don’t want to know more. Then I make a connection. That dumb-ass dungeon guard—more bad memories!—was an ogre. He told me his wife worked at a spa and got all the latest beauty magazines free. It had to be Fiora! This is too freaky. Why is this all happening?

Fiora slaps my face. “Very good for circulation.” Then she tells me my facial is over.

I can barely stand up. My face stings. And my body is a contorted bundle of nerves. Maybe coming here was a bad idea.

“You desperately need a massage,” says Fiora.

No kidding.

She escorts me to another similar room where Urma, a brawny woman with inky-blue spiked hair and a strand of coral beads around her neck, awaits me. She has eight strapping arms like an octopus. I guess the more the better for a killer massage.

She orders me to remove my robe and lie face down on a body-length, padded table. I take off everything except Shrink’s mirrored locket and Rump’s name bracelet. These gifts never leave me. Ever.

“Are you going to zee ball tonight?” Her heavily accented voice is deep and raspy.

“Yes,” I lie. I’m in no mood for conversation.

“It eez fundraiser for Faraway,” she says. “Very worthwhile cause. I was sea witch before rehab there.”

Octo-mama’s a Faraway grad? This is beyond weird.

“You, very stressed out.” She rubs some warm, soothing oil on my back. “I give you Urma’s enchanted deep tissue massage.”

With her eight powerful hands, she begins to knead my body like dough. Angst oozes out of me. I’m beginning to feel relaxed and wonderful. I only hope she doesn’t imagine her worst enemy and press too hard. Too late! I yelp as she pounds the base of my spine. Surprisingly, she releases a lot of tension.

Halfway into the massage, she scatters hot crystals on my back. “Sea salt,” she says.

The crystals must be magic because all my problems miraculously melt away. I feel like a new person.

“I throw een aromatherapy for you.” She dabs some warm oil under my nose. “Take deep breath and relax.”

I inhale. The aroma of the oil rushes into my nostrils and jolts me upright. It’s a blend of lilies and roses. The essence of Snow White! My anxieties charge back into my body like an onslaught of flaming arrows.

Urma tells me I look faint; she says many of her clients get lightheaded after her deep tissue massages. “You need restorative mineral bath—hydrotherapy.”

Wrapping her eight strapping arms around me, she practically carries me to my next stop—a tropical lagoon. A dozen gorgeous twenty-something women are soaking in the hot, bubbly water—probably all rich, spoiled princesses wanting to be the fairest at the ball. One of them is a pretty redheaded mermaid who waves at Urma, then at me. I ignore her.

Holding onto Urma to steady myself, I glide into the bubbling bath. AAAHH! The warm, soothing water unlocks every muscle in my body. I feel wonderful again.

Closing my eyes, I let the therapeutic water wash away all my worries. At last, there’s no more Gallant, no more Marcella, and no more Snow White living in my head. I’m in a state of total nirvana.

A cheery voice snaps me out of my mindlessness.

“Hello,” says a spa fairy, carrying a gilt tray. “Can I offer you a refreshing apple?

A refreshing apple!? I almost vomit. The last thing I want to eat is an apple! Forget massage therapy, aromatherapy, or hydrotherapy. I need real therapy. I need Shrink! Help! Get me out of this place!

But I can’t leave. I’m a prisoner. Two portly one-eyed ogres yank me out of the water and drag me to the sauna. One of them pours water over the hot rocks. The other adds a drop of eucalyptus, a scent I recognize from Faraway’s Enchanted Forest. An invigorating steam fills the chamber.

Sitting on a cedar bench, I inhale deeply. On the exhale, I once again feel tension release from every part of my body. A woman, wearing a white towel, matching turban, and blue facial mask, sidles over to me. The steam clouds my vision, but I can tell she could stand to drop a few pounds. Or more.

Plopping down next to me, she says, “I bet you’re going to the ball tonight.”

That voice! I recognize it instantly. Oh no, no, no, no, no! It’s Marcella! What is she doing here? Then I remember. When we went shopping, I arranged a spa day for her—on the afternoon of the ball—just like she requested on her To-Do List.

In a panic, I bury my head between my sweaty knees so she doesn’t recognize me.

“It’s going to be divine. I planned the whole thing myself,” she continues.

You planned it? You didn’t do a damn thing, you lazy cow.

“What are you wearing?” she asks.

“Something plain and simple,” I mumble, masking my voice. “I’m actually a reporter covering the event for the Fairytale Tattler. What made me say that?

“Perfection! Emperor Armando custom-designed my gown. You’re going to die when you see it.”

I have seen it. And you’re not going to be able to get your fat ass into it!

“Well, since you’re a reporter for the Tattler, I might as well give you the scoop since my waste-of-time assistant didn’t.”

Her waste-of-time assistant!? I want to drown her in her sweat.

“Tonight, Prince Gallant’s going to make a very important announcement.”

A very important announcement. The exact words spoken earlier by The Queen of Hearts.

“He’s going to say ‘I do’ in front of the entire kingdom. Well, at least, everyone who’s anything. We’re getting married!”

They’re getting married? Her words hit me like a firing squad. I’m going to black out.

“You’re hyperventilating,” says Marcella. “You’ve probably been in here too long.”

Way too long. I can’t cope with this. Any of it! I’ve got to get out of here. Now!

Dripping with sweat, I spring to my feet and sprint out of the sauna. Marcella’s shrill voice trails behind me. “See you at the wedding.”

The spa was a bad idea. A really, really bad idea.

CHAPTER 33

“Where have you been?” shrieks Marcella. “And why does your skin look better than mine?”

I shuffle into her chamber, her red gown in its bag draped over my arm. I don’t know or care how she got back to the castle before me. My shock, rage, and despair have succumbed to numbness.

Clad in her feathered leopard negligee, she’s seated at her vanity, doing her makeup. I catch a glimpse of her face in the mirror. With her plaster-white skin, blood-red lips, and serpentine brows, she looks more like a monster in the making than a bride-to-be.

“I spent a fortune at that ridiculous spa,” she hisses. “Why didn’t you make them throw in free makeup and hair?”

Choosing to ignore her, I silently hang the bag with her gown over her closet door. Her chamber is a pigsty. It’s as if never existed. Her bed’s a mess; clothes are strewn everywhere, and fairy-tale tabloids are scattered all over the floor. Straightening things up, I come across an old front-page story that makes my heart jump:

SNOW WHITE TESTIFIES:
EVIL QUEEN DOOMED!

A Fairytale Tattler Exclusive by H.C. Anderson

The Evil Queen, charged as a possible suspect in the near-fatal poisoning of Snow White, was convicted today. Minutes before sentencing, Prince Gallant, who saved the beautiful princess—often thought to be the fairest in the land—told reporters, “I hope The Evil Queen gets what she deserves.”

Oh, God. I have gotten what I deserve. Death would have been a kind punishment compared to what I’m suffering now. I force myself to read on.

Medical tests have revealed that The Evil Queen poisoned Snow White with a rare snake venom, that caused her to go into a deadly, deep sleep.

Snake venom? Wait a minute. This shoddy reporter got his facts all mixed up. My evil potion, the one I used for the apple, was made with powdered stinkweed, bulbadox juice, and dragonstone extract. I didn’t use any snake venom. Not a single drop!

Before I can read more, Marcella eyes me in the corner of her vanity mirror. “This is no time to be reading gossip magazines!” she snaps. “You’re supposed to be dressing me!”

I let go of the magazine and slump over to her gown. Carefully, I remove it from the garment bag. The long train puddles on the floor.

Marcella gives it the once-over. “Perfection! Now, get me into it.”

Ripping off her negligee, she exposes her corseted body. My eyes pop. Who knew what really lurked beneath that towel in the sauna. Her tummy bulges as if it’s hiding a loaf of bread; saddlebags line the sides of her cottage cheese thighs, and her cannonballs are the size of small planets. She’s easily gained fifteen pounds, thanks to my high caloric diet potion. Yet, another one of my brilliant plans gone bad. Getting the skank into her slinky gown is going to be a lot harder than I imagined. A contest of mind over matter. War.

Then, ding, a little bell goes off in my head as I’m undoing the fastenings. So what if it doesn’t fit her? She won’t have a wedding gown. No gown. No wedding. I’ll be the victor. And to the victor belongs the spoils. Could I…?

“What are you waiting for?” growls Marcella, cutting my tempting thoughts short. Impulsively, she grabs the gown out of my hands and steps into it, feet first. She slides it up her legs. Damn it. So far, so good. But once it gets to her hips, it won’t budge. Not even an inch.

“Do something!” she screams.

“Squeeze your butt. And suck in your gut,” I tell her. Good luck.

Ha! No matter how hard she squeezes or sucks, the dress won’t give. Losing her patience, she begins to yank at it, stretching it in every direction. The taut sound of seams bursting sends a shiver down my spine.

No matter how much I hate her, no matter how much I cannot bear the thought of her marrying Gallant, I can’t let her destroy Armando’s masterpiece. I can’t. With both hands, I pull the dress down. It bunches on the floor like a red ball of fire.

“What have you done?” she screeches. “I’m going to be late for the ball!”

She splays her knuckly fingers across the bulges of her corseted hips. Eyeing her monstrous, flashy diamond, I get an idea. A brilliant one.

“This is going to work.” I smile wickedly. With a single yank, I pull in the strings of her corset, so tightly that her eyes bulge out of their sockets.

“What are you doing?” she gasps.

Isn’t it obvious? I’m suffocating you, wench!

Marcella moans. A memory of Snow White flickers in my head. This is exactly how I once tried to kill her. I tremble and quickly loosen Marcella’s corset.

She lets out a deep breath.

What’s wrong with me? I just had the opportunity to kill the woman who’s made my life so miserable and is marrying the man I love. But I didn’t.

Marcella’s expression turns to rage. “Get the dress on me. Now!”

My eyes travel up and down her distorted body. It’s time for a new plan of attack. I tell her to step out of the gown that lies crumpled at her feet.

“Now what?” she snaps.

I detach the long red satin train and lay it lengthwise on her bed. Then carefully, I slip the gown over Marcella’s head and gently pull it down.

“You’re going to ruin my hair and makeup!” she shrieks.

Truthfully, I’m much more concerned that her over-the-top makeup will ruin Armando’s work of art. I pass the first hurdle—getting the gown past her cannonballs. Very carefully, I edge it over her balloon of a belly. Success again. And then, the final challenge—getting it past her fat ass. Slowly, with little tugs, I manage to lower the gown to her feet. The feeling of victory eludes me as I reattach the twenty-foot train.

Shoving me aside, she struts up to her vanity and admires herself in the mirror, oblivious to her rolls and bulges.

“Perfection!” She blows a kiss at her reflection. “Gallant will love it.”

The mention of Gallant’s name makes my heart ache. I fight back tears. Why didn’t I pull those strings until she dropped? Why?

“Jane, I need my shoes!”

I should have killed her.

Reluctantly, I search her room-size closet. There must be over three hundred boxes of shoes, stacked helter-skelter plus another two hundred pairs scattered all over the floor. Thank goodness for Elz’s innovative glass coffin shoeboxes. I spot the ruby slippers right way.

Marcella snatches the shoes from me as I step out of the closet. She cuddles them, then tosses them onto the floor. I enjoy every grunt and groan as she tries to squeeze her big feet into the dainty shoes. No luck. She tries stretching them to make the fit. No luck.

“Jane!” she yells. “My feet are swollen. Why didn’t you get me a foot massage?”

Ha! She’ll never get her Size 9 feet into the Size 6 shoes.

“Don’t just stand there! Get me a bucket with hot water so I can soak my feet!”

Biting my lip to keep from laughing, I scurry to her powder room.

When I return with a bucket of water, Her Royal Skankiness is glued to her bed, massaging her red, swollen feet. I set the bucket on the rug. She plunks her feet inside.

“AAAAGH! This water’s scalding hot.” She yanks her feet out of the bucket.

I deserve a big laugh after all I’ve been through today, but I refrain.

“Quick! Get me my Miracle Foot Potion,” she shouts. “It’s in the medicine cabinet.”

I hurry back to the powder room. I search the cabinet above her sink but only find makeup. About to leave empty-handed, I notice that the large cabinet against the wall, which is usually locked, is ajar. Could her Miracle Foot Potion be inside?

Whoa! This is no ordinary medicine cabinet. It’s practically a factory of potions, lotions, and herbs. Crammed with my bogus Lose Pounds Fast diet potion is a slew of other magical potions. To name just a few:

Forever Young Youth Potion: Knock years off your age. Use daily for best results.

I shake the bottle. There’s nothing left.

B-Cup No More Potion: Rub gently on breasts and watch them grow before your eyes. CAUTION: DO NOT OVERUSE.

Obviously, the skank didn’t read the warning.

Smooth and Silky Skin Potion: Apply liberally all over. Gets rid of dry scaly skin. Important! Use frequently to prevent scaly build up and recurrence.

Go-Blond and Beautiful Hair Potion: Covers unsightly gray and leaves hair manageable. Blondes have more fun!

I knew it! She’s one big fake! Her hair, her skin, her boobs. And I’m sure that’s not all. I shudder. I bet her love for The Prince is fake too! But what does it matter? She’s marrying him in a matter of hours. Sadness and despair tear through me again. I clench my stomach.

“Jane, what’s taking you so long?” I hear Marcella screech. “I need my Miracle Foot Potion!”

I try to focus. Randomly, I pick up another bottle.

Love Potion #13: Put magic into your relationship. Brew daily for long-lusting results. Expires 9/30

I wrench it open. The scent of the herbs rushes to my nose. I recognize it instantly—a blend of orange blossoms, rose petals, and lavender. The tea Gallant drinks for breakfast! Oh my God! Marcella has had him under a spell! What am I going to do? The effects wear off today, but it may be too late!

Marcella screams at me again. Panic-stricken, I grab another bottle.

Magic Lip Plumper Potion: Apply liberally for fuller, more kissable lips. He won’t be able to resist!

Choke! The thought of Gallant kissing Marcella sends me over the edge. I want to rip the slut’s phony fat lips right off her face, pull out her bottle-blond hair, and punch her inflated boobs. I feel evil! So over-the-top evil! And there are no little voices in my head telling me what not to do. Damn it! Why didn’t I create a potion to end her life a long time ago?

Brainstorm! One of these potions has to be poisonous, and I’m going to find it. I’ll take the slut by surprise and force it down her throat. Drink it and die, bitch! I can’t wait to see her take her final breath. I’ll blow her a kiss good-bye. Then I’ll cover my tracks with a fake suicide note. Something simple like…Dear People: Changed my mind about marrying The Prince. He didn’t really love me. So I took my life. Love—M.

Yes! I’m back to being an evil genius! So much for rehab. It was a total waste of time.

Madly, I tear through the racks of potions, examining one bottle after another. Damn it! Nothing! Then, unexpectedly, I come upon her foot potion.

Miracle Foot Potion: Heals, soothes, and smoothes swollen feet. Satisfaction Guaranteed.

I look closely at the fine print. Caution! Poison! Keep out of the reach of children!

The sweet irony of it all! It’s funny how things sometimes work out for the best.

I wrench the bottle open and take a whiff. Whoof! Nasty stuff. I can’t wait to pour it down the skank’s throat. Ha! I’m finally going to give her a dose of her own medicine. A fatal one!

Suddenly, my hands shake. Violently. The bottle slips out of my fingers and crashes to the floor, cracking in half. A rancid odor fills the room as I numbly watch the potion snake across the tiles.

“Look what you’ve done!” screeches a voice behind me.

I wheel around. Marcella. Barefoot in her red gown. The train trailing out the door.

“Rub some on my feet. Now!” Her voice is as toxic as the potion.

Still quivering, I squat down and smear the potion all over her skanky feet. I ask myself for the second time: Why? Why didn’t I kill her when I had the chance?

A nauseating mixture of confusion, anger, and despair seeps into my veins as Marcella hobbles back to her chamber. She plops down on her bed. The dainty ruby shoes sit on the floor, waiting for a pair of feet to claim them.

I confess. I haven’t prayed since I was a child. Why bother when my prayers for a loving mother were never answered. Now, it’s all I can do. To pray. To pray that her Miracle Foot Potion doesn’t work. That she’ll never be able to get her bone-ugly feet into the dainty ruby slippers. It’s the only hope I have left to stop her from going to the ball. And from marrying Gallant before the effects of her love potion wear off.

I hold my breath as she steps into the shoes. She wiggles her feet; she pushes. She wiggles again, pushes harder. She grunts. She groans. I smile slyly, but not for long. To my utter astonishment, the skank manages to stuff her big, red, puffy feet into the little slippers.

“Ha!” She smiles triumphantly. “They fit like a glove.”

A miracle. My heart sinks like a boulder.

Marcella parades again before the mirror. I hate that mirror! I want to bash it. Instead, I dash out of her chamber before I dare do it.

Marcella screams at me. “Get back here!” I shut my ears to her shrill cry.

After tonight, Marcella will no longer be a PIW. She’ll be a real princess. Gallant’s princess. Tears spill from my eyes.

Marcella yells out to me again. “Jane, one last thing. Remind me to fire you after the ball.”

Gallant is downstairs at his desk, sketching. My heart flutters. How handsome he looks in his navy velvet suit and white blousy shirt, opened far enough to expose his tawny, chiseled chest. He gazes up at me with a fleeting smile. I blink back tears and meet his eyes. I so desperately want to run over to him and sink my body in his. The only thing that’s stopping me is shame. That and the fact that he’s marrying another in a matter of hours.

Calla skips down the staircase and breaks our tense silence. Clutching Lady Jane in one hand, she runs over to her father to give him a hug. Her beauty has no equal. In fact, she’s more beautiful than ever, in the gown Gallant bought her—a white lacy confection that’s accented with a yellow satin sash. The sash matches her golden curls, that are held back by her ever-present red velvet bow…the bow that once must have belonged to Snow White. How much she resembles her mother, with her flawless alabaster skin, rosebud lips, and twinkling chocolate eyes. An insufferable pang of guilt stabs me. How could I have…?

“Jane, why aren’t you dressed for the ball?” asks Calla.

Caught off guard, I falter for an excuse.

“Big parties are not my thing.” That sounded stupid.

“But you came to my birthday party!” She’s got me.

“I don’t really know how to dance.” That sounds better though not true.

“I can teach you!” She’s got me again.

“I have nothing to wear.” Well, that’s the honest truth.

“You can borrow something from Marcella.” She’s got a point.

“I don’t think she’d like that,” I stammer. Truthfully, I can’t imagine myself in any of Marcella’s sleazy gowns. Except for The Emperor’s magnificent creation with a few major alterations.

Aware she’s getting nowhere with me, Calla turns to her father and implores him to make me go the ball. I wonder if she knows that it’s more than a ball. That tonight she’s getting a new mother. Marcella!

Gallant’s face lights up. “Jane, it would be an honor to have you as my guest.”

My gaze meets his. I’m burning up with desire. Even my conscience can’t quell the flames.

“Thank you, My Lord,” I say, holding back tears and my body. “But honestly, I don’t want to go.” Liar! “Plus, I can use the night off to catch up on some of Marcella’s chores.”

“Did I just hear my name?” comes a coy voice from the staircase.

Marcella! She slithers down the steps, the long train of her gown trailing behind her.

“My love, do you like it?” she asks, stopping to pose in front of her husband-to-be.

Color drains from Gallant’s face, and his eyes morph into sharp blue daggers. I’ve never seen him like this before. Can her spell possibly be over?

“Where did you get that?” he demands, his voice powered by anger.

“At The Ballgown Emporium. It’s an Emperor Armando original.”

“No, that!” He points to the long red velvet cloak that she’s added to her ensemble. I recognize it immediately and shudder.

“Oh, I borrowed it from your closet. It goes so well with my outfit. Don’t you agree, my love?”

“Take that off. NOW!” Each word is a sharp staccato. “That cloak belonged to Snow White!”

“Whatever,” says Marcella, not the least bit miffed. She unhooks the fastening and lets the cloak slide off her.

The Prince catches it before it falls to the floor. Cradling it in his arms, he lowers his lips to it. My body goes numb. This time his kiss will not magically bring back Snow White from the dead.

Gallant turns to me. Guilt and shame consume me. I can’t look at him.

“Jane, please put this cloak back where it belongs after we leave,” he says stiffly.

“Yes, My Lord.” I cannot tell him how much I dread touching it.

As he hands me the cloak, our fingers interlock over the blood-red velvet. His heat courses through my veins, searing every part of me. I try to pull my hand away, but he won’t let it go.

“Jane, please come to the ball,” begs Calla again, this time clasping her little hands in prayer. “Pretty please with a cherry on top?”

“Get over it child,” snaps Marcella before shooting a wicked smile my way. “Servants do not attend wed—I mean, balls.”

Her words slice me like blades. I turn my head so neither Gallant nor Calla can see the tears forming in my eyes.

“We’re late!” shrieks Marcella. She yanks The Prince away from me and shoves Calla to the front door where their coach awaits them. Calla glances back at me, unable to mask her disappointment.

I long for Gallant to turn his head.

He doesn’t. He doesn’t. He does!

I hold his gaze in mine as if I’ll never see him again. Then he’s gone.

“These shoes are killing me,” I hear Marcella moan outside. So much for “Satisfaction Guaranteed.” I hope you suffer all night!

Clickety clack. Clickety clack. The sound of the coach fades into the distance. I bury my head in Snow White’s lifeless cloak and cry.

CHAPTER 34

The cooks have the night off. Technically, I have the night off, too, since Marcella’s not here. I should enjoy my freedom, but instead, the great swimmer is drowning in a sea of sorrow. The thought of Gallant marrying that woman is suffocating me, pulling me under. But what does it really matter? Even if he doesn’t really love her. A colossal wave of hopelessness washes over me. The truth is, I can’t hide from my past forever. Eventually, Gallant will find out. The minute he learns that I’m The Evil Queen, the witch who tried to kill his beloved late wife, I will no longer be Jane. My life, as I know it now, will be over. I’ll be as dead to him as Snow White.

Tears pour down my face. I don’t know if it’s heartache or shame. There’s only one thing I can do. I cannot wait until Marcella fires me. Or until my past is revealed. I must leave this house at once. Before Gallant returns from the ball. Before I ever have to face him again.

With my eyes watering, I pack my bag. It doesn’t take long as I have few belongings. Where will I go from here? With my castle a forgotten dream, I’m not sure. All I know is that by morning, I will be far away, moving on to another chapter of my life. Putting this all behind me.

Just one last thing I have to do—write The Prince a note. He deserves to understand my actions. And maybe, just maybe, it will give me a sense of closure.

Slowly, I make my way to his desk, every step an effort. The sketch he was working on faces me. It’s a portrait of Calla. My beautiful, sweet girl. Carefully, I tear it out from his pad and place it in my bag next to my treasured “Best Friends Forever” card from Elz. I’ll cherish my memories of Calla forever.

Lowering myself to his desk chair, I gently tear out a clean sheet of parchment from the sketchpad and put a quill to it.

“Dear Gallant,” I begin. This is not easy. Tears flood my eyes and fall onto the words I’ve written. I watch as they dissolve into an illegible black blur, a fitting reminder of my miserable life.

I rip out another sheet and start over. Brushing my tears away, I write my farewell letter.

Dearest Gallant~

By the time you read this letter, I will be gone. I can no longer bring myself to stay in this house and be of service to you and your family.

I have a confession to make. Several years ago, I caused your late wife Snow White great harm. It’s too painful for me to go into the details, but rest assured, I am profoundly sorry for the grave damage I caused. I can only pray that you’ll find the strength in your heart to forgive me.

I will never forget my stay here and the kindness you have shown me. Most of all, I will miss Calla. She’s a very special little girl. Please give her my love and take good care of her. I hope you and Marcella live happily ever after.

Forever~Jane

I put down the quill and read over my letter. Tears blur my vision, but I’m careful not to let them spill onto my words. They’re perfect, but what made me write “Forever~Jane”? I could have signed it, “Sincerely,” or “Best Wishes,” or even “Good-bye.” Instead, I chose “Forever.” Whatever. It’s written. I fold the letter, seal it in an envelope with my tears, and place it in the top desk drawer. Some day, My Prince will find it.

My tears subside. I take a deep breath and close my eyes. The ball. I can picture it in my head. All eyes are on Marcella in her gorgeous scarlet gown. On the outside, she’s all smiles, but inside she’s dying in her three sizes too small shoes. Suddenly, her feet give out. She’s going down! Yes! And then, no! Just in time, Gallant comes to her rescue, scooping her up in his arms. He carries her up to the altar where The King pronounces them husband and….

I snap open my eyes, and the dam holding back my tears crumbles. An endless river rages down my face. I wish I were at the ball! I wish I could stop Gallant from marrying Marcella! I wish! I wish! Damn it, Jane. Just admit it. I wish it were me!

I can’t stop the tears. Searching for something to wipe them away, I find one of Gallant’s handkerchiefs tucked inside a drawer. I dab my face. Its heavenly scent reminds me of the time he tenderly bandaged my burnt hand and brings on more tears. Other memories swirl around in my head. Our first encounter…My “sea monster” adventure with Calla…That outrageous night of drunken folly…And then, that one unforgettable kiss.

Oh, God. How I ache to peer into his jewel-blue eyes, to feel the ripple of his muscles beneath his shirt, to caress his saffron hair. Most of all, I want to kiss him. One more time before I leave. One last time. I no longer need to fool myself. I know why I signed the letter “Forever~Jane.” Because simply, I will always love him. Forever, as in as long as I live.

My tears puddle on the floor. Heaving, I tell myself I must leave. I must. I take a deep breath, and finally, I head toward the front door for the very last time. Good-bye, My Prince. Good-bye!

“Dahling, do you need another hankie?”

Startled to hear a familiar voice behind me, I spin around before I have a foot out the door. Standing before me is Emperor Armando, in a long white sparkly robe and a matching cone-shaped hat. A hankie is one hand and a shopping bag in the other.

My teary eyes are as round as marbles. “What are you doing here?” I sniffle.

He gives me his signature double cheek kiss. “Fashion guru by day; Fairy godmother by night.”

He’s a fairy godmother? Okay. Whatever. So happy to see him, I throw my arms around his bear of a body and bury my face in his cushy chest.

“Careful, dahling, don’t ruin my new outfit with your tears. It took weeks to make!”

I take his hankie and blow my nose. After one giant honk, my tears subside.

The Emperor looks me over. “My little muse, we’re going to have to work quickly to get you to the ball on time!”

The ball? I’m going to the ball? Huh!?

“Dahling, I hope you like it.” Like what? What is he talking about?

I’m even more mystified when The Emperor pulls out a shiny sewing needle from a pocket. “Say hello to my magic wand.”

He must be kidding.

He waves the needle over me. Just as I expected, nothing happens.

“I don’t get it.” He frowns. “I can work magic with a sewing needle at my emporium.”

“Maybe you have to say an incantation. Or it’s not big enough,” I murmur, skeptical of his powers.

“Good thinking, dahling.” He squeezes his eyes closed. “Ippity-bippity-boppity-boo. Make this needle as big as can be.”

“I thought incantations had to rhyme.”

The Emperor opens his eyes. “Cut me some slack, dahling. This is the first time I’ve come out as a fairy godmother. I haven’t gotten the rhyming part down.”

It doesn’t matter. The two-inch needle morphs into a two-foot glow stick! I gasp.

“Dahling, let’s try this again.” The Emperor waves the sparkling wand over me.

Nothing happens. I shrug my shoulders. Suddenly, a shower of fairy dust pours over me.

It is a magic wand! Before my eyes, my plain black dress transforms into a ball gown. An incredible ball gown!

“Whoever said ‘it’s not the size of the wand but the power of the magician that counts’ should have his head examined,” says The Emperor.

I gaze down at the gown. Two little spaghetti straps hold up a form-fitting bodice that gives way to cascading layers of silky black satin and tulle. Sparkles coat the top layer of tulle as if it’s been dipped in fairy dust. It’s the most magnificent dress I’ve ever seen.

“I call it my LBD—my Luscious Black Dress,” the Emperor gushes. “I designed it especially for you.”

“Can I really wear black to the ball?”

“Trust me, dahling,” says the Emperor. “Black is the new pink. When all those frou-frou princesses see you in it, it’ll be all the rage. I can’t bear to think of how busy I’ll be tomorrow!”

Tears of joy trickle down my cheeks. I expect the Emperor to brush them away, but instead he waves his magic wand over me one more time. I gasp again. My tears have turned into a magnificent pair of diamond teardrop earrings. They’re floating before my eyes.

“FAAAbulous!” Armando clips them onto my earlobes. “They go perfectly with your bling.”

I almost forgot about Shrink’s locket. Still around my neck, it grazes my beautiful gown.

The Emperor glances down at my feet. “Sugarplum fairies! I almost forgot…these are from Elzmerelda. She says you’ve got to have them!” He reaches into the shopping bag.

Oh my God! It’s the killer stilettos with the pointy toes and little bows. The wickedly beautiful, shiny black shoes I coveted. The Emperor places them by my feet. Holding onto his shoulder, I step into them. Instantly, I’m six inches taller.

“How do I look?” I ask.

“Let’s face it, dahling. Everyone looks better with six more inches. Everywhere.”

I would kill to see myself in a full-length mirror.

“Dahling, you don’t need a mirror-shmirror on the wall to tell you that you’ll be the chicest at the ball!”

How did he read my mind? And know what I used to imagine my “magic” mirror to say? Well, not exactly, but more or less. I suppose it’s just another one of his magical powers. What’s next?

“Now, let me see you walk,” says The Emperor.

I’ve never walked in such high heels—or in such an extravagant dress. I teeter; I totter. My ankles wobble.

“There’s no way I can do this!” Seriously, how does he expect me to walk in these shoes when I can barely balance in them?

“Dahling, come on now. Get in the moment. You can do it.”

I try again and almost topple over. Forget it! I can’t walk in them.

“Dahling, don’t give up.”

I force myself to take another step and then another. Yes! I’m doing it! I’m strutting in my killer heels and my LBD! In no time, I’m prancing like a cat.

The Emperor claps his hands with childlike glee. “I think I’m having a Cinderella moment.”

I’m not quite sure what he means, but who cares. I’m ready to go the ball!

But wait! There’s one little problem: how am I going to get there? The coach that took The Prince, Marcella, and Calla is long gone. I wish I had a pumpkin and a couple of mice handy so The Emperor could do some more Cinderella magic. My heart sinks. I guess I won’t be going to the ball after all.

“Dahling, stop worrying. They don’t call me a clothes horse for nothing.”

With one little jab of his magic wand, he magically transforms into a white stallion. My mouth drops. This is no ordinary horse. It’s a sparkling unicorn with wings. And it can talk!

Straight from the horse’s mouth come the words, “Dahling, time to PAR-tay!”

The equine emperor lies down, allowing me to mount him easily. Spreading his wings, Armando leaps to all fours and charges through an open window. I cling to his silky mane.

Holy crap! We’re flying!

So much for my not-so-fairy-tale life. I’m going to The Prince’s ball! As we eclipse the grinning moon, King Midas’s palace, the crown jewel of Lalaland, comes into view. That’s when reality throws a spear my way. I’m not going to your everyday fairy-tale ball. It’s going to be the wedding of all times. Generations will read about it. Forever and forever.

My sky-high joy takes a nosedive. The Prince is marrying Marcella!

So much for my fairy-tale life.

CHAPTER 35

“I can’t do this!” I tell Armando. The Emperor has transformed back to himself, and we’re about to make our grand entrance into Midas’s palace.

“I’m not even invited,” I add, my blood pounding in my veins.

“Dahling, stop worrying. I’m on the A-list. And you’re my guest.”

The ball is in full swing. It’s a glittering spectacle with everyone who’s anyone in Lalaland. I marvel at how it’s all come together, thanks in large part to me. Searching the crowd, I spot the Queen of Hearts mingling with King Midas; Cinderella sharing champagne with Prince Charming; and Calla frolicking with Lady Jane. Missing in action are Marcella and The Prince.

“Seriously, I can’t do this,” I whisper to Armando as we step onto the red carpet.

“Dahling, relax. Just stay in the zone. Head high and tummy in.”

The Emperor interlocks his arm with mine. In my six-inch heels, I tower over him. I nervously play with my mirrored locket with my other hand.

A chorus of trumpets blows announcing our arrival. My stomach muscles clench.

“Royal Ladies and Gentlemen, the distinguished fashion designer Emperor Armando and his guest…”

“The faaabulous Jane Yvel,” bellows The Emperor.

The crowd gasps. I smile halfway. My confidence soars when I see Calla jumping up and down and waving at me. She blows me a magical kiss. A big smile spreads across my face. I can do this!

All eyes are on me as we do the walk. The Emperor, loving every minute of this spectacle, blows kisses to his adoring fans. He was right. They’re all buzzing about my dress.

Without warning, my heart skips a beat, and I almost trip. Straight ahead of me is a vision in red. Marcella! And beside her, The Prince.

Gallant’s eyes connect instantly with mine. He jerks his arm free from Marcella’s grip and steps away. “Where do you think you’re going?” shrieks the PIW.

Ignoring her, Gallant strides up to me. My heart flutters; my body trembles; my legs wobble. Thank goodness, The Emperor is holding me up.

The Prince clasps my hands and gently draws me close to him. In my six-inch heels, we’re face to face. He gazes at me with his blue eyes, more vibrant than ever, and breaks into that dazzling smile.

“Jane, you look beautiful.”

I’m tingling all over. For the first time in my life, I feel beautiful.

“Thank you, My Lord.” I curtsey before him, one hand still in his.

He lifts my hand to his lips and tenderly kisses the back of it. My heart leaps to my throat.

And then it sinks to my stomach as Marcella lurches toward us in her three sizes too small shoes. Her twenty-foot train trails behind her, collecting dust along the way.

“What the hell is she doing here?” she asks Gallant.

“Language, language,” scolds The Emperor. He inspects Marcella’s ill-fitting gown and shakes his head side to side. “Dahling, you should have gotten the Size 12.”

Marcella’s jaw drops to her cleavage and doesn’t move as The King makes an announcement.

“I want to thank all you all for being here tonight for this very special evening. Instead of gifts, my son, Prince Gallant, has requested you make a donation to a special cause that is close to my wife’s heart and mine…”

Aghast, Marcella elbows The Prince. “But I registered for a palace full of stuff! You know how much I wanted that monogrammed silver chalice for my Liquid Diet….”

“Faraway!” The King says proudly.

Faraway?

Midas continues. “By supporting this venerable institution, you will make a difference in someone’s life.”

Actually, I do remember Midas mentioning something about Faraway and a fundraiser at that disastrous dinner last week. And so did Urma, my masseuse. I don’t get it, but this is hardly the time for a little Q&A session.

The crowd applauds wildly and breaks into “Go, Faraway” cheers.

The King takes a humble bow. “Thank you all, my friends. Now let’s get this party started!”

The orchestra begins to play. Marcella yanks Gallant onto the dance floor. My heart tanks.

“Dahling, shall we dance?” asks The Emperor. Not waiting for my response, he whisks me onto the dance floor and swirls me around to the flow of the music. I follow him with ease though I’ve never danced like this before. My eyes all the while stay glued on Gallant.

And across the expansive ballroom, his eyes stay locked on me. Noticing what’s going on, Marcella’s eyes shoot poison darts my way. Except they keep missing.

The music stops. Armando and I find ourselves brushed up against the soon-to-be newlyweds. Venom pours out of Marcella’s eyes as Gallant’s stay fixated only on me. My heart is slamming against my chest. Any second, it may actually spill out.

The music starts up again.

“Your Royal Highness, may I have the pleasure of dancing with your lovely Princess-in-Waiting?” asks Armando.

“The pleasure is mine,” says Gallant brightly.

Marcella gapes. Before she can get out a single word, The Emperor waltzes her away. Crippled by her shoes, she can barely keep up with him. Her face contorts with agony. And if that’s not enough, everyone keeps stepping on her long train.

Alone, Gallant and I gaze at one another, each afraid to make a move. My heart is throbbing. My knees are buckling. I don’t know how much longer I can take it. Minutes feel like eternity. Finally, My Prince sweeps me away…

And I’m his Princess. Melting in his arms, I lose sight of everyone around me. My body follows his as if we’re sewn together. As if we’ve danced this way forever somewhere in another world. A world where he’s now taking me. I’m no longer in this ballroom, and my feet no longer touch the ground. I’m in heaven, floating with him across the clouds. Just like in my dream. Only this isn’t a dream; it’s really happening. And in place of a mask, I see the face of The Prince. My beautiful Prince.

The music stops and sends me crashing back to reality. The King has another announcement. Gallant grips my hands in his. His pulse is racing.

“My beloved royal friends, it is my pleasure to announce that tonight you will witness the marriage of my son, Prince Gallant, to his lovely princess to be, Miss Marcella Méchante.”

My heart has just been tossed off a cliff. It plunges into darkness as Marcella hobbles up to Gallant. She shoves me aside. Everything inside me is dying.

Marcella grabs Gallant’s hand. “Come, my love. It’s time.”

The Prince stands there motionless. And then he turns to look at me one last time. With such longing, I’m brought back to life.

“Do you, Marcella, take this man to be your lawful wedded husband?” asks The King.

“You bet your royal…I mean, I do,” says Marcella.

I’m dying again. How am I still standing?

“And do you, my son, take this woman to be your wife? To have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer or—”

“Hold it right there,” butts in Marcella. “Your Majesty, can’t we just cut to the chase!”

The Prince turns to face Marcella.

My heart is about to implode. It takes all I have to stay on my feet.

“Father, I d…”

Suddenly, a voice screams out from the crowd.

“Papa, you can’t!” It’s Calla! In tears, she runs up to her father and flings her arms around him.

“Beat it, you little imp,” screams Marcella, grabbing Calla by the hair. Gallant forcefully shoves her away.

He lifts Calla into his arms. “What is it, My Little Princess?” he asks, his voice tender, loving, and full of concern.

“At my birthday party, I wished that you would marry Jane! Please, Papa. Pretty please! Make my wish come true!”

Gallant’s eyes find mine in the crowd. The King turns my way. So does The Queen. Soon, all eyes are on me. My body doesn’t know whether to freeze with shock or melt with joy.

Marcella is so red she clashes with her dress. “Ha! You little brat. You told your wish, and now it won’t come true!”

Calla pokes her tongue out at the skank. Mentally, I do the same.

“You’ll pay for that!” Marcella seizes Calla. The little girl screams.

“Marcella, let go of her!” pleads The Prince.

“You’re too late, lover boy!” Marcella’s raspy voice is almost unrecognizable.

To my horror, her skin starts to peel off like a snake’s. Her face dissolves into a ball of wrinkles; her bottle-blond hair goes gray and wiry, and her plump lips grow thin and cracked. Her body shrivels, and her skin turns scaly. Even her cannonballs shrink, until they’re no more than droopy, dried out sausages. Her minutes-ago clingy gown hangs loosely on her hunched, skeletal frame.

All her magic potions must be wearing off at once! She’s turning into an old hag! But not just any old hag! Oh my God! This can’t be happening! It can’t! But it is! She is turning into my mother! My evil mother…Nelle Yvel!

The Prince stands frozen with shock as the woman, he almost married, grips Calla by the neck. Calla’s porcelain face turns blue, her breathing shallow. She’s suffocating! I can’t let my mother hurt this precious child! I can’t! I can’t!

“You may have destroyed my life!” I shout. “But you won’t destroy hers!”

Taking her by surprise, I plow into her and knock her to the marble floor. She lets go of Calla.

“Run, Calla!” I yell. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her run safely into Gallant’s arms.

My mother staggers to her feet. “You bitch! You were always a problem child!”

“No, you witch!” I scream back. “I was always there for you!”

“No, you just got in the way! You were too beautiful for your own good.”

Me? Plain Jane?

“I could have married a king if it wasn’t for you!”

“I didn’t—”

“Shut up! When that prick banned me from his kingdom, I vowed I would get revenge by destroying you. And that beautiful child of his.”

What is she saying? That she always intended to kill Snow White?

Catching me off guard, she rakes her brittle fingernails down my face. I wince as warm blood trickles down my cheek. Another scar, but what’s one more when I have so many.

Recharged, she goes at me with ruthless force. Kicking. Clawing. Punching. Pinching. Defending myself against her vicious assault, I accidentally tear off the detachable train of her gown. It meanders across the room like a river of blood.

“You’ve ruined my dress!” she shrieks. “Now, you’re really going to pay!” Slamming me to the floor, she claws at my beautiful black gown, shredding it to pieces.

“Stop it!” I scream. But she keeps at it.

I have no choice. Without thinking twice, I clamp my fingers around her withered neck and, with all my might, start squeezing the life out of her. I squeeze tighter and tighter. As she writhes and wheezes, a terrifying reality sets in. I’m strangling my own mother!

“You can’t destroy me,” she hisses.

“Yes, I can,” I hear myself say. I’ve wrestled with evil long enough. Now, this battle must end.

Her face turns gray. Her body convulses. The heels of her ruby slippers bang to the beat of her life as it ebbs away. Transfixed, as if under a spell, I watch her take her final breath. Her body quiets, and her lips spread as if she’s about to shoot me one last smirk.

Suddenly, a monstrous green and yellow snake bursts out of her mouth. I bolt back in horror as Gallant cries out my name. As it endlessly slides out, the lifeless shell of my mother disintegrates like a crumbling rock. All that’s left of her are her ruby slippers and a heart-shaped mound of black dust. And the smell of rotted flesh.

As I struggle to my feet, the ghastly serpent—it must be fifty feet long!—slithers across the shimmering red train, heading straight toward The Prince. Its deafening hiss sends everyone running except the royal family. Gallant protectively shields Calla.

Lifting her head, the serpent lets out a loud, hoarse laugh. “I’m coming for you.”

“Leave Calla alone. It’s me you want,” Gallant says stoically.

The hideous monster flicks her long, black forked tongue. “Yes, my love, it is you I want.”

My heart freezes in shock as she springs forward and snatches him. Coiling her body around him like a whip, she hoists him high into the air. Almost to the gilded ceiling of the multi-storied ballroom.

“Papa!” cries Calla. The King holds her back.

I watch with horror as my monster mother brandishes Gallant like a trophy. He tries desperately to twist himself free from her powerful grip. But it’s futile.

“My love, it’s finally time to say ‘I do’.” Her evil tongue grazes The Prince’s strong chin. Repulsed, he jerks his head away. Our eyes meet, his burning into mine.

I read his lips. “Jane, I love you.”

No one has ever said that to me before. No one.

My heart clenches as I cry out the words, “I love you too!”

“Gallant, my love, you belong to me!” hisses my mother.

“No, Mother, his heart belongs to me!” I shout back.

“Not this time, you wicked child.” Her jaw opens wide, exposing her venomous fangs. They’re as long and sharp as daggers.

My heart is thudding in my ears. I can’t let her take My Prince away from me. I can’t! With all the strength I can muster, I throw myself at her, attempting to tear her away from Gallant. The attack takes her by surprise. She lets go of Gallant, sending him flying. He lands head first in an unconscious heap. Crumpled and lifeless.

Calla screams. My heart stops. Oh my God! He’s dead!

“Jane, Jane, Jane,” my mother hisses. “Always messing up my life. It’s time for you to pay for being born!”

Uncoiling, she goes after me with hell-bent speed. I run. Faster than I ever have in my six-inch heels. I’m almost safely out the door when the unimaginable happens. One of my heels catches in the shreds of my once voluminous dress. I go flying across the marble floor, landing next to Gallant.

My Prince! My poor darling Gallant! He’s as pale as a corpse, yet he is as beautiful as ever to me. I gently run my fingers over the contours of his soft, peaceful face, making the outline of a heart. Red-hot tears tumble onto his ice-cold flesh. Heartache tears through me. I can’t resist. Cradling his head, I lean in close to him. And kiss him. One last time.

His lips, still warm and delicious, melt every fiber of my being. I love you, Gallant. I always will. If only my kiss could bring you back to me. Magic exists. Maybe not in a mirror, but in my heart, I know it does.

Running my fingers through his tousled hair, I press my lips deeper into his. Oh, please wake up! Please! He doesn’t move. Somewhere in my head, Calla’s voice calls out to me, but I can’t let go. I can’t! And then, without warning, a waft of cold air blows on the nape of my neck, sending a chill down my spine. I twist my head around and gasp. My mother. The monster!

“Now, Jane, kiss your mother good-bye,” she hisses in the same wicked tone I remember from my childhood.

Her breath of death is upon my cheeks. I’m terrified. Oh, God. Think, Jane, think! Without thinking, I rip off a shoe and scrape the sharp stiletto heel across her thick, scaly skin. The sharp sound of her leathery skin ripping apart is music to my ears.

She winces with pain, her head swinging wildly. “You evil girl! How could you do that to your mother?”

Ha! It was easy. I do it again. This time harder and deeper. A putrid green goo oozes out of her wounds. She sinks back to the floor, still twisting and turning. I slide back as she tilts up her head and glares at me with her wretched eyes.

“Jane,” she hisses, her voice almost a whisper, “it’s time to say good-bye to your mother.” Her movement has reduced to a sporadic jerk. She’s dying. But why does it sound like she’s mocking me?

Suddenly, she springs back to life and whips her body around mine, so tightly I can’t move. She’s tricked me! And now, I’m her prisoner. Just like I was as a child.

“Why didn’t you kill me before?” I ask, choking out the words.

Her wicked eyes flicker like two bolts of lightning. “I would have but I needed you. To take care of that meddlesome imp.”

And to do all her other shit just like I did as a child. If only my rage could empower me to break free of her bone-crushing grip.

She hisses. “Actually, I missed my big opportunity a long time ago. I should have finished you before I attempted to off that other imp.”

Other imp? Then it hits me. That snake I encountered in the forest on my way to giving Snow White the poison apple.

“It was you in the tree?” I gasp.

She laughs wickedly. “Such fond memories.” Her tongue flickers. “Too bad you don’t have a big red juicy apple now. It would make such a nice dessert.”

Her grip tightens. I can’t move a muscle. Her cackling laughter echoes across the room as she crushes me with her powerful body. Oh the pain! As I fight for my life, other memories reel around in my head, before connecting like pieces of a puzzle:

The snake that spooked The Prince’s horse the night of the duel…

The scary good-night story Marcella told Calla about the snake that ate children…

The snake that mute dwarf tossed off the cliff…Marcella caked with mud…

The rustling sound outside Gallant’s studio and the intruder the previous night…

The Fairytale Tattler story about the rare venom that put Snow White into her deep sleep…

The deadly snake that ultimately killed the fair Princess in her garden…

How could I have not seen it until now? My mother is a cold-blooded murderer. She killed Snow White. And now, she’s going to kill me!

That’s it! Whatever it takes, whatever the consequences, it’s time for her to come face-to-face with her evil self. Rolling side to side, I manage to wiggle one of my hands free from her grip of death. I tear Shrink’s locket off my neck and snap it open.

“Look at yourself!” I shout.

I shove the tiny mirror into her monstrous face. Shocked by her reflection, she jerks away.

“Look what you’ve done to me!” she shrieks. Flailing madly, she loosens her grip around me.

“And look what you’ve done to me!” With both hands now free, I rip open what remains of my gown and expose a lifetime of scars, each a souvenir of her loathing. If she’s going to kill me, she’s going to face the truth. All of it!

“No, Mother, it’s time for you to say good-bye to me.”

At last able to free myself completely, I leap to my feet. With all the muscle-power I have left, I stab one of my killer heels deep into her head, smack between her wicked eyes. A volcanic burst of venom spurts out and spatters me. She lets out a deafening scream. Nothing stops me. I dig my heel into her again and again and again until I’ve made hole as big as the one she’s left in my heart.

“Jane, you naughty girl,” she hisses hoarsely. “It’s time for another whipping.”

Without warning, her thick tail whips around and whacks me with a force so great it sends me crashing to the floor. My head cracks against the cold marble as Shrink’s locket goes flying out of my hand.

I can’t move. I’m paralyzed. Unable to blink an eye, I look up at my mother’s viperous, split-open head hovering two inches above me. A repulsive mixture of venom and slime spews out of her puncture onto my face. She glowers at me with her wretched, jaundiced eyes, then flicks her evil tongue across the tip of my nose. Terror fills every crevice of my being.

“Say good-bye, Jane. It’s such a shame we didn’t get to know each other better.”

As my mother’s deadly fangs sink into my skin, an explosion rocks me. There’s a flash of white light…Then blackness.

CHAPTER 36

Wearing layers of black tulle, I’m dancing miles high in the sky. I pirouette from one cloud to another. A shadow appears behind one of them. He’s back! The man with the black mask. He leaps through the cloud, grabs me around the waist, and our waltz begins. Our bodies float in perfect harmony like always except this time we’re flying too close to the sun. The heat makes me dizzy. He draws me nearer to him, leaning his head forward close to mine. The heat of his breath makes my temperature rise even more. I can’t take it anymore. I’m going to unmask him. Find out who he is. With a sharp tug, I yank off his mask. I scream. He has no face! It’s a hideous, flesh-colored, gooey mass with deep sockets and crevices where his eyes, nose, and mouth should be. A revolting reddish substance oozes out of the openings and drips onto my hands, burning them like molten lava. I jerk away from the monster, and my heart drops. Oh my God. I’m falling from the sky!

Still plummeting, I hear a chorus of muddled voices around me.

“She’s okay,” says one.

“Our spell worked!” says another.

“It’s a miracle,” says a third.

I flutter my eyes open. It takes me a moment to adjust to the bright light that envelops me. Where am I? Everything is so familiar. The dingy yellow walls, the simple wood furniture, the barred up window. Can it be? I’m back at Faraway?

Three plump, winged women surround my bed. The Badass Fairies: Fanta, Flossie, and Fairweather. They break into a chorus of “lalalala.” A bird flies in through the open window and chirps along. I’m definitely back at Faraway!

“You survived a harrowing experience,” says Fanta.

“I read all about it in the Fairytale Tattler,” says Flossie.

“Fanta, let me borrow it!” says Fairweather.

Since when were gossip magazines allowed at Faraway?

I’m not sure what’s going on. What I do know is that my head is throbbing. I rub my forehead and discover what must be a two-inch scab above my left eye. This is not going to be pretty. I fumble for Shrink’s locket to take a peek, then gasp. My treasured keepsake is gone!

Fractured memories of the events that brought me back here drift in my head, creating a hazy montage. The ball. My beautiful black gown. My dance with The Prince. The serpent that ended my life…

Wait! I’m supposed to be dead!

“We used our magic to put you into a deep sleep,” says Fanta.

“We didn’t think we could still do it,” chimes in Flossie.

“Dear, it saved your life,” adds Fairweather.

“How long have I been asleep?”

In unison: “Three weeks.”

I gasp again. So, I’ve been in a deep sleep. Like Snow White. Except I woke up by myself. What happened to the handsome prince who was supposed to wake me with a kiss? Then it hits me like a stoning. My Prince is dead! Killed by Marcella! My mother! The monster! Sorrow, deep, raw, and ruthless, rocks my body. Gallant is gone forever!

“Dear, don’t cry,” says Fanta, dabbing my tears with her apron.

“We understand it’s been a very emotional experience,” says Flossie.

“You’ll feel better after you meet with Shrinkerbell,” says Fairweather.

Shrink. I so desperately need to talk to her. The Evil Queen who had no heart now has a heart that’s broken.

I’m lying on the tattered velvet chaise lounge, the same place where I’ve spent countless hours revealing my fears, my secrets, and my sorrows. How many tears have I shed on it? Only a few compared to what I’ve just shed waiting for Shrink. Gallant’s beautiful face fills my head. But his piercing blue eyes stab my heart. I keep bleeding tears.

Shrink, at last, comes buzzing in, sprinkling her fairy dust all over me. It was magical enough to transport me to another world, but it doesn’t numb my pain. I’m afraid there’s no magic in the universe that can do that. Like my mirror that shattered into a million little pieces, my splintered heart can never be mended.

Through my tears, I notice that Shrink’s blond hair hangs loose, and she’s not wearing those ridiculous bug-eyed glasses. Her tiny arms are stretched around a thick, hardcover book.

“What’s that?” I sniffle, doubtful that it’s some kind of cure.

“It’s my new book—The Peter Pan Complex: Why Some Men Never Grow Up. Tink gave me the idea.”

I half-heartedly listen. My mind is already back on Gallant.

“I begin my book signing tour tomorrow,” she continues. “But enough about me; we’re here to talk about you.” She pauses. “Jane, why are you crying?”

Drowning in my tears, I manage three words. “I lost someone.”

“Ah, yes, I heard,” she says in surprisingly matter-of-fact voice. “We’ll get to that later. Right now, let’s talk about something else.”

I’m taken aback. I so need to talk about Gallant. Isn’t she here to help me? Truthfully, I don’t know how much longer I can bear the pain. The heartbreaking, gut-wrenching pain.

Shrink grows impatient. “Jane, surely, there must be something else. So much has happened to you since we last met.”

Yes, so much. Yet, all I can think about is Gallant. My beautiful Prince.

“Well, Jane, we don’t have all day.”

My tears have wiped out everything else, except my dream. Somehow, I find the strength to relay it. I ask her what it means.

“The dance could symbolize your relationship with evil,” Shrink says in an analytical tone. “The man you unmasked was likely your mother.”

“My mother?” I shudder. “Where is she?”

“Your mother is dead.”

I’m confused. “Did I kill my own mother?” I cry out.

Shrink’s silence answers my question. A deep, unexpected sadness, one that has nothing to do with Gallant, sweeps over me. I bury my head in my hands.

“Jane, look at me.”

Slowly, I lift my head. Shrink is in my face, a blur from all my tears.

“Jane, you did not kill your mother.”

“But I must have!”

“No, Jane. The Huntsman shot her.”

The Huntsman? His gunfire must have created that explosion I heard.

“And I suppose he brought me her heart as a souvenir?” I ask with sudden bitterness.

“Your mother had no heart. She was a monster.”

I force myself to ask, “Was she born that way?”

“We’ll never know. Perhaps, she was the victim of some evil sorcerer’s spell.”

I’m overwhelmed with emotion. Sorrow. Remorse. Confusion. Relief. Maybe once my mother was a decent person. Shrink lets me collect myself and remains silent.

“Jane, you’re finally free of evil,” she says at last.

I’m free of evil? I’m speechless. I don’t know what to say.

“Come, Jane. I want you to take a look at yourself.” She whizzes over to a standing object at the far end of the room. It’s covered with a sheet.

Of course, it must be a full-length mirror. I dread seeing myself. After my ordeal and all this crying, I must look beyond terrible. The large scab on my face won’t help.

Hesitantly, I get up from the chaise and make my way over to it.

Shrink carefully pulls off the cloth, letting it slide to the floor. I gasp. It’s not a mirror. Before me is a large painting on an easel. A portrait of me holding Calla in my arms. Gallant’s last painting—the one he was working on in his studio. He must have completed it before the ball.

A rush of fresh tears cascades down my face as Gallant’s words from that extraordinary day float in my head. “You are meant to be painted.” All too sadly, My Prince will never paint me again.

“What do you think?” asks Shrink.

“It’s magnificent,” I choke.

“I’ve heard you’ve become quite an art critic.”

I wonder how she knows that.

“Tell me,” she continues, “what is the artist trying to communicate about the woman in the painting?”

My weeping eyes study the painting. I look closely at the woman’s radiant face and tender hands. A mirror might bare your face, but a work of art will bare your soul. My throat thickens.

“That she is warm and caring and loving,” I say slowly.

“I agree,” says Shrink. “Can you elaborate more on the relationship between the woman and the child?”

“The little girl is a bright light in the woman’s heart.” My words surprise me.

“Again, I agree with you.” Shrink smiles. “Now, can you infer from the painting how the artist feels about his subjects?”

My moist eyes stay glued on the painting. In the lower right corner, there’s an inscription, painted in red. Bleary-eyed, I move in closer to make out the words. I hear myself say them aloud. “Forever in my heart.”

The words echo in my head. Oh, my beautiful Prince, you will never leave me. I will love you forever. Yes, forever.

“Well, Jane,” says Shrink, with a hint of impatience, “I’m waiting for your answer.”

“I…believe…he…loves…them.” I squeeze out the word between sobs.

“Yes, he does,” says Shrink, using the present tense. Doesn’t she know Gallant is dead?

A too familiar chime sounds. Time’s up. Our session is over.

“I’ll see you tomorrow at the same time,” says Shrink.

Tomorrow? They must be readmitting me. No more second chances! I’ll be here for the rest of my life. And never see Calla again!

“Where?” I sniffle. My brain is mush. I’m not thinking straight.

“At my first book signing. At some bookstore called Barons & Noble. I’ll be disappointed if you’re not there.”

What? I’m going back to the land of fairy tales? Before I can say anything, Shrink disappears behind the painting. She reappears, hiding something behind her back.

“I believe this is yours.” She hands me the object.

My mirrored locket! I slip it over my head.

There’s no time to thank her. At lightning speed, Shrink spins around me, creating a whirling dervish of fairy dust. Magically, I’m gone. Far, far away.

CHAPTER 37

One minute, I’m in Shrink’s office; the next, I’m in a cavernous room somewhere in Lalaland, sitting next to Elz and Winnie. Hugs all around. It’s so good to see them again. The compassionate look on their faces tells me they know about the recent tragic events in my life. What they can’t possibly know is the depth of my pain—a fiery, bottomless pit.

I learn from Winnie that I’m attending my first EPA meeting—Evil People Anonymous. It’s a mandatory weekly support group for Faraway alumni who’ve recovered from their addiction to evil.

I’m shocked by how many people are here. And by who’s here. Not surprisingly, I see Hook, Rump, The Wizard, and my sweet Pinocchio. But sitting in the front row are King Midas and his wife, The Queen of Hearts. To the right of them is The Emperor, who blows me a kiss. I also see my old buddy, that green ogre from the dungeon, and my roommate Gothel, who, seated next to Hook, eyes me with distrust. And lastly, Urma the masseuse, who waves to me with all eight arms.

I’m anxious, not knowing what to expect. And then, I get another shock when familiar, heavy footsteps drum in my ears. The Huntsman! What is he doing here? My eyes follow him as he heads toward the podium.

“Welcome,” he says. “Who would like to begin today and share their story?”

The King rises and marches up to the podium.

“My name is Midas, and I’m addicted to evil. My first wife was a social climber. To make her happy, I let a fairy grant me a wish: everything I touched would turn into gold. My wife was thrilled; she couldn’t spend the gold fast enough. Meanwhile, I began to throw my power around, hurting people around me. And then something terrible happened.”

He takes in a deep breath, wiping off a patch of sweat above his brow. I’ve never seen him like this. I’m not sure if he’ll continue. He inhales one more time and, on the exhale, picks up where he left off in a voice that’s now soft and wistful.

“I had a daughter. A beautiful bambina named Marigold whom I loved more than anything or anyone. Every morning, I would start my day by giving her kiss. And then one morning when I kissed her, my bambina turned into gold.”

Bambina. The word echoes in my head as the group gasps. Midas must have been the man who gave me that gold coin. I’m certain now. I’m all ears as he continues.

“I was devastated. I hated myself. I begged the fairy to break the spell. She granted me my wish and Marigold became a little girl again…”

The group cheers.

“But my angry wife ran away with her.”

The group quiets. What a tragic story!

“Did you ever see them again?” asks Winnie.

“No,” says Midas, his voice cracking. “I wanted to end my life when I heard about Faraway. I checked myself in and had the good fortune to learn how destructive my greed was. And to meet my lovely second wife who bore me two wonderful sons.

Only one son now. Fighting back tears, I wonder how The King and Queen have dealt with their loss and pain. I’m sure they’re taking care of Calla. Thank goodness. When I’m ready, I will ask them if I can visit my sweet little girl.

Midas, composing himself, continues. “While I have been blessed with success, I learned at Faraway that the power of giving is mightier than the power of gold.”

The Queen beams at her husband. Now, I understand why the ball was a fundraiser for Faraway.

“Dear, tell everyone about your latest project,” urges The Queen.

“Yes, I almost forgot. In lieu of building a luxury hotel on a site occupied by a former castle, I have chosen to build a school for boys and girls.”

I can’t believe my ears. He’s turning my former residence into a public school. Calla will have a place to learn and be with other children. Maybe they’ll dedicate it to Gallant. The Gallant School for Boys and Girls. His spirit will live in both my heart and my home.

Fraught with emotion, I stand up and applaud Midas. So do the others.

The Emperor volunteers next. Flamboyantly dressed as usual, he sashays up to the podium.

“Hello, dahlings. My name is Armando, and I’m addicted to evil.”

How could my darling fairy godmother be addicted to evil? I find out as he tells his story of how his addiction to clothes caused him to ignore his kingdom.

“I’m the original shopaholic. I changed my clothes every hour of the day. And I wouldn’t be caught dead in the same outfit twice. My palace was my closet.”

He confesses that an embarrassing incident led him to Faraway.

“What happened?” asks Elz.

Armando blushes. “Dahling, let’s not go there.”

He continues. At Faraway, he took a class that changed his life—Flossie’s sewing workshop. He discovered he enjoyed making clothes more than buying them. When he was sent back to Lalaland, he apprenticed as a tailor and worked his way up to being every princess’s favorite designer. The former shopaholic is now a workaholic.

“Remember, dahlings,” he concludes, “clothes don’t make the person; it’s the person that makes the clothes.”

A vision of myself in Armando’s magnificent black gown, floating in Gallant’s arms, fills my head as the room echoes with more cheers and claps. The Huntsman takes the podium again. He casts his eyes in my direction, bringing my fantasy to an abrupt end. I look away.

“I’d like to welcome two new Faraway graduates, Rumpelstiltskin and…

Here it comes. He’s going to say it. The Evil Queen.

“Jane.” I take a deep breath. My real name.

“Who would like to go first?” asks The Huntsman, still staring at me.

I don’t think I can do this. To my relief, Rump stands up and teeter-totters to the podium.

“Rumpelstiltskin is my n-name,” he stutters. And I-I’m addicted to evil.” The stuttering stops. “I threatened to take away a queen’s firstborn child.”

My heart jumps with shock as the group gasps. Rump used an innocent baby as a means of extortion? What dark demons inside him would drive him to do such a terrible thing? Pity, not anger, fills me. My poor little man! How much pain and guilt he’s had to endure!

Red in the face, he limps off the stage.

Silence. Until Hook gives him an ear-piercing whistle.

“Way to go, matey!” He leaps to his feet and mimics an applause with his good hand and hook. I follow him, clapping my hands zealously. One by one, the others join in.

Rump, overwhelmed, breaks into a toothy grin. Lifting his stumpy arms above his head, he does a happy little jig.

“Isn’t he adorable?” Elz whispers in my ear. Her face flushes. She’s clearly got a crush on him.

My throat tightens. It’s my turn to talk. Winnie gives my hand a gentle squeeze as I rise. The walk up to the podium feels like an eternity.

Facing my Faraway friends, I’m helplessly, hopelessly sad. Memories of Gallant dance in my head. I still don’t know if I can go through with this. Battling tears, please no more tears, I begin.

“My name is Jane, and I’m addicted to evil.”

And then the words ebb and flow out of my mouth. I talk about my love-hate affair with my mirror and how it drove me to evil. How it made me hate Snow White and want to destroy her. I also share what I learned about friendship at Faraway and how another beautiful little girl named Calla changed my life. But I deliberately stay away from talking about Gallant. I’m not ready to go there.

The group is mesmerized by my story. Throughout, The Huntsman’s eyes stay glued on me.

“What did you learn from the little girl?” asks Urma.

There’s one answer. One word. “Love.”

The true meaning of beauty. I step down from the podium, feeling strangely exhilarated.

Everyone cheers. Elz and Winnie jump to their feet. The others follow.

“Way to go, babe!” whistles Hook. Gothel elbows him. We could become fast friends.

“Time’s almost up for today’s meeting,” announces The Huntsman, returning to the podium.

I guess the others will tell their stories in the weeks to come. The Huntsman remains at the podium. His eyes, still locked on me, grow misty.

“My name is Beau, and I’m addicted to evil. Many years ago, I fell prey to a beautiful, bewitching woman. I conceived a child with her—a beautiful daughter. I made a terrible mistake and was forced to abandon this little girl. I know this caused her great suffering. But she’s always been there in my heart. I’m sorry for what I did and pray she can forgive me.”

His words move me like a tremor in the earth. Our eyes connect. His, green and wide-set like mine. Oh my God! Can it be? In a heartbeat, he vanishes.

Holding a torch, I follow the group through a dark, damp underground passageway. Pinocchio clasps my hand as we march in silence. I shiver. I can’t stop thinking about what The Huntsman said. Too much has happened in one day.

We tread up a steep flight of steps, and one by one exit through a trapped door. I’m surprised to find myself at the entrance to The Trove.

A harvest moon lights up the night sky. It does little to brighten my spirits. Realizing I have no place to go, I ask Winnie if I can stay with her.

“I don’t think you’ll need to,” she smiles.

My eyes look up, and my heart almost stops. Heading toward me on a majestic white stallion is the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. He’s alive! Gallant’s alive!

He swoops me up and we gallop away.

It’s not a dream.

My Prince has come.

CHAPTER 38

“Dahling, it’s so beyond,” gushes my fairy godmother Armando, wearing a gold brocade caftan and matching beret.

He fluffs the fountain of sequin encrusted ivory tulle that pours down from my waist to my ankles. I look down. He’s right. My wedding gown is a work of art. And so are my matching shoes, custom made by Elz. Believe me, it wasn’t easy convincing her to keep the heel size down to three inches.

Armando stands back and admires his creation. “When the Fairytale Tattler gets wind of this gown, knockoffs will be showing up everywhere.”

Holding a large straw basket full of fragrant petals that surround Lady Jane, Calla, my flower girl, gazes up at me. “You look like a Princess Bride,” she beams, referring to “Uncle Occhio’s” new blockbuster doll line.

Bending down, I kiss her in the center of the floral garland that circles her golden curls. A few tendrils of my hair, now several inches longer, escape my matching garland and fall into my face. My stomach bunches up with nerves. It all seems so unreal. I’m about to marry My Prince.

The Queen wanted to do a lavish event in the ballroom of their castle. Personally, I had experienced one too many weddings there. And so had Gallant. We insisted on to doing it right in our own backyard—in Snow White’s rose and lily garden. And to keep it small. More like a Faraway reunion plus some close family members and friends of the royal family. Winnie, God bless her, handled every detail, right down to the icing on the cake.

For a moment, I think about my first wedding—if you want to call it that—a loveless, perfunctory arrangement—witnessed only by a little girl hiding in the back of a somber, damp chapel. Snow White. The bittersweet irony of it all sends a shiver up my spine. And then I relax. How different today is. Where there was dark, there is light. Where there was cold, there is warmth. And where there was emptiness, there is joy.

The sound of harp music outside signals my cue. A tingling mixture of nerves and joy races through me. Calla hands me my bouquet—a single white lily that Gallant handpicked. The symbol of everything I love. The French doors swing open and in walks the man who will give me away to my Prince. Standing proud and tall. The Huntsman. Beau. My father.

My eyes meet his in a warm embrace as we lock arms and take our first steps across the threshold. His strong hold and steady gait make me feel at ease. Calla follows us, tossing petals from her basket.

The high noon sun is shining brilliantly; the white blooms glisten, and chirping birds circle in the sky. My feathered friends who woke me up every morning at Faraway are singing me a love song. I smile, and then my heart skips a beat.

Straight ahead of me is the man I love. Gallant, in his billowy white blouse and creamy leather britches, more beautiful to me than ever. Standing to his left are his best men, Hook and Charming and to his right, my maids of honor, Elz and Winnie, both beaming. Behind him is King Midas, his gold crown gleaming.

Holding onto my father, I walk toward them slowly, taking in everything and relishing each magical step. I catch glimpses of the small crowd out of the corner of my eye. Shrink is hovering in the fragrant air between Grimm and the Badass Fairies. Gothel, Hook’s date, is seated in the back. Rump, who’s promised to take Elz on her long awaited high seas adventure—a honeymoon cruise—is seated in the second row next to Winnie’s husband John and their children, Hansel, Gretel and Curly, whom they adopted. Pinocchio, who graciously declined being a best man, is seated next to Peter Pan, whom he met at Shrink’s book signing party. They’ve become inseparable and do volunteer work at the Midas Orphanage for Lost Boys. Occupying every seat in the front row are the Seven Dwarfs; wearing matching hooded robes. Wow! They actually dressed up. The tiny mute one gives me a thumbs up as Cinderella breezes in, late as usual, and takes an empty seat next to the disgruntled Queen. That seat was originally meant for Oscar, the Queen’s new croquet partner, who unfortunately had planned a retirement party from wizardry.

The walk up to Gallant feels something between eternity and the blink of an eye. His whole face lights up as he takes me from my father. He clasps his hands firmly around mine, and my smile meets his. The butterflies inside my stomach flutter away. I’m floating like a feather as Midas begins.

“Royally beloved, we are here to unite two people who have magically found each other. I will let them speak for themselves.”

Gallant’s piercing blue eyes burn into mine as he delivers his vow.

“My beloved Jane, where there has been cold, you have brought warmth; where my life was dark, you have brought light. From this day on, I promise to laugh with you in good times; to struggle with you in bad; to wipe your tears with my hands; to comfort you with my body; mirror you with my soul and love you until our lives shall come to an end.”

It’s my turn. I swallow hard, forcing the rising lump in my throat to go away.

“My beloved Gallant, I enter into this marriage with you, knowing that the true magic of love is not to avoid changes, but to embrace them. Let us commit to making each day of our lives more different and beautiful than the one before. Let me be the light inside your heart that brings out the best in you always until death do us part.”

Gallant squeezes my hands. Elz is positively bawling, and there’s a chorus of sniffles in the crowd as Midas envelops us with his burly arms.

“Do you, my son, take this woman…?”

“I do,” says Gallant with a bright smile.

“And do you, Jane…?”

“I do,” I say without the slightest tremor.

Midas removes two identical gold bands that are stacked on Hook’s hook and slips them on our ring fingers. Inscribed inside each of them is one word: Forever.

“I hereby pronounce you husband and…”

Before Midas can say “wife,” Gallant’s lips consume mine. I surrender myself shamelessly. Neither of us pulls away.

Amid applause and cheers, Calla runs up to me and gives me a huge hug.

She reaches into her basket, still half-full with petals, and pulls out something from under Lady Jane.

“This is for you.” Her chocolate eyes twinkle.

My heart swells with joy. It’s another one of Rump’s woven name bracelets. But this one says “MOMMY.”

As my sweet little girl slips it over my hand, I’m the happiest I’ve ever been in my entire life. I no longer need a mirror to tell me who I am.

EPILOGUE

“Everyone’s life is a fairy tale written by God’s fingers.”

—Hans Christian Anderson

Soon after our wedding, Gallant and I donated all of my mother’s possessions to a resale shop, including her ruby slippers. I told Gallant that I sure wouldn’t want to be in her shoes. Yesterday, the Fairytale Tattler reported that a house fell on the woman who bought them and killed her. I knew those shoes were cursed.

After all she did to me, I sometimes miss my mother in a strange, inexplicable way. I’m glad Shrink left me with the hope that she might have been born a good person. Yet, I’m still not sure if people are born evil or if it’s the events in their lives that make them that way.

What I do know for sure is that fate is meant to be. But it’s not a fait accompli. Fate, in fact, has a way of writing its own twisted version of happily ever after. In my fairy tale, had I not gone to rehab, I would have never found the light inside me.

Shrink was right about so many things. About letting go of the past and looking deep inside myself for the future. Even about starting a career as a writer.

Having unleashed my imagination, I’m writing a children’s book. Gallant’s doing the illustrations. It’s a fairy tale called Dewitched. You can guess what the story’s about. As usual, I’m having writer’s block. But, at least, I’ve written the last line…

…And they lived happily ever after.

~THE END~

Want more of Jane and Prince Gallant? One click the cover below.

FREE! in Kindle Unlimited.

NOTE FROM NELLE

Dearest Belle Reader~

Hope you enjoyed this anthology. If you did, please consider leaving a review on Amazon. Reviews help others discover my books. And, of course, tell your friends and share this book in your Facebook reader groups. There’s still nothing like word of mouth!

Keep in mind this is a sampler and I hope you will not leave negative reviews because some of the samples are introductions to my series. Many of you got this collection FREE!, and given how much material is included, the regular low price is very reasonable. The cost of Dewitched alone is $3.99! Those of you enrolled in Kindle Unlimited can, of course, continue to read almost all my books FREE! And those of you who aren’t can decide if you like my books and want to read more of them. (*Wink* I hope you do!)

Don’t forget to check out my Naughty Nelle Toy Store. It features many of the sexy, adult products that are featured in my books. Here’s the link:

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Hope you enjoy my books! Happy reading! Thank you for getting naughty with me!

MWAH!~Nelle ♥

BOOKS BY NELLE L’AMOUR

Unforgettable

Unforgettable Book 1

Unforgettable Book 2

Unforgettable Book 3

Alpha Billionaire Duet

TRAINWRECK 1

TRAINWRECK 2

A Standalone Romantic Comedy

Baby Daddy

An OTT Insta-love Standalone

The Big O

THAT MAN Series

THAT MAN 1

THAT MAN 2

THAT MAN 3

THAT MAN 4

THAT MAN 5

Gloria

Gloria’s Secret

Gloria’s Revenge

Gloria’s Forever

An Erotic Love Story

Undying Love

Writing as E.L. Sarnoff

DEWITCHED: The Untold Story of the Evil Queen

UNHITCHED: The Untold Story of the Evil Queen 2

Boxed Sets

THAT MAN TRILOGY

THAT MAN: THE WEDDING STORY

Unforgettable: The Complete Series

Gloria’s Secret: The Trilogy

Seduced by the Park Avenue Billionaire

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Nelle L’Amour is a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author who lives in Los Angeles with her Prince Charming-ish husband, twin teenage princesses, and a bevy of royal pain-in-the-butt pets. A former executive in the entertainment industry with a prestigious Humanitas Prize for promoting human dignity and freedom to her credit, she gave up playing with Barbies a long time ago, but still enjoys playing with toys with her husband. While she writes in her PJs, she loves to get dressed up and pretend she’s Hollywood royalty. Her steamy stories feature characters that will make you laugh, cry, and swoon and stay in your heart forever.

To learn about her new releases, sales, and giveaways, please sign up for her newsletter and follow her on social media. Nelle loves to hear from her readers.

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