“Whatever. Just be proud of me for using a big word and be sure to look gorgeous by the shower. Not too gorgeous, of course, since I’ll want everyone’s eyes on me, but gorgeous enough that I can call you my sister without hanging my head in embarrassment.”
“Of course, your highness.” Purpose renewed, I headed for the bathroom cabinet to grab something for my headache. My image in the mirror was terrifying. Crazy bedhead, puffy eyes, makeup smudged everywhere, I looked more suited for a horror flick than a bridal shower. I needed to pull myself together and look presentable before I had to face my mom, Wesley’s mom, and the rest of the fake bitches of Seattle’s top one-percenters.
I was going to need more alcohol to get through the day.
“How early is too early to drink?” I asked before popping some ibuprofen into my mouth and heading for the kitchen to start a pot of coffee. “I mean mimosas and bloody marys are technically breakfast food so is there really a designated start time?”
Laura giggled. “I think you should stay away from alcohol for a while. Give your liver a chance to flush out all the crap you flooded it with last night. By the way, how’d it go with the guy you took home? Did you get lucky?”
I froze and recounted my steps. Had there been a guy? No one was in my bed. Had he left early? Or was there still a random stranger passed out somewhere in my apartment? I’d never had a one-night stand, but lately the combination of loneliness and romance novels had made me mighty horny. Throw alcohol into the mix and who knew what I was capable of? “What guy?”
“I can’t remember his name. Rob? Ron? Rich? You seriously don’t remember him?”
Leaning against the wall for support, I eyed the door to my spare bedroom and asked, “You let me take a guy home?” My voice had crept up three octaves.
“I tried to stop you, but you started talking about women’s rights and how it was your choice to hoochify, so I let you do you.”
My body wasn’t sore like I’d had sex, but the alcohol could still be dulling the pain. Then again, I hadn’t had sex in so long maybe it had changed? Maybe it no longer caused soreness and heartache? “Please tell me you’re joking.”
She laughed again. “So totally kidding. You danced a lot, but always by yourself. Whenever anyone got too close, you ignored them and walked away.”
“Great. Even while wasted I’m a bitch.”
“Not bitchy, cautious. No one can blame you after… well, after.”
I snorted and pushed away from the wall. My legs were still a bit wobbly, but Laura’s bluff had shocked my system awake. “I can’t believe you scared me like that.”
“Shouldn’t have drank so much. Although, it was fun to see you relaxed and enjoying yourself for once.”
Her voice was packed with more emotion than I was prepared to deal with. Stepping into the kitchen, I set the coffee pot to brew and then headed back toward the bathroom. “I hate to cut this call short, but I gotta get ready for work.”
“And I have a date with a makeup artist and last-minute changes to discuss with the photographer. I’ll see you at the shower.”
Inwardly groaning at the reminder, I said goodbye, set my phone on the bathroom counter, and turned on the shower. After I was clean and dressed, I filled up my giant coffee mug and headed downstairs. Then, since coffee is life, I set the downstairs pot to brew and opened up the shop.
My shop.
I’d fallen in love with One More Chapter, the little downtown bookstore when I was still married. Desperate to revive some sort of physical relationship with my mostly absent husband, I’d turned to romance novels for ideas. But, since Wesley was too busy dipping his stick into everyone else’s honey pot, my research didn’t do shit to spice up our love life. However, I did manage to rekindle my love for reading. While his workdays lengthened (or he got comfortable spending more time with the sluts he was screwing), I dove deeper into romantic fantasies about alpha-males who worshiped their women and took care of all their sexual needs, wondering how much spinach or protein drinks or beer or whatever I’d have to feed Wesley before he became one.
Since I preferred paperbacks to eBooks, the search for book three in a particularly spicy series led me to One More Chapter. Here, nobody knew me. The sweet, elderly owner greeted me and led me to the romance section like I was anybody else. Behind the safety of the barred windows, walking between packed shelves of books, reading in comfy, overstuffed chairs, I didn’t have to plot or plan or pit or control.
Here, I could breathe.
But all good things must come to an end, and my little sanctuary was no exception. The sweet, elderly owner decided it was time to retire shortly after Wesley and I had called it quits. I couldn’t allow some greedy investor to liquidate the bookstore and turn the space into another hipster coffee joint or cannabis shop. Not when I had the means to save it. So, I swooped in and took over the building lease, bought the business, rented the apartment above it, and began expanding my vast literature empire.
Sure, the business lost money every month, but the good investments I made from my trust fund could carry the loss. If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the past three years, it’s that peace and love are worth far more than any amount of money. This place was my peace and my love now, and I’d give every last penny I owned to keep it alive. Just breathing in the book smells and walking down the crowded aisles soothed my raging migraine. I perched on the stool behind the counter, found my place in my latest romance story, and drifted off into the kind of fantasy land only a good book could provide.
About a half hour, three chapters, and two cups of coffee later, the bell above the front door chimed. Pleasantly surprised, I set my book down and looked up, preparing to greet my first customer of the day. At the sight of who had come in, the greeting froze on my lips. Standing close to six-and-a-half feet tall and wearing the same inviting smirk that seemed to grace all his pictures, Marcus “Havoc” Wilson filled the doorway. And I mean, hefilledthe doorway. Everything about him was big, muscular, and imposing, blocking out the sunlight and dampening the sounds of the city.
After the hours I’d spent scanning the web for juicy details on the Kinlan scandal, I’d recognize him anywhere. I just never expected to see him in person. Wearing faded blue jeans, dirty work boots, and a leather biker vest over a tight black T-shirt, he was one hundred percent, grade A, pure male, exuding sex and power like rays of sunshine penetrating my cold, dead love life. His testosterone levels had to be off the charts. I was tempted to close my eyes and bask in his manliness, but instead drank in his appearance once again, pausing to appreciate how large his hands and feet were.
No doubt this man was huge everywhere. The thought stirred something to life inside me and heated up my entire store.
“Mornin’,” he said, closing the door behind him. Such a deep, sexy voice. Deep and sexy enough to send vibrations straight to my lady parts. If that sound was coming through a speaker, I’d be tempted to sit on said speaker and work some stuff out.
I needed to get a grip.
Actually, I needed to get laid. And to stop reading romance novels. And to stop drinking. What if he wasn’t real, but just some figment of my imagination spawned from loneliness, desperation, and booze?
