Praise FOR BROKEN RECORDS
SPOTLIGHT, BOOK ONE
“TOP PICK! This excellent take on the celebrity-and-normal-person romance moves at a fast clip while satisfying at every turn.”
—RT Book Reviews
“Hollywood style meets Nashville charm in this sweet, sexy fling turned romance.”
—Publishers Weekly
Praise FOR BURNING TRACKS
SPOTLIGHT, Book TWO
“FOUR STARS… Burning Tracks is a deeply emotional work that explores love, loss, risk and the struggles of commitment and self-sabotage. In the first book, readers were introduced to a new love, but in this book, readers observe an established relationship. This makes Burning Tracks fundamentally different read [sic] from its predecessor, both in tone and in what’s at stake for our heroines.”
—RT Book Reviews
Praise FOR BLENDED NOTES
SPOTLIGHT, Book Three
“A witty, touching, nuanced—and very sexy—romance.”
—Kirkus Reviews
Praise FOR Spice
“… Completely laugh-out-loud funny and the underlying romantic plot is the perfect backdrop for its sparkling characters, Simon and Benji, who are bound to induce a book hangover… Fresh, fun fiction at its best!”
—RT Book Reviews
“Suzanne keeps the humor warm and the sex real.”
—Publishers Weekly
Praise FOR PIVOT and SLIP
“4.5 stars… Balancing laughter with touching emotions, this novella is a great first effort.”
—Carly’s Book Reviews Blog
Copyright © 2018 Lilah Suzanne
All Rights Reserved
ISBN 13: 978-1-945053-64-1 (trade)
ISBN 13: 978-1-945053-65-8 (ebook)
Published by Interlude Press
http://interludepress.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and places are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real persons, either living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All trademarks and registered trademarks are the property of their respective owners.
Book and Cover Design by CB Messer
Base Photography for Cover © depositphotos.com/fotoluminate
Fleur-de-lis © Vecteezy.com
Interlude Press, New York
“What is straight? A line can be straight, or a street, but the human heart, oh, no, it’s curved like a road through mountains.”
—Tennessee Williams, A Streetcar Named Desire
Some readers may find some of the scenes in this book difficult to read. We have compiled a list of content warnings, which you can access at www.interludepress.com/content-warnings
Contents
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Twenty-eight
Twenty-nine
Thirty
Thirty-one
Thirty-two
Thirty-three
Thirty-four
Thirty-five
Thirty-six
Thirty-seven
Thirty-eight
Thirty-nine
Forty
Forty-One
Forty-two
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Prologue
Something isn’t right.
Link fidgets with the hem of their skirt and twists the satiny, pleated fabric between shaking fingers. Cold feet have become a full-body chill, and Link regrets choosing the thin skirt as wedding attire. The air conditioning is set to subzero in this quaint boutique hotel, which isn’t helping, and the skirt is not doing much to hide Link’s trembling legs. At least the vintage tuxedo jacket is non-breathable polyester, something Link never thought they’d be thankful for.
Across the altar, the officiant clears her throat. She checks her watch and glances down the aisle; concern pulls at her thick eyebrows. Link can’t remember her name; they’d picked the first officiant that sounded okay, same as everything else in order to expedite the whole wedding thing. It had seemed so important to get it all done quickly, but what was the hurry, really? It hasn’t even been a year since Link has known Jamie, and she’s been such a chameleon in that time—changing jobs, hair, clothing styles, interests, friends. Link found it intriguing, exciting. Link wonders now, for the first time, if that’s an unstable place to start a marriage.
The crowd begins to mumble; people shift in their chairs to look back at the doors that remain closed. Cold panic courses through Link. Something isn’t right.
Looking for reassurance, Link scans the front row to their mother, Danielle, who is dressed in bright, clashing layers of draped chiffon and has long ribbons twisted into her double black-gray braids. She looks like a tropical bird. Danielle casts a meaningful look that seems to say: You really should have let me do a sage cleansing of the space first or Jamie is a Capricorn; you know what that means. Link has always had Danielle’s support, no matter what. That doesn’t mean the support is never grudging or without an occasional told ya so. Well, she’s wrong about Jamie, and this wedding will prove it.
Jaime is running late. That’s all. The plan was to walk up the aisle together to “Rainbow Connection,” but Jamie’s sister told Link to go ahead and wait at the altar, and so Link is here, and Jamie isn’t. Did she change her mind about not being walked down the aisle? Is it too late to go back and get her? Link finds Eli and other friends in the restless crowd. Eli, positive and loyal and steadfast, sends Link an encouraging, double thumbs-up.
Finally, the wooden doors are flung open, and Jamie appears, a vision in vintage pink and purple tulle and matching pink and purple hair. Everyone stands. Jamie begins to come up the aisle, but, instead of relief or joy, Link’s icy-cold feeling of dread turns to a heavy block of ice in their gut. Something isn’t right. Before Link can sort out why, someone else flings the doors open.
Jamie stops and turns around. “Matt? You came!”
The guy is handsome, square-jawed, and put together in a way that suggests an exclusive country club membership. He’s someone Jamie’s clearly familiar with and fond of, yet his whole presence is at odds with the Jamie Link knows—if they really know her at all.
“Jamie, I have never stopped loving you and came to win you back,” Matt says, without even a tremble in his voice.
Before Link can process the declaration of love between the person Link is supposed to marry and someone else, she’s gone, a floating specter of pink and purple running off hand in hand with whoever the hell this Matt is, and Link—Link has not stopped clinging, white-knuckled, to the sides of their skirt. The cold dread is gone, replaced by shock and humiliation.
Danielle was right. Never trust a Capricorn.
One
“Go. Be happy.”
Love is sacrifice, or so claimed the vows that Carter had p
lanned to say at his own wedding next year. Instead, his fiancé is now off with his true love, the one that got away, the one that is not Carter. And Carter, standing in the interior courtyard of this beautiful historic hotel all alone instead of being whisked off on an impulsive romantic getaway weekend the way he’d thought, is noble or selfless—or a complete and total jackass.
Carter reviews the events that led him here, mentally cataloging the moments and hoping to lock them away and never think of them again. Matthew received a wedding invitation from an ex approximately three weeks ago. Short notice according to the guidelines from wedding planning experts, Carter thought at the time, but he was otherwise unbothered by the invitation. Yet Matthew seemed unusually agitated about what Carter incorrectly assumed to be the frustrating lack of time to plan a trip. He and Matthew then got into another disagreement about where and when to hold their own wedding. There were other steps to fill in on the wedding planning agenda, and so Carter let it go, figuring they’d sort it out eventually. Neither of them was in much of a hurry.
He forgot about the invitation altogether and, when Matthew suggested a trip to New Orleans, Carter assumed it was a romantic trip for the two of them—also incorrect. Though not usually a nervous flyer, Matthew was extremely agitated on the plane, and Carter’s recitation of flying safety statistics only seemed to aggravate him further. Of course, Carter’s compulsive need to recite information seems to aggravate most people, so again he didn’t think much of it.
At the hotel, Matthew led them both on a frenzied search for something as Carter’s luggage banged into his shin and his travel pillow remained looped around his neck. The old French Quarter hotel was bursting with fascinating architectural details that Carter barely had time to take in. Matthew finally stopped at this interior courtyard, where a small group of people in fancy clothes and updos waited just outside carved cypress doors and whispered furtively amongst themselves. The wedding party, he realizes now, or part of it, heading inside to where the ceremony was taking place. If she was with that group Carter didn’t notice, too distracted by lavender-flowered wisteria vines spilling over high brick walls and potted dahlias in pops of yellow and red and orange on the pale stone floor beneath skinny trees. Hedges in the center were carved into a small labyrinth, and, in the center of that, a fountain trickled sun-speckled water. Birds chattered. Matthew said he needed to tell Carter something. Thinking Matthew was irritated that Carter had stopped to ask a member of the housekeeping staff whether the acanthus molding on the fireplace was carved or cast in plaster, Carter struggled to make sense of Matthew’s expression: he looked pained, yet flush with excitement.
Then Matthew confessed he’d come to stop the wedding and win back a long-lost love. Carter was so surprised that, at first, he was only relieved Matthew wasn’t annoyed with him. Such a strange reaction, Carter thinks now, relief at finding out his fiancé is in love with someone else. Practically speaking, though, what choice did Carter have but to let him go? He’d come all that way, after all. Noble, it seemed at the time.
Love is sacrifice? What a load of garbage.
The beautiful stone fountain in the courtyard burbles gently. Carter stands motionless before it, tracks the flow of clear water from spout to basin, over and over, and does not feel angry and does not feel sad and does not feel betrayed. Carter watches the water flow until he doesn’t feel anything at all.
Without even a room to crash in, so poorly thought out was his now-ex-fiancé’s eleventh-hour secret-true-love’s quest, Carter has been hauling his luggage around with nowhere to go and no plan to get home. He leaves his things at the front desk and feels significantly less burdened. There are no rooms available at this hotel, but he can have a drink at the small bar off the lobby and figure out what to do next without worrying about where to put his travel pillow.
The architecture is entrancing; the hotel has a classic French Creole style unique to New Orleans. He’s never been to The Big Easy—and isn’t here in the best of circumstances—but, between the fascinating architecture, the jubilant jazz band playing in the bar, the invigorating mint julep in his hand, and his well-honed skill at crushing his feelings into nothing more than a small, cold pit in his stomach, Carter is downright excited when he sits at the hotel bar.
“Laissez les bon temps roulez,” he says to the bartender and lifts the glass in salute. The bartender moves away. Carter takes a long swig of his drink and sets it down with a refreshed “ahh.” He knocks on the weathered, sepia wood of the bar. “Isn’t this salvaged Louisiana cypress? Nice.”
The bartender is ignoring him. Carter shrugs, sways on his barstool to scan the bar for more interesting details, and finds the person next to him slumped facedown on the bar. Long wavy black hair obscures their face, and they’re wearing a white satin skirt and a purple tuxedo jacket. A flower pinned to the jacket has been crushed against the lip of the bar. A single petal falls from the flower and lands on its wearer’s shining, sharply studded, heeled black boot. Carter sips his drink and tips his head.
Another petal falls.
“This might be a silly question,” Carter says, leaning to be heard over the trumpet solo. “But are you all right?”
They sit up in a sudden sweep of black hair and blink hazel eyes rimmed in smeared black eyeliner. On the bar sit two wedding bands, side by side.
Oh.
“Oh, are you—” Carter pauses; is there a non-awkward way to phrase this? “Did you… uh… get left at the altar just now?” Probably not like that.
Green-gold eyes narrow. “How did you—”
“Me too. I mean. Well. Preemptively, I suppose.” Carter finishes his drink and shakes it above his head to get the attention of the bartender. Of course, someone else was dumped today; Matthew’s long-lost love certainly wasn’t marrying herself. Yet, in his noble sacrifice for true love, he’d not considered that someone else’s heart would be broken today. There isn’t much he can do about it now, though he feels obligated to reach out all the same. “Mint julep?”
Three drinks later, Carter is bobbing his head to the music. His new neighbor in Dumpedville, propped up on the bar by one arm, is twisted around to scrutinize him. “Aren’t you miserable?”
Carter taps his feet. “Probably.” His shakes his head and knocks back another swig. “See, the key is, you have to take your feelings, gather them up, and then crush them.” He demonstrates said crushing with his free hand.
“That’s a tad cynical,” his new friend says. “Don’t you think?”
Carter takes a gulp of yet another fresh drink, wincing a little at the burn in his throat. “I find that a healthy dose of cynicism prepares me for the inevitable disappointments in life.” Carter hums, raising his glass as if in a toast. “Life is but a series of closed doors and people slamming them in your face.” He says this cheerily, slurring a little, to his new companion’s arched eyebrow.
“You know, you may be onto something. What was your name again?”
Had he said? He’s started to lose track of things. “Carter. Carter Jacob.”
“Your name is backward,” his new pal in misery says.
Carter laughs. It is, isn’t it? That is hilarious. Carter orders another drink for himself. “And—they? Will have another one also.” Carter turns, eyebrows raised. He tries to not assume.
“Actually, if you could stick with they…”
“Sure,” Carter says. “Easy-peasy.” Oh, he’s more than buzzed; he never says “easy-peasy.” After taking another drink to shore up his confidence, Carter says, “I’m bi. And my family cannot seem to take that at face value. They can’t understand it.” Carter’s drink sloshes with his angry gesticulations. “But I’m not asking them to understand it. I’m asking them to accept that I know who I am, more than they do. Simple as that. So. You know.”
“I’m Link, by the way.”
Link’s face is bemused, Carter thinks, or
just confused. It’s a nice face either way, quite lovely, with a wide, full-lipped mouth, slanted cheekbones, and a sharp jaw. Standing upright, they’re long-limbed and graceful. Their green-gold eyes dart over Carter. Carter tries out the name of his new best friend in his sluggish, slow mouth. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Link,” he says, which Link finds quite funny, probably because Carter spends some time stumbling over the word “acquaintance.” Carter’s mouth stretches into a grin. He should have little to smile about—and yet.
Link shrugs off their tuxedo coat to reveal a ruffled dress shirt like those shirts in ‘70s prom photos; it’s hideous, but on Link it works. The oversized, lime-green collar falls open across curved collarbones and a swath of smooth skin. The band takes five, and Carter forces his lingering gaze away from Link’s neck and clavicles. Without the music, Carter becomes newly aware of the emptiness of the little bar space; just he and Link and the bartender are here now.
“I sent everyone away,” Link says to Carter’s scan of the empty tables. “Couldn’t take them all looking at me. It was humiliating enough.” Link gestures with their glass to the vacant, reception-less courtyard. “Needed to wallow in peace, you know.”
Carter remembers that he has no room to stay in, no plans for how or when he’s getting back to Illinois, and here he’s barnacled himself to Link instead of getting on and dealing with it. “I can…” He jerks his head toward the exit.
“No, stay. It’s nice have someone in the same boat.” Link scrunches up their face. “Not that I’m glad you’re suffering the same fate. Not exactly.”
Carter nods his head a few too many times; his brain is wobbly. “No, yeah. No, I get it.” They both look around the quiet, solemn room where Link should have been celebrating a new marriage. Instead, here are the two of them: the collateral damage, the miscellaneous leftovers. The thought is sobering, and it’s time for something stronger, anywhere else.
“Do you want to get out of here?” Link says. Carter is already sliding off his stool. Outside, tuxedo jacket balled beneath one arm and skirt ruffling gently in the mildly cold breeze, Link summons an Uber. Carter can’t make the ground stay steady, goes stumbling backward, and slumps against a wall to get his bearings. He admires the recessed arched windows and doors of the hotel’s exterior; the shutters appear to be the original batten made of heavy mahogany to keep out the harsh sun and extreme weather of the swampy, hurricane-prone, deep South. It’s classic New Orleans: simple, sturdy, and elegant all in the same package. A car pulls up to the curb, and Link calls out.
Jilted Page 1
