by Brinda Berry
“I trust you. I don’t know why I didn’t realize it until it was too late.”
“It’s not too late,” he says and traces a finger down my cheek.
“I thought I could always rely on my dad and he let me down. It’s like I was sure if I put my heart in your hands, you’d let me down too. But you know what? You haven’t. And I know there’s no guarantee. You might do something that hurts me sometime. Life is full of disappointments and people don’t mean for them to happen. I know my dad loves me, but he made bad choices. He thought he needed to make a fortune to be happy, but that wasn’t true. I want you to let me into every part of your life—work, play, all of it. No secrets.”
Dylan slides his fingers into my hair, resting his forehead against mine. “I don’t have any secrets about work. The business is great. If I’ve held anything back, it’s been not wanting you to know exactly how much I think about you.”
“What about the lawyer? You said you were talking legal stuff with her. I’m not cool with a female attorney who makes house calls.”
Dylan smirks. “Yvette? Gorgeous Girl, we were talking about you. Jordy told me the FBI was doing surveillance and I wanted to be prepared.”
I duck my head, embarrassed by my irrational jealousy. We’ve both guarded ourselves, afraid to let the other see we cared.
Because I knew once I let myself care, I’d hand him my heart.
He takes a finger and lifts my chin so I meet his gaze. “I thought if I didn’t look for love, I wouldn’t find it. I hurt so badly after Kate and Paisley died. I didn’t want to risk having my world taken away from me again. So, I told myself I could be with you and not be serious about it. You know…live each day without worrying about tomorrow. But I was wrong. I don’t want to wonder where we stand next week or next month. I want to commit to you. Denying love doesn’t work, ‘cause it sure doesn’t wait for an invitation. I know I’m in love with you and I’m positive that you love me.”
I grin at that. “You are so cocky.”
He laughs. “Yeah. It’s one of the things you love about me.”
Then he threads his fingers through my hair and kisses me with all the cockiness of a man without doubts.
THE END
Keep reading for a preview of The Beauty of Lies.
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Thank you for reading Magnetic Love. I loved writing about Dylan and Emerson. If you’d like to read more about this group of friends, you can see them in the companion books of this series.
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Keep reading for a preview of The Beauty of Lies.
Preview of The Beauty of Lies
(A Stand By Me Novel #1)
Secrets are exposed, trust is betrayed and two people face the beauty of lies.
Leo Jensen has a secret—he is Mr. Expose, a blogger that reveals the truth about liars and frauds. It's a way to make a living, and he's had a motherlode of experience with liars. Cheaters. Women who live for drama and carry more hidden baggage than a Boeing 747. Even his twin sister can't seem to admit the truth about her relationships, so finding an honest woman is about as likely as finding a unicorn in the middle of Nashville.
Harper Wade wishes life had a do-over button. She'd press that sucker and reset the last four years. Now, she has the chance to start fresh and make things right, but first she has to retrieve the damning evidence of her past from an annoying blogger. She's doing all the things she knows she shouldn't--breaking and entering, lying by omission, falling for the hot guy next door. Too bad he holds the key to her clean slate.
Turn the page to read the beginning of The Beauty of Lies.
The Beauty of Lies
Chapter One
Toe the line
Leo Jensen
I scroll down the list of unopened emails and wonder why bat-shit crazy seems to follow me.
“SUBJECT: You must like getting your toes sucked.” The subject line alone forces me to grimace. I can guess what’s coming next. I’ll open the email and find some misguided blog follower who wants to rant at me for my latest post. Or maybe the sender is making an offer.
At least my toes would be getting some action.
Yesterday, I wrote a blog post about a teacher who was fired for inappropriate behavior. Why did she lose her job? She’d chronicled about toe affection on her personal, yet public, blog. A fetish post for certain, but pretty tame by internet standards.
I wrote that her romantic preferences were her business, and certainly didn’t merit getting canned. It’s not like she fondled a student’s little piggies. Teachers certainly don’t deserve scarlet letters for admitting they have a love life.
Love and romance.
These are topics I have no business talking about, since I’m officially on strike when it comes to women. My A Torrid Toe Affair post garnered over two hundred comments, some more snarky than others. Blog traffic spikes with sex-related topics.
Last week, I exposed a restaurant owner taking advantage of underage employees. The week before, I featured a postcard submission from a woman who’d been fired by her employer for not letting him give her dictation. Naked. Him, not her.
I seem to be a regular employee advocate this month. The month before, my posts were all about politics.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not a masked marauder for justice. No cape in my closet. My talent for revealing truth seems to be accidental. It’s not what I really want out of life. I want to write books that entertain and thrill and keep you awake at night, turning pages.
I spend all my daytime hours working on my paying gig using my pseudonym, Mr. Expose. In the middle of the night, I hammer out my latest manuscript called The Incident, a political thriller on its third rewrite.
I click the boxes of at least twenty emails. Delete, delete, delete. I have more pressing things to do than read this shit.
The postcards on my desk pull at my attention. I pick up the top one. It’s a plain, white postcard with a picture of a crow on the front. I flip the card over to study the back. The sender’s handwriting tells me that he or she was in a hurry. The connective strokes between each letter are broken and thready. Barely there. The breaks between the letters indicate the person is impatient.
Handwriting analysis experts say our writing is like a fingerprint. The lines and curlicues can reveal the personality of the sender—whether they are open and honest or if they’re hiding something.
I took a class on graphology, because writers are like that. We like to know what makes people tick.
Some people don’t like my requirement for a postcard submission. They say my rule is archaic. That an online columnist shouldn’t act like a Luddite. The requirement does stop most impulsive people who would send an electronic submission in the same way they post a Facebook status—without taking time to think about repercussions.
The world is full of crazies.
Case in point. My cursor hovers over a new email in a thread of messages from one particular woman over the course of the past month. Even though I should delete these as quickly as I do the other spammy emails in my box, I don’t. I can’t help myself. Sometimes, it’s good to read one or two to remind myself of the reason I stay anonymous.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Mr. Expose,
I submitted a postcard to your blog. After sending it, I realized I shouldn’t have. May I request that you return the submission to me? I’ll be sending a self-addressed envelope to your postal box where you can send the postcard back. I believe I signed my name as ‘Betrayed Woman,’ or ‘Angry Woman.’
I apologize
for my error and hope I’ve written you in time.
Thank you,
Angel
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Dear Angel,
Thanks for following my blog and sending in a submission. I regret it’s against my policy to return any items sent in. I get frequent requests similar to yours. As you know, I have no real way of identifying you, since submissions don’t contain real names.
You can rest assured that no one will know you submitted the postcard. I am very serious about the privacy of my sources.
I’m happy to say I’ve received over 500 postcards already this year. Chances are yours will not be selected for a blog post on Mr. Expose. I hope this allays your fears.
Sincerely,
Mr. Expose
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Mr. Expose,
I don’t think you understand. It’s important to me that I get the postcard back. Its return is crucial to my well-being. I couldn’t sign my name since your guidelines tell us not to, but you can easily pick my card out of a pile. It’s pink with some flowery things on the back. I’m putting a self-addressed envelope in the mail to your box. Please return my postcard.
Many lives will be damaged by my thoughtless and selfish submission if it is selected for a blog. Consider this more of a plea than a simple request.
Angel
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Angel,
I do understand there is a measure of urgency to your request. Still, I cannot break policy. I could spend all my time with administrative tasks such as this.
In the future, I suggest you think through your actions more carefully. Impulsiveness is the downfall of many.
Please do not email again.
Mr. Expose
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
It’s not like I’m going to prison if I don’t get my card back, but I absolutely need to take care of destroying the postcard myself. Hindsight is 20/20 multiplied by a million. I completely see my mistake now. My thoughts were a jumbled mess when I wrote the postcard and revenge was my only goal. But I have no quarrel with the person my postcard will affect and I need to stop the publication. I am really, really sorry, but I must demand that you respond to my request.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Mr. Expose,
Did you receive my last email? I think you must have lost it or it’s in your spam folder. Please reply.
Angel
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Mr. Expose???!!!
I’ve sent the envelope so you can return my postcard. I am begging you to be human. I realize you must think I’m irrational to want something you obviously consider unimportant, but come on. I know from reading your blog that you attempt to correct the wrongs of the world by exposing those who would be dishonest.
This postcard and information will only do harm at this point. You will destroy lives.
Angel
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Mr. Expose,
I can’t keep writing you. You keep blogging and posting pics from random postcards, so I know you are in your stash of postcards often enough to do me the courtesy of a reply.
You are a postcard hoarding a-hole.
Yours truly,
Angel
My cell phone pings with an incoming message. I glance at the cell’s display and tap the message from my ex-girlfriend.
Tori: Don’t be King of the Assholes. Answer my calls. If you don’t, I will come in person.
King? I’m honored. Between the crazy woman texting me, and the one emailing about her postcard, there’s a consensus.
I’ve gone my entire life being known as the nice guy. Not anymore. I’ve wandered to the dark side. Maybe this is where I’ll find solitude, a place to get my manuscript finished for the agent who requested it.
Tori isn’t going to harass me into calling, and Angel Girl isn’t going to force me to dig out her postcard. I don’t hesitate this time when my cursor hovers over the email message.
Delete.
The Beauty of Lies
Chapter Two
Waiting for the Other Shoe to Drop
Harper Angel Wade
Letting myself into a stranger’s apartment isn’t the worst of sins. Mr. Expose has something that belongs to me, and I intend to get it. I’m not a real criminal. I committed my last illegal act in grade school when I shoplifted a My Little Pony for a friend. Later, regret set in and I imagined being hauled away and thrown into the slammer. I took the toy back to the store and slipped it onto the shelf. Incarceration didn’t scare me as much as a tongue-lashing from my daddy, the town pastor.
Breaking and entering is my first official crime of adulthood. My decisions these days have returned to the devil-made-me-do-it variety.
I push a desk drawer closed and continue to search through the paperwork in a box on his desk. A water bill, a flyer, a grocery list.
There’s a pamphlet for renter’s insurance. Boy, does he ever need some. There are all kinds of nut jobs in this world who would rob him blind. If I could advise the guy on how to avoid this situation in the future, I’d be sure to tell him that his apartment was a break-in waiting to happen. He conveniently left a key for me right under the welcome mat; as if that isn’t the first place a burglar would look.
And, while I’m handing out advice, I’d caution him not to be so assholey. His recent emails to me were downright rude and as short as my attention span during Sunday sermons.
In fact, his replies weren’t at all like his introspective musings on the Mr. Expose blog. No. Those are poetic masterpieces that dig into the psyche and pull back the curtain on evil.
But Mr. Expose blogger, also known as Leo Jensen, refuses to return my postcard. He recited all this baloney about policy and not mailing things back when people change their minds. Yada yada.
I blame him for my foray into the dark world of thievery. Harper Angel Wade—one account of felony, stealing a postcard.
The scraping sound of a key in the door lock has me frantically searching for a place to hide. My heart thrashes around in my chest like a trapped animal. I slip around a corner and slide underneath Leo’s bed like a runner into home base, a slight friction burn setting my left leg on fire.
The space underneath is shallow and barely covered by the cream comforter. In my limited vantage point, I make out movement near the apartment entrance. It will be a miracle if he doesn’t notice me. My head skims the bottom of the bed frame. My weight loss this year is the only thing saving me from being wedged under this bed like a piece of barbecue in your back molars.
Minutes tick by and a teeny drop of sweat escapes my hairline. It tickles against my hot face while taking its sweet time to meander centimeter by centimeter, eventually dripping into my eye. I strain to catch a glimpse of Leo. He’s walking around in the next room, each step squeaking as if his soles are too clean against the spit-shined floor.
Does Mr. Perfect sense something is amiss in his judgmental, I’m-too-spectacular-for-myself world?
The disturbing protests of his noisy shoes end, but he’s still moving around the apartment.
A dreaded June bug scuttles along the baseboard at my eye level. Just kill me now. I can handle anything but a June bug. I squeeze my eyes shut for a second and try to forget about the Starship Troopers movie—the one that convinced me bugs are evil.
His feet linger at the side of the bed. There’s a clattering noise as he drops some stuff onto the nightstand. I lose a little dignity and concentration as I stare at Leo’s ankles. The squeaky shoes have been discarded somewhere.
His feet aren’t bad. Not bad at all. Usually a guy’s feet give me the heebie jeebies—a residual phobia from the
summer I worked in a men’s shoe store. But his bare feet are actually nice. No callused, cracked heels or Bigfoot hairy toes.
After our email exchange, I pictured him as some cranky old fart who lived with twenty cats and stacks old newspapers in the corner. The newspapers would, of course, be hiding the stacks of postcards.
On the contrary, it appears Mr. Expose has good grooming habits and a very tidy apartment. No errant socks or dust bunnies share my hiding place. The June bug scuttles along the baseboard, daring me to look away. I can’t blame him for the June bug. They have a mind of their own.