by Penny Reid
It was an amazing show, a super funky musical adaptation of Shakespeare in Love. Carly got the part of Lady de Lesseps—a huge feather in her cap for her age. She even got a duet, which was heart-stoppingly beautiful, though I might be biased.
After several long minutes of applause, the leads come out, two big Broadway stars. They take their bows, and then the supporting cast all run out, including Carly, who catches my eye and grins wide before taking her bow, holding hands with her scene mates.
The curtain goes down one final time, the lights go on, and we make our way to the aisle—slowly.
It’s Locke night at the show, meaning Locke Worldwide bought out half the tickets for employees and vendors as a way to support the show early on. Brett’s idea.
Things are better with Brett. I came around to forgiving him—it was right around when we got back to the States, once Carly finished her school term in London. I know he was fighting for the company, not unlike Henry. And Brett’s going to be family now—Henry and I got engaged over Christmas.
Henry was slower to forgive, but they’re on good terms again. Back to their golf and scotch and strategy walks around Battery Park.
Henry shakes hands, kisses cheeks, and remembers names left and right. And I love him like crazy for it.
“Vonda!” Mandy comes and squeezes my hands. She’s in a dazzling green dress. “Your sister! So good.”
I thank her, grinning like a proud parent.
Other Locke employees are there, as well as some of Henry and Brett’s society set, complimenting my sister. Renaldo asks about Smuckers and I confide that he’s home resting up in preparation for a long day at the Sassy Snout groomer.
A woman comes up to me wearing a Smuck U necklace—I put them up on Etsy and they’re a huge hit. It’s fun to be back to jewelry designing.
We also bought the Southfield makers space and we’re making it bigger and better. I got my area back. Right next to Latrisha.
Coming back to New York publicly as Vonda was a revelation. Naturally, I didn’t want to. I dreaded the attention. Even after the Woodruff scandal broke, even after having long talks with Henry—he felt certain the attention wouldn’t hurt this time—I just didn’t want it.
But I wanted to be with Henry, wanted to return to New York. The London share studio was on its way by the time Carly finished high school. I had a great person to run it. So we packed up our flat and I steeled myself and we flew back on Henry’s jet.
He set up a press conference for the day after we returned.
I wasn’t so sure about that plan, but I trusted his experience with the paparazzi. “Feed them a nice meal and they won’t go following you for crumbs,” he said.
So I steeled myself. I might have even put on a dark sweater set and slim skirt. “No!” Carly cried, tugging at my sweater. “Noooooo!”
I grinned and hugged Carly to me. But I needed body armor. Something to cover my heart.
I stepped out in front of the cameras with Henry, holding his hand in a sweaty death grip, waiting for the insults, the onslaught of hurtful questions. Braced, steeled, pulse racing like I was entering a war zone.
The battle never came.
It was just waves of goodwill, stunning and warming me. People empathizing with me. Apologizing. It was beyond cathartic.
I can’t count the number of people who have come up to me since I got back, telling me their own stories of not being believed, of being scapegoated, pilloried on social media.
None got to the level of national shaming I did, but I also know that when it’s happening to you, it feels like the whole world is doing it. Sometimes I know I’m the only one listening.
We finally reach the chandelier-draped lobby. There are vintage posters all around. People are happy—buoyant, even, from the show.
I’m pulling forward but Henry tugs me back and spins me into a corner, hands curled around my waist. He kisses me hard. “That dress. God, need you so bad,” he says. “You’re beautiful. You’re like a firebird.”
I grin and nip his lip. I’ve let my hair go back to red, and my dress is bright orange. Fire doesn’t burn me anymore.
“Need to strip you out of it,” he grates in a voice that has me wishing that lobby-to-limo teleportation was a thing.
“Need to get you out of that wristwatch,” I say.
He pulls me in more tightly against the powerbrokery hard body that I love.
We do eventually get out of there, but not to the limo. We sneak around the dark side of the building to the cast exit and wait for Carly, which involves making out like teenagers. And then he pushes back into the bricks and fixes me with a serious stare.
“I love you,” he says, his voice full of wonder. “So much.”
I gaze up at his beautiful face and lopsided dimples that I like to kiss. “I love you, Henry.” And the stars in the night sky seem to brighten behind him.
I’m going to be honest—the stars up there still make zero intelligible pictures as far as I can see. But the picture Henry and I make together means everything to me, lines scribbling between our hearts to create an amazing new world.
- THE END -
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Will Theo ever find his mysterious wake-up-call girl?
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The Billionaire’s Wake-up-call Girl
An enemies-to-lovers romantic comedy
When my manager assigns me the task of finding a new wake up call service for our CEO, I think, how hard can this be?
Answer: practically impossible. It turns out that no wake-up call company in the world will take him on as a client. They’ve all had enough of his surly personality.
So in an effort not to lose my job, I secretly start making the calls myself, every day at 4:30 am sharp. OMG yes you read that right—four freaking thirty in the morning.
Confession: I’m not the nicest wake-up-call girl at that hour. Hello! Who wakes up before the roosters are even crowing? Luckily he doesn’t seem to mind my get-your-ass-out-of-bed attitude.
Day by day we’re becoming closer, and the calls start turning hot, like pay-by-the-minute hot and oh-so-wild. Snuggled under the covers with the moonlight streaming in the windows, we divulge our secrets to each other, but the one thing that he can never find out is that the sexy vixen who wakes him up every morning is just the lowly assistant who wears frumpy dresses. I can only imagine his disappointment.
Now he wants to take me out on a date and he’s scouring Manhattan to find me. He’s an overachieving billionaire bent on a mission. How much longer can I keep up this charade?
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Wrong
Jana Aston
I have a history of picking the wrong guy.
Gay? Player? Momma’s boy? Check, check and check.
Now I can’t stop fantasizing about one of the customers at the coffee shop I work at between classes. It’s just a harmless crush, right? It’s not like I ever see this guy outside of the coffee shop. It’s not like I’m going to see him while attempting to get birth control at the student clinic. While wearing a paper gown. While sitting on an exam table. Because he’s the doctor. Shoot. Me.
But what if, for once, the man I’ve had the dirtiest, most scandalous fantasies about turned out to be everything but wrong?
Chapter 1
"Sophie, your favorite customer is here." Everly snaps a towel on my ass and grins at me.
"Everly, shut up! He'll hear you."
Fuck, I'm already blushing. Luke. He comes into the coffee shop every Tuesday morning. It's the highlight of my morning shift at Grind Me, a coffee shop just off campu
s. I work around my classes at the University of Pennsylvania. The Grind Me location I work at caters mainly to professionals and students living in off-campus apartments.
Luke definitely falls into the professional category. I'm not sure what he does, but he strolls into Grind Me in very expensive-looking suits and sharp ties. Nothing like the college boys in athletic pants and graphic-print tee shirts. He must be ten, fifteen years older than me. It doesn't matter. He's beautiful and I have a bit of a thing for him, which is bad because I have a boyfriend. An age-appropriate boyfriend. But it's just a harmless crush, right?
But Luke… he makes my panties wet just ordering coffee. He's tall, over six feet by my estimate. Thick dark hair, brown eyes and eyelashes any girl would kill for. He's wearing a dark gray suit today with a plum-colored tie. Fucking swoon.
His hands, I'm a little obsessed with them. Long fingers ending in short, impeccably clean nails. They just look… capable. I have a lot of fantasies involving his hands and my body. He's gotta know what he's doing with those hands. I bet he could get me off in minutes—those perfect fingers would know just where to curve while his thumb pressed down on my clit. He could probably make me come one-handed while he finished a phone call on his cell with the other.
I have a lot of fantasies about Luke based on nothing more than pouring him a cup of coffee every Tuesday and ringing him up. Always cash. I have no idea what his last name is. I wouldn't even know his first name if I hadn't listened in to one of his calls while he pulled a twenty from his wallet. "It's Luke, tell Dr. Kallam it's urgent, I'll hold."
Unfortunately, I don't think my fantasies are returned. I don't think he'd even know my name if it wasn't stamped in bold on a pin stuck to the front of my apron.
"Sophie." He always addresses me by name. Good morning, Sophie. I'll have the dark roast, Sophie. I think you have a bit of whipped cream on your nose, Sophie. That stuff splatters, okay? "Sophie?" Oh, shit. Has he been talking to me while I fantasized?
"Sorry! Um, daydreaming." He smirks at me. Bastard. "Large dark roast?"
"Please." He slides a five-dollar bill across the counter. "Have a great day, Sophie." He smiles again as he turns and strolls out of the shop. I watch him walk, free to eye-fuck him without being caught. The door jingles shut behind him but I keep watching until he's out of sight.
"Whew, that was hot." Everly fans herself with a takeout bag. "Sexual tension. Is it warm in here?"
"Stop it."
She loves teasing me. We go through this every week. He must hear her snickering in the background. And she ensures I'm the one who waits on him every time. If she's at the counter when he arrives she immediately finds something else to do so she can step back and watch me ogle him. It's embarrassingly obvious.
"Enough of the mysterious hottie. Are you going to put out and fuck Mike or not? You've made him wait like, a month? That's a long time in horny college-boy time. Plus, you're the oldest virgin on campus. Not even our campus. All the campuses."
"It's not my fault I dated a gay guy for two years." I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear and cross my arms across my chest. I'm a little defensive about this.
"Hello? Earth to delusional. You didn't find it odd you were dating a twenty-year-old guy who never tried to stick his dick in you?" Everly dumps beans into the industrial-sized grinder and raises a skeptical eyebrow in my direction. I hand her a stack of one-pound Grind Me bags labeled for individual sale and lean against the opposite counter.
"I thought he respected me, not that he was afraid of vaginas," I tell her, kicking the rubber mat on the floor over an inch. "He let me suck him off." I add this in, hoping it's a valid point in my defense.
Everly snorts. "Yeah, with the lights off."
I bite my lip and look away.
"Oh my God! I was joking. I'm so sorry, Sophie. Shit, seriously? Guys love to watch themselves get sucked. But Scott was probably picturing a dude while his dick was in your mouth, so… Oh, fuck. I’m making this worse." Everly drops the coffee bag under the dispenser. Beans scatter across the counter and drop to the floor while she grabs me into a giant hug. "Lots of guys would love to fuck you, Sophie. I promise. Like Luke. That guy would love to stick it in you, he's just concerned you're jailbait. But you should start with Mike anyway. Tall, dark and handsome looks like he's packing a donkey dick."
"You've got a really charming way with words, Everly. You should write a book or something." I break out of her hug and grab the broom to sweep the coffee beans off the floor.
"Anyway, it's a go with Mike, right? Just get it over with. Mike will do, he's hot. I'd fuck him."
"Everly!"
"I wouldn't do him without a condom though. Safety first. And tell me you made an appointment with the student clinic. You should always have two forms of birth control, because I'm not ready to be a grandmother." Everly hops up onto the back counter and watches me sweep. "You missed a few to your left."
"Everly, you're twenty-one and we're not related. You wouldn't be the grandmother."
"Whatever. Semantics."
"That's not what semantics means. What are you majoring in again?" I glance over as she swipes a muffin from the bakery case and peels the wrapper back.
"I'm majoring in Professor Camden," she replies around a mouthful of muffin. "Which is better than this muffin. Jesus. Who pays for this crap?"
"Not you, clearly," I observe as she tosses the muffin into the trash. "Yes. I have an appointment at the clinic today after shift. I shaved my legs and everything." I pull an elastic from my wrist and gather my long brown hair into a ponytail before bending down to sweep Everly's mess into a dustpan.
"What about your vagina? Did you shave that?" Everly reaches back into the bakery case and extracts a brownie covered in caramel.
"Noooo," I respond slowly. "I don't think the gynecologist will expect me to be bald. Right?"
"Holy fuck. This brownie. Now this is good. Orgasmic good. How much are we charging for these things?" I'm guessing she doesn't care because she doesn't stop talking or check the shelf tag for a price. "Oh my God. Do you want a bite?" I shake my head no and she continues.
"I can't wait for you to have an orgasm. Not a brownie orgasm, a penis orgasm. Which you won't have this weekend unless Mike is really, really talented. Which he's not old enough to be, trust me. But that fucker better make you come with his tongue or fingers before he sticks it in you. ’Cause that is not going to feel great the first time or two. So yeah, Mike might want you bald. I'll hook you up with my girl Leah. Her waxing skills, amaze."
She drops the half-eaten brownie on the counter and pulls her cell phone from her pocket while I’m distracted with a customer. By the time I finish making a medium vanilla hazelnut latte and turn back to Everly, she's finished her phone call and gone back to devouring the brownie.
"You're all set. Thursday. I texted you the address. You're welcome."
"Everly! I never agreed to get waxed."
"Don't be a pussy. The gynecologist is more uncomfortable than a waxing. You're going to love it, trust me. The friction is so much better during sex. God." She smiles. "Plus even in your jeans. I swear you're going to be horny all day Friday with your bare vagina rubbing against your jeans."
I shake my head. "This conversation is so wrong."
"What are you girls talking about? Naked pillow fights at the dorm?"
"Shut up, Jeff." Everly doesn't even look up from her brownie.
"You can't speak to me that way, Everly. I'm your manager, it's insubordination." Jeff is a senior at the university, just like we are. His father owns this little chain of coffee shops and gave Jeff this one to manage.
"You can't sexually harass us either, yet you do. Why don't I conference-call your daddy and we can discuss my sexual harassment lawsuit while you lodge your insubordination complaint?”
"Fine," Jeff mutters. "At least get off the counter. And write down all the food you steal on the stale list. My inventory is always off when you work." He turns
around and heads back into his office. It's not really an office, it's a desk he set up in the stock room—complete with an executive chair he picked up at Costco one weekend, dragging it through the back door like he was setting up shop to run a small empire, not manage other college students at a coffee house.
Everly hops off the counter muttering under her breath. "That guy's got a future ahead of him. In middle management, where he'll motivate no one and annoy everyone."
"He's not that bad, Everly." She gives me a look that says she disagrees. "Okay, he is that bad," I agree.
"Truth." She goes back to filling the one-pound bags of coffee and thankfully drops the topic of waxing. I'm not sure I intend to keep that appointment. The one I have later this morning is enough to think about.
Chapter 2
The rest of my shift passes in a blur of lattes, iced mochas and a steady stream of both commuting students headed to campus and professionals headed to nearby businesses. After clocking out I make my way to the nearest bus stop on foot. I have less than an hour to make my appointment at the student clinic and I don't want to miss it. Condoms are easy enough to get, but getting a prescription for birth control requires an appointment and an exam, and if I miss this appointment there's no telling how long it will be until the next opening.
The university has a shuttle system that loops around the campus, but Grind Me is several blocks outside the transit loop, hence why our undergraduate student customers are few. It's cool outside with fall well under way and I wrap my jacket tighter around me as I hustle to the bus stop, grateful that a bus is pulling up just as I arrive. The buses run every fifteen to twenty minutes so I'm glad to have caught this one.
