by Julia Kent
Our Options Have Changed
On Hold Series Book #1
Julia Kent
Elisa Reed
Prosaic Press
Contents
Our Options Have Changed
Copyright
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
About Julia Kent
About Elisa Reed
Shopping for a Billionaire’s Honeymoon
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
About the Author
Our Options Have Changed
(On Hold Series Book #1)
by Julia Kent and Elisa Reed
Having it all is a fantasy, right?
Chloe Browne knows all about fantasy. Fantasy is her job.
And she’s very, very good at what she does.
As director of design for the O Spa chain, a sophisticated women’s club that is trending its way into being the Next Big Thing, Chloe’s ready to take on the world.
One baby at a time.
Her home study’s done, and she’s about to adopt, a thirty-something single mother by choice. Who needs to put her life on hold for the right guy when the right baby is waiting for her?
Besides, talk about fantasy.
The right guy?
Pfft. Right.
And then in walks Nick Grafton, with those commanding sapphire eyes and wavy blonde hair and a sophisticated mouth that only smiles for her.
He’s perfect.
But the last thing Nick wants is to start fresh with a new baby as his college-age kids fly the coop. A single father for more than fifteen years after his wife walked out on her family, Nick finally tastes freedom.
But he likes the taste of Chloe more.
* * *
Our Options Have Changed is a standalone contemporary romance, the first in the On Hold series by New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Julia Kent and journalist-turned-fiction-writer Elisa Reed. The characters in the On Hold series are part of the O Spa, a location that appears in Julia Kent’s Shopping for a Billionaire series. Cameo appearances from that series are in this spinoff, so readers who love Declan, Shannon, Andrew, Amanda, Marie, Chuckles and more can enjoy a new series while experiencing visits from old book friends.
Copyright
Copyright © 2016 by Julia Kent and Elisa Reed
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher.
* * *
Learn more about Julia Kent and join her newsletter at http://jkentauthor.com
* * *
Learn more about Elisa Reed at http://www.facebook.com/elisareedauthor
Acknowledgments
To Elisa, who came to me with this idea and all it took was pixie dust and cat herding to make it happen. Note: I am the cat. Meow.
To my husband, who reads all my books first and declared this one "the best book ever." But he says that about all of them, so I am suspicious, though grateful. I think he has an agenda.
To unnamed people who helped with the adoption issues that arise in this book. This is a sensitive topic, and I hope we've addressed it with grace.
To all the people who decide to be an adult, even when it's not fun. You deserve to be acknowledged.
* * *
-- JK
* * *
To Julia, for making my dream come true. Most. Fun. Job. Ever.
To every reader with a dream, never give up.
To my 'booster rocket,' never fall away.
* * *
-- ER
Chapter 1
Chloe
My desk at work is one smooth sheet of inch-thick glass. It’s called a waterfall. It’s utterly simple and uncomplicated, and every night when I leave my office, I leave that surface perfectly clear. Free of stress.
Gleaming.
So when I walk in this morning and see what appears to be a bound report lying open on my otherwise beautifully empty desktop, I am not happy.
There goes my chi. And it’s only seven a.m.
I can tell from across the room that the page has been highlighted in a shade of day-glo pink so bright it hurts my eyes.
It still hurts my eyes.
Whatever this document is, someone has helpfully previewed the contents for me.
I stow my tote bag in the closet, pulling out my laptop, cell phone, and my heels.
I push my empty cardboard container of coffee far down in the small rattan wastebasket. At O, the women’s spa (and so much more) where I am director of design, visual clutter is not in keeping with corporate standards. My next coffee this morning will be sipped from company china: a white mug outlined with a pale grey rim. O.
Just…O.
Sitting in my chair, I squint at the alarmingly pink page. It’s the color of Pepto-Bismol. I doubt that’s a coincidence.
Access: The Consolidated Evalu-shop team conducted its initial assessment of O’s flagship location in downtown Boston at 11:30 am on a weekday. As our vehicle approached the retail shop, it became apparent that neither street parking spaces nor garage facilities were available within an easy walk of the entrance. Investigators were forced to park two blocks away in a metered space requiring $2 in quarters for two hours, with no refill option after time expired. Grade: C.
Recommendation: Complimentary valet parking service should be instituted at the door immediately.
Sigh.
Okay, the good news: Operations at O are not my area of responsibility. The not-so-good news: Presentation is. Once you enter our door, if you can see it, I am responsible for it. And now it seems that my spa—my career baby—has been deemed average.
Average. Grade C. Middle of the bell curve.
I flip quickly to Section 3 and skim down the page. Thankfully, no highlighter. I can open my eyes. A random paragraph reads:
Staff Attire: Servers (Male) Our team unanimously awarded very high marks in this area. The male thongs were clearly custom-made, and without exception, well-fitting. They were constructed in such a way as to reveal the positive attributes of each server, at the same time leaving the most intimate details to the club member’s imagination until intentionally revealed. The servers’ short kimono jackets were chic and serviceable; the motion of the fabric and open style of the jacket captured and held the viewer’s interest. Very high-quality materials. Grade: A
Great. Let’s translate this, shall we? The nearly-naked men get an A, the facilities get a C. Sex sells. Parking doesn’t.
And ther
e’s more. Over one hundred pages more.
We’ve been mystery-shopped.
Being the subject of a mystery shop evaluation is like standing naked in front of your future in-laws with your credit report taped all over your body and lie-detector tests from all your exes being read over an intercom. In the middle of church.
While standing in a pool of sharks.
Or maybe it just seems that bad. I’m not sure. But I do know there’s no way I can read this much pink without more coffee.
And some Xanax-flavored creamer.
A C? I’m that kid who never earned a C in her life. Failure starts with C!
Okay, so, technically it starts with F, and right now, another word that starts with F is coming out of my mouth as I read this secret shopper evaluation that is longer than my college senior honors thesis.
I live for O.
Don’t misunderstand. You’ve heard of O, right?
We’ve been written up in every lifestyle publication from A to Z. Boston trendsetter Jessica Coffin Instagrams about us regularly—although I’m never quite sure whether she’s being sincere or snarky, and sometimes I suspect she’s on retainer. This is from yesterday’s feed from Jessica: Standing O.
O is a twenty-first century club for sophisticated women. A fourth space for women of a discerning taste.
Home is the first space. Work is the second space. Third spaces are locations like coffee shops and malls.
O is the fourth space. The space where you can arrive. Rest. Relax. Indulge. Be someone you can’t be in the other three spaces.
Based on our membership rates, we’re onto something. Our investors are, shall we say, pleased.
O does have a public presence, thanks to our retail environments. In Boston, Chicago, San Francisco, and soon in New Orleans, sophisticated consumers can spend hours—and hundreds of dollars—browsing our selection of “elegant accessories for intimate pleasure.”
That’s right—sex toys. That’s what the masses call them. Except at O, we cater to a clientele that doesn’t want to be one of the hoi polloi. They want to be unique. In the know. Enlightened and cosmopolitan on the surface.
But a wildcat down…below.
Which makes a Grade C unacceptable. No one wants to be average.
Especially down below.
“‘Trying too hard’?” I read aloud, my words coming out like a bark, my fingernails curling and biting into my palms. “How dare they!”
The last time we were mystery shopped, the review began with superlatives that turned my ego into a hot air balloon.
This new eval? More like a Patriots football.
I read on for a very long time, forcing my face to relax.
Every O has its levels. We begin with apparel. Think of it as gift-wrapping—who doesn’t love to unwrap a beautiful package? Gently tugging off the ribbon, sliding a fingernail underneath the glossy paper, slowly lifting the lid and spreading open the rustling layers of tissue paper to reveal the delicious surprise beneath. We offer both lingerie and street-wear boutiques.
“The clothing seems a bit out of date and not accessible to the average woman,” I whisper-read, wondering who wrote that? There was that word again. Average. We don’t cater to the average woman! Our boutiques carry every size fathomable, and designers from Milan you’ve never heard of (but will next season) have exclusive pre-season visits with us to make decisions about their lines. We don’t follow trends.
We set them.
But it’s not just about merchandise. O is a destination. All our retail spaces include stylish bookstore cafés, where our clientele can sip espresso with a twist of lemon peel from tiny cups while reading masterpieces of erotic literature. Famous authors spend nearly a year on our bookstore signing wait lists to get a crack at access to our members (and their purchasing power and buzz).
O’s clients enjoy meeting a friend here after work for a sparkling glass of prosecco, and sparkling conversation about who gets to use that new toy on whom tonight, without the annoying meat-market feel of a bar.
And if you happen to want a little meat? We have another bar on site for that, except this meat doesn’t hit on you.
It serves you.
That white china cup of black coffee descends onto my desk as if delivered from a crane. I look up, and up, at a wall of flesh that makes my morning just a little more tolerable.
“Oh, Henry, thank you. I really need this.”
“I can see that. You look a little frazzled. And it’s only nine o’clock.” He lowers himself into a white upholstered armchair facing my desk, his brow wrinkled with concern, as I blink. I’ve been mired in all the ways O disappointed a mystery shopping team for the past two hours. No wonder I’m exhausted.
Henry Holliday is seriously seven feet tall. He is my ‘work husband.’ Ginger hair, green eyes, and the muscular physique that his somewhat unique job requires. Henry is a master masseur in the O Club spa, and fills in occasionally as a performer for private parties. Dancing is in his body and soul. And it pays the tuition for his brain: Henry is working on his master’s degree in public health at Harvard.
In a roundabout way, working at O is a form of public service.
See what I mean? At O, you’re here to be served.
From the moment you step into an O property, you enter a different world. A world of serenity, where your senses are first lulled, then stimulated.
A world designed by me.
Chloe Browne.
Who has just been given her first C.
Chapter 2
Chloe
“We’ve been mystery-shopped. I found the report on my desk this morning. Anterdec is watching us closely—I guess that’s what comes after a ten-million-dollar investment,” I explain to Henry as he watches me intently. I’d invite him to get his own cup, but I know Henry hates coffee, which makes him part cyborg.
He tenses visibly. It’s a sight. Henry has more muscles than the average person.
There’s that damn word again.
Average.
“And? Anything I should know? What did they say about the spa? You know I need this job, Chloe. It pays well and fits my class schedule.”
“Not sure yet, it’s over a hundred pages long, but so far it seems fairly neutral.”
He sucks in his breath as if scandalized.
Neutral. Average.
The overachiever’s biggest fear.
“I know.” I shake my head sadly. “Do you have any idea who it could have been? I filled in giving some of the tours last month, but no one seemed like they were evaluating us. Everyone I saw honestly seemed to be enjoying themselves. And enjoying you.” I smile.
He doesn’t smile back.
“There are no more services that I can provide for our clients and still be faithful to Jemma. None. Thank god I have an understanding wife. I am giving my all, thanks to your uniform design.”
“Which, by the way, got very high marks,” I say cheerfully. “Who knew shoelaces could be so popular?”
He gives me an arched eyebrow and leans forward. “Let’s see that report.”
I hold it away from him just as my phone buzzes with a text.
“Don’t answer that!” he snaps. I wince. Henry’s not just an employee. He’s a good friend, and he knows why I want to look.
I look.
“It might be the adoption agency,” I protest. “I have to take it.” I’m waiting to hear whether I’ve been cleared after my home study for adoption. Nearly a year since I started the process, and I’m finally in the home stretch.
Henry groans.
The text says, Hey beautiful.
Not the adoption agency, unless part of their services now includes self-esteem building for prospective mothers.
It’s Joe. My boyfriend of three years.
I tell myself not to reply.
I can’t help myself. I reply. Hey.
How’s your morning? he writes back quickly.
It’s had its highlights. Too much to
text. One hundred and twenty-five pages too much.
Tell me tonight? Your place?
I tell myself to say no. I do. I really do.
“Chloe.” Henry’s voice holds a low warning, like he’s defending me from myself.
Yes, I text back.
Great 6:30
Self-loathing is an art. I should be pinned to a wall at the Institute of Contemporary Art.
I met Joe at my last job. He was the chief legal counsel. I was a project manager. One of our vendors failed to deliver a $40,000 conference table to Joe’s legal firm, and we sued. Joe got the table, and earned a bonus.
When the table finally arrived on site, Joe and I immediately used it to conduct a late-night intimate meeting—and a very satisfying meeting it was, too. That table was fabulous for spreading out and getting the job done under tight circumstances.
;)
Joe is my greatest supporter, my confidante, my tender lover. And due to some rather unfortunate timing, still someone else’s husband.
I know, I know, don’t even say it. It’s such a cliché, right? They grew apart, they haven’t slept together in years, the divorce will be final any day now…and we fell in love.
A familiar story, so contrived, but when it happens to you, it feels painfully real.
At least at first. Lately, it’s just painful.
And Joe needs to get real.
“I can’t believe you’re caving in,” Henry says with a sigh. Henry and his wife are not Joe fans, to say the least. He plucks the thick report out of my hands deftly and maneuvers away, like he’s practicing a dance move. His ginger waves have tightened with summer humidity, and curls ring his forehead. They bounce as he shakes his head.
“I can’t show you the whole thing, Henry. You know I have a non-disclosure agreement on things like this! Let me find the spa section, and the private entertainment review.”
