The Beat Match

by Kelly Siskind

  “You’re all traitors,” Annie said, unable to tear her eyes away from the fashion masterpiece. It was the exact dress from one of her scrapbook pages, layered lace, fitted and feminine with a tiny train. Immaculate. Romantic perfection.

  Suspicion dawned, giddy delight that her favorite man had scoured her books for inspiration, pored over the pages, and had created her perfect wedding.

  “He’s amazing,” she said, a fresh wave of emotion shaking her voice.

  “He loves you so much.” This from Rosanna.

  “His research skills would make him a killer private eye.” Sarah.

  Vivian kissed Annie’s cheek. “Now shut up and let us work.”

  Twined wild flowers were woven into Annie’s braided hair, like ones she’d plucked on a Central Park picnic Wes had once surprised her with. The girls changed into dresses in varying shades of green—like her eyes, Vivian mentioned on a sigh. Weston had apparently been quite specific on the tones. Bowls of salt and vinegar chips were brought in for them to munch on, alongside fancy appetizers only Wes would choose. Both their worlds colliding.

  That man was more than a prince. He was frustrating and irritating and amazing and handsome and talented and smart and the most thoughtful man in the world. Having this beautiful day imagined by him was better than stressing over choices, worried she’d forget the smallest detail.

  When she saw the rooftop garden, as whimsical as any floral dress she’d ever worn, more tears welled. Flowers smelling of sunshine spilled over stone pedestals and sprouted from every inch of the architecturally stunning deck. An arch of wild flowers stood at the far end, poetic in its simplicity.

  Marjory had even brought Felix. She kept wiping her eyes, while muttering, “I always knew it.”

  Annie’s new acquaintances were milling with Weston’s. He’d made his own friends recently, part of his mission to live a fuller life. They wore lovely suits, praised her beauty and kissed her hand. One massive man towered over the rest. Brick Kramarov. Heavyweight boxer and Weston’s spokesperson for their new Parkinson’s treatment. He hugged her kindly and leaned his head down. “I wish you two nothing but the best.”

  Annie glanced behind him, looking for Brick’s plus one. “Is Isla here?”

  Brick’s face shadowed. “No, she…” He swallowed heavily. “I haven’t told her about working with Weston on the Parkinson’s drug yet. The timing has to be right.”

  Brick’s sadness hurt Annie’s heart. He was a pile of goo packed into the body of a warrior, and his pain was palpable. Annie hadn’t met Brick’s love interest, but he spoke of her often, even confessing that his spokesperson offer was a way to win back the love of his life. Annie hoped his plan worked.

  A man stole Brick’s attention, talk of boxing taking over, and Annie’s favorite piano student, Joyce, gave her a hug and patted her cheek. Pierced and tattooed DJ friends interrupted, offering their congratulations. A motley crew for her and Weston’s kaleidoscope life.

  Then there was Rosanna’s father, standing to the side, chatting with Victor S. Aldrich.

  If you’d asked Annie nine months ago if Weston’s father would attend their wedding, she’d have laughed herself silly. Then she would have checked for a hidden camera. Fast friends they were not. There were no warm family dinners or engaging phone calls. His name was nowhere on her emergency contact list. But they had an understanding.

  Victor had shockingly thanked her for nailing Duncan to the wall and solidifying the merger. There hadn’t been enough evidence to convict the creep, but he’d been fired, his reputation ruined. Aldrich Pharma had since thrived. She wasn’t sure where Duncan had slinked off to, but he’d be lucky to get a job flipping burgers. The last she’d spoken with Weston’s father, after his grudging gratitude, she’d thanked him for having such a wonderful son and had told him, unequivocally, he’d only meet future grandbabies if he thawed his frozen heart.

  They made eye contact across the decorated rooftop. Victor nodded stiffly. She replied with a wide smile. The corners of his lips twitched briefly, as though reciprocating the gesture, or maybe he was passing gas, then he returned to his conversation.

  She glanced toward the sky and silently thanked Weston’s mother for teaching her son how to love, regardless of his father’s stony nature. She thanked Leo for being a great big brother and teaching her to be strong and happy and for bringing Wes into her life.

  She searched the rooftop for the man of the hour, but he was nowhere to be seen. Another handsome man approached her with a woman on his arm. Annie had never seen him before. She’d have remembered those thick eyelashes and his dashing sweep of dark hair. The woman on his arm, however, was familiar: the freckles dusting her nose, that strawberry blond hair, her hesitant yet curious gaze. Something tickled Annie’s memory, a younger version of this woman, with pigtails poking out of her head.

  Annie slapped her hand over her mouth. “Clementine?” she said through her fingers.

  The woman’s brown eyes lit up. “I wasn’t sure you’d remember me.”

  “How could I forget you?” She’d been so quiet in their shared foster home, reserved, distrustful. For three months Annie had invented ridiculous stories while brushing Clementine’s beautiful hair, trying to make her smile.

  “I was shocked when Weston called,” Clementine said, her face flushed. “I’ve thought about finding you so many times, but…” She ducked her head as though embarrassed.

  “I did, too. Lots. But everything was so hard back then.” Impossible. Life sending her for another loop. Yet here Clementine was, because Annie had mentioned her to Wes, once, almost a year ago. “I had no idea Wes was doing this. I can’t believe you’re actually here.”

  Clementine sniffled and caught Annie in her arms, holding and hugging her with equal force. She pulled back and fussed over Annie’s dress. “If I ruin this I’ll never forgive myself.”

  “I probably wouldn’t forgive you, either.” She winked. “Now introduce me to this hunk of a man.”

  The hunk in question dropped his gaze and smiled shyly. “I’m Jack, the lucky man engaged to this amazing woman.” He looked at Clementine, his sweet shyness melting away into adoration thick enough to taste.

  Weston couldn’t have given Annie a better gift than seeing Clementine grown, happy, on the arm of a seemingly sweet man. Speaking of which, where the heck was her prince?

  A violin trilled and Clementine clapped. “That’s your cue. We’ll catch up later.”

  That did sound like her cue. It was the hopeful violin segment Wes had worked into some of his opening DJ sets, but her groom was still absent. The guests maneuvered as though prompted to assume their places. Vivian took Annie by the arm and led her toward the flower arch and waiting minister.

  Annie stumbled in her pretty heels. “Last I checked, the groom should be at the end of the aisle when getting married.” She came to a dead stop, fear locking her ankles. “Did he get cold feet? Is he on a plane to Ibiza without me? Am I getting ditched at the altar?”

  Vivian pinched Annie’s upper arm. “What did we say about the questions?”

  “Have you no heart?”

  Vivian deposited her under the arch and patted her shoulder. “Have faith, young grasshopper.”

  The guests stood, facing her, eyes bright and eager. Except for Victor. His severe scowl was as predictable as ever. But the rest of them? They left an opening, the type of rose petal-covered aisle a bride would use to float toward her beloved, but this bride was at the arch, the groom was a no-show, and their friends were grinning, like this odd circumstance wasn’t odd at all.

  The violinist switched songs. The small gathering glanced toward where the bride should appear. And there he was. Weston. Falcon. Her best friend and lover, decked out in a tux that hugged his lean lines and probably cost a mint. That man and his suits.

  He smiled at her, paused and shook his head as he covered his heart with his hand. He glanced up at the sky and mouthed something she couldn’t und
erstand. Her eyes burned, her throat turning raw and scratchy. She was going to lose her cool before he walked the short distance to her.

  When he reached her, she bit the inside of her cheek. She would not cry and ruin this gorgeous makeup. “You did this,” she whispered.

  “I did.”

  “I can’t believe you found Clementine, and the dress is beyond gorgeous, and the flowers and everything you planned is almost perfect.”

  He stepped closer, blocking the gathering from view. “Almost?”

  “I’m supposed to be the one walking down the aisle, not you.”

  He made a soft clucking sound and kissed both her hands. “That was for me, not you. I wanted to walk toward the most ridiculous, amazing, beautiful woman in the world so she knows she’s the only person who could ever be at the end of this path. You’re the only direction for me, Annie. You’re my compass. Everything will always point to you.”

  Biting her cheek didn’t help. Tears overflowed. “Even if I’m standing on the lip of a bubbling volcano about to erupt all over your gorgeous tux?”

  He laughed and wiped her tears with his thumbs. “Even then. Now what do you say we get hitched? We have a honeymoon in Ibiza to get to.”

  Annie had never considered herself lucky. Not with the rough childhood she’d been dealt. But here, right now, amid their hodge-podge of friends, one rabbit named Felix, the New York skyline stretching into the distance, and this breathtaking man looking at her like she was the center of his world, she’d never felt luckier.

  THANK YOU FOR READING WES AND ANNIE’S STORY!

  Want to know what happens when a girl with stage fright is forced to work as a stage magician’s assistant? One-click this falling-for-your-boss romantic comedy now: New Orleans Rush (Book 1 in the Showmen series)

  * * *

  Keep reading for an excerpt and details about Kelly Siskind’s next release: The Knockout Rule!

  New Orleans Rush

  Beatrice Baker may be a struggling artist, but she believes all hardships have silver linings...until she follows her boyfriend to New Orleans and finds him with another woman. Instead of turning those lemons into lemonade, she drinks lemon drop martinis and keys the wrong man's car.

  * * *

  Now she works for Huxley Marlow of the Marvelous Marlow Boys, getting shoved in boxes as an on-stage magician's assistant. A cool job for some, but Bea's been coerced into the role to cover her debt. She also maybe fantasizes about her boss's adept hands and what else they can do.

  * * *

  She absolutely will not fall for him, or kiss him senseless. Until she does. The scarred, enigmatic Huxley has unwittingly become her muse, unlocking her artistic dry spell, but his vague nightly activities are highly suspect. The last time Beatrice trusted a man, her bank account got drained and she almost got arrested. Surely this can't end that badly...right?

  Start reading New Orleans Rush now!

  Thank you again for reading Wes and Annie’s story. If you enjoyed it, please consider posting a review to help other readers who might be looking for a story just like this one.

  Keep reading for an excerpt from

  New Orleans Rush!

  New Orleans Rush Excerpt

  Seeing the world through rose-colored glasses was a cultivated skill. A sunny outlook could brighten partly cloudy skies and refract that brilliance into the world. Most days smiling through adversity was effortless. Tonight, Bea’s positivity had fled the building.

  “Hit me with another, sir.” Her request came out faster than intended, each word knocking into each other.

  The bartender in question cocked an eyebrow. “You sure that’s a good idea? Looks like you enjoyed a few before coming here.”

  She squinted at the man’s gelled hair and fancy bow tie. He seemed the unflappable sort, the type who could have survived her gray day with a sip of tea and self-deprecating chuckle.

  Bea planted her elbows on the bar, briefly grimacing at the sticky surface. “I appreciate your concern, but that was my first drink. And if we switched bodies in one of those body-swapping movies, and you had to relive my last thirteen hours, you’d realize I could win the Guinness World Record for Worst Luck. Denying me another drink would be barbaric.”

  Except the alcohol was fogging up her usual rosy glasses. Or maybe it was the cold medicine she’d taken when she failed to find Advil in her purse.

  The bartender cracked a smile. “Barbaric?”

  “A crime against humanity.”

  He shook his head and reached for the vodka on the shelf. “Maybe don’t inhale this one.”

  Another lemon drop in hand, she swiveled on her stool and scanned the room. The low lighting made her eyelids heavy, the red carpets and mahogany walls adding to the bar’s sleepy warmth. It had a Rat Pack vibe, accentuated by the bow-tie-wearing servers and lampshade table lights. Jazzy music joined the hum of the crowd. A crowd as unfamiliar to her as the rest of New Orleans.

  Move with me to the Mardi Gras City, Nick had begged. We’ll work the bar scene at night. You can paint all day. We’ll live each minute like it’s our last!

  Her boyfriend—now of the ex persuasion—had neglected to mention that four days into their adventure he’d change the rules, leaving Bea homeless and jobless in the birthplace of jazz. She also hadn’t painted anything but artless amoebas the past month.

  Sinking lower on her stool, she cupped her drink with both hands. She didn’t sip it right away, letting her tipsiness linger instead. Then a guy in a top hat and cape appeared.

  Yep. That just happened.

  She looked into her full glass, then back at the mirage, wondering if she was drunker than she’d realized. She had consumed her first drink faster than usual, and mixing cold medicine and alcohol wasn’t the best idea. She squinted harder at the man. The top hat was still there, making its already tall owner stupendously taller. The cape was still there, too. Not just any cape. A midnight velvet cape with stars stitched through the material.

  It was a galaxy far, far away. Right here. In a New Orleans bar.

  The cape looked soft and plush. If Bea could rub her face in the fleecy fabric and roll into a cocooned bundle, she was sure she could sleep for a week and wake up in a different life. One that didn’t resemble a fifty-car pileup.

  The top hat man focused on her, as though sensing the longing in her stare. Or maybe he’d heard her say, “I’d love to nuzzle your cape.”

  A thought she’d accidentally unmuted.

  He walked toward her like she was the only person in the jazzy room and stopped in front of her barstool. “You can touch it, if you’d like.”

  The fabric looked even softer up close, but the sensual timbre of his low voice had her sitting straighter. “If you’re not referring to your cape, things might get ugly.”

  She wasn’t above tossing her drink in his face.

  His lips twitched. “I do mean the cape. Unless you’d like to try on my hat.” He tipped up the felt brim.

  She loosened her grip on her glass, pleased she wouldn’t have to waste a perfectly good martini. But the way her day was going, the hat would probably give her lice. “I don’t accept hats from strangers. Or capes.”

  “I believe that applies to candy, not capes.”

  “What if it carries an ancient spell and whisks me away to some dark castle where I’ll be imprisoned and tortured until they learn I can’t command the cape’s magic?”

  The edges of his eyes crinkled. “A valid point.”

  His languid gaze slid down her body and up again. He studied her so long she finally sipped her drink, then he extended his hand. “I’m Huxley.”

  The second her fingers—cold and damp from the chilled glass—slid into Huxley’s large grasp, heat shot up her arm. The cape most definitely had hidden powers. “Bea,” she said. “Fascinating to meet you.”

  The most fascinating moment of her gray day.

  Aside from the subtle blond scruff highlighting dramatic cheekbones and his a
quiline nose, Huxley wasn’t traditionally handsome. Puckered skin overtook half an eyebrow, part of his right ear was missing, and a thick scar ran down his left cheek. His dirty-blond hair had a slight unruly curl, the ends licking at his neck.

  Individually, his features weren’t particularly attractive, but as a whole this man was ruggedly elegant. Like when you stepped back from a Monet and all the paint strokes blended into a masterpiece.

  Until he said, “Bee, as in the insect?”

  Now he was more of a disturbing Picasso painting than a Monet masterpiece. “As in Beatrice Baker, but make a bee joke and I might borrow your cape after all. See if I can use its dormant magic to turn you into a colon rectum.”

  He barked out a laugh. “Excuse me?”

  She fixed him with her best menacing stare. “A colon rectum. It’s an ugly beetle.”

  Frequently taunted with “bee” jokes as a kid, Bea had studied insects and animals. The odder the name the better. Using the insults against bullies would often confuse them into silence. It had a different effect on Huxley, whose striking cheekbones rounded, his lips curving upward like he’d stumbled upon a four-leaf clover in a barren land.

  She found herself leaning toward him. “Are you from New Orleans?”

  “I am. But you’re not.”

  She froze, worry weaving up her spine. He wouldn’t know she’d just arrived from Chicago, unless he’d followed her here. Not impossible, but the one person who would have tailed her was even taller, with a slight paunch. Big Eddie could have sent someone else after her—an accomplice to intimidate and threaten. Except a gun for hire wouldn’t waltz around, brazenly, wearing a cape and top hat, and Big Eddie had no clue where she was.