She relaxed on her seat. “How’d you know I’m not local?”
“Deductive reasoning.”
“Because you’re a clairvoyant with a photographic memory and can tell me every meal I’ve eaten the past week?”
Amusement lit his eyes. “My ways are much simpler than that.”
“Do share.”
He pointed at her lap. “The keychain on your purse is a dead giveaway.”
Right. The Chicago Bulls tag. A gift from her ex-boyfriend on their third date. She didn’t love basketball, but the keepsake had been sweet. It was now a sour memory. She removed it from her purse zipper and tossed it onto the bar. “Now I’ll blend in.”
Huxley’s posture shifted, shrinking the distance between them. “A woman as beautiful as you doesn’t blend.”
Whoa.
Her pulse tapped up her neck, her rapid breaths chasing the erratic beat. She tried to decipher the odd color of his eyes, but the dim lighting made it tough, and a man bellowed Huxley’s name from the back of the room, breaking the moment.
Huxley turned, and she gawked at the hollering man…because mustaches like his were extinct. That was a mustache wearing a face, the type of hairy handlebar that could serve as a playground for miniature children. A monkeybar-stache! She snickered at her internal joke and checked her drink again. It was still half-full, but her day no longer felt half-empty, thanks to the cape-wearing man before her.
“I’ll be back,” he said, all wonder eclipsing from his Monet face.
Once he joined the owner of the monkeybar-stache, Huxley glanced at her, but the mustache man’s aggressive hand gestures drew his attention away. She sipped her drink and watched the odd interaction, wishing she could read lips.
When she finished her lemon drop, she turned and flagged the bartender. “One more, please.”
He accepted her extended glass. “How ’bout we call this your last? You should head home after, sleep this Guinness Record Day off.”
A brilliant idea, if she had a home, or a bed.
It hadn’t taken much effort to stuff her clothing and paintbrushes back into her duffle bag this morning. She’d then loaded her yellow Beetle—the trusty automobile being the only mainstay in her life—and had sat in her parked car for an unhealthy length of time, replaying today’s disaster.
“Here’s the thing,” Nick had said when she’d woken up this morning. “I’ve changed. I don’t want to be in a committed relationship. It’s best we know this now, before we get in too deep. It’s been fun, and you’re great, but it’s time we moved on.”
She had tugged at her ear, sure her hearing had failed her. “I’m sorry, but it sounds like you’re breaking up with me?”
His answering nod had been all sympathetic puppy-dog. “It’s for the best. I mean, I was getting coffee this morning, and a girl in line asked me out. I wanted to say yes, which means there’s something missing between you and me. If we stay together, I might regret it and hurt you in the process. And you know I’m a stickler for honesty.”
Getting dumped four days after following Nick to New Orleans had been humiliating. Listening to him admit he’d accepted the coffee girl’s date for tonight had driven her mortification home. All because Nick believed in honesty. So much so, he reminded her the apartment he’d rented was in his name. He then graciously suggested she crash there until she found something new, no hint of irony in his voice.
Bea had stared at him. And stared. She hadn’t screamed and cursed, because she wasn’t a screamer or curser. She’d simply looked at the man who’d convinced her to quit her waitressing job, leave Chicago, drive across four states, upend her life for a dream, and she’d said nada.
The fact that he’d never blessed her when she’d sneezed should have been a red flag, along with his Kardashian-sized shoe collection. But Bea had wanted to escape and delve into her art and forget about her father, and the mess her sperm donor had made of her life. The matter of a certain loan shark threatening her bodily harm may have also expedited her departure.
Now here she was, the victim of another sabotaging man.
She dragged her newly filled martini glass closer, ignoring the pull of the caped man behind her. She was in no state to find any man intriguing. Not on a Guinness Record Dumping day. Sipping her lemon drop was no longer an option, either. She tried to suck that puppy back, but the straw jammed into her cheek. Huffing, she pushed it aside and downed the martini, finishing by wiping her wrist across her mouth. The room took a lazy spin.
She sat awhile, twirling the empty glass, waiting for her equilibrium to settle. The weight of her troubles hunched her shoulders. She still had no job. No place to live. The alcohol provided no insight, nor did the monotony of the spinning glass. She couldn’t reverse time, so telling Nick where to shove his “it’s for the best” face was off the table. Time to call it a night.
Tip left for the bartender, she hopped off the barstool. The walls did a tilt-a-whirl—a questionable sensation. She’d only had three drinks. Enough to make her mind feel loose, but not enough to turn the room into a merry-go-round. The cold medicine she’d used to Band-Aid her headache must be the culprit. The aching no longer plagued her, but the room’s drowsy spin could pose a problem.
Bathroom. She just needed to make it to the bathroom, splash a little water on her face, and she’d be rain as right. Or right as rain. She’d shake this wooziness and figure out a plan. Translation: she’d sleep in her car tonight and hope to wake up in one of those body-swapping movies.
Maybe she could become Emma Stone. That girl had a sassy spine, no qualms about mouthing off to deserving men. They both had the red hair, freckle thing going on. Emma’s boobs were smaller, so wearing fitted tops wouldn’t make Bea feel like a Hooters waitress trolling for tips. But Bea had an hourglass figure with a daylight saving’s hour padding out her rear, which she loved. Come to think of it, Bea liked her body just fine. It was her life and backbone that were in need of swapping.
So lost in her hypothetical switcharoo, she didn’t recall walking to the bathroom or flushing the toilet or even leaving the stall. She hoped she hadn’t sat directly on the seat.
Beside her, a black woman with peroxide blond curls reapplied red lipstick. She cut a look Bea’s way and whistled. “Someone’s had a rough night.”
Bea sighed at her bleary reflection. “I made a bad decision.”
One that shouldn’t derail her life. Nick’s name did rhyme with prick, but she was in New Orleans. A colorful city with men in capes and monkeybar-staches. The perfect place to replenish her drained creative juices. She didn’t need Nick the Prick to start fresh. To prove her capability, she fumbled for the watermelon lip gloss in her purse and managed to paint on a layer. Everything in the world could be made better by watermelon gloss.
The woman curled her top lip and wiped some excess red from her tooth. “You’re preaching to the choir. My bad decision is named Miles, and he has a special ringtone.”
She pocketed her makeup and pulled out her phone. A few swipes of her thumb later, Carrie Underwood’s “Before He Cheats” blared from her rhinestone-covered cell. Bea bobbed her head as Carrie sang about keying her cheating boyfriend’s car and smashing his headlights.
When the chorus ended, the woman shoved her cell into her purse. “That, girlfriend, is how you remind yourself to avoid bad decisions. Miles calls every few days. He leaves a voicemail apologizing, and I don’t call back. I could block his number, but I like remembering I’m no man’s doormat.” Her pointed look was as fierce as her leopard-print dress.
Bea was still wearing the pink pedal pushers and turquoise polka dot blouse she’d pulled on this morning. The outfit exuded more bubble gum cheer than Hot Tamale attitude, but she’d always been a Double Bubble gal. She also wasn’t sure Nick had earned a Carrie Underwood ring tone. Definitely a Taylor Swift lyric jab or two, but Carrie could be pushing it. They had, after all, broken up prior to his date tonight, but accepting the date before his “i
t’s for the best” speech made the situation suspect.
Still, she didn’t want to key his 1978 Mustang Cobra, which he loved more than his shoe collection. Life was too short for revenge.
With a wink, the woman left the bathroom. Bea followed. A little too fast. One hand on the wall, she closed her eyes as the tilt-a-whirl whirled again. Eyes open were preferable. Air was also in order. She tried to strut outside with Hot Tamale attitude, but it likely resembled a dizzy stumble. She made it outside and sucked back air like a drowning swimmer breaching the water’s surface.
Her first breath cleared a layer of fuzz from her head. The second restored clarity to her blurry vision. She wished it hadn’t. There, across the street, was none other than Nick, walking hand-in-hand with his date.
The bar wasn’t far from his apartment, something she should have considered before setting up camp inside, and her uncharacteristic anger returned to a simmer. She didn’t love Nick. Moving to New Orleans and leaving her past had been as much for her as for him. But she’d trusted the man wouldn’t leave her high and dry…for another woman. After four days.
Because he was honest.
She contemplated stomping across the street and telling him to screw off. She detested confrontation more than she hated green lollipops, but calling him a spiny lumpsucker or tufted titmouse would leave her with a modicum of satisfaction.
Then she noticed his black Mustang. Half a block down, his treasured automobile sat parked at the curb. A gift from the Carrie Underwood gods. Nick was walking the opposite way, and Bea’s attention lasered in on his vehicle. She wasn’t a malicious girl. Her back was basically made of Teflon, all resentment and stress sliding to its demise. Yet she was ogling Nick the Prick’s muscle car with devious intent, and she barely recognized herself.
She’d worked since she was old enough to deliver papers. She’d then cut lawns and babysat and eventually waitressed. She’d dabbled in house painting––anything to add color to the world and money to her pocket, all while pursuing her art in private. Growing up, she’d been the levelheaded one who had kept the electricity on and heat flowing. She prided herself on being the only member of the Baker clan to never procure a mug shot.
See? Totally levelheaded.
Which meant her next action could only be blamed on Nick’s “honesty” and the brilliant Carrie Underwood. She’d also revised her cheating theory: dating a woman the same calendar day of a breakup was definitely considered running around.
She walked to the side of his Mustang.
If he wants honesty, he’ll get honesty.
She lifted her car keys from her purse.
I honestly think you’re a fungus beetle.
Fisting the keys, her mind drifted to her father. To the feeble shrug of Franklyn Baker’s shoulders when he’d admitted to gambling away her life savings, and how she’d caught nothing but a mouthful of flies in reaction. Her wicked grin faded. Her keys bit into her palm.
I am no man’s doormat.
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One-click New Orleans Rush now!
And guess what’s coming in 2021?
Book 4 in the Showmen series:
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THE KNOCKOUT RULE
Take a right hook to the heart with heavyweight boxer Brick Kramarov as he falls for the last person he ever expected. Check out the blurb and preorder today!
Inspired by Cyrano de Bergerac, Siskind’s latest slow-burn romance is stay-up-all-night addictive and proves love hits when you least expect it…
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Growing up with an adoring father for a boxing legend isn’t all sunshine and rainbows. It looks more like hospital visits, bloody noses, and cracked ribs.
* * *
Isla Slade now works as a physiotherapist, helping athletes heal their bodies. Except for boxers. She has no interest in reliving the stress of her teen years. Dating someone in the boxing world? She’d rather snort wasabi powder.
* * *
Until she meets Preston Church.
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Preston manages heavyweight boxing darling Brick Kramarov. A brute who’s built tougher than his name, with a cocky attitude to boot. She wants nothing to do with either man, but her father begs her to help them prepare for a huge Vegas fight.
* * *
She doesn’t expect Preston to recite romantic poems and slowly break her resolve. His fascinating mind gets under her skin, even if his star athlete reminds her how much she hates boxing.
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Too bad it’s Brick coaching Preston how to woo Isla, falling for her from the sidelines. Once she finds out, she’ll have to decide if she can risk loving another man who puts it all on the line for the knockout.
Preorder The Knockout Rule today!
Check out Kelly Siskind’s other titles below!
COMING SOON
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Book 4 in the Showmen series:
The Knockout Rule
Get swept away with heavyweight boxer Brick Kramarov as he falls for the last person he ever expected.
AVAILABLE NOW
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STANDALONES
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Chasing Crazy: “This is one of the best New Adult contemporary romances I've read to date.” ~ USA Today Bestselling author K.A. Tucker
INTERCONNECTED STANDALONES
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Showmen Series
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New Orleans Rush: “A fun mixture of magic, sensuality, and iconic pin-up girl style. The romance in New Orleans Rush will leave you smiling and filled with optimism.” ~ USA Today bestselling author Helen Hoang
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Don’t Go Stealing My Heart: “This book sparkles and sizzles with Siskind’s trademark humor and heat. Don't go missing this one!" ~ author Jen DeLuca
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The Beat Match: “Fun to read, while also delivering a satisfying, sometimes tear-inducing, and heartfelt love story. Do yourself a favor and read this book!” ~ Bookgasms Book Blog
Over the Top Series
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My Perfect Mistake: “This has easily earned itself a place on my all-time favorites shelf.” ~ The Sisterhood of the Traveling Book Boyfriends
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A Fine Mess: “Delicious, sizzling chemistry that leapt off the page!” ~ USA Today Bestselling Author Jennifer Blackwood
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Hooked on Trouble: “…experience the romance, the sexy times, the heartbreak, and the swoons...you can thank me later!!” ~ The Book Hookup
One Wild Wish Series
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He’s Going Down: “An intoxicating romance that lingers like a great Merlot and leaves you with one hell of a book hangover!" ~ author Scarlett Cole
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Off-Limits Crush: “…with loads of flirty and witty banter. Siskind knows how to write characters that have off-the-charts chemistry.” ~ RT Book Reviews
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36 Hour Date: “Kelly has blended a mystery into this compelling love story in a way that keeps the reader flipping pages. I couldn't put it down!” ~ USA Today Bestselling Author Ellis Leigh
Acknowledgments
Thank you to J.R. Yates, Mary Ann Marlowe, and Shelly Hastings Suhr for being such awesome early readers. Your help on this book was invaluable. Chelly Pike, Jen DeLuca, Sandra Fuda Lombardo, and Michelle Hazen have eagle eyes. The book is shinier because of you all! My editor Tamara Mataya is the bomb. Thank you for helping make this book sparkle.
Mary Ann Smith never ceases to astound me with her cover-designing talent. This artwork captures Weston and Annie and their story perfectly. Thank you for bringing my vision to life. Shawn Chartrand’s DJ expertise helped me navigate writing the more technical details of the novel. Any errors are my own.
A massive thank you to my readers and the blogging, reviewing, and bookstagramming community: y’all are angels. Every time you tell someone about one of my books or share a picture on social media, my heart takes flight.
I can’t
wait for you all to meet boxing heavyweight contender Brick Kramarov and the love of his life, Isla Slade, in my next book, The Knockout Rule, coming in 2021!
About the Author
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A small-town girl at heart, Kelly moved from the city to enjoy the charm of northern Ontario. When she’s not out hiking with her husband or home devouring books, you can find her, notepad in hand, scribbling down one of the many plot bunnies bouncing around in her head. Her novels have been published internationally.
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For giveaways and early peeks at new work, join Kelly’ newsletter: www.kellysiskind.com
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If you like to laugh and chat about books, join Kelly in her Facebook group, KELLY’S GANG.
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Connect with Kelly on social media:
The Beat Match Page 28
