by Amy DeLuca
Else snorted a laugh. “The one doesn’t exist. Not in this city, anyway. You don’t even know yet—dating in New York is a total nightmare. If they’re not trying to get you into bed on the first date, the men are looking around the whole time you’re out together, making sure they’re not missing out on something better.”
“Really?” It seemed hard to believe someone like Else would have dating difficulties.
“Oh yeah,” she said. “In a city with almost five million women to choose from, they’re thinking ‘why commit to just one?’ And those are the guys who’ll even take you out. Most just want to get together for a one-time hookup.”
Bonnie’s sinking hopes capsized and sent up a flare. If this gorgeous woman couldn’t find love here, what chance did she have?
But then she thought about it. Else probably had impossibly high standards. She was a model. She worked with male models all the time. Looks didn’t matter to Bonnie, personally. She cared much more about a man’s intelligence and wit, his beliefs and interests.
And who was she to demand physical perfection from a guy? If she did her best with her hair and makeup, she’d be viewed as pretty by some, not so much by others. Which was fine. She didn’t need Prince Charming. She just wanted to find someone she connected with.
Bonnie’s greatest hope was to meet a man who’d get to know her and fall in love with her insides—her mind and soul. Of course she wouldn’t mind someday experiencing the kind of till-death-do-us-part passion she’d read about and witnessed in her parents long marriage.
It hadn’t happened so far. She’d dated a few guys in college as well as in the two towns where she’d worked since graduation. Nothing promising had developed. She had liked them, they had seemed to like her, end of story.
Bonnie hadn’t worried about it. Her stints in both places had been relatively short, and she was still young—only twenty-five. She was hoping that moving to a place with a large population would be an advantage—more fish in the sea and all that. She was bound to meet somebody here.
“You just have to be patient,” Bonnie said, sharing her own personal mantra with Else. “It’ll happen. The nice guys have to be out there somewhere.”
“You really are an optimist, aren’t you?” Else modified her cynical tone, attempting to match Bonnie’s idealism. “I’m sure they do. Somewhere. Who knows? You’ll probably meet someone when you start your job next week.”
She didn’t look as sure as she sounded, but Bonnie appreciated the effort. She took a few steps forward as the line progressed.
“That’s one of the best parts of working for a newspaper. You do something different every day and meet new people all the time.”
Bonnie’s new job as a writer for the New York Daily Report was what had drawn her to Manhattan. She’d never been one of those people who dreamed of living in a massive city, but when she’d seen the opening at the legendary newspaper’s book section, she had jumped at it. It was the perfect opportunity to combine her love of books with her journalism experience.
The position didn’t pay much, but her needs were pretty simple, and meeting a great guy would be a very welcome bonus.
“Are you nervous? To meet Jack, I mean,” Else asked.
“Oh, no,” Bonnie assured her. “I don’t get starstruck. I’ve met a few famous people as part of my job, and it didn’t affect me at all. I mean, they have morning breath and go to the bathroom like the rest of us.”
“Sure,” Else said. “But I was an extra on one of those SVU shows last year, and I totally lost it when one of the stars got behind me in line at craft services. I nearly dropped my potato salad on his shoes.”
Bonnie shrugged. “This is different. Jack’s a writer, I’m a writer. We use the same twenty-six letters to do our jobs, right?”
Finally, they made it inside and up to the third floor where a table was set up inside the rare books room for attendees to get a signed book, exchange a few words with the famous author, and maybe, if they were lucky, a selfie with him.
Bonnie wouldn’t even ask for a photo. She didn’t want to annoy him. All she wanted was the chance to tell Jack how much his writing meant to her. His books had even inspired her to write one of her own.
Well, she might not tell him that part. He probably wouldn’t laugh at her—he was said to be friendly, approachable, and kind to his fans—but she didn’t want to take the chance. And she hadn’t told anyone except her parents that she was writing her own book. Maybe when it was done.
“So, I have to go find the little girls’ room,” Else said, hopping a bit on her toes. “That chai went straight through me. You’re okay here, right?”
“Of course. Go. I’ll meet you downstairs near the registers.”
She left, and Bonnie took the opportunity to mentally practice what she wanted to say to Jack. Over the past few years, she’d met a few authors at local book signings. Most of them seemed really friendly and frankly thrilled that anyone had showed up for their events.
But this was Jack Bestia. And she wasn’t quite as cool as she’d claimed to be to Else.
In fact, the closer she got to the signing table, the more jittery she became. Her belly bubbled with a broth of anxiety and excitement. Thankfully, she hadn’t consumed much of her own chai. She’d mostly used it as a handwarmer, afraid to add any ammo to her nervous stomach. Yes, rehearsing a few phrases was definitely prudent.
When she had them memorized, Bonnie shifted to self-talk. Be cool. Cool, calm, friendly but not a babbling idiot. Definitely no babbling.
“Next please.” The tone of the signing facilitator was decidedly impatient, as if it wasn’t the first time she’d said it. Bonnie blinked, realizing the customer ahead of her had moved away. It was her turn.
And there he was—Jack Bestia in the flesh.
He was… impressive. So much larger and better looking in person than he appeared in his official author photo. In fact, he was beautiful. The thing she’d said about how looks didn’t matter? It was true, but wow. His were hard to ignore.
Wide shoulders, thick, raven-black hair, smooth olive skin, and blue-green eyes the color of Caribbean waters when viewed from a seaplane. They sparkled with humor and intelligence and elevated his handsomeness from mere Hollywood heartthrob to Hemsworth-brother levels. Bonnie doubted if even Else’s male model co-workers could compete.
“Next in line please,” the woman repeated, highly irritated now.
Bonnie’s heart leapt into her throat, her feet feeling like they’d been welded to the floor. What was the matter with her? She was not acting like herself at all. She snapped into action and rushed forward, practically skidding to a stop as she reached the table, where stacks of novels with their iconic black covers surrounded the author.
He smiled warmly. “Hi. Thanks for coming. I’m Jack.”
Those eyes. Those spectacular blue eyes—which apparently possessed mind-erasing powers—were trained directly on her.
All the words Bonnie had practiced fled her brain like a flock of birds lifting off from a power line.
“Who should I sign this to?” Jack waited, pen poised over the title page of an open book, dark eyebrows raised expectantly while her mind scrambled for a name. For her own name. Which she’d completely forgotten.
A name… a name… any female name, Heaven help me. Say something, Bonnie.
“Bonnie!” she blurted, flooded with relief. “It’s Bonnie.”
Jack chuckled and started writing. “Pretty name. How do I spell it? B-O-N-N-I-E?”
That was when it happened. The babbling. It came in with no warning, the way a tsunami sneaks up on the shore and then obliterates everything in its path.
“Yes. It’s Scottish. It means beautiful, which is not to say I’m beautiful—I’m not—it’s just what my parents named me because they thought I was beautiful, and don’t all parents think their daughters are beautiful? You’re beautiful.”
He glanced up sharply.
“I mean
your words are beautiful. All of them. I’ve read all your books, like, a million times. Wow, I can’t believe I said ‘like.’ I never say ‘like.’ That’s such a middle school word, isn’t it? I don’t think I’ve used it in conversation since then, but it’s just so cool to meet you. That’s another middle school word, ‘cool,’ but it is so cool to meet you, and I just love you, and…”
Jack had stopped writing and was now staring at her. Maybe he was wondering whether she should be wandering around unsupervised with her obvious mental and emotional challenges.
Or whether he was in some sort of danger from the nonsensical stalker woman.
It was like she was outside her own body, watching him watching her, and still the words just kept coming, tripping over each other and banging together in a jumbled stream-of-consciousness alphabet avalanche she seemed powerless to contain. Bonnie didn’t realize she’d also been gesturing with her hands until the cup of chai latte flew right out of them.
And landed on the table.
Where the lid popped off.
The contents exploded across the surface of the table, drenching the books and bookmarks and pens atop it. But it didn’t stop there. No, that would have been only a Category 3 nightmare.
This one went for full-on, batten down the hatches, evacuate the low-lying areas, declare a state of emergency status. The fragrant brown liquid rushed toward Jack like it was a heat-seeking missile programmed to target his lap.
That was when Bonnie cried.
As Jack leapt backward, two other people rushed forward. They appeared to be some sort of bodyguards or maybe security staff employed by the bookstore. Either way, Bonnie had no interest in meeting them. She turned and fled toward the staircase.
“Is she okay?” she heard someone say behind her. Might have been Jack. Might have been one of the other, oh, hundred or so people gaping at the disaster scene she’d created.
By the time Bonnie reached the top step, the security personnel caught up with her and walked with her all the way down to the first floor and then to the front door.
“Thanks for visiting the Strand,” one of them said with a smirk.
Cowering under the awning outside, Bonnie texted Else.
Meet you out front. All done here. Understatement of the year. Oh my gosh, I told him he was beautiful.
Looking back on the debacle, Bonnie determined where it all had gone wrong. She’d been so in love with Jack Bestia’s words she’d hardly even considered what he looked like.
Or how nice his voice might sound. Or how good his cologne might smell.
It was inherently unfair a man could be so talented and so attractive. The total package he’d presented had been simply overwhelming.
If there was any good news, it was that she did live in a city of more than eight and a half million people. And Jack Bestia wasn’t one of them. He lived more than three hours away in Newport, Rhode Island.
There was no chance she’d ever run into him—or have to look into those remarkable blue eyes again.
Two
Bestia the Beast
Newport, Rhode Island. Two Years Later
Jack had nothing against cosplay or free speech, but this was getting ridiculous.
A crowd of people stood outside the gates to his Bellevue Avenue estate as he pulled up in his Lamborghini Huracan. A shirtless man wearing a long wig and a braided beard had tribal tattoos painted up and down his arms. By his side a woman in a platinum wig and gauzy full-length teal gown clutched a bright green dragon egg.
Several other men were dressed in black tunics, black pants, black boots, and black furry cloaks. A red-headed woman in a scarlet dress and cape chatted with another in an elaborate embroidered gown and a crown atop her long, blonde hair.
Ever since the media had so thoughtfully published Jack’s address, driving up to his own house was like going to a ComicCon convention. It was Halloween every day, but instead of kids dressed as superheroes and ghouls, the people gathered at the tall, iron gates to his Newport mansion were all adults, and the fantastical costumes they wore represented characters from his seven-book Onyx Throne series.
Well, it was supposed to be seven books, and would be… eventually.
When they noticed Jack’s approach, the assembled fans began moving about excitedly. He started to lower his car window, planning to give them a wave and say a few words of thanks. But then several of them picked up handmade signs from the ground, holding them high so the words were clearly visible.
I love you Jack R. R. Bestia! one read. That was nice.
The next was a bit less adoring and more demanding.
Where’s Book 7? Come on Bestia—the Best is still to come. Your fans are waiting.
Another was downright desperate.
Pleeeease Give Us An Ending!
Jack’s heart sank. The car window went back up, and his thumb jammed against the button to open the security gates. As they swung inward, the guard stepped out of the gatehouse to keep the “Thronies” from flooding inside.
Jack tugged his ball cap lower over his face and drove ahead, not making eye contact with any of them.
Franklin nodded to him before moving to disperse the crowd in a bored tone.
“Okay folks, show’s over. I know Mr. Bestia appreciates your enthusiasm for his books. Thanks for coming out, but you gotta keep the driveway clear. This is private property.”
Jack gunned the engine, driving toward the house, his belly roiling with an unpleasant mixture of irritation and shame.
I shouldn’t let it get to me. How many times had he said that to himself? He’d be nowhere without his readers, and he knew it. As a new writer, he could only have dreamed of a reception like that.
The first time he’d seen people dressed like his characters, he’d been thrilled—of course he had. It had been surreal, the thought that someone—anyone—would appreciate what he’d written so much. It had only been five or six years since that day, but it felt like a lifetime ago. Everything had changed and not necessarily for the better.
Unless you counted this estate. The Onyx series and its rabid fans—and the TV series based on the books—had paid for every penny of the seventeen million dollars it had cost to acquire the mansion and the four acres of oceanfront property it sat on. It was Jack’s sanctuary—or his Fortress of Solitude as he jokingly referred to it these days.
When he stepped into the entry hall, Mrs. Potts was struggling with an armload of boxes. The one on the bottom looked quite heavy, no doubt a gift from one of his readers.
He rushed forward and took them from her. “Let me get that.”
“Thank you dear.”
Carrying the load of shipping boxes and letters to the library, Jack set them on a desk in the center of the room and turned to face his housekeeper-slash-assistant-slash-Jill of all trades. Her plump cheeks were pink from exertion, but her green eyes were as sharp and merry as ever.
“You shouldn’t have lifted all those yourself,” he scolded her gently. “Let Harrison help you. Or Calvin. Or just save that stuff until I’m around. I don’t want you doing this kind of work.”
“I am the housekeeper,” she reminded him. “It’s my job. I may not be as young as I once was, but I’m not so decrepit I can’t check the mail—not quite yet anyway. Did you have a nice outing?”
Jack barked a laugh. “Outing? I went to the DMV, otherwise known as the Eighth layer of Hell. Every good Rhode Islander knows you only go there when you literally have no other choice. I would have hired a body double to go for me if I’d thought I could get away with it.”
His words did nothing to dampen her cheery demeanor. “Nevertheless, I’m glad to see you getting out of the house.”
“I get out of the house every day to walk on the beach.”
“You know what I mean.”
She raised a single gray eyebrow, the same one she’d been raising at Jack since her brows had been a ruddy auburn color and she’d been looking down at him. Now she had
to crane her neck upward when she chastised him.
Her cheerful tone returned. “Did you see any of the neighbors while you were out?”
“All the neighbors hate me thanks to the daily freak show congregating outside my gates and parading up and down their tony street. Well, everyone except that heavyweight boxer who moved in next door, and that’s only because he hasn’t spent enough time here in Newport yet to get annoyed with it.”
Mrs. Potts patted Jack on the shoulder. “They don’t hate you, dear. Sounds like someone could use a bite of lunch and perhaps even a little dessert. Monsieur Laplume made Boston cream pie this morning.”
“I am hungry,” he admitted.
She stepped over to a panel on the wall and pressed one of its myriad buttons. “Sofie? Please tell Monsieur Laplume the master has returned and is ready for his luncheon.”
“Why do you keep calling me that? I’ve told you it makes me feel weird.”
“Monsieur Laplume likes it. Remember, he worked for European royalty before coming here to cook for you.” She stepped forward and brushed a lock of hair off Jack’s forehead, studying his face. “I have an idea. Why don’t I have a tray sent up to your office? I just finished tidying in there. Clean as a whistle. And I opened the windows to let in a fresh breeze… perfect for writing.”
Her last three words were delivered in a hopeful sing-song tone that made Jack roll his eyes like he’d done when he was eleven and she’d suggested he and his brother Hunter “hop right on” their homework after school instead of putting it off and playing video games first.
“You shouldn’t have bothered to clean in there,” Jack growled. “I haven’t been in that office in weeks.”
The old housekeeper’s tone firmed as she looked directly at him and dropped her chin. “I know.”
Though his temper flared momentarily, there was no way he could lash out at Mrs. Potts, who had been, for all practical purposes, a mother to him since he was ten.
Jack knew where all this was coming from. She was worried about him, and he knew he was darn lucky there was someone in the world who was. His heart warmed, and he planted a kiss on her powder-scented forehead.
