by Frankie Love
“Yeah, well, you never know when you’re gonna get blindsided by love.”
“You’re a pussy, Ace. I’ll never fall like you did. Tonight I’m gonna find a piece of ass and enjoy it. Because tomorrow I’ll find myself a new one. That way, things never get old.”
“Your loss, asshole.” I get in my car and head for home. Knowing that sooner or later, when he least expects it, Landon is gonna find himself a woman that changes everything.
I sure as hell did.
EMMY
I’m getting out of the shower when Ace comes home. Home. When did this penthouse become my home? Somewhere in the space of a week, this became the only place I wanted to be.
“I’m getting dinner ready,” he calls to me. “No rush.”
“Okay, babe.” I pull his robe around me, because, really, his robe is one hundred times sexier than anything I own—and then there is the small detail that I actually don’t own a robe.
I actually don’t own a lot of things, I’m realizing. At some point I’m gonna need to return to Washington for my things, but for now I’ll be content wearing Ace’s terrycloth.
I run a comb through my hair and sigh contentedly. The tears have finally dried, and my memories of sitting with Janie in the hospital for two months don’t feel so raw. Because I was hanging onto a sister for two months that I never really had.
Am I sad that she died? Obviously. She was my flesh and blood. But she also let go of me a long time ago. I’ll never know if she confessed her part in Grotto’s crime because she wanted to make things right with me or not—but I don’t need that answer. If I knew the truth, nothing would change. She would still be gone.
And I would still be here.
“Smells ... familiar,” I say as I walk in the kitchen. The stainless steel and granite space still amazes me. I’m so used to dingy white Frigidaires and laminate, and everything Ace owns is a luxury I never dreamed of having for myself.
Claire says I need to stop gawking, and Tess says I am the luckiest girl in the world. I’m trying to listen to my girls. But as I walk into the kitchen and see that Ace is making us peanut butter and Nutella again, I smile. It may be a state of the art apartment, but deep down, Ace and I are very much alike. This stuff—the house, the cars, the money—is extra.
I just need Ace and a jar of Jiffy.
Well, and that whipped cream wasn’t half bad.
“Made you dinner,” he says.
“Thanks baby.”
I sit down on a barstool and take a gooey bite, moaning as I do.
“Like it?” he asks.
“Love it.”
“What else do you love?” he teases, coming behind me and wrapping his arms around me.
“You, Ace. I love you.”
“I love you, too,” he says, spinning me around on the stool. When the stool stops, Ace is on one knee. My hands fly to my face.
“I may say I’m a bad boy, but you’ve made me a man. I know we’re both alone in this world—we have no family, no ties—but, baby, I want to be your family. I want to put down roots with you. I want to make our own motherfucking family tree. Emmy Rose, will you marry me?”
“Yes,” I say, gasping, as tears fall freely down my face. “Oh, Ace, a million times, yes.”
He pulls out a black box, opens it, and reveals a giant rock that is just too much. Too gorgeous and too perfect.
“I had the solitaire set in rose gold. Because you, Emmy, are my rose.”
I fling my arms around him and plant kisses on his mouth, his cheeks, his neck. Knowing I am going to keep planting them on his body for the rest of our life.
Our life.
Because that is what it will be.
Ours.
I hope you have loved Ace and Emmy’s Love Story!
On the next page you can start to fall for Landon and Claire!
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Part I
KING 1
1
LANDON
I don’t live my life for anyone but me. Does that make me a dick? According to my family, sure. But family isn’t everything.
Right now, the thing I’m most interested in is finding a nice piece of ass to take back to my suite tonight.
Is this something out of the ordinary? No. I like to fuck—no hiding that. And what I like more is a woman who’s fearless in the bedroom. I don’t want some girl I can train into dominating.
I don’t want to be called Sir. I want to be called a motherfucking King.
Besides, I’m not into that hardcore shit. I just like to spank an ass, use a blindfold, tie a girl up to the bedpost while I lick her pussy.
And, looking around this wedding reception, I can’t help but think there must be some girl here looking for a hook-up that’s less risky than swiping through Tinder.
“When they said their vows, I thought I’d just melt,” Tess says, her tone reflecting absolute longing. “I want what Ace and Emmy have so much it hurts.”
Tess, sitting next to me at the wedding party table, sighs into her Lemon Drop cocktail. She’s the epitome of sappy bridesmaid.
I smile tightly at her desire to be partnered up. I held her arm as we walked down the aisle, and I swear I could see her heart pitter-patter through the strapless pink chiffon.
“Chin up, Tess,” I say, offering her my best groomsman pep-talk. “Surely there’s some chap here you fancy.” I look around the room appraisingly, wanting to find myself a woman to bang.
The wedding reception is small—neither Emmy nor Ace have any family—but there are business associates and friends in attendance. Still, only fifty or so people have gathered here today, and Ace was adamant about no paparazzi.
Jack appreciates it, and his on-and-off girlfriend, Grammy-award-winning pop star Ashley Fast hangs on him with the same starry eyes Tess has.
I don’t want any woman like that tonight. Sure, a nice wedding always gets a girl’s panties wet—but I’m an asshole, and not interested in a woman looking for anything longer than one night. Some women get so damn clingy after a night with me, and I can’t handle a girl like that.
Ace and Emmy are on the dance floor, swaying to their first dance. I truly thought Ace would be above all this wedding bullshit, but Emmy has his nuts in a pretty tight grip. Not that I blame him. Emmy is an absolute gem of a girl. I understand why Ace fell so hard, so fast. Plus, I’m sure she’s absolutely banging in the bedroom.
I mean, with a rack like that—which, I know, not cool to talk about my friends wife that way—but the truth is, what Ace has found isn’t something I want. Not in the least. I’ve spent my life avoiding commitments and running from my posh, old-money childhood. Running from my father’s estate, and his wishes that I’d come home and work in the family business.
But my stick-up-his-ass brother Geoffrey has always held that role. And I learned early on that I wanted nothing to do with him and his long-time girlfriend Fiona. They’re wound up so tight they give me a fucking ulcer just being around them.
Everyone claps as Ace dips Emmy low at the end of the song. They’re laughing, all smiles, and my shoulders tighten as I take another glance around the room. There are some women over at the bar holding up their phones, but they look tacky as hell taking selfies at a fucking reception. At this point I’ll consider one of the waitresses—they might be my best bet for tonight.
The band, playing old jazz standards, opens up the dance floor and McQueen, who sits next to me, takes Tess’s hand like the gentleman he isn’t, and leads her to the dance floor. Jack and Ashley follow them, and the lights dim as couples find their way.
“Landon, you need to ask someone to dance, bro,” Ace says, coming up behind me. “You kinda look like an ass sitting alone.”
“I’m not alone,” I say, looking across the table at Emmy’s friend Claire, who’s still sitting here. But she’s nea
rly as bad as the selfie girls; she’s been looking down at her phone in her lap all throughout the reception.
Emmy takes a seat next to Claire, and I see a smile stretch tightly across Claire’s face. Her eyes are brighter than they have been throughout the reception, but I can tell it isn’t genuine. I know, who the hell am I to judge her, right? I just appreciate she isn’t starry-eyed like Tess and Ashley.
“Go dance with Claire, asshat,” Ace tells me. “She looks sad as fuck.”
“You see that, too?”
“Yeah, Emmy says she’s been off lately. Stressed out about money and shit. I feel bad for her, in all honesty. Tried to give her a raise, but she said it was ridiculous to pay her twice as much as the other cocktail girls. That girl doesn’t want hand-outs.”
“So she isn’t a gold-digger?”
“Hardly. She’s a pull-herself-up-by-her-bootstraps kind of girl.”
“Okay, I’ll dance with her. I just can’t deal with a clinger right now.”
“Then Claire’s your girl. And, fuck, looking around this reception, you don’t have many other options.”
“So you don’t mind me leaving with Claire tonight?”
“Shit, dude,” Ace says, laughing. “I said dance with her, not fuck her.”
“Ace, hate to break it to you, man—but one dance with me and she’ll want me for more.”
CLAIRE
Don’t get me wrong. I like happily-ever-afters, and this Ace and Emmy thing is a freaking Cinderella dream-come-true. I don’t begrudge them their happiness. They went through so much crap to get here today. I want them to go off on their honeymoon in Tahiti riding a freaking unicorn.
It’s just not always sugar plum fairies in the real world, and I can’t help but wonder what happens next for them? Because I’m the freaking poster child for dashed dreams and grin-and-bear-it, crash courses in reality.
But who wants to listen to my sob story right now? I sure as hell don’t. Especially when this wedding is about my friend.
And, okay, I call her my friend ... but I am a pretty shitty one.
I haven’t been honest with Emmy ... like, at all. Not even a little. But she counts me as one of her closest friends—heck, I’m a bridesmaid in her wedding—and eventually I will open up and tell her and Tess my not-so-little secret.
I’m a private person. And, as a rule, I don’t mix work with my personal life. I didn’t expect to take this job and meet these girls who see me as a sister.
So, I will tell them ... it just hasn’t been the right time yet.
The last few months have been the Ace-and-Emmy whirlwind, and then they planned this wedding in like ten days. And the truth is, I do think they are a teeny bit insane.
Like, maybe take the next year and be engaged and actually get to know one another. Like, maybe don’t rush down the aisle before you live together for a month and learn about the terrible habits your partner has. Like, maybe spend a year figuring out if this guy is actually the person you want to make babies with.
You know—all the things I should have done before I got pregnant.
This afternoon while we were at the spa getting our entire bodies waxed and shined and sprayed for the wedding, I kept checking my phone, and it was driving Tess and Emmy nuts.
They kept asking who I was texting. And I should have just said it right then and there. But I didn’t, because it felt weird to tell them after spending three months in their company when I hadn’t dropped any hints.
Now it would just be awkward.
So I made excuses.
“My mom doesn’t now how to figure out her refinance loan and she keeps texting, asking what APR means.”
Which was true. I was been texting my mom, but not about a refinance. And sure, she is refinancing and doesn’t know what an APR is, but that wasn’t why she was texting right then. She was texting because Sophia was sick, and she wanted to know if I knew where the children’s Tylenol was.
They know I live with my mom in her condo, and that I’ve lived in Vegas my whole life. What they don’t know is who else lives with us.
Emmy sits with me, after her and Ace’s first dance. I slide my phone into my clutch and then squeeze her hand.
“It’s all been so perfect, Emmy.”
“Thanks, Claire. I don’t understand how there hasn’t been one single catastrophe today. It’s all been seamless.”
I can’t help but think when they’re able to throw thousands of dollars at everything they do, things do seem to happen without a hitch.
“I can’t believe you’re going to Tahiti,” I say, picking up my flute of champagne. I catch Landon looking at me from across the table and I turn back to Emmy without pausing on him. Or his chocolatey eyes, or his chiseled jawline.
Ace’s friends are not my type ... I need regular. I want a guy who spends his weekends fly fishing or working in the garage on a car. Not these bad boys.
I’ve had enough bad boys in my life. Well, I’ve had enough of one particular bad boy, and I will never fall for another one as long as I live.
“I can’t believe you’re not dancing, Claire,” Emmy says. “You’ve been so wound up lately.”
“What do you mean?” I ask. “I’m chill. I’m smiling.” I flash her a tight grin that’s not at all sincere. “Sorry, things have been stressful. You know that. And my mom is trying to refinance her condo, and she keeps asking me how to make the Internet work. Like, those are the actual words she used.”
Emmy smiles, and I do, too. My mom’s last text was actually a relief. Sophia’s fever was gone, and after fighting it all day she was asleep for the night.
“Excuse me,” Landon says, standing next to me. I didn’t even notice him get up from the table. “Would you care to dance?”
Okay, I know I’ve said Ace’s friends aren’t my type—and they aren’t. But Landon’s English accent is actually pretty hot. As in very hot. Like, the hottest.
“Oh,” I say, caught off guard. “Yeah, sure.” I raise my eyebrows, setting down the champagne.
He takes my hand, leading me to the dance floor, and I tell my shoulders to relax. Yes, that is something I actually have to command. Because Emmy is absolutely right.
I have been wound up lately.
Or, more like, I’ve been wound up for five years straight.
I’m a twenty-four year old single mom in Las Vegas—a cocktail waitress trying to make life as stable as possible for my five-year-old daughter. Which isn’t easy when I’m doing it all on my own.
And there isn’t a man in sight who’s up for the task of helping me balance it all.
2
LANDON
Claire may be no-nonsense—but she’s also rather hot. Her platinum-blonde hair and always-on bright red lipstick make her an absolute bombshell.
So why have I never attempted to shag her before? Mostly because Ace told me if I so much as tried, he would murder me. And considering he grew up in the mob, I tend to believe him.
And, secondly, Claire isn’t my typical conquest. She’s ... well, how do I put it? She’s quite adult. I’ve been out with her and the crew numerous times, but she’s never gotten drunk, never let any bloke get too close—certainly never gone home with anyone. She always pays her own tab and doesn’t chat about trivial things, like the celebrity sightings in the casino that get Tess and Emmy all bubbly.
She is, like I’ve said, much more mature for her age than I’ve ever been—than I am. Fuck. I’m twenty-seven, and a completely worthless asshole compared to her. And yet, as I lead Claire to the dance floor, I can’t help but wonder what it would be like to sleep with her.
She isn’t a stick-up-her-ass adult, mind you. She’s clever. And funny. And gorgeous. She’s just not frivolous. Which is actually quite an appealing combination.
She just seems a bit out of the league I usually play in.
Which isn’t to say I can’t have her. Ace is going to be off with Emmy, headed to a honeymoon in the South Pacific. He doesn’t bloody w
ell need to know about Claire and me having a little post-wedding rendezvous.
“So, Claire, how are you this evening?” I ask, wrapping an arm around her waist. I’ve never been this close to her before, and as she places one hand on my shoulder and takes my hand in other, I can’t help but think that I like the way she fits against me.
I’m rather tall and lean, whereas Claire is average height and her body is quite slight—narrow shoulders, not curvy or voluptuous.
Rather, Claire is a classic beauty, save for her bright blonde hair. Still, even with her loud hair, she isn’t gaudy and excessive. And besides her signature red lips, there’s little make up on her face. Her skin is naturally bronzed from plenty of time in the Vegas heat, and her eyes are bright, alive. A gorgeous green.
And, being this close to her, I’m actually quite taken by the way she hums along with this old jazzy tune. The way her body seems to rest into mine as we glide over the dance floor. And she actually appears to know how to waltz. I haven’t waltzed in years—not since they forced us to learn at the boarding school mum and dad sent Geoffrey and me to—yet we’ve unconsciously found a rhythm.
“Are we waltzing?” I ask Claire, leaning close. My lips graze her ear as I speak, and a smile finds its way across my usually sharp and sarcastic face. Fuck, this woman smells amazing, too—honeysuckle and vanilla—and I would inhale her if that weren’t a very creepy thing to do in public.
Claire lets out a sigh, and I swear she’s just breathed me in, too. “I was obsessed with learning these stuffy dances when I was a girl. Forced my mother to get me lessons at a dance hall where a very old woman named Mrs. Macarthur taught me. No one else knows how to waltz. But you do,” she says, crinkling her eyes in surprise as we continue to float across the room.
“I do. I know quite a lot of things, actually.”
