Table of Contents
The Wonder of You
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Other books by Harper Kincaid
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Table of Contents
The Wonder of You
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Other books by Harper Kincaid
Acknowledgements
About the Author
The Wonder of You
Copyright © 2018 Harper Kincaid
All rights reserved
Published by Harper Kincaid Romance
Cover Art Design by:
Rebecca Norinne
Editing by:
Evident Ink
Interior Design & Formatting by:
Christine Borgford, Type A Formatting
ASIN: B0786GLRXB
Excerpt as permitted under the US Copyright Acts of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.
Manufactured in the United States of America
Dedicated to my husband, David,
I am beyond grateful and ecstatic I get to share my life with you.
You are my Wonderland.
“Little Alice fell
d
o
w
n
the hOle,
bumped her head
and bruised her soul”
―Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland
Alice
“Great rear view, princess, but put some hustle in it. I need this cab.”
I didn’t even bother looking behind me because I was already frazzled enough, scrambling to scoop the last of my belongings off the cab floor and into the cardboard box I’d swiped from a liquor store.
Moments like these made me miss back home: ironic because when I was there I couldn’t get out of that Southern flytrap fast enough.
“You going to keep wiggling those sweet cheeks for me or finish up already? I don’t have all day.”
“Hey. Newsflash, jackass: I am not your personal bachelor party and this is not your cab. So feel free to throw that white male privilege you’re carrying ‘round somewhere else.”
“You’re kidding me, right? Favors courtesy of the patriarchy don’t apply during rush hour; it’s survival of the fittest.”
“Is that right?” I asked.
“Yeah that’s right,” he said. “So feel free to take that ‘fight the power’ schtick back over the bridge to the other hipsters the next time you hit Urban Outfitters.”
Sigh. So much for enlightened, twenty-first century gender parity or old-fashioned chivalry. Welcome to New York City—definitely another kind of Wonderland.
My sister, with the last of my huge duffels on her shoulder, had already gotten out from the other side of the cab and was getting impatient. With him, not me.
“Is everything okay? Is this ‘gentleman’ bothering you?”
I heard him chuckle. Guess he caught her tone. God, I loved my sister—she never did suffer fools lightly.
I crawled backwards out of the cab, box tucked under one arm while blowing my hair out of my eyes.
“Yeah, I’m good. Don’t mind him. He’s grouchy and without a trace of manners, but he’s harmless.”
She dropped the duffels on the sidewalk, ready to thrown down.
Just in case.
“Get used to it, sis,” Caroline advised, both hands in fists on her hips like Wonder Woman. “That’s what happens when men think swiping right is the same as opening a door for a lady.”
Even after being in the city for the last eighteen months, my sister hadn’t lost a fraction of her Southern belle ways and was still a stickler for civility. I blamed it on the day job—she helped run an etiquette school, teaching manners and social graces to the graceless.
“Hey, Daisy Mae, time to wrap up the Ya Ya Sisterhood meet and greet and move it along.”
Of course, some people were hopeless cases from the get-go.
I turned around, ready to slap the spit out of his head, but instead I almost smacked myself face first into a wall of muscle. I craned my head up until I finally met his gaze.
I think I gasped. In fact, I know I did because he had the nerve to wink at me, with these lush green eyes rimmed in gold, flashing something I couldn’t read.
Okay, so he was gorgeous and totally my type, especially with his silky black hair kept long in the front and short on the sides. The beard was even better: dark, rugged and full.
He wasn’t like the other men I had encountered so far—metrosexuals with more hair product than sense. And dear Lord, he was tall and built like a linebacker. Even with my boots on, I only came up to the middle of his chest.
But one look and I knew he was arrogant. He had already proven as much with his rudeness. Caroline was motioning me to get a move on, but for some reason I couldn’t yet. I gave her the eyes, which she knew meant I’d meet her upstairs.
“I get you’re in a rush and all, but there was no need for you to get ugly about it.”
His brows shot straight up. “Get ugly?”
I rolled my eyes. “It means being rude.”
That explanation earned me a crooked smile this time.
“Also, it’s impolite to mock where someone is from,” I went on.
The bastard was still amused, that luscious mouth of his forming another lopsided grin. “And how did I manage to do that, sweet cheeks?”
I narrowed my eyes into slits. “Do not call me sweet cheeks.”
“Calling you sweet cheeks makes you blush, and I’ve gotta admit, I can’t remember the last time I made a woman blush. I like it. Suits you, Daisy Mae.”
I felt my nipples pebble under my dress. Damn it—why did my body only come
to life around arrogant assholes? Unfortunately, I knew why. I studied stuff like this for a living. Nevertheless, I dug my nails into my palms. Maybe some homemade aversion therapy would stop every nerve in my being from reacting to him.
I lifted my chin. “You’re also making the stereotypical assumption that everyone from the South has two first names. Not true—and it only makes you look like an ignorant Yankee saying so.”
“Duly noted,” he said, not even trying to hide the humor in his voice—
a voice that was deep and sonorous. He took a small step closer.
“You know, you could clear up this horrible stereotype I’ve got going by telling me your name.”
I scoffed, all while being thrilled he wanted to know me, even if it was probably just to get me into bed. I may have been drawn to beautiful, arrogant men, but at least I knew it. There was just no way I was going to let him know it.
“I don’t give out my personal information to men who learned their manners courtesy of Tinder.” That comment only earned me an even bigger face-splitting grin. Smiling looks real good on him, I thought. Damn.
“And just because I’m from the South doesn’t make me stupid, you know.”
I wasn’t going down without a fight.
“Never thought you were dumb for one second, Daisy Mae.”
He was teasing me—and enjoying it way too much, and if I was honest with myself, so was I. For the record, I wasn’t admitting my enjoyment to myself just yet. No way.
“You’re doing it again,” I said.
“Doing what, exactly?”
He totally knew what he was doing.
“You know,” I said. “Using that infuriating stereotypical name, just to get my panties in a wad.”
His eyes heated, his gaze moving back and forth between my eyes and my mouth. “Do yourself a favor, sweet cheeks,” he said. “You’re in New York, not Dixie Chicks Hollow. Don’t talk about your panties with strangers.”
“Fine,” I spat out. “Stop calling me ‘Daisy Mae.’”
“I’m happy to put the whole ‘Daisy Mae’ debacle to bed,” he said. “Just give me a better name for my mouth to play with.”
“I don’t think so, City.”
He was close enough now for me to catch a hint of his scent: Indian sandalwood and fresh linens, with a dash of Tahitian vanilla underneath (Don’t judge. I used to work at the cologne counter at the mall back home). I took a step back, banging my behind into the open cab door.
“Hey, watch it, lady! Are you in or out?” the driver yelled.
That was enough to break the spell. “Don’t get your knickers in a knot. I’m out of here,” I said back to him.
I stepped out of the way, but tall, dark, and unfortunately magnificent put his hand on my upper arm, giving it a quick squeeze. My heart became a butterfly and fluttered its wings inside my chest.
“Just so you know, if I wasn’t running late for a meeting, I wouldn’t have been rushing you and your sister off.”
My mind often worked like a Pinterest board, with pictures and words popping in and out. I blamed it on too many late nights scrolling through the app’s awesomeness. This time, it was a quote from Maya Angelou:
The first time someone shows you who they are, believe them.
And just like that, the butterflies stopped fluttering.
“Is that right?”
“Yeah, that’s right.” He studied my face, his brows knitting together. “What?”
I shrugged my shoulders and moved out of his hold. “I think being rude and pushing people out of your way is probably who you are—either that, or it’s who you’ve become. One’s true character reveals itself when things aren’t convenient.”
City stilled, his mouth gaped, and he looked like he was about to say something, but I wasn’t sticking around long enough to hear him out. I was a New Yorker in training now. That meant I didn’t have to ‘bless his heart,’ or ‘pray for’ him or anyone I didn’t want to anymore. I said goodbye to all that the day I drove through Lincoln Tunnel.
I may have fallen down the rabbit hole, but I didn’t fall off the turnip truck. Guys like City always got what they wanted. And this time, he wasn’t going to get me.
“It’s no use going back to yesterday,
because I was a different person then.”
―Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland
Dare
“ . . . Being rude, pushing people out of your way, is probably who you are—either that or who you’ve become.”
I couldn’t remember the last time someone called me on my shit. Well, that’s not entirely true. Ingrid certainly laid me out, almost daily, but she was also a woman who had not one shred of interest in my cock or my wallet.
The ones who did never put me in my place.
The kicker was, instead of being pissed, I was intrigued. Her words were running through my damn mind on a continuous loop.
Fuck, why didn’t I get her name?
I was finally in the cab, on my way to somewhere I didn’t want to go. I stretched my legs out, until my foot hit something soft and bulky. I leaned over to discover an oversized leather purse, partially wedged under the passenger seat.
Two scenarios crashed through my brain at the exact same time: (1) It’s a bomb and this was how I was going to bite it, or (2) the purse belongs to either Ms. Dixie or her sister.
My pulse quickened, just from the hope the bag belonged to the girl whose bee-stung, pink mouth was now playing the starring role in my latest fantasies. If she was like most women, she would have a ridiculous amount of crap in this bag—and I was sure as shit hoping she did so I could find out more about her.
Her name would be the perfect start.
I pulled on the end of my beard, thinking how much I valued my privacy. I would understand if she was the same, which meant I should just look for her ID and hand it off to Ingrid. Let her handle the rest.
But that would mean I would never know much about her. I’d be no better off than I am now—another asshole with a hard on who did nothing about it.
Nope, not gonna happen.
No way.
If this was her bag and she had been careless enough to leave it behind—in a New York City cab of all places—then I had every right to go spelunking through her possessions.
“Fuck it,” I mumbled to myself, and I hoisted the bag onto my lap.
I released the zipper and peered inside.
Oh, there was a bomb in there all right, but it wasn’t the kind I was expecting. Almost hidden, I spotted a hot pink, crushed velvet, drawstring bag, with a logo I’d recognize anywhere: one of New York’s most popular sex novelty stores.
Which meant anything—and I mean anything—could be inside her little pink bag of tricks, assuming it belonged to my Southern girl.
Until I knew exactly who owned this purse, I wasn’t going to loosen that drawstring. Rummaging through this woman’s bag was a task that would require proper attention—one I planned on giving one hundred percent of my focus. I took out my phone and made a call.
“Hey, it’s me. Yeah, postpone my meeting and reschedule for this evening. In fact, clear the rest of my day.”
“Are you sure?” Ingrid asked.
“They want me. I don’t need them,” I reminded her. “Just say I secured a reservation for that restaurant everyone keeps talking about . . . Christ, I can’t remember the name.”
“You don’t mean Protzig, do you?”
“Yeah, that’s the one. I know for a fact they’ve been trying to get in there for months now, with no luck. Then call over there and make the res.”
“Dude, that’s the most in-demand restaurant in the city right now.”
“Well then, I guess you’ve been rewarded with your first challenge of the day,” I said.
“That’s quite the inspirational speech, chief. Remind me to include it in the montage for your memorial service someday.”
Being rude, pushing people out of your way, is probably who you are—either that or who you’ve become.
I couldn’t get that brunette spitfire out of my head. She was right. I had turned into a self-centered prick. In fairness, I was never the ‘nice’ guy. I had almost zero tolerance for bullshit and I wanted everything to happen yesterday, but that came with my New York birth certificate.
I expelled a harsh breath. “If anyone can do it, you can, Ingrid. I honestly don’t know what I would do without you. You’re the shit.”
There was a long pause. �
�Hey, you still there?” I asked.
“That’s the first time, in almost a year, you’ve given me a compliment.”
Shit, had it been a year already? I really was an asshole.
“Don’t worry about it. I’ve got this,” she added.
I thanked her and hung up, then gave the cabbie the address for the studio.
There were a million possessions to explore, but first I needed to ensure it all belonged to the right woman. I grabbed the phone inside the bag and hit the home button, but unfortunately, it was password protected.
“Smart girl,” I murmured. Fortunately though, her screensaver had a photo of her and three other women with their arms around each other, clearly in the middle of sharing something hilarious because all of them were laughing. I felt an unexpected stab of jealousy. I couldn’t remember the last time I had that good a time, really letting it all hang out.
Unfortunately, her sister was also in the picture, so there was no way to know which one owned the phone. I tossed it back and started searching. There was some make up, a small bottle of hand sanitizer, a lot of Uniball pens and a couple boxes of those nuclear-strength ginger-flavored mints.
I finally found her wallet, and there it was: a school ID with her photo.
Alice Elizabeth Leighton
Doctoral Candidate, Clinical Psychology/Human Sexuality Studies
Hudson University
Student # 837462
Jackpot, it’s her.
And holy shit, she studied sex. I didn’t want to sound like some nineteen-year-old frat boy, but fuck, that was hot. I couldn’t help but feel a rush of blood leave my brain and rush straight to my dick, with the fantasy of her as the naughty professor in a short-as-hell plaid skirt and a white, button-down top, keeping me after school to have her way with me.
Only problem with my fantasy is that the girl in real life wanted nothing to do with me. She wouldn’t even give me her name. But there had been heat between us, until she figured out I was a selfish asshole and blew me off.
Alice had my number in less than five minutes.
She had balls for telling me off, and self-respect for walking away. And for the first time in a really long time, I wanted to prove I was worth someone’s time, versus what I usually did—try to make a woman prove she was worth mine.
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