Modern Fairy Tale: Twelve Books of Breathtaking Romance

by Kristen Proby

  “Maybe he’ll be good in bed?” I suggest.

  She looks at me with a smirk. “With all those muscles, he better be, although it’s usually the pretty ones who are the worst lays.” She pauses. “I take that back. It’s the senators who are the worst lays. Three pumps and a gasp, and then you’ve got a sweaty fifty year old on top of you who’s already feeling guilty about lying to his wife.”

  I laugh. “It only happened that one time, Abi. Hardly a real data set.”

  “One time was enough,” she mutters, back to the papers.

  “Maybe try an ambassador next. At least they have accents.”

  “How do you know I haven’t tried them already?” she challenges playfully.

  She’s always been like this about sex, regaling her friends with her exploits over cocktails, casually referencing men she’s slept with or expensive hotel rooms she didn’t have to pay for. Only I out of all her friends know the truth—that Abi has never taken a man to bed that she didn’t respect or who didn’t respect her. That the hilarious blind dates and furtive one night stands with politicians are few and far between, and most of her lovers have been men she felt genuine affection for, or at least genuine attraction. To Abi, sex is something to be taken or consumed, and then mostly forgotten, like a good cup of coffee. But like most coffee connoisseurs, Abi is still choosy about what she drinks.

  I sigh. “I wish I were like you.”

  She tosses her hair in that joking, faux-smug way of hers—a move perfected from watching Emma Stone interviews—and shrugs. “Of course you do. What is it today that’s made you realize the obvious?”

  I lean back in the chair, running a finger along the dark wood of the armrest. I think about waking up with Ash, his words as he left the room. It’s what we both need, isn’t it? “I wish I could be as comfortable with sex as you are. As confident and, well, casual isn’t the right word. But I guess it’s the closest word I can think of.”

  “Honey, you can have all the casual sex you want. Any bar in the District—I can find you a lawyer in less than two minutes. A rich one in less than five.”

  I shake my head, smiling. “I know I can do that, but it’s not what I need. I need it to be…” God, how can I describe this in a way that won’t make me sound like I’m into tentacle porn or something? Just use the right words, Greer. If you do it in bed, you should be able to say the words. “…I need it to be, um, controlling. Dominating and submitting. That kind of thing.”

  Her blue eyes light up. “I knew it!” she crows. “I knew you were secretly kinky. You are totally in the right city, my freaky cousin. I mean, it’s not my scene, but I know everyone in this town and I can get you anything you like. Congressmen who like being whipped, pegged, electrocuted, you name it.”

  I can’t help the small giggle that escapes, and I’m waving my hand for her to stop. “No, no, I don’t need someone—” I was going to say, I don’t need someone who wants to be whipped, I want to be the whip-ee, because I know that Abilene wouldn’t immediately guess I’m submissive. She may not be into kink, but she’d be a Domme for sure if she was, and she would assume I’d be too, simply because that’s how her mind works.

  But maybe it’s something in my tone or my face, because she misinterprets my sentence and by doing so, correctly interprets everything else. “Because you’ve met someone already?” Her eyes go wide and she scans my body, from my knee-high boots to my sweater to my face. “You have, haven’t you? You have that glow! Oh my God. Have you had sex? Is it someone powerful? Why didn’t you tell me the minute it happened?”

  My stomach flips with nervousness, and I smooth my skirt over my gray tights. “It just happened this week. It’s really new…or I guess, it’s kind of old too. And we haven’t had sex yet. We agreed we would take our time with it.”

  Abilene smirked. “What is he, religious?”

  “Sort of. I mean, yes, but I don’t think he’s a monk or anything. He lost his wife recently.”

  She leans forward. “A widower? Greer, is this an older man?”

  Tell her. You have to tell her now. My stomach flips again, and I want to lie. I detest lying, and yet telling the truth seems so unnecessarily awkward and provocative…

  But then I remember the State Dinner this week. If I don’t tell her myself, she’ll hear about it anyway, and that will be so much worse.

  I take a breath. “Do you remember that party in London, the one Maxen Colchester was at?”

  She looks a little thrown by the change in subject. “Yes, but what does that—”

  “I kissed him,” I interrupt. “In the library. After you and I fought, he came in from the balcony, and we talked and then we…kissed.”

  Abilene’s eyebrows rise and her mouth gapes. “What?”

  “We kissed, and then after that, I was going to tell you, I swear, but you seemed so taken with him and I didn’t want you to be angry with me, especially when I thought I’d never see him again. It wasn’t worth it. So I didn’t tell you.”

  She blinks. I’ve never seen her this stunned, this slow in gathering an emotional response. The vacuum of anger—anger I know will explode out of her at any second—gives me the courage to finish.

  “And in Chicago I saw him again, and we had a moment…but it didn’t matter because then we all saw that he was with Jenny. That night, the man I slept with who never called me back? It wasn’t some random guy I met at the party. It was Embry Moore.”

  “Holy shit,” Abilene says, still blinking.

  “And so Embry Moore came to me a week and a half ago, and told me Maxen wanted to see me. And we met and kissed and it was just as magical as the first time, and we—” Once again, I struggle for the right word. Dating sounds too informal, and it’s too early to claim love, at least anywhere outside my own head. “He’s asked me to go to the State Dinner this week with him,” I say, and I planned on being soft, being giving, because I’m the giving one in our friendship, always, always, but instead, I find my voice getting stronger and my chin lifting defiantly. “And I’ve agreed to go.”

  She doesn’t respond, and I see signs of that Abilene rage fluttering under the surface of her skin: a dangerous flush on her neck, a brightness in her eyes, a tightness in her lips.

  “Abi,” I say. Plead. Don’t do this. Don’t make this into a fight.

  But then she swallows and gives me a forced smile. “Well, I’m happy for you. My crush on Maxen Colchester was so long ago, I barely remember it. And if anyone is going to be with him, it should be you.”

  I want to believe her. I want it so badly. “Are you sure?”

  This smile comes a little easier, although there’s still that same strange brightness in her eyes. “Yes, Greer. It would be ridiculous for me to carry a torch for someone I’ve only seen in person once. I’m glad you told me.”

  “I was so scared to tell you because I knew how much you adored him when we were younger,” I say on a relieved breath. “Thank God you don’t hate me now.”

  “Of course I don’t hate you.” She sits back, tapping a fingertip on the glass desk. “So the President and the Vice President too, huh?”

  “No, no,” I rush to clarify. “What happened between Embry and me was a very long time ago. And I was upset about Ash and Jenny, and obviously Embry didn’t enjoy it that much, since I never heard from him again.”

  Abilene’s head cocks at my casual use of Maxen’s middle name, but she doesn’t comment on it. Instead she says, “Are you sure there isn’t something between you and Embry still? You’re blushing.”

  I press a hand to my cheek, and sure enough, the skin is warm and flushed. I try not to think about that night in Chicago. I try not to think how handsome he looked in the candlelight at our dinner last week, how that citrus and pepper smell of him seemed to follow me home and taunt me while I tried to sleep.

  Just because you want to forget who you are doesn’t mean the rest of us can forget you.

  “There’s nothing between Embry and me,�
� I repeat, but my response took too long and my face betrays too much. I never was a good liar.

  Abilene’s smile curls into something sharp. “Whatever you say, cousin mine. Just be careful. This city is full of wolves, and they are always hungry.”

  “There’s nothing for them to be hungry for,” I say again. “Embry isn’t a problem.”

  The smile curls sharper. “I think he’s very much a problem for you. And for the President too.”

  I frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Just this, Greer, that men like them have secrets. You don’t get to be that powerful that young without some big skeletons in your closet, and I guarantee you that the President and Merlin Rhys would be willing to do anything to keep those secrets contained. Anything.”

  “I feel like you know something I don’t.”

  “If you’re dating the President, you’ll find out soon enough,” she says and there’s something cruelly gleeful about her voice. “And I think some women might be able to live with his past, but you’re not one of them, honey.”

  I flick my mind over my mental log, trying to scan Ash’s past for any whisper of scandal, but I come up short. Before I can say anything else, Abilene waves off my words. “Don’t worry about it. Seriously. I’d hate to scare you off of a romance you just started. Now, I have a meeting in about five minutes. You’re welcome to wait in here until I get back and then we can grab lunch or…?”

  The meaning is clear. It’s time for you to leave.

  Grateful for the exit strategy, I stand up. “I’ve got to get back to work. A new batch of projects have come in for grading.”

  Abilene stands too and comes around her desk. She gives me a hug that isn’t any lighter or shorter than any other hug she’s given me, but all the same, I can tell there’s something new between us. Something ugly. And while half of it is her jealousy, the other half is this new doubt she’s sown in my mind, this new fear.

  You’ll find out soon enough.

  I shiver as I leave her office and step out into the chilly November air.

  What does that even mean?

  And what if I don’t want to find out?

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Present

  When I open the door to my townhouse, I’m so distracted by my conversation with Abilene that I don’t even notice the tall man standing in the living room. I throw my purse onto a nearby chair and get ready to walk into the kitchen to forage for some coffee—coffee with a hefty amount of bourbon thrown in—and get the shock of my life when I see Merlin Rhys out of the corner of my eye.

  “Jesus Christ,” I gasp, stepping back and slumping against a bookshelf. He steps out of the November afternoon murk gathering in the corners of my living room, putting his hands up to indicate he means no harm.

  “Ms. Galloway,” he says, inclining his head.

  “How the hell did you get in here?” I say—well, sputter, really—trying to cover over the adrenaline with outrage.

  “I used to live here,” Merlin says calmly, producing a key from his pocket and setting it on the coffee table. “Years ago, when I was just moving to Washington, your grandfather was kind of enough to let me stay here until I found a place of my own. I promise I won’t intrude again, but I did think it was time that you and I have a talk.”

  The bookshelf presses into my back. A cloud passes over the sun. The room is cold shadows as Merlin takes a seat on the armchair, crossing his legs. The movement is graceful but not sensual, elegant but not effeminate. There is something almost asexual about the way he carries himself, just as there’s something ageless in the sharp lines of his face.

  It’s been five years since I last saw him in person, although it was impossible to avoid seeing him on television or hearing his name on the news in the time since. He was the campaign manager for Ash’s campaign, and now he’s Ash’s senior advisor—one of those roles that seems as ubiquitous as it is mysterious—and I know the timing of this encounter isn’t a coincidence.

  “A talk,” I repeat. My throat’s dry, and I clear it. “Five years ago, I came to your birthday party and you told me—again—to keep my kisses to myself. Are you going to tell me a third time? Am I in trouble?”

  And in the gloom of the shadows, the man I’ve been afraid of since I was seven laughs.

  Laughs.

  Not a sinister laugh, not a cruel laugh. A happy laugh. A friendly laugh. And through the shadows and years of fear, I see that he’s just a man. Not a wizard, not a psychic, not the kissing police. Just a well-bred, perceptive man who is capable of laughing loudly enough to fill a room.

  Ash does love to surround himself with laughter, I think, peeling myself away from the bookshelf to go sit down across from Merlin.

  “You’re not in trouble,” he says finally, a smile still on his face. There’s warmth in his eyes—real warmth—although I still detect the same wariness from our past encounters.

  But I’m not seven or sixteen or twenty any more. The wariness doesn’t upset me like it used to. “Then what do you want to talk about?”

  “I want to tell you a story,” he says, folding his hands in his lap. “It won’t take very long to tell, and you may not care that much about it, but I think it’s an important story for you to hear.”

  I consider this for a minute. I would be well within my rights to demand that he leave. I could even leave myself. I don’t have to sit here and listen to a man who’s been nothing but rude and terrifying to me since I was a child. But I can’t help it, I am intrigued by the idea of Merlin telling me a story. I teach literature, after all, stories are what I deal with, what I think in.

  “Okay,” I finally concede. “Tell me.” As if on cue, the clouds move across the sun again and the room brightens with weak sunshine.

  “Once upon a time…” Merlin starts slowly, irony twisting his mouth a little “…there was a man who fell in love with a married woman.”

  “That’s a little different than the usual beginning,” I cut in.

  “It’s more common than you’d think,” he replies. “David and Bathsheba? Tristan and Isolde? Arthur Dimmesdale and Hester Prynne?”

  “Those are not very happy stories,” I point out.

  “I never said this would be a happy story. Only a common one,” Merlin responds, leaning back a little in his chair. “Now, back to our man and woman. This is a common story, and so this man tried all the common ways of getting the woman to notice him. He flirted, he pleaded, he tried to impress her daily. They worked in the same place, you see, and so he could be relentless in wooing her, just as his own love for her felt unmercifully relentless to him. But she loved her husband, and even if she didn’t, she was the kind of person who didn’t believe in breaking marriage vows.”

  “Good for her.”

  He nods. “I agree. It was difficult to resist this man, though, especially as the years dragged on. He was handsome and powerful and he wanted her, even when she was pregnant with her husband’s child. It’s a flattering feeling to be desired by the President of the United States, which I’m sure you know.”

  I can’t hide my surprise. “The man was a president?”

  Merlin looks me straight in the face. “A president your family knows very well. President Penley Luther. Your grandfather’s running mate.”

  I must look like a mask of shock, but I can’t help it. Grandfather only had glowing things to say about President Luther—really, everyone only had glowing things to say about him. It’s hard to imagine the hero of the American economy and international diplomacy chasing after a married woman.

  “You have to remember,” Merlin says, “that Luther was a bit of a playboy. And he was divorced. To him it seemed natural that she would want him, and Luther never ignored nature for morality’s sake, at least in his personal life.”

  “So what happened?”

  Merlin looks down at his hands for a moment. “What usually happens in these cases, although it didn’t happen in the usual way. There
was an economic summit hosted by the United Kingdom at a secluded estate in Wales. Luther brought this woman along, since she was his senior advisor, just as I am to Maxen now. The summit was brief but busy, and on the last night, the people gathered there had a small party. Lots of drinks. Warm fires in the chilly spring night. You get the picture.

  “The night grew late, and everyone went to bed but Luther, who stayed up by the fireplace in the central hall, drinking and looking into the flames. He was so absorbed that he didn’t notice the caretaker and his wife clearing away the empty glasses, or their little boy helping them. Finally, the little boy walked up to him and touched his arm. ‘Do you want help back to your room?’ the boy asked.

  “‘I do want to go to bed, but not to my own,’ Luther said. He was too drunk to care that he was talking to a child. But this child was more observant than other children. ‘I can take you to her room,’ the boy offered quietly. The man didn’t answer, but it was obvious he was gripped with some kind of indecision.

  “‘I can take you around the outside and through the balcony door,’ the boy said. ‘No one would see you then.’ Luther looked up, his eyes growing clearer, and then he stood and followed the boy.”

  I find I’m leaning forward in my chair. I make myself sit back. “What happened then? Did he go to her room? Did she kick him out?”

  “No. She welcomed him inside and locked the balcony door behind him.”

  “But she resisted him for years! Why give in now?”

  Merlin shrugs. “The human heart is a mystery. Perhaps she loved him as ardently as he loved her and couldn’t bear to hold herself back any longer. Perhaps it was the alcohol or the seclusion. Perhaps he wore her down. I do know that she and her husband separated shortly after—perhaps they’d already agreed to the separation and she didn’t see her marriage as an obstacle any more. But what is certain is that they spent the night together—and several more after that. And that winter, she had a baby.”