by Cindi Madsen
“I’m sure that I’d take you to Vegas tonight and marry you if you want. I’ll wait a year and have the ceremony in the museum. Or a church wedding. Or a big to-do in a swanky hotel. I’m sure that I want to marry you and spend the rest of my life with you. I love you, Dani. So just say yes.”
She felt that rush she always experienced before an adventure with Wes, but this was about a million times stronger. She dove onto him, throwing her arms around his neck and nearly toppling him over backward. Then his arms came around her and their mouths and bodies were pressed together. She parted her lips as he kissed her deeper, igniting heat and desire and a hundred other happy emotions that were buzzing through her like fireworks.
“Just so you know, I’m taking that as a yes,” he mumbled against her lips.
“It’s a yes.” She put her hand on his face, running it across the stubble. “I want to go home to North Carolina with you. Where I belong.”
The next thing she knew he was standing up, lifting her in his arms as he did so.
“I should probably go quit my job,” she said.
He bounced her higher and strode toward the helicopter. “It can wait. I want to show you the roomy backseat in my helicopter.”
“But whatever will we do with all that room?”
A mischievous grin that sent her body tingling with anticipation curved his lips. “Five bucks I can figure something out.”
Acknowledgments
Thanks to my awesome editor, Stacy Abrams, for asking if I wanted to write a Bliss book, suggesting awesome additions, and always making my books better. Thanks to Alycia Tornetta for a tweet that got my mind whirring and had me plotting out this book instead of sleeping, as well as all of your insight and hard work. Thanks to Rachel Harris for always being there, your boundless enthusiasm, and helping me decide that Wes should be a helicopter pilot. Everything fell into place after that. And thanks to my sister, Randa, who suggested I “severely maim” instead of kill off a character. I’m glad I listened and went for more severely injured. That conversation still cracks me up, though.
Thanks to the entire support team at Entangled. All the authors and editors and my publicists, Heather Riccio and Elana Johnson. I’m so lucky to be part of the Entangled family! Thanks to Liz Pelletier for always being so open and willing to share. In addition to that Vegas trip being fun, the information I learned there also helped me write the ending of this book. Maybe what happens in Vegas doesn’t always stay there. (Don’t worry, most of it does.)
Thanks to Dr. Tom Hanchett from the Levine Museum of the New South, who was so nice and talked to me about the Good Samaritan Hospital’s chapel so I could get it as accurate as possible, since I couldn’t fly there and check it out like I wanted to (maybe someday). Thanks to my uncle, Scott Harmsen, for answering my questions about helicopters. To all my family for putting up with me when I go into crazy-writer mode. To all my Twitter friends, you guys make me laugh and keep me going and you just rock! Special shout-out to #TeamKilt, #TheTimeZonesWillNotDefeatUsBookClub, and Andrea Thompson, who makes me laugh, provides encouragement, and burns food along with me. And where would I be without Anne Eliot, the best cheerleader/writing buddy I could ask for? So amazing watching dreams come true with you.
And thanks to my husband, Michael, for his endless support and love. Another example that dreams come true. And to anyone who’s read my books, thank you!
Don’t miss Cindi Madsen’s hilarious full-length romance, CINDERELLA SCREWED ME OVER, coming in Fall 2013 to online and print retailers everywhere!
Darby Quinn has a bone to pick with Cinderella. Burned one too many times by ex-boyfriends, Darby has lost all belief in the happily-ever-after that Cinderella promised her. She’s sworn off love, fairy tales, and happy endings and she’s happy about it. Really. Or at least she was until she met Jake, her gorgeous neighbor and the manager of her favorite restaurant. But Darby has rules about dating, ones she’s culled from her years of kissing so-called “princes,” and pursuing a relationship with Jake would break all of them.
But unfortunately for Darby, Jake is determined to show her that they are perfect for each other.
Read on for a sneak peek!
Chapter One
Cinderella screwed me over. And really, she doesn’t deserve all the blame. Jasmine, Ariel, Belle, Sleeping Beauty—whatever her real name was, she had like three of them—they all added to it. This idea of happily ever after. Of finding Prince Charming.
If you re-watch Cinderella now, you’ll realize there are some similarities between Prince Charming and the guys you’ve dated. Cute, charming, and kind of lazy. After all, what did the prince in Cinderella really do? He danced with Cinderella, thought she was pretty, and picked up her shoe.
Then did he go after her? Nope. He sent the duke. You’d think if he were as in love as he claimed, he would’ve gone himself. Instead he was, like, well, as long as her foot’s that small she’ll probably be about right for me. That’s what’s sold to us. Forced down our throats as one of the greatest romances of all time.
The brainwashing starts at about two or three years old, when you’re told fairy tales about princesses, castles, ball gowns, and everybody living happily ever after. It’s no wonder that around sixteen, you’re shocked when your boyfriend cares more about looking cool or copping a feel than sweeping you off your feet. So you tell yourself it’ll get better when you’re older.
Then you get older.
You remain optimistic, because you watch romantic comedies now—they become your new, more realistic fairy tales. You see lovey-dovey couples everywhere you go, proving that romance is still out there. Around the early- to mid-twenties, some of your friends start getting married. You keep waiting for it to happen to you.
I waited. And waited. But the more dating experience I got, the more I realized that guys aren’t princes, and love fades, replaced with either mediocre feelings or full-on contempt. I looked back at my relationships and noticed my dating life had been more like Con Air than Cinderella—you know, bumpy and full of bad guys.
Still, I tried to stay positive. Kept hoping the right guy was out there. I dated every man in the city—well, not literally, but after a while they all started to blur together. Dating became this sadistic ritual that always ended the same way—disappointment. With each bad date, each failed relationship, I grew more and more cynical.
It was on my twenty-sixth birthday that it finally hit me: Love is bullshit. There was no happily ever after.
I swore off men and threw myself into work. I started spending lots of money on shoes. A pair of great heels was much more satisfying than a man. They lasted longer, and better yet, they didn’t leave me for someone prettier.
Sure, there were some lonely nights when I wished I had someone to talk to. So I’d stroll past the pet shop and wonder exactly how much that kitty in the window was. On more than one occasion I’d been tempted to buy myself a furry companion. But I wasn’t quite ready to be the crazy cat lady. I was saving that for my forties.
At twenty-eight, I had a relapse. I fell in love. I was sure it was meant to be. But then it ended and I was left broken-hearted. Again. You’d think, after all the disastrous relationships I’d been through, I’d know better. That I wouldn’t be crushed in the end. But as all history teachers say, those who don’t learn their history are doomed to repeat it. So right then and there I re-committed to my previous decision that two people couldn’t really work it out—I also watched a few of the people who were married in their early twenties get divorced, which only reaffirmed my decision.
That’s why, at thirty years old, I’m a year sober from love, fairy tales, and happy endings. And it’s not so bad.
Really.
…
If I had a theme song—and I totally should—it would be one of those power ballads about being an independent woman and not needing a guy. That’s the mood I was rocking tonight. Today was a big milestone for me.
A cool, air-conditione
d breeze washed over me as I stepped into the restaurant. My best friend, Stephanie, was already there, and, of course, she was on the phone. She probably hadn’t even checked in yet. Lucky for her, I love her as much as her phone-dependent fiancé does.
I walked up to the hostess. She was obviously new, because I didn’t recognize her, and I ate here more than I did at my own place. “Darby Quinn, party of two.”
She ran her finger down her list, made a checkmark with her pen, then smiled at me. “Give us just a minute, Ms. Quinn, and I’ll have someone show you to your table.”
I glanced back at Stephanie, who looked like she was talking into thin air. “I understand,” Stephanie said. “But she’s your mom. You’ll have to talk to her about it.” Underneath her brown curtain of hair, she had her Bluetooth earpiece on. Her gaze caught mine and she held up a finger.
One minute, my butt.
Stephanie and I were often mistaken for sisters. We had the same dark hair—mine was naturally straight, whereas she was a slave to her flat iron—same hazel eyes, and after fifteen years of hanging out together, we’d developed similar mannerisms. Though she was far more detail oriented than I was. Perfectionist was an understatement. Which worked out well for her. Who wants to hire a sloppy accountant?
“Hi, Darby,” Mindy, my usual hostess, said as she walked up to the front. She grabbed two menus. “How are you doing today?”
“I’m well, thanks.” I raised my voice and looked at Steph. “If I could just get my friend off the phone, since she’s supposed to be hanging out with me, I’d be even better.”
Stephanie stuck out her tongue at me. “Okay, honey, I’ve gotta go. I’ll see you at home.” Pause. “I don’t know, a few hours.” Pause. “Love you, too.”
She pushed the button on her earpiece, disconnecting the call, then smiled at me. “I’m all yours.”
Steph and I followed Mindy through Blue. The place was a mix of espresso-colored wood, white, and dark blue. Miniature lamps lit up the tables, casting a soft bluish glow. Blue was my favorite restaurant in Denver. My favorite restaurant anywhere, actually.
The fact that it’s five minutes from my building, and about ten from Metamorphosis Interior Designs, where I worked as an interior designer, made it even better.
As soon as Stephanie and I were settled into a table in the corner, she picked up her menu. “So what are we celebrating again?”
I took the white cloth napkin off the table and placed it on my lap. “It’s been a year since I’ve had my heart broken. No more relapses.”
“Oh, that’s right.” Stephanie shook her head. “You’re celebrating your jaded stance on men.”
“I prefer the term realistic, thank you very much. I’m just a girl who realizes love is not only overrated but downright impractical.”
“For the past year, anyway.”
“Right,” I said. “Before that I was miserable.”
“You weren’t miserable the entire time. You had happy moments, too.”
“That’s my point. I’m not saying I won’t find a guy to have a few happy months with here and there, but I realize now that it’s enough for me. No future. No big wedding. No forever. Just low-risk here and now.”
Stephanie frowned. “I can’t believe my maid of honor doesn’t believe in love. Please don’t tell my mom.”
“Well, you and Anthony are an exception.”
“I thought you said there are no exceptions.”
I smiled. “I did. But I’m not going to say that to my best friend who’s getting married in two months. That would just be cruel.” Though I’d thought it several times, especially when she was stressing over a wedding that she might be paying off for longer than the marriage lasted.
“What about that saying?” Steph tapped a finger to her lips. “That ‘no man is an island.’”
“No man is an island because they’d never survive. They’re like overgrown babies. Women, on the other hand—well, without men, I think we’d be relatively problem free. I could totally be an island.”
But the thought of being all alone, without anyone else was pretty depressing. “I suppose I’d need my family and friends. I’m more like a peninsula.”
Steph sighed. “At least you admit you need me. I still think, though, that if you just found the right guy—”
“We’re not puzzle pieces, Steph. There’s no ‘you complete me’ guy out there, and the beauty of this day and age is I don’t need one.”
“So why are you dressed like that”—she waved a hand at me—“if you don’t have anyone to impress?”
My red dress hugged in all the right places and showed off my legs. “One, because I run my butt off so I can pull it off. And two, what am I supposed to do? Look like a slob because I don’t think relationships last forever? I’m not itching to run away and become a nun or something.”
Steph laughed. “Yeah, you’d be a great nun.”
Chad walked up to the table and shot me a big, toothy grin. “Darby. Hey.” Like all the wait staff here, he was dressed in black pants and a pressed white shirt.
I returned his smile. “If it isn’t my favorite waiter. How are you today?”
“Good. We’re getting kind of slammed right now, so it’s crazy. But good.” He lifted his pad of paper. “What can I get for you ladies?”
I didn’t even bother with the menu anymore. I rattled off my order, then waited as Stephanie placed hers.
Stephanie watched Chad walk away. “What about him? He’s super cute and you two seem to have a vibe.”
“We don’t have a vibe. We have a I-come-here-all-the-time-so-we-say-hi thing. Besides, he’s way too young, not to mention I have a strict policy against dating people I run into all the time. No guy’s worth losing my favorite place to eat.”
Steph rolled her eyes. “You’re completely hopeless.”
“No, you’re the hopeless romantic. They call it that for a reason, you know.”
Steph’s phone rang and she hovered her finger over her earpiece. “Anthony’s probably calling to tell me what his mom said about the flowers. I’ll just be one minute.”
“I knew you’d never make it.” I dug through my purse until I found the envelope I was looking for and took it out. “I’ll be right back,” I whispered.
Making my way toward the back of the restaurant, I took in all the different kinds of people out on a Saturday night. One couple sat, smiling at each other but not saying anything, neither one eating much of their food.
On a date. Probably first or second.
The next table over, a woman in her late thirties to early forties had her arms folded across her chest, a scowl on her face. The guy across from her leaned in, looking frustrated and confused, saying, “I’m sorry, okay.”
Married and not speaking—well, she’s not speaking.
Life’s so much easier when you don’t have to deal with that crap.
The kitchen would be a madhouse tonight, so I didn’t bother heading in that direction. Brent, the head chef and owner of the place, had done me a huge favor last week, making a special meal for one of my clients. The list of items she couldn’t have had been lengthy, but he’d managed to pull off a delicious meal anyway. I’d written him a thank-you note because that’s the kind of girl I am.
The office in the back corner had a plastic inbox attached to the door. Brent had mentioned I could place notes or special requests in there if he was ever too busy to come out of the kitchen. I dropped my note inside, then headed back the way I’d come.
A large group of people walked toward me, taking up most of the walkway. I flattened myself against the wall to let them through. After they passed, I stepped forward, my thoughts on getting back to my table, when the heel of my stiletto caught. To keep from falling, I had to leave the shoe behind.
“Whoa,” I muttered as I recovered from my almost-fall.
I turned around in search of my shoe and saw a guy bend over to retrieve it.
“I think you lost this,�
�� he said, tugging it loose from the crack in the floor.
“Yeah, it kind of stuck in there and… Let’s just say it wasn’t my smoothest move.”
He stood up, a big smile on his face. His very handsome face. His bright blue eyes, killer smile, and short dark hair made it hard to look away. So I didn’t bother trying.
“Well…” He held my black stiletto out to me. “Here you go.”
Oh, that’s right. I’m standing in the middle of a crowded restaurant, one foot four inches higher than the other.
“Thanks,” I said as I took the shoe. Balancing on my other foot, I bent my leg back and attempted to slide the shoe on. Stepping into this pair of shoes wasn’t an option. They took a little extra work—a finger on the back—to wedge in the heel.
He reached out and put a hand on my hip to steady me. It sent my heart racing, which just goes to show you how long it had been since my last physical contact with a guy.
The shoe finally slipped into place and I put my foot down. When he didn’t move his hand, I glanced down at it, then back up at him.
“I didn’t want you to fall,” he said, one corner of his mouth lifting.
A deep stirring I hadn’t felt in a long time burned through my core. “I wouldn’t fall.”
“You see how I might worry, since you did trip just a minute ago.”
Between the grin he was flashing me and the heat radiating from his hand, my pulse was having trouble staying steady. I smiled back, pulling out the flirty one that was rusty from lack of use. “I suppose I do have that against me. Although, I choose to blame the faulty flooring and not my coordination.”
He took his hand off my hip and held it out to me. “I’m Jake.”
I placed my hand in his—firm shake. Bonus points. “Darby.”
“Interesting name.”
“Interesting is one word for it. For a long time, I thought my parents gave me it to torture me. People used to tell me that because of my name, they thought I was a boy.”
Jake’s gaze ran down my dress, then lifted back to my face. “I doubt anyone makes that mistake now.”
