Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products, bands, and/or restaurants referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Cover Designer: Robin Harper, Wicked by Design
Formatting: Elaine York, Allusion Graphics, LLC/Publishing & Book Formatting
For Jake, my real-life Prince Charming.
Prologue
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
Chapter Twenty-Four
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Other Books by Jennifer Miller
Knee deep in clothes when my phone starts ringing, I regret my impulsive decision to clean out my closet. I wonder if climbing the Matterhorn resembles the feeling I have as I move to get my phone. Catching my foot in the neckline of some random cast away garment, I stumble and almost fall on my face. Righting myself and cursing under my breath, I snatch my phone from my dresser and answer breathlessly, “Hello?”
“Hi! My name is Tiffany, and I’m looking for a Miss Gabriella Barrie, please.”
“Yes, this is she,” I respond absently looking at the small round solitaire engagement ring sitting erectly on my finger startled at the realization that it wouldn’t be my name for too much longer. The thought makes my stomach twist uncomfortably and I place my hand on my tummy trying unsuccessfully to knead the pain away.
The voice on the other end, obviously astute to my distraction, reorients me. “Uh, hello…hello…Hi, Gabriella! Like I said before, my name is Tiffany. I’m calling from Fairytale Vacations – where it’s our job to give you a happily ever after! I’m so excited to let you know that you’ve won a complimentary all inclusive vacation to an exclusive resort in Cabo San Lucas, Mexico.”
“Seriously? A vacation? That’s the best you’ve got? Very funny. Katie put you up to this right? It’s not funny,” I tell Tiffany or whatever her name really is with a mixture of disbelief and annoyance. I’ve never won anything in my life.
“Um, no. I’m not sure who Katie is,” she says and I can hear the confusion in her voice, which brings a moment of pause. “You attended a bridal expo last month and visited our booth,” she states. The completely overwhelming experience comes crashing through my memory like a tidal wave. I had reluctantly attended the event at the insistence of Jeremy’s mother Mariel. Hundreds of vendors were all crowded into a small space handing out samples, taking my name, number, and email address for all kinds of things from a free limo ride, wedding cake, even a wedding gown. Mariel was insistent that I participate in every available give-away – she even had pre-printed labels with all of my personal information to enable quick entry. The whole experience left me with handfuls of contacts, and several ideas, but more unsettled about the wedding details I wanted than when I arrived.
“Yes, I remember the expo.” Do I ever.
“Great! Well we drew your name from over ten thousand entries, and you have won an all expenses paid trip to Cabo San Lucas, Mexico for two!”
“Well…wow. That’s amazing!” I reply feeling speechless and shocked.
She laughs lightly, “I’ll send you an email with details on how to book your vacation, all the resort information, other activities that are available for you to schedule, as well as vouchers for the restaurants on site and the day spa.”
“That all sounds…incredible!”
“It really is. All you need to do is decide when you want to go and then arrange your flight accommodations with us – easy peasy!” She says excitedly and I quietly snort at her expression. “Well of course, you’ll probably want to buy a new swimsuit or two. Or heck, go crazy and get a new wardrobe,” she says laughing at herself.
“Well this is really great timing actually. My wedding is coming up soon and we were still trying to work out honeymoon details. I guess this settles that.” I can’t help but feel excited about going to Cabo - I’ve never been to Mexico before. My mind is already spinning with visions of myself lying in the sun, walking on the beach, enjoying a massage at the spa, and sneaking kisses from my new husband on the beach at night as we bask in the moonlight while listening to the ocean beat against the shore.
“That’s great, but just so you know, the voucher is for two people - any two people. So if for some reason you decide to do something else for your honeymoon… or for any other reason… you can use it for anyone, as long as you are one of the users. And you have a year in which to use the package.”
“Thank you so much, this is really great. Jeremy, my fiancé, won’t believe it!”
“You’re welcome. Congratulations. I just need to verify your email address, please.”
“Sure,” I reply and give her the information.
“Okay, I’ll get that email confirmation sent over. Congratulations again, and may all your dreams come true.”
My vacation started off as a way to escape. I needed to get away and wanted relaxation, but most importantly, I wanted to have some much needed and overdue fun. Where better to get that than a place offering plenty of sun, sand, and the healing powers of the ocean? And I would not do it alone - I’d have my bestie by my side; the person who knows me best and loves me most. How lucky I am to have such a meaningful friendship with her. I knew this time away with her would help heal the cracks of betrayal my heart was carrying. If I were lucky, my wounded pride would also be restored. And god knows I needed a saturating reorientation to the single lifestyle after being in a committed relationship for three years. Or at least I was committed. What I didn’t expect now, two weeks later, was to be returning home more broken hearted than I was when I left.
Walking away, well I guess it’s more like sneaking away, from the man I somehow managed to fall in love with over the last week, feels impossible. After returning my rental car and checking in for my flight home, an overwhelming urge to bend over at my waist and scream runs through me. I want to rant and rave at the unfairness of falling for a man that can never be mine. At having a stepmother from hell that’s in part influencing my decision to leave. For not being brave enough to say goodbye to his face. For letting my heart shred into so many pieces I wonder if it can ever possibly find its way back together again.
Fate is a sick and twisted bitch and I’d really like to give her a nasty catfight. I’d totally pull her hair, scratch out her eyes, kick, and fight dirty. That bitch fate deserves it.
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The feelings are so visceral that it takes everything I have to keep them reigned in. Yet, somehow I manage. Barely. I keep it together as I check in my luggage and obtain a boarding pass. I exude a false calm as I go through security, removing each item I’m carrying to be inspected, take my shoes off and wait patiently for my turn. I even manage a smile when the customs agent greets me and I get randomly selected for a more detailed search of my items. The official pulls everything out of my carry-ons, almost making me laugh at the look on his face when he sees the results of my hurried packing. He opens things and peers inside like I might have contraband hiding. In lipstick tubes? Geesh. Finally, he concedes that I am harmless and stamps my passport while ushering a sigh. What? He’s disappointed? I continue to keep it together, though I swallow repeatedly to keep the emotions from being emitted. Proceeding to the gate area, I search the corridor for the nearest restroom, rush inside, lock myself in a stall, and finally cry unrelenting tears.
My cries and sobs become howls at some point. Not intentionally; but I produce babbly, high pierced sounds like a dying animal. I become aware of this because a few people knock on the door to ask me if I’m okay. One asks if there’s anything she can get me, or anyone she can send in after me. It’s nice of them and I appreciate the kindness. But it also further humiliates me. I manage to utter syllables meant to tell each I’m fine, but I’m not sure the message is clear. Perhaps it is betrayed by the immediate resumption of wailing. Grabbing a handful of toilet paper, I blow my nose loudly, dab at my face, and try my best to quit crying, knowing that it’s not helping or changing anything. Logic, however, gives way again to emotion. I try another rational approach. There was no other option. Leaving this way is easier – simpler – and the right thing to do. Saying goodbye in person would have broken me beyond repair. Especially if I saw in his eyes that my leaving wasn’t as hard for him as it was for me. There’s no way I could face the, “thanks for a great time,” line I’d been likely to receive – not when for me it was so much more than that. Tears set in yet again. Where do they all come from?
I’m being ridiculous – I know this. I’ve told myself repeatedly that any kind of relationship or legitimate feelings for someone after a mere week is ridiculous. I need to simply be thankful for the time we had together, the fact that he helped restore my confidence and made me feel beautiful and cherished when I needed it most. I need to move on – to get back to my life and remember this time with fondness. If only my heart – and wherever these tears get formed - would listen to my head.
“Gabriella Barrie, please proceed to gate 18C. Again, this is the last call for Gabriella Barrie. Please proceed to gate 18C. Your plane is leaving.”
My eyes widen at the words I hear through the intercom. How long have they been calling me? Oh my god!
I claw at the roll of toilet paper to clean up my business. How could my bladder have had anything to empty after all of the water I used in tears? And what timing. Fate – you really are a bitch. I take another large bunch for good measure since I don’t have any tissues. I jump up and lift my undies and jean capris over my hips and begin fumbling with the buttons. In my haste, my fingers decide to quit working properly and I fumble like an idiot. It doesn’t help that the buttonhole always seems too small for the button and I struggle every time I wear these. With a curse, I give up and tug my zipper up and leave the button for later. I’ll fix it when I’m on the plane. Grabbing my things, I spring through the open stall door, hurriedly wash my hands, and dry them on my pants as I make a mad dash for the door.
Maybe it’s no surprise that running through the airport as fast as you can while simultaneously trying to keep your pants up is not an easy thing to do. Maybe later I’ll laugh about what a hot mess I must look like right now. Huge bag over my arm, wild hair flying about my face, a hand at my waist holding up my pants while my other hand wheels a bag behind me that keeps toppling over. Heavy beads of sweat form and begin to fall from my red swollen face and I feel trickles of perspiration making a mad dash down my backside. I’m the only person alive, late for her own flight while sitting in the freaking airport. How long was I in that restroom anyway? Clearly, it’s a black hole in there. These are travel hints they should tell people.
Leaving my pants undone was clearly a mistake. With each slap of my feet on the ground, I can feel my zipper sliding down tooth by tooth. My jeans get looser and looser around my waist. Gripping them tighter, I continue to run, muttering apologies as I bump into other passengers and almost take a woman with a small dog out. Seeing the gate ahead, I move faster and yell to the worker at the door, letting go of my pants, I start waving my arm in the air hoping to attract her attention.
“Wait! Please! I’m here!” I yell, feeling panicked, my breath coming in pants. She smiles kindly when she sees me, which is more than I deserve considering I’ve likely held them up. “I’m so sorry. So sorry. Lo siento,” I add for good measure considering I’m at the airport in Mexico. Handing her my boarding pass, I watch her scan it before she looks up. I’m not sure what she sees in my face, but there’s kindness in her eyes as she gestures to the door.
“It’s okay,” she says, her Spanish accent thick, “Go. Vamos.” She tells me with a smile and gives me a wave. Tossing her a quick, “Thank you!” over my shoulder, I run down the jet way toward the plane’s door.
“Hi,” I tell the exceptionally pretty flight attendant breathlessly as I get to the door. My breaths are ragged and I feel slightly dizzy from the chaos.
“Gabriella Barrie?” she asks as she takes in my appearance, her gaze resting at my hand where I’m once again clutching my pants that now sit a bit lower than my waist, before returning to my eyes.
“Yes. I’m so sorry I’m late. I was in the restroom for a long time.” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I feel my cheeks flush. “I mean, not because I was going to the bathroom all that time. I mean, I guess I did pee. But that’s not what took me a long time. It was because I was sad. Crying. Men, what are you going to do?” She continues to stare at me, and it increases my discomfort. Clearing my throat, I shrug, “Uh, thank you. Thank you so much. Sorry again,” I tell her feeling like a complete fool and apparently unable to just shut the hell up.
She smiles tightly, “Please find an available seat. Fortunately, our flight isn’t full.”
Nodding, I turn away from her and flush deeper when I see the passengers in the front have heard every word I just babbled. Lifting my head and faking confidence I don’t feel, I pass them, making my way down the aisle, looking for a seat. I carefully avoid the eyes of other passengers, their ire and annoyance palpable due to waiting on me. Part of me feels like I should grab the intercom phone and make a formal group apology. Lifting my chin, I try to roll it off my shoulders and see a row that has only one woman sitting in the aisle. She’s smiling widely at me and she’s the first kind face I see. “Hi. May I please sit here?”
She smiles, “Of course, dear.”
“Thank you.” Reaching across her to set my purse in the seat I’ve claimed, I swing my carry-on up to the open overhead bin. There’s plenty of space available, but my soft sided bag is stuffed and doesn’t slide inside easily. Hoping it’s pushed in enough, I try to close the bin, but it won’t latch. Even when I give it an extra slam and a few pushes for good measure. With a sigh, I let the bin open back up, then start shoving and pushing my bag roughly with both hands in an attempt to rearrange its contents to get it back a couple more inches. Feeling additional penetrating stares of passengers and the flight attendants alike compound my frustration.
“Ugh,” I yell and look around for an airline attendant for help. “Excuse me,” I call to a blonde one down the aisle a bit. She is poised in a selfie pose, twirling her hair around a finger while she speaks to an attractive man. He’s smiling at her and I realize she not only didn’t hear me, but it’s going to take a miracle to get her attention. Rolling my eyes, I turn back to my bag and start shoving it again, harder this t
ime, both hands beating against it in annoyance as continuous beads of sweat fall down my nape. It’s immovable.
With a curse I yank it out, turn it around, and give it another hard push. At the same time the bag finally slides back into position, I feel my jeans slide down my hips and a ceremony of gasps fill my ears.
With embarrassment I realize I could be partially mooning my fellow passengers behind me. Quickly lifting my pants, I will myself to believe that no one actually saw anything, but must forego the masquerade, clearly aware of the definition of their gasps. Under my lashes, I glance behind me to see one woman looking away, her shoulders shaking in what I assume is laughter. Laughter at me. The sight causes my face to flush redder, which is a feat given that I know I’m already bright red. Another woman, older, catches my eye and then touches her forehead, sternum, and each of her shoulders in the sign of the cross – likely saying a quick prayer to cleanse my soul or to protect her from me. A quick glance to the row behind them finds me meeting brown eyes of a man who looks to be around my age - mid twenties. He grins widely at me, and even winks. Why I’m regarding their expressions I do not know – it’s like I’ve been paralyzed. Shaking my head as if to wake up from this nightmare, and turning hastily, I scoot past my row companion hitting my leg on the armrest on the way. Falling into my seat, I struggle to fix my pants, then buckle my seatbelt across my lap. With a sigh I turn to look out the window as feelings of total mortification and humiliation wash over me warring with the brokenness I’m already struggling with today. Funny how earlier I didn’t think this day could get any worse.
As if on cue, tears start streaming from my eyes, and I’m sniffling in no time. I pull the seat back toward me in hopes that an unused napkin resides there but seeing none, reach for my purse, rifling through looking for a tissue in what is likely to be a vain attempt, lucidly aware that I threw the toilet paper I had grabbed in the bag that now resides above me – what was I thinking? A tap on my arm gets my attention and I turn to see the woman next to me holding out a tissue. With a shaky smile I take it from her and wipe my nose, “Thank you.” She hands me another.
Charming: A Modern Day Sexy Cinderella Story Page 1
