“I might suck at this,” I warned him.
“That’s okay. You don’t have to be brilliant at everything.”
But I liked it that way. I hated being a loser. “Let’s just practice some first.”
“Okay.” He slid his hands around my waist, fingers brushing his spot at the small of my back. “As much as possible.”
“I’m pretty sure I’ll be a terrible girlfriend,” I warned him. “Very high maintenance.”
“I’m a demanding guy with obsessive tendencies and a fairly long fetish list.”
“To which you recently added leg warmers.”
“Oh yes. Who would have predicted?”
“Anyone who saw you had a thing for slutty dancers. They should have put that in your profile for the Most Eligible Bachelors.”
“I’d have told them to, if I’d thought you’d read it.”
“You say the nicest things.” I kissed him. “What next?”
“There’s no script. We make it up as we go along.”
I pretended to pout. “No grand plan? No wonder you’re on that list. You won’t get anywhere with women if you leave things up to fate like that.”
“But I’m not on the list.” He pulled me in and kissed me deeply, sending my head spinning. “I’m officially off the market.”
“You don’t say,” I managed on a stolen breath.
“So are you. Shall we go back to my place and let me prove it to you?”
I wanted that. I really did. But I knew about points one through five. I needed to get better at number six. “You have a nine o’clock appointment,” I reminded him, all responsible like.
His eyes unfogged. “Shit. Right. I’ll cancel.”
“No. I’ll meet you later. For lunch. A date, with conversation.”
“No games at all?” His smile canted just a bit wicked.
“Okay, I’ll think up a challenge for bonus points.” I danced out of his arms, feeling curiously light. A weight off. This could actually work.
“Charlotte?” He caught my hand. “This will work. I’ll make sure of it.”
“We will,” I said. “We’ll make it up together.”
~ Epilogue ~
Out in the hall, Marcia made herself walk away from the door and back to her sterile cubicle. True love won out in the end. At least for some, for the beautiful princesses of the world like Charley. The ugly stepsisters who plotted against them got to live out their sad and lonely punishments. But she’d done it in Charley’s best interests, right? That ought to count for something.
Okay, she’d also done it because of Daniel. If only he’d been the least interested in her. But no. Of course it was Charley he wanted. Guys like him always wanted the beautiful ones, the flashy, sexy ones, with the long legs and showy figures.
Revenge. Charley’s voice resonated still in her head, those thickly lashed, gorgeous eyes full of … not malice, but determination. Still, what could Charley do to her?
A lot. A heck of a lot.
Waving goodbye to Nancy, Marcia hurried back to her own desk, hoping Charley would forget all about it in the blush of true love.
Fat chance of that.
With a Prince
Missed Connections #2
by Jeffe Kennedy
Dedication
For Margaret
In celebration of serendipity and other gifts from the universe
Acknowledgements
As always, many people helped me with this book, answering questions, brainstorming ideas, and giving me inspiration.
First and foremost: Thank you to Anela Deen, winner of my newsletter contest to name the bakery in this book. “The Last Crumb” is exactly what I was looking for. Will be sending you books and cupcakes!
I want to thank everyone who loved Last Dance and poked at me to get Marcia’s story out there. It’s a great feeling to write a book you know people are excited to read.
Gratitude to Anne Calhoun for beta reading and enthusiasm. Your early love for Damien made all the difference.
Thanks to Julie Fine for reading and fact-checking, and for the amazing recipe suggestions!
Nancy Teichman Bauer gets credit for help for all things Chicago. Any mistakes are my own—especially because she told me not to argue with her.
Thanks again to Sonali Dev for trying to keep me from screwing up too badly. And for a really interesting discussion on the saying “my cross to bear,” and how religion doesn’t seem to factor on that one.
Hat tip to Lonman & Eagle, they of “Eat, Drink, Whiskey” for answering my weird emails. Next time I’m in Chicago, I’m absolutely going there!
Thanks, forever and always, to Rebecca Cremonese who goes to great lengths to make everything as perfect as she can, even to researching how the L really smells. (And conceding to me on that one!)
And, also as always, love and thanks to David and Carien. Both of you are amazing and wonderful parts of my life.
The Rules
As women holding ourselves to certain standards (if not necessarily high ones), we of the Fabulous Five agree to abide by the following Rules:
1. It is permissible to dance or hang with any man once and once only in order to assess his fitness according to the following criteria: Looks, Rhythm, Taste, Touch, and Chemistry, with a maximum of one point per criterion.
Amendment 1a. Partial points are permissible, in multiples no smaller than a tenth.
Amendment 1b. A sixth criterion, “that extra something,” can be considered, but only after round four. It cannot be used to tilt scores in the original five criteria.
2. A man must score at least a two out of five to advance to the second round—dating or dancing.
Amendment 2a. This must be a score of 2.0 or better. No rounding up from a score below 2.0 is permitted.
3. Cell numbers will be given only upon request, never offered, and only to those who’ve advanced to round three.
4. A score of four out of five is needed to advance to round three. No exceptions. This can include additional dances, dates, or making out, short of intercourse.
Amendment 3a. This must be a score of 4.0 or better. No rounding up from a score below 4.0 is permitted.
5. No sex with any man who has not advanced to round four, which requires maintaining a score of 4.0 or better following round 3.
6. Anyone who has agreed to abide by these rules and fails to do so will pay a penalty as determined by the group.
Amendment 6a. Rounding up from lower scores will elicit a more severe penalty.
Amendment 6b. (aka the Charley Amendment): Poor math skills are no excuse.
~ 1 ~
Juliet – m4w (Chicago) I know I could be you’re Romeo, if you’ll just give me another chance. I’ve changed. Losing you was the wake-up call I needed. I’m willing to grovel. Just make that call. You know where to find me. Always as you wish. Your prince.
I allowed myself a little dreamy sigh over that one. The reference to The Princess Bride was a particularly nice touch, and mostly made up for the your/you’re confusion. And he was willing to grovel! At least he paid attention, and was at least trying to change. He got the wake-up call and still loved her. She should appreciate that. So many people didn’t appreciate what they had.
Look at all the people in this L car, so many frowning or sad. Of course, that could come from being crowded in with the evening commuter traffic. Or that the train car smelled bad, as they all do. Exhaust, dirty snow, the peculiar mix of plastic parkas and good leather, on top of that weird sour smell pervasive in all trains, no matter how clean, like vomit and spilled beer.
Reading between the lines of the ad, it seemed that she must have loved this guy at some point. Probably still did. Maybe they had been living together and something happened. He slept with another girl and—ugh. No infidelity. Never an excuse for that. He… was a workaholic. Yes, working so hard at his job, long hours, weekends, all to save up and buy that diamond ring for her, maybe put a down payment on a pretty to
wnhouse in Oak Park. A nice place to raise the kids they’d have. But he forgot to pay attention to her and she thought, oh, she thought he didn’t love her anymore. Maybe she suspected him of screwing around with someone prettier, smarter, more fun.
So she threw him out. Maybe he came home late one night. Way too late, but with that ring in his pocket! He’d planned to make her breakfast in bed and propose, but she’d put all his stuff on the sidewalk, refused to speak to him. And he’d gone away, crushed, desperate to find a way to make her listen…
Some women were like that—refusing to just listen to the explanation. Or they pretended to listen, but then still stayed mad. Like my housemate, Charley, swearing revenge on me for the way I’d tricked her into dating Daniel, when I’d tried to explain that I did it for her happiness.
Okay, maybe for a bit of vicarious happiness on my part, but still…
The thing is, people don’t do things for no reason at all. Charley hadn’t been giving Daniel a chance and you have to do that. Like when Elizabeth Bennett in Pride and Prejudice read Darcy’s letter and finally understood everything. What if he’d never written that letter? What if she’d been horrible and thrown it out or burned it without reading it? It all would have ended right there. Darcy would have married that sickly cousin. Lydia would have been abandoned by Wickham and likely become a prostitute.
(Austen never says so explicitly, of course, but a modern woman knows perfectly well what “ruined” meant back then.)
And Lizzie… well, she would have become an old maid, wouldn’t she? Alone in her virginal bed for the rest of her life. Not unlike Jane Austen herself, but let’s not go there.
Too close to home.
That’s why—if it ever happens for me—I would always listen to the explanation, always give a guy another chance. Even with Charley swearing a vengeance to fit the crime, I refused to close myself off to possibilities. Which meant I had to be vigilant and clever. She might act like a ditzy drama queen, but Charley had a super sharp brain and she’d absorbed all the dramatic arcs of the shows she played in and studied at school. Here she’d ended up—happily!—with Daniel Holt, catch of the century, but she couldn’t let go of it, that I’d gone behind her back. The whole mystery had all just been so romantic. And she’d fallen for it, the enigma, the clues. I would have eaten that up, if anyone cared enough about me to set me up with the guy who turned out to be the One. Daniel was totally her One.
My prince, my true love would find me, too. I knew it in my heart. He could be right around the corner, looking for me. There had to be a hundred people in this one car, so he could be here somewhere. Not that older man with the newspaper over his face. There was a younger guy in a hoodie, a few seats down on the opposite side, earbuds in and face bowed over his phone, thumbs working non-stop. He’d been there when I got on and I still hadn’t seen his face. Still, with those skinny jeans, fringed holes showing skin at his knees, he seemed more like a high school kid, so no go there. And obviously not that little boy across from me standing between his mom’s knees, though he was super cute.
He had his bright button eyes fixed on my tablet—or maybe on the pink sparkly skin I’d put on it. I waved my fingers at him and he didn’t even look at me. He reached for the tablet, though, his mom absently tightening her grip on his parka sleeve, though she never looked up from her book. Kind of sad, that she wasn’t paying more attention to her adorable kid.
She looked tired, though, like my mom had always been. Maybe she was a single mom, too.
Oh, Marcia, just play a little while with your dolls while mommy has a nap.
I’ll make supper in a minute. How about an Eggo waffle? You love those.
Mommy has a headache, so no TV, okay? Go draw or read a book.
My mom had been a good mom. Still was. We talked pretty much every day. She got lonely with me out of the house. And, of course, she hadn’t ever married. She’d have to date to do that. Frankly I couldn’t quite see how she’d even dated my dad long enough to conceive me, she’s that much of an introvert. From the little she’d ever said about him, he’d been a charming guy, also way too young, who romanced and seduced her and went on his way. A tale as old as time and a great cautionary one.
Don’t give up your virginity to the first cute boy who charms you. You get that diamond ring on your finger before you let him do anything. I mean anything at all.
I didn’t need a ring—necessarily—to give up my virginity. But I absolutely wanted to wait to be in love. That’s part of why the Rules work for me. Charley and Ice made them up to keep themselves from scraping the bottom of the barrel, sexually speaking, but I use them to remind myself to wait for the One. If I ever meet a man who is a five-pointer for me? Then I’ll know.
They think I’m picky, I know that. And I am. A perfect score is a rare and beautiful thing.
The little boy, after one last futile tug and reach for my tablet, screwed up his face, turned an astonishing shade of puce, and let out a piercing scream that nearly made me drop my tablet. The man under the newspaper woke with a start and a crash of paper. The businesswoman in the seat next to me made a sound of irritation and got up, moving to stand near the door. The boy’s mom looked up from her book and gave the frowning people around her an apologetic smile.
“Sorry!” she said to everyone in general, and gathered the little boy on her lap, soothing him in some other language. Hoodie guy on the other side of them finally looked up, the kid’s screams apparently enough to penetrate even the noise-cancellation. He gave the little boy a crooked grin that him sticking a thumb in his mouth, staring somberly with tearful eyes.
Then hoodie guy looked at me, and oh! My heart actually jittered.
He was beautiful. And just like a prince. Golden curls stood out against the deep green hoodie, not too long, but just enough for one to tumble across his forehead. A face like an angel, with blue eyes the color of a perfect summer twilight. Square jaw—clean shaven, which I greatly prefer—and really nice lips. Almost a perfect bow, like in the storybooks, but still manly. Even the bright green earbuds now dangling around his neck somehow added to the overall effect.
He smiled at me, and I felt exactly like that toddler, wanting to stick my thumb in my mouth and just gaze back with the same awe. His right front tooth had a little chip, just enough to make that perfect face human. Not an angel, but a gorgeous man.
One who was getting up, coming toward me, and—omigod—sitting next to me, in the now empty seat. “No one’s sitting here, right?” he asked in a low voice, like music. “A little noisy over there. I hope you don’t mind.”
I shook my head, thumbing the screen of my tablet for something to do, then instantly regretted it when the Missed Connections ad popped up, filling the screen. I hit the side button to kill the screen—a handy habit for when someone came into my cubicle and caught me reading just one more page at work—but he’d already angled his head and caught sight of it.
“Missed Connections, huh?” He nudged me with a shoulder. “Are you looking or being looked for?”
My throat had gone totally dry and my face so hot it might burst. I couldn’t look at him because I’d probably turned a brighter shade of red than the tantruming toddler. I muttered some negation. Even I didn’t know what I said.
“Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to be a creeper or anything. I just kind of love those ads, you know? I always start thinking up stories about the people. It’s romantic.”
Who was this guy? And why the hell was he paying attention to me? I’m not ugly, but I’m not as skinny as I could be, and I’m seriously not the kind of girl who attracts beautiful young men into sitting next to her on the L.
“Okay, I’m clearly bothering you. I’ll move to another seat.” He looked around the crowded train, his previous spot now taken. “Or stand.”
“No,” I blurted. “I mean, it’s okay. I, ah, just…”
“Didn’t necessarily want some rando looking over your shoulder at your private
business.” He grinned, ducking his head to catch a glimpse of my face. I gave him a fast smile, close-lipped so I wouldn’t say anything silly, and stared at the dark tablet again. Which, stupid, there’s nothing to look at there.
“I’m Gabriel,” he said, and held out a hand to shake mine.
Making myself release the death grip on the tablet—relax already, Marcia—I shook it. His hands were warm and soft, with elegant fingers. I met his eyes this time. Oh, double wow. Those golden lashes around the blue. And he smelled good. Not overpowering like those horrible body sprays the guys my age seem to think are so appealing. (They’re not. Don’t get me started on all the things wrong with those formulas.)
He smelled like honey. The dark, raw kind. Something complex and multi-layered. I wanted to lean in, close my eyes and absorb it. A shaving soap, maybe? If so, I didn’t recognize it, and I know most of them. Because that’s my thing, naturally. The Rules might cover the five criteria, but scent is mine. Technically it falls under chemistry—which means sex to Charley and Ice—but for me it’s all about what a guy smells like. It’s number one for me.
1. Chemistry/scent. He has to smell good. And not fake good, either. I’m in the perfume industry, so I’m not going to say he has to be au naturel, but he needs to choose a good soap, one that complements his body chemistry. Plus a subtle aftershave that harmonizes with the soap. No halitosis or B.O. No overwhelming detergent fragrances in his clothes. Nothing is more disconcerting than a guy wearing a musk cologne with woodsy notes and clothes that reek of some cheap uber-floral laundry soap. Or those dryer sheets! I swear, most people—but especially guys—never think about the blend of all the fake scents they pile on. Pick one fragrance family, folks, and stick with it. It’s not that hard. Gabriel—solid perfect score for scent. I’d give him a five overall just for that, if it wasn’t against the Rules.
Missed Connections Box Set Page 11
