He raked a hand through his hair. “Yeah. That. I didn’t know whether to let on that I knew. I kept waiting for you to tell me, and then you never did. And you were so…. hot.” His blue eyes lifted to mine, his smile wry. “I really never planned that, when I went home with you. I thought we’d mess around and you’d put a stop to it. But then you never did.”
“I didn’t want to.” I couldn’t quite even out my breathing, so I took a longer sip of whiskey.
“I didn’t want to either.” He got a serious look, glancing at the bed and back to me, like maybe it had meant something to him, too. “That was the kicker. I knew all along that I should tell you, but it was so… powerful that you wanted me to be the first. Maybe it sounds dumb, but I felt kind of honored by that. Special. I thought if you knew I was Gabriel you’d cut things off and then we’d be really done. You’d made it clear how you felt about him—me—and this whole fight you had going with Charley. I didn’t want to run afoul of that.”
“Yes, well—Charley and I are good now. That’s all done.”
“Good.” He offered the bottle and I took it, pouring a tiny splash more. “Careful there,” he nodded at the glass with a smile. “It’s a crime to puke up stuff that expensive.”
“About that?”
He grimaced. “My dad owns that warehouse we went to, plus a lot more. I don’t really work there—I just help out when he’s slammed. I have a trust fund. Useful for buying good whiskey to impress pretty girls. Only you didn’t know it was the good stuff.” He shook his head at himself.
“So that wasn’t true, about him wanting you to get a real job.”
“Oh yes it is. I meant it. I never lied to you outright or misled you about anything important. He just hates me wanting to be an actor. We fight about it on a semi-regular schedule.”
“Did you get the part?”
He cocked his head, puzzled.
“The one you traded with Charley for. She was putting in a good word for you.”
“Didn’t she tell you? I told her to forget it. I screwed up my end of the deal, so I forfeited.”
“No, she didn’t mention.”
“She was seriously pissed at me. Rightfully so, but man—a real bear when she’s defending someone she loves.”
That made me smile. “Yes, she is. So, what’s your name, really.”
“Really? Gabriel Damien Tobias Mitchell-Bersham.”
“Good God,” I said, after a moment.
“Right? So you could pick what you want to call me.” He paused, studying my face. “If you want to call me anything but asshole.”
“I liked Damien.” I paced a little, tossed back the whiskey for courage and set down my glass. Then I turned back and confronted him. “But I want the truth—how much of him was real?”
“Everything. Everything except the accent,” he allowed.
“And the hair color.”
“Yeah. And the tooth veneer.” He tapped his chipped tooth. “I used dental acrylic for that. Contact lenses, of course. I waxed off my body hair, so you wouldn’t see I was naturally blond. Oh, and while my roommates are shits, they’re not that bad. I didn’t want you to see where I lived because you’d figure out who I was.”
“Anything else?”
He raised his eyes, contemplating. “I don’t think so, but I’d hate to swear to it and fuck up again.”
“What about what you said—that you… liked me.”
He set down his glass and took my hands. “Marcia, love, I do like you. I like you so much. I’ve been kicking myself up one side and down the other for not telling you sooner. For not calling a halt to it all. I just—” He broke off, shaking his head, stroking my fingers with his. “I got caught up in the ride. I fell, and fell hard.”
A tremor of joy leaked through my heart, making it past the locks. “You did? For real—no games or embellishment.”
He held my gaze, perfectly somber. “For real. I’ve fucked up plenty of things in my life. You should know that. The trust money helps, but I’m not some super successful guy like Daniel and Brad. I’m a struggling actor who works a lot of jobs to keep my dad off my back. But I’ve never regretted anything like I did screwing up with you.”
“Your ad was pretty good on that.”
“I spent hours composing it.” He stroked my hands, a funny half smile on his mouth, then laced his fingers with mine. “I don’t know exactly what appropriate groveling entails, but I’m willing. Tell me what I need to do for you to give me a chance, to start over. A clean slate, maybe.”
“This was pretty good as is. But, Damien—we can’t just erase everything that happened between us.”
“No. No, I guess not.” He looked glum, and let go, sliding away from me.
I held on. “I wouldn’t want to.”
He cocked his brow, that gesture at least, completely familiar. “Then what?”
“I’m still figuring that out. I’d like for that to be okay, that we don’t have to solve everything and have it perfectly sorted right off. I’d like to…” I laughed at myself a little. “Chill and enjoy.”
“I can do that.”
I moved in, putting my arms around his lean waist, enjoying his scent, sweet as honey, vitally masculine, and wiggled against him. Bold me. “We were pretty hot together.”
He returned my smile, a sultry turn to it. “And then some.”
“I want more of that. But for real this time.”
“Oh, love,” he murmured, then leaned in and waited. I met him halfway, drowning in the kiss we created. “Nothing was ever more real than this.”
~ Epilogue ~
Amy got out the good vase, the Kate Spade rose crystal bowl, and arranged the two-dozen David Austin roses. Top of the line choice there. Go Damien. Or Gabriel. Whatever he went by, she suspected Marcia would give him another chance.
The guy might not be most-eligible bachelor material, but he had style. That made up for a lot. Conversely, Brad did not have much style.
Still, he was a good catch and she needed to appreciate that. He might not be given to extravagant gestures—okay, the stretch limo and over-the-top roses were more than about any guy would do—but Brad had his good qualities. She needed to communicate her needs better, tell him what would make her happy.
Getting roses every once in a while would be nice.
Happy with the final arrangement, she cleaned up the clippings and set the bowl on the dining table. Stepping back a moment, then circling, she went to the drawer and dug out her grandmother’s lace doily and put it beneath. There. The perfect touch. A lovely blend of old-fashioned softness and modern style.
She could make any combination work. That was her superpower.
Humming happily, she went to put on the tea kettle to boil, contemplating a new blend of herbal tea. And how to shape her future with Brad.
Since Last Christmas
Missed Connections #3
by Jeffe Kennedy
This Christmas, Amy is getting what she wants. Her career in fashion design is taking off. Her boyfriend Brad is the dictionary definition of a catch. Soon he’ll buy the massive diamond that makes it official: she’s nobody’s hard luck case anymore.
Her old friend Jon ought to understand. A decade ago he was the other scholarship kid with a crap family. He got her quirks, her insecurities, her rules, her passions. Now he swears she’s not really happy, and she’s forgotten something that proves it.
When Amy throws away everything she’s worked for with one impulsive, impossible word, she’s horrified she’s proved Jon right…and strangely, secretly excited. That he knows more than the past she wants to forget—he knows what heats her up, what makes her heart race.
But remembering what she’s forgotten since last Christmas might mean breaking all the rules…
Dedication
This one is for Miranda Neville
Friend, wonderful writer, fantastic beta reader
She passed away as I was writing this and the world is poorer for her loss
We’ll always have that terrible house in New Orleans
October 26, 2017
Acknowledgements
Many thanks to Nicola Aaron Onychuk of the wonderful AlphaHeroes.net romance review blog, for the geek level: extreme math joke.
Hugs to Laurie Potter, in honor of her dual dishwashers, and for being one of the first to tell me I could make a career of being a writer, even though it meant we wouldn’t work together anymore.
Thanks to the Tiffany store at La Encantada in Tucson, for patiently answering my questions and letting me try on a fifty-thousand dollar ring.
Julie Fine named the restaurant, with a lovely meaning behind it, and I’m grateful to her.
All the thanks to Sonali Dev for advice, gentle steering, and letting Ice borrow her favorite designer.
Thanks to Margaret, first and best reader, who ended up being in this one in unexpected ways.
Kelly Robson contributed a personal story and is in here in more than spirit. I owe her more than Christmas chocolate.
To David for the loving nagging, and to Carien for all the things. You two keep the balls in the air.
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.
The Thanksgiving Prime Directive
No interference with the natural development of another of the Fab Five’s romantic relationships. This includes:
1. No setting up blind dates without full knowledge of all involved.
2. No manipulating to create “accidental” meetings.
3. No breadcrumbing on another’s behalf.
4. No creating Missed Connections ads for other people.
5. No cyberstalking or creeping by proxy.
6. No other forms of meddling or matchmaking, unless fully approved by the matchmakee upon presentation of all available information.
~ 1 ~
The endorphins kicked in around mile three. They usually do, give or take. Good thing, too, because the bitter wind coming off the lake in the predawn dark had been sapping my will to persevere. A lot to say, coming from the Queen of Perseverance. I really do believe that everything in life can be had if we simply stick to a goal long enough.
I might have started out with nothing, but I’d finish with having it all.
Heat flooded through me, even my frozen face warming, my muscles going long and languid, naturally induced joy hitting my bloodstream. I let out a whooping war cry of triumph, the sound bouncing back from the silent asphalt. My whole life was hitting a metaphorical mile three—all the slog of hard work finally paying off and reaching maximum happiness.
Just like the acceleration of the holiday season. With the solstice a few days away, the Chicago nights grew longer and colder, the sun coming and fading again in brief glimpses. But soon we’d round that corner and then—Christmas! New Year’s Eve! Valentine’s Day, followed by burgeoning spring and hot, lazy summer, with boating parties and barbeques.
Autumn pretty much sucks for romantic holidays, so I’d looked forward to the end of that slog. Who ever had a cozy Halloween? And don’t get me started on all that’s wrong with the glut-fest of toxic food and family that is Thanksgiving. The Christmas holidays, now, they herald the beginning of the romance season. Played correctly, the festivity of the parties starting now could coast right through Labor Day weekend.
And this year, I had plans for a romantic autumn.
I ran at a fast and easy pace. The recent downturn with Brad just before and over Thanksgiving had been like nearing the end of the first three miles of any run—clunky, sometimes stiff, occasionally chilly, and always a challenge to stick through—and, yeah, it made me think about giving up. But now we’d hit our stride, and just in time for fabulous holiday dating.
I had my outfits planned, and the right guy in position at last—the perfect date to bring to the Wildwood Academy reunion dance. Not just any date, but Brad Deffelman, who’d been shortlisted twice now for Chicago Magazine’s Most Eligible Bachelor list. Plus, Brad had invited me to his parents’ Christmas Day open house, which would be so much better than going home to my disaster of a family.
I’d spent a lot of time on Brad’s Christmas present, and it was perfect. Well, it would be, once I finished. My first couture tuxedo, custom-made for Brad’s male-model physique. For maybe the first time in my life, Christmas would be fun and romantic and, well, joyous. No weird charity gifts. No odd array of unwrapped things my dad picked up from the only open convenience store on his way home from the bar. This year, Brad would give me that perfect Tiffany diamond ring I’d had my eye on. Made me giddy just to contemplate it.
Brad had been making all the right noises—the invite to spend Christmas with his family, confirming which ring I liked, talking about our future plans—so I wasn’t jumping the gun.
This was it. I wasn’t going to tell anyone—no jinxing it!—but I’d be engaged by the new year.
I’d made reservations for a spectacularly glitzy New Year’s Eve, the Super Bowl of romance. Brad liked me to take care of that kind of thing, as he trusted my taste, and he did his part by footing the bill. The outfit I’d planned included fingerless gloves in case I’d get to show off that new ring. A bit of a fashion risk—I’d put a lot of effort into making sure they didn’t look too eighties—but the final look would be worth it. Especially as it would match the tuxedo I’d painstakingly crafted for Brad to wear.
If I worked my connections, and if his mother weighed in, we might even be able to pull off an autumn wedding. Then I’d have a romantic anniversary to mitigate the fall doldrums. I could picture the invitations. Not ostentatious, but subtly stylish, a floral theme but autumnal. Maybe an ivory vellum with rust-colored accents, a stylized chrysanthemum in burgundy, a slim ribbon in a deep chocolate brown. Depending on my eventual budget, I’d go for fantastic invitations and a simpler ceremony. Stylish and intimate. It’s amazing what you can pull off if you make the decorations yourself, which I had the skills to do.
I had to have four bridesmaids—no way I could leave out any of the Fab Five—but I could make their gowns and my own, no problem. And maybe Brad’s parents would host the whole thing. I wasn’t too proud for that. My parents certainly wouldn’t, even if they could find the money. A fall wedding would round out the year nicely. Late September or early October, I would marry Brad, and my life would finally begin.
My feet made a steady rhyth
m, softly tipping it out. Amy Deffelman. Mrs. Amanda Deffelman. Brad and Amanda Deffelman.
Brad had staying power. Steady, ambitious, successful and going to be more so. He wasn’t a full five-pointer, but no flesh and blood human being can live up to that kind of standard, not for extended periods of time. Some of the other gals in the Fab Five thought we should add scoring for long-term relationships to the Rules. No surprise that Charley and I, the only two in steady relationships—well, except Marcia, but hers was only weeks old—were strongly against it. The Rules worked just fine to score a guy for initial dating. I’d certainly embraced the system to teach myself to choose better men than my childhood examples had given me. But for after that… Well, it’s a different race.
Not a sprint, but a marathon. Brad would be my marathon. Scoring a guy on the five categories felt a little immature in selecting one’s husband, but I could do it if any of the others pressed me on it.
1. Looks. Brad is naturally a full one point for looks. Every time, all the time. Not just for his handsomeness, though he does have that chiseled jaw and good bone structure that means he’d age well. He also understands how to dress well, something obviously important to me. If you work in the fashion design business, you have to look the part. Nobody takes a car to a mechanic whose car belches smoke, after all. I could hardly bring a guy to Exposition Way’s Holiday Event who wore an off-the-rack suit. And Brad takes my suggestions, even the more outré ones. He’d even worn the heather-lavender button-down with amethyst pinstripes and the dark orchid silk tie that I’d given him. And he’d paired it on his own with a dove-gray suit that rocked the look.
Finally, a sign of true love, he’d hashtagged my name when he posted the look to Instagram. Not that I’d use Amy Taylor when I got to design my own stuff. Good name, but sadly too much like Ann Taylor. Deffelman was too long to be memorable. But I might do Amanda D, maybe Mandy D for a juniors line. Had a nice ring to it. More important, it would look good on a label. I had the font all picked out.
Missed Connections Box Set Page 25
