by A. O. Peart
Almost MATCHED
An Almost Bad Boys Novella
A. O. PEART
Three Graces Publishing
Copyright © 2013 A. O. Peart
All Rights Reserved.
Visit the author at www.angelapeart.com
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, locations, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Almost Matched
Copyright © 2013 by A. O. Peart
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be used, reproduced, scanned, distributed, stored, or transmitted in whole or in part, in any form, by any means, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying or recording without the express written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
For further information or permission please contact the author at [email protected]
Author and publisher do not have control and do not assume responsibility for third party websites featuring this book and their content.
Artwork by Regina Wamba
Copyright © 2013 by A. O. Peart
First Edition, 2013 published in the United States of America
Three Graces Publishing.
ISBN-13: 978-0-9883695-4-2
To my family. You will always be my first priority, even though it may not seem like you are when I’m locked in my office, writing. I love you forever.
Praise For Almost Matched
“Almost Matched has some of the best writing I've ever encountered. Every character has a distinct personality that comes to life within the pages portraying genuine-raw emotion. An attention grabbing plot from the very beginning that ends with an unexpected twist that will leave you craving more, you won't be able to read it fast enough.”
- Helena Ison, book reviewer
“I simply loved, loved this book. I could not put it down. I read it until 4AM in the morning because I had to see and find out how it ended.”
- Angela Fiducia, book reviewer
“Outrageously Funny and Surprisingly Tender
A ball of laughs with a surprising emotional core that gives weight to the story. Crisp scenes, precise writing, and memorable characters. Their friendship sounds so real! It reminds me of Sex & The City with a splash of Bridget Jones.”
- Fabio Bueno, Author of the Singularity series
“Almost Matched is a fascinating mix of human emotions, and situations and scenes that either tug on your heartstrings or make you laugh out loud, as well as darker descriptions of the emotional baggage that some of the characters are carrying. Much of the humour - which is counter-balanced by the heavy drama that emerges in the latter part of the book - reminded me of Sex In The City, without however seeming to borrow from that series or to plagiarise it.”
- Jack Fenwick, Author of This Is What We Are
It's a story that will run thru all your emotions, perfect for when you are having a rough day and need to escape for a bit.
- Kimberly, book reviewer
Table of Contents
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
Bonus Material: Excerpt from Almost Broken Up
Author’s Note
ONE
“It’s choice—not chance—that determines your destiny.”
Jean Nidetch
I’m sweating like Snooki in her cardio YouTube videos. Ugh. My brand new silk top is getting drenched. I peek down at my boobs. They jump up and down with the rhythm of my feet beating the pavement. Big wet stains blossom around my low-cut neckline and down from my armpits. Crap! Crap! There is no way I can make it in time to the office.
Stupid car. Yesterday I left the lights on overnight like an idiot, and the battery decided to die. My alarm clock didn’t go off this morning, which was also my own damn fault. I forgot to set it before crashing in bed last night. Miraculously, I actually made it to bed, instead of collapsing on the sofa. Going out with the girls on Wednesday night had never been an issue, even if we stayed up past 1 a.m. I usually operate on four to five hours of sleep anyway. No problem. But last night really kicked my ass. And this morning isn’t shaping up any better.
I’m still mentally sore from last weekend. My so-called boyfriend, Ray, dumped me like a bad habit. My problem is not that he did, because sooner or later I would have ended it myself. He’d stood me up twice in a row. Twice! And his excuses were so lame that I suspect he is a complete moron. Well, he is, but that’s another story. So last Saturday, after I forgave him, we are finally in my apartment, having sex and all that good stuff.
When he’s done, he says to me: I don’t want to sound like a jerk, but this (he motions between me and him back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, as if his freaking wrist is made out of flexible rubber) is not working for me.
Dude, what the hell? We just had sex. That’s so not cool. If you want to break up with me, do it like a civilized person. I was fuming, but tried hard to remain calm. Not an easy thing to do when you’re naked in bed with a guy who simply used you and now walks out on you. I finally said, Forget it. Get out. I might have called him a name or two. Hey, he deserved it!
So my girlfriends—Caroline, Ali, and Jena—took me out to cheer me up. We couldn’t get together until Wednesday night, but that was okay. I had three full days to get most of the anger and disappointment out of me, so I wouldn’t be too bitchy when we finally went out. I only feel bad for Ali. She’s my business partner, and we work together, and so she’d been exposed to my pissy attitude for a while. But she’s a good sport. Besides, she’s got the most forget-the-world personality in the universe, so I know she can handle my state of mind.
The taxi that I took from home this morning got stuck in traffic a few blocks from my office. There was a nasty accident, blocking all the lanes. I paid the driver and got out, convinced that I would get to work faster walking than waiting for this mess to disperse. Now I’m running and sweating. Great.
I stop at the crosswalk, panting and wiping my forehead with the back of my hand. I feel like shit; look probably even worse. I glance at my watch. The meeting in the office starts in fifteen minutes. Fifteen freakin’ minutes!
“Come on, come on,” I whisper, impatiently tapping my foot and adjusting the strap of my second-hand Louis Vuitton purse over my shoulder.
My cell phone vibrates, and then jams some obnoxious heavy metal tune against my rib cage. I have to change that riff. It’s unbearable. I fish the phone out of my purse and look at the screen. It’s Ali. She hooked up with that nerdy but cute guy at Black Horned Beast bar last night. This is her day off, so why in heavens is she calling me before 8 a.m.?
“Ali,” I breathe into the cell phone. The light finally changes to green, and I step down from the sidewalk and onto the crosswalk.
“Hey, gorgeous! Where the fuck are you, Natalie? I bet my ass you overslept.”
Yep, that’s Ali. Her signature style is to soften an accusation with a compliment.
“I’m a block away from the office.” I puff. “Why are you up so early on your day off?”
“I was out of coffee.”
“Yeah. And the real reason?” I ask.
She snorts. “The loser I took home last night couldn’t eve
n get it up. I spent two hours, luring him, and finally gave up. After he left, bearing the shield of shame, I felt so bad that I only slept for a couple of hours. Finally, I had to get out of the house.”
I can’t suppress a laugh. “Are you serious? What the hell? He was so into you, girl.”
“You think? A complete waste of time. Anyway, I will tell you over lunch. I’m in the office, by the way. And you’re not. So get your pretty ass here quick, Davenport.”
“I thought you were calling from home. Why did you come to work on your day off?” That’s not normal. We work our butts off, building Strong Connections, our little company, and she definitely needs a break. Heck, I need a break, but now is not the time to consider myself.
“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want to. The KZIX radio station people are in the conference room already. I will bullshit them for a bit before you get here. But hurry, girlfriend!”
I feel totally guilty. Strong Connection’s marketing is my job. Ali has enough on her plate with the Company’s operations. She’s always reliable and dependable. And here I am—late for my meeting with KZIX. I had arranged for their advertising girls to come to our office to discuss booking a block of some clever ads. I want to target our potential clientele—young, single professionals too busy, or too burned out to find dates and more.
“I’m around the corner, but I need to change. My blouse is soaked with sweat,” I manage to say between short breaths. I run as fast as my heels let me. Thankfully, they are only about two inches. I give myself a mental pat on the back for not wearing any of my five-inch stilettos this morning.
“Lovely.”
I know she makes a face. I can sense it in her voice. And who wouldn’t, hearing such an unappetizing announcement.
“Yeah, I love you too,” I counter sardonically. “Go entertain, would ya?”
“See you in a few.” She hangs up.
I stuff the phone back in my purse and reach for the revolving glass door to the small office building about a mile south from Bellevue Square. Strong Connections leases a space on the top floor. We’re squeezed between an architect office and a law firm. This is our third year in business, and while we had been turning a small profit for more than seventeen months straight, we still aren’t ready to move to a downtown Seattle location. But that’s our dream and our plan for—hopefully—next year.
I won’t risk going to our office looking like I do now. Instead, I enter the bathroom on the first floor, right next to the elevator. I correct my smeared makeup, brush and tie my hair into a neat, low ponytail, and pat my underarms, chest, and stomach with paper towels. I always carry a travel-sized deodorant, which I promptly apply in front of the mirror.
Now I have to tiptoe into my office and change. Both Ali and I keep a couple of dry-cleaned outfits in our closets. The conference room is at the very end of that hallway, and I pray that Ali closed the door, so nobody will see me sneaking in.
The elevator door opens with a whoosh, and I creep toward the glass door of our office. ‘STRONG CONNECTIONS’ is proudly displayed over it in large red letters.
I look at the door and think, Please don’t squeak, very slowly pressing the handle. But the damn door lets out a squeak, as always. The receptionist’s desk, positioned across our waiting room, is empty. Two college girls, Ellen and Molly, job-share the receptionist’s duties. Ellen is scheduled this morning, and I wonder if she’s here. She’d better be.
I rush toward my office door on the opposite end of the hallway from the conference room. The door to the conference room is slightly ajar, but not enough for the people inside to notice me. I’m about to enter my office, when the bathroom door opens and Ellen—a willowy Chinese girl, barely looking her nineteen years—steps into the hallway.
“Natalie!” she squeals, a huge smile on her round face.
“Shhh!” I shush her, my fingers splayed, my lips stretched in an ugly grimace, teeth clenched.
I must look like a maniac, because her expression immediately changes into that of a scolded child.
“Sorry, Ellen.” I smile apologetically, ducking into my office. “I’ll be right out. Don’t say anything.”
Her dark eyes open wide, and she nods slowly. I close the door and tear my sweaty top off. Only in my hot-pink bra and a mini skirt, I text Ali: Changing in my office. There is a tiny broom-type closet in my office where I keep spare clothes and shoes. I open the door and freeze. Two of Ali’s tops, black slacks, and a beige skirt suit hang in there, still covered in plastic bags from the drycleaner down the street. I frantically slide the hangers back and forth, as if that would reveal my clothes. They aren’t there! Argh. I’m a size four, and Ali’s a size fourteen. How can I pull this off? No way I can.
I look around my office, but don’t see anything even remotely close to the clothes I could wear. Panicking, I glance at the clock on the wall. Nine zero seven—I’m seven minutes late already. I think about texting Ali again, but she’s busy with the KZIX station girls. It’s better leaving her to it.
I tiptoe to my door, crack it open, and look to see if I can get Ellen. She could check for my stuff in Ali’s office. She brought the clothes from the cleaners yesterday. I bet she put them in the wrong offices. Ellen is nowhere to be seen. My heart beats way too fast, and I start to sweat again.
I stick my head out to get a better view of the reception desk and hiss, “Ellen.”
Nothing.
“Ellen,” I repeat a bit louder.
Nope. She’s not there. Ali’s office is on the other side of the reception area, closer to the conference room. If I could only get there… Yes, I can. There is nobody around, so I will run there and duck inside. Easy peasy.
And I do. As soon as I stretch my hand toward the handle on Ali’s door, the conference door opens, and a guy in a nice sports coat and slacks steps out. Our eyes meet, and I gulp. A slow, lazy smile stretches across his lips. His eyes slide down my face and onto my balconette-bra-cladded boobs.
Crap! I can’t move. I’ve never been as mortified and paralyzed by shame as I am right now. Not because there is something wrong with my body. I work out diligently a few times a week, swim and run on the weekends, and obsessively watch my diet. And I wear size D cups, which paired with my five-six frame is nothing to be unhappy about.
The guy unhurriedly walks in my direction, stops way too close to me, and opens Ali’s door, gesturing silently for me to enter. Great. Now I feel like an intruder in my own office.
“Thank you,” I mumble, feeling a hot scarlet creep over my face.
“Don’t mention it,” he whispers back.
I duck inside the room and close the door behind me. “Oh, no,” I moan very quietly. “On, no, no, no, no.” Obviously I don’t have to explain how I feel. My mouth keeps soundlessly forming one word, over and over: fuck.
Who the hell is that guy? Melinda and Sabrina are two advertising reps at KZIX that I work with. They were scheduled to come to the meeting this morning. Only the two of them. I know because they had confirmed. There must have been a last minute change or something.
I find my clothes in Ali’s closet, as I suspected. I want to strangle Ellen, but that needs to wait. I quickly pull on my cream-colored V-neck top and with a quick glance in the tiny mirror on Ali’s desk I walk to my doom. I’m sure that guy is in the conference room. Hell on wheels!
I enter and apologize for being late. Both Melinda and Sabrina greet me with big smiles on their faces. Ali asks me if I want coffee, pointing to the stainless steel carafe on the table. I wish she would offer me a shot of vodka. Or two. The door opens, and the guy walks in.
“What did I miss?” One corner of his mouth lifts in a crooked smile, and his eyes find mine.
Gulp.
“Natalie, this is Colin Hampton, our boss,” Sabrina announces, gesturing to him. “Colin, meet Natalie Davenport, Allison’s business partner.”
He walks around the table, slowly like a predator stalking his prey. His mischievous eyes
never leave mine, and he stretches his hand out to me. “Pleasure to meet you, Ms. Davenport.” His tone is low and polite, and his handshake firm but gentle. That paired with the humorous glint in his eyes and the little secretive smile makes me want to run out of the room, screaming. Declaring that I’m embarrassed is an understatement of massive proportion.
“Likewise,” I manage to choke out.
He holds my hand a second too long, and I jerk it back. I pour myself a glass of water and gingerly lower my butt onto a chair. Colin sits across from me, smiling slightly. Ali and the radio station girls are chatting and laughing, apparently—thank heavens—unaware of anything weird going on between Colin and me. He remarks on something that Sabrina says, and all three women burst out laughing. I have no clue what’s even said. My heart finally stops racing.
I steal a quick glance at Colin. He catches my eye again, and I promptly look away. But I can see in my peripheral vision that he cocks his head to one side and watches me with that lazy, crooked smile.
He is a handsome bastard, tall and broad-shouldered, with bright-blue eyes framed in thick, dark eyelashes. His face has this chiseled-like quality to it. Black hair and eyebrows are a perfect combination with his honey-colored skin. He sports a two-day stubble, carefully groomed into precise lines. There is a small jagged scar on his forehead close to his hairline, and I fleetingly wonder how he got it.
I take a sip of water. My hands are shaking, and I try not to spill. That would be the last straw, so I make an extra effort into preventing such disaster. It feels like a small victory when I manage to set down my glass on the table without creating a pool around it. I think I actually exhale with a sigh of relief. Colin raises one eyebrow at me. He watches my every move. This is getting unbearable. I take a few more mouthfuls of water, and he refills my glass from the colorful ceramic pitcher my parents brought last summer from their vacation in Sicily.
