Love, Laughter, and Happily Ever Afters Collection (Eight Fun, Romantic Novels by Eight Bestselling Authors)

by Violet Duke

  He settled between my thighs and captured my mouth, delicately tracing my plump lips before slipping inside and stroking my tongue with his. Breaking the kiss, his head lowered until I felt his lips and tongue surround my nipple and desire exploded between my legs. Clark’s cell phone rang and he let out a groan.

  “Don’t answer it,” I moaned, and he didn’t, until whoever it was kept calling back and the ringing in our ears wouldn’t stop. I let out a frustrated sigh. “I guess you better answer it, babe, it’s obviously important.”

  He reached for his cell phone on the side table without straying from my body. “Hello?”

  “Clark, it’s…Su…si…e…”

  “Susie, you sound like you’re wasted. What’s up? I’m kind of busy.” He stuck his tongue out at me and I wanted to bite it.

  “I’m at Naomi’s hou … se … and … everyone is … drun … k … I … need … a ride home …”

  A huge puff of air left Clark’s chest. “Alright, I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  “Is Susie okay, babe?”

  “Well, my sister’s completely drunk again, and so is everyone else, so I have to pick her up. I’m sorry, Angel.”

  I met his lips with mine. “Don’t be, babe. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be right here when you get back, naked and ready.”

  He kissed me again and reluctantly dragged his body off of mine. He sighed deeply. “I like the sound of that.”

  Clark pulled on his stonewashed jeans and blue polo and grabbed his keys. He walked over to me and held on tight, moving his lips over mine tenderly. “God, I love you, Angel. I can’t wait for you to be my wife.”

  “Me too. Now hurry back.” I swatted his ass.

  He turned around and gave me one more peek into those fields of blue before he headed out.

  That was the last time I ever saw him.

  CHAPTER ONE

  “If there ever comes a day when we can’t be together, keep me in your heart. I’ll stay there forever.” — A.A. Milne

  THREE YEARS LATER

  I STARTLE AWAKE out of a dream to the buzzing of my annoying alarm clock. Why I don’t set it to the radio is beyond me. Maybe I like the shock value. Rubbing my crusty, sleep-filled eyes, I drag my legs over the side of the bed and try and get my bearings before stumbling into the bathroom. I pause for a second to look in the mirror. Yes, this is my life. Every day is the same. My hour and a half morning routine consists of getting dressed, a not-so-pleasant ride on the subway to 62nd and Broadway, a caffeine stopover at Starbucks, and finally, my arrival at Landon & Castell Interior Design by nine a.m. That’s the time Robby Mathers, my boss, likes me to be there, and he likes me prompt. I’ve been working there for almost three years since I received my Business Degree, and it’s a job for which I actually have my dad to thank. He used his connections, but not before emphasizing how many strings he had to pull and reading me the riot act about working hard and proving myself. I guess I owe him for this one. Yeah, maybe.

  Stepping in the shower, I’m quickly shocked awake by a blast of cold water. As I let the stream pour over my face, I can’t help thinking to myself that all this monotony is getting to me and I’m in desperate need of a spark. Maybe I should bungee jump off of the Empire State Building or run naked in Central Park. Nah, that would just be plain crazy, plus I’d get arrested. That wouldn’t end well. Unless there was a hot guy dressed in a uniform fingerprinting me. Then it might just be worth it. After all, there’s really nothing like a man in uniform. I know it sounds like I have sex on the brain. I really don’t.

  Let’s be real. I’ve always liked guys. Even when they were boys. I remember chasing Michael Bagley around the kindergarten playground, trying to get him to kiss me. Then there was Jason Rasmussen in fourth grade. He played the Tin Man in the school production of The Wizard of Oz, while I played a short, chubby munchkin. God, he was cute. He had the sweetest dimple on his left cheek and a birthmark just above his perfectly shaped lips. Even now, thinking about him makes me smile. I never managed to get much of his attention, but it certainly wasn’t from a lack of trying.

  So here I am. Twenty-five years old and living in New York; The City That Never Sleeps. Of course, it’s impossible to sleep when someone’s banging tin cans outside your window. Nonetheless, New York is truly awesome. I mean, I loved California; the palm trees, the beaches, the hot guys on the boardwalk. Yeah, all of that was good. But New York City, that’s a whole other ball game. You can find anything here, and I mean anything. A vendor selling hot dogs on the street, a guy playing guitar in the subway, or a naked cowboy in Times Square. It’s all here. And the energy wow! It electrifies me. Sets me on fire. Makes me smile.

  I make my way up the stairs of the subway platform until I’m finally greeted by a patch of clear blue sky. My heels click against the pavement while I stare up to the heavens, thinking I might find the answer to what I’m searching for. When there’s no response, I decide on my usual. An iced vanilla latte from Starbucks. I’ve been drinking coffee since I was a kid, back in the day when no one was looking and I’d put four teaspoonfuls of sugar in it. Now, I’m onto the fancy stuff; the lattes, the espressos, the mochaccinos…I can’t get through the day without my caffeine fix. It’s my only addiction. Well, that and candy…and chocolate. That’s it, though.

  Standing in front of the Starbucks sign, I hesitate. I’m so freaking predictable and need a change. I’ve heard some friends of mine talk about this new gourmet coffee shop around the corner that’s supposed to be mind-blowing. How can coffee be mind-blowing? That might be a bit extreme. Regardless, I need something different, so I keep walking until I reach The Brew House. It seems like a regular coffee shop; lots of people chatting away in cozy velvet booths and sitting on plush couches, drinking coffee. Although I do like the colors more than Starbucks; olive greens, splashes of burgundy, and desert creams, while local artwork aligns the walls. There are various pieces of mismatched furniture in a variety of fabrics. It’s eclectic and definitely my style.

  I see a couple with their tongues down each other’s throats. Talk about a public display of affection. Holy cow. I try to walk in further and notice my heels are sticking to the floor. Yuck. I look down into the giant blue eyes of a little blonde boy who’s blowing raspberries at me and crushing his sugary doughnut into the ground, and at the same time pouring his apple juice on my shoe. His mother, of course, doesn’t notice. I smile and blow one back at him and he runs and hides behind his mother’s leg. I didn’t realize I was that scary.

  When I look up, I see the other not-so-lovely thing. A line that’s almost out the door. The coffee must be really good here. As I wait, I glance up at the menu on the wall. There are a multitude of drinks to choose from. The line actually moves quickly and when I reach the counter, I’m greeted by a guy who looks around my age standing about six feet tall with blue jeans, white fitted t-shirt, a lopsided grin and a dimple.

  “Hi, can I help you?”

  I hesitate because I still don’t know what I want, even though I had a whole ten minutes to decide. Making a decision isn’t my strong suit; I excel at indecisiveness. I think I hear sighs and groans coming from behind me. I’m holding up the line, a big faux pas in a coffee shop. As the line builds and the whines grow louder, the guy behind the counter speaks again.

  “Do you know what do you want?”

  “Ummm…I…”

  He leans over the counter. His shaggy light brown hair falls over his face and covers his eyes. I can’t make out what color they are. Maybe brown. “What do you like?”

  I’m on my tippy toes a bit distracted by the glass case of doughnuts. “I don’t know,” I whisper, embarrassed that I’m holdin
g up the line.

  “Do you like chocolate?”

  Ding, ding, ding. “Yes!”

  “Good, what else?”

  “Umm…I like caramel.”

  A small smile tugs at his lips. “Okay, we’re getting somewhere. Do you like whipped cream?”

  “Love it,” I say excitedly.

  “Excellent.”

  “Ice cream?” he asks with hopeful eyes.

  “Ew. Not in my coffee.”

  He laughs, then says, “okay, I think you’ll like the Salted Caramel Mocha.”

  “Sounds good.” Anything to rid myself of the annoying whines behind me. I’m tapping my fingers on the counter as he makes my drink. “Sorry about the holdup. I usually just go to Starbucks.”

  “Starbucks, huh? So, you decided it was time to cross over to the dark side?” he remarks with a raised eyebrow.

  Humor laces my lips. “Yes, the force was very strong.”

  He cracks a smile and sets my drink down. “I’m Brad Dixon, by the way.”

  “Gabby Indecisive Willis, and thanks for the help.”

  “Don’t mention it,” he says, airing me another quirky grin.

  I go to pay him; my purse is a mess and it’s like playing hide and seek to find my money. While digging, I inadvertently knock the entire fancy whatever mocha all over the counter and watch as the warm liquid seeps under the cash register. Fabulous. My cheeks heat and I squeeze my eyes shut, wishing I could click my heels three times and be anywhere but here.

  When my eyes finally open, Brad appears to be counting to ten, and I can’t blame him. Grabbing napkins from a nearby table, I try to help with this wonderful mess that is my creation. By the time I return, Brad has it completely under control.

  “I’m really sorry,” leaves my mouth before I can stop it, and I stand there like an idiot trying to escape the red tint engulfing my face.

  His sincere, caring brown eyes peek out from under his hair and meet mine. “Don’t worry about it. It happens all the time.” He smirks. “I’m gonna make you another one. On the house.”

  “Thanks, Brad, but you don’t have to do that.”

  “I can’t very well let one of our new customers leave unhappy her very first visit.”

  My hand dives into my purse. “Let me pay you for it. It’s the least I can do.”

  “Nah. Take it. Just bring an extra roll of Bounty next time you come in.” I hear a rich, throaty laugh as he walks away.

  Salted Caramel Mocha in hand, I make my way out to the street and head towards work. It’s a beautiful day in Manhattan. The sun is shining brilliantly and there’s not a cloud in the powder blue sky. The skyline looks just like a postcard today, and the energy, as always, is infectious. The constant hustle and bustle is one of the reasons I love the city so much. The intensity of the city manages to take my rather monotonous routine and breathe life into it. It’s nice knowing that my daily commute will always have something different to offer, whether it’s a guy singing acapella in the subway or someone playing bongo drums. It always manages to elicit a smile.

  Since I’m early today, I sip my mocha and casually make my way to work. I hear the taxi cabs honking, feel the smell of rotting food invading my nose, and notice the chatter of strangers. A guy spits on the ground and I almost step in it. Why do people spit? It’s the most disgusting habit, and should probably be illegal. Oh God, not to mention the woman trying to shove an entire egg sandwich in her mouth. I see an elderly woman with a cane stumble over a crack in the sidewalk and several people run over at once to help her, including myself. When I reach her, I lift her cane off the ground and hand it to her. She looks up at me with worldly eyes and a fragile voice. “God bless you, dear.” My returning smile says you’re welcome. As crazy as the city gets, people here really do care.

  My walk takes me past Bloomingdale’s, and I stop to admire a dress in the window. They must have changed out the dresses this week because I haven’t noticed it before. It’s royal blue satin with cap sleeves and a high boat neck. We have a formal company party next week and this dress looks perfect. Too bad it’s only 8:45; Bloomies doesn’t open until ten. I make a mental note to stop by after work to try it on. I’ll definitely bring Fran with me. She’ll tell me if it’s too conservative, too slutty, or doesn’t show enough cleavage…because she always thinks I need to show more.

  A couple of relaxing, mocha-sipping blocks later I’m suddenly frozen to the spot, my coffee almost spilling on my blouse. I check my pulse. I’m still alive. Good. Whoa. This guy is hot. Smooth jet black hair, beautiful emerald green eyes, broad shoulders, and a body built for sin strolls toward me, one sculptured arm dangling a suit jacket over his shoulder, his body donned by a finely tailored black suit. I think I just had an orgasm. He’s freaking beautiful. I close my eyes and I’m immediately locked on a visual. Yup, I’ve got it. My fingernails digging into his back while he hovers over me, screaming my name, sweat dripping from his chest and landing on my breasts. Okay, close your mouth, Gabby. The drool is pooling at your feet. Shit. He must have noticed me staring. When I pass by him, I see the corner of his lips curl into an alluring smile.

  He makes his way past me and I turn back for one last look. Jesus. I see his head whip around for a split second and glance in my direction. I can’t believe he’s actually looking at me. Then I notice that the lovely breeze has blown my skirt up to declare my ass available for public viewing. Great. Not only that, but I just tripped over a little brown and black rat dog and am getting dirty looks from its disgruntled owner as she pulls his leash and yanks him away from my clumsy left foot.

  I try to regain my weakened composure and head into work. I literally have to shake myself to erase the erotic images from my mind. Two thoughts occur to me as I enter the double doors of Landon & Castell. First, I need to find out who the hell those green eyes belong to; and second, I need a cold shower.

  I see the red light on my phone blinking from what seems like a mile away. I plunk down on my chair, throw my purse in my desk drawer, and take the deep breath that I need to run through all my messages and the overwhelming amount of post-it notes Robby always leaves for me. They’re everywhere. On my computer, my desk, the wall of my cubicle, and he even stuck one on the picture of Fran and me at Fisherman’s Wharf. I think he just likes the idea of sticking them to something. I’ve got thirty messages. Shit. As I scroll through them, I find that half of them are garbage and just leave my finger on the delete button.

  My electronic schedule says Robby and I have to visit three clients, and the fifteen “urgent” messages indicate that there are various issues with furniture orders to sort out. I’m really not complaining. This is a very cool job. It gets me closer to my dream of being an interior designer, which is something I’ve wanted to do since I was a kid. Memories flood my mind of buying stacks and stacks of Architectural Digest and Better Homes & Gardens magazines, wanting to absorb the color palettes and furniture choices while I played out the fantasy in my head. I’d sit there for hours, tearing out pictures I liked and making collages, only to end up annoying my mother by leaving paper scraps all over the floor. I’d smile though, when I’d look up at the fairy pink walls covered with my childhood dreams filling up every open space of my room. It was something my parents couldn’t touch or crush within me.

  The day drags at a snail’s pace. I’m getting ready to leave when my cell phone vibrates. I let it go because, admittedly, I like the sensation. When the buzzing continues, I finally check and see that it’s Fran. I pick up the phone with excitement for the first time all day. “Hey!”

  “Hey,” she replies. Her voice lacks her usual burst of enthusiasm.

  “What’s wrong?” Did you ha
ve a bad day?” It’s unusual for Fran to let things get to her, so I know it can’t be good.

  She groans. “Yeah. It was shitty. I had a client want me to redesign a brochure six times before they were happy, my boss got on my ass about being late because I missed an important client meeting, and my heel broke while I was out getting lunch. All in all it was a banner day. Yours?”

  “It was long, and very busy.” Knowing my day is coming to an end puts a smile on my face for the first time, and I relax. “So, I’m assuming you want to go out? How about a movie with a giant tub of buttered popcorn and a jumbo pack of Twizzlers? We can get lost for a little while.”

  “Yes, I want to go out, but not to a movie. I need a drink, or a few drinks. There’s a new bar that opened up on Amsterdam Avenue and I want to check it out.”

  “Oh.” I hesitate before answering her. My first thought is she’s going to try and set me up like she usually does, and I’m not in the mood.

  “So, are you in?” she asks, her voice raising an octave.

  “On one condition,” I add reluctantly. I have to be honest, right?

  She chuckles. “And that would be…”

  “It’s just been a long day, Fran. I don’t want you trying to work your love magic on me tonight. Also, before I forget, I need to stop by Bloomingdale’s first.”

  “Alright, deal,” she asserts a little too quickly. “Why do we need to stop at Bloomies?”

  “There’s a dress I want to try on for our company party. I want to see what you think.”

  “Great. Oh, and by the way, someone is coming by the apartment tomorrow to exterminate. I found a lovely little cockroach behind the fridge this morning.”

  “Ew!” I can’t stand those pesky little things. Fran and I have lived for almost three years in an extremely small two bedroom apartment in Washington Heights. It’s actually a pre-war walk up, tastefully decorated with very special discount and consignment store items and a couple sale items from IKEA. The only thing not-so-charming about it is the little roach problem, which has taken some getting used to. “Gee, thanks for that.”