by Alice Ward
Continue on to read a special sneak peek of one of my recent releases.
A Sneak Peek
THE CHRISTMAS BET
CHAPTER ONE
Tabby
“If you’re not there, I’ll kill you.”
I rolled my eyes and flicked a longing glance to the door. Grace stepped sideways to block my view with her narrow hands poised on her even more narrow hips, her eyes sending bridezilla death rays in my direction. “I’ll be there.”
“No, I’m serious, Tabby. I had to pay an extra hundred to bump the eleven o’clock out for you. You have to be there…” her nostrils flared, “on time.”
I took a deep breath, breathing in hope, breathing out hate. “I will be, but I still have time to do my own nails if you want to get your money back.”
Grace’s azure eyes narrowed as if I’d suggested something treasonous. “Are you kidding? Do you want to wear a dress from Walmart too? Get your hair done by Pantene? How about—”
I held up a hand. “Okay, okay, I get it. I’ll be at the salon tomorrow at eleven. Scout’s honor, pinky swear, cross my heart, and hope to die.”
“Yes. Die.” My cousin was extremely scary when she was angry. “That’s exactly what’s going to happen to you if you’re not there.”
I smiled past my gritted teeth. “You need to relax, Grace. Isn’t this supposed to be the happiest day of your life?”
She scoffed, tossing her auburn head and scowling at the ceiling. “It would be if everyone would stop messing up and start listening to me. Nothing goes right, and nobody cares.” Turning her critical gaze on me, she crossed her arms over her chest, her nose lifting just a fraction. “You’ve never been engaged. You wouldn’t understand.”
Keeping my face carefully neutral, I let the verbal slap go unanswered. It was simply easier that way.
I’d already endured more than my fair share for my privileged cousin’s wedding. Three weeks after the invitations were sent, one of Grace’s tequila-and-pearls sorority sisters ducked out as a bridesmaid thanks to an unexpected positive pregnancy test, and I received a half-hearted text asking if I’d fill the empty spot. Two Coronas and an hour-long lecture from my mom about familial obligations later, I’d agreed and cemented my role as the redheaded stepsister in the glitzy affair. While the other girls cashed Daddy’s checks to pay for their designer dresses and first-class plane tickets to New Orleans, I had to pick up three extra gigs just to afford the Zac Posen gown and snag an economy seat on the same flight as the rest. And that didn’t even account for the sickeningly expensive shoes — Giuseppe Zanotti — and the diamond drop earrings — Tiffany, of course. The exorbitant costs were bad enough, but dealing with Grace’s panicked midnight calls and neurotic text floods had left semi-permanent teeth marks below my mouth from biting my lip so much. Thanks to our shared childhood of Grandma’s ham salad and grass-stained Keds, I became her sounding board for all things stressful.
Normally, I would’ve told her off after the second or third emotional explosion, but I’d forced myself to be understanding in light of her big day. This little jibe about my single status, however, was one shot too many.
“You’re right. I wouldn’t.” I twisted around her to head toward the door.
Grace spun on the spot. “Where are you going?”
“I need to get out of here.” Lowering my voice to a mutter, I added, “Before I strangle you with my Walmart belt and douse your head in Pantene.”
She had the nerve to stamp her Jimmy Choo clad foot. “We’ve got dinner in an hour!”
I froze with my hand hovering over the door handle before slowly turning to look back at her. “You told me the rehearsal dinner’s tomorrow before the bachelorette party.”
She closed her eyes, rolled her neck, and pressed a palm to her forehead like she was suffering a great trial. “It is, Tabby.” Her syllables were clipped, testy staccatos. If I hadn’t been the target of her disdain, I would’ve easily believed she was talking to an alien from outer space who didn’t understand human speech. “This is just a normal dinner. Enid made a reservation at Restaurant R’evolution a month ago.”
“Yeah, I think I’m going to skip that.” A mild throbbing was setting in at the base of my skull. Eyes still on the bridal beast, I wrapped my fingers around the handle and opened the door an inch, just enough that the intermingling smells of leftover room service and carpet cleaner wafted in from the hall.
Grace frowned, which splintered her smooth coral lipstick into creases and divots. “Fine. Just don’t forget your manicure t—”
“Tomorrow at eleven. I know.” Before she could say another word, I turned and flung the door open enough to cross the threshold and ducked into the corridor.
My career had provided me plenty of opportunities to stay in hotels around the country, but the Harrah’s of New Orleans where Grace had put the block for the wedding party was a huge step up from my usual accommodations. Instead of threadbare carpets and comforters boasting patterns from the seventies, the rooms were chic and glamorous in rich hues of violet and champagne. The bed was comfortable, and the view from my window was overlooking the Mississippi River. My favorite amenity, though, was the onsite casino.
Entertainment beyond reality TV marathons was a rare benefit to my hotel stays, and I had a slight obsession with penny slots — meaning I tended to dig into pre-budgeted food money rather than walking away when I maxed out. With change jingling in my pocket, I had a little spring in my step as I strode away from Grace’s suite in pursuit of a solitary night of gambling rather than dinner with my tense cousin and her pretentious friends.
The sound of mechanized jingling and the smell of stale smoke met my senses before I entered the casino, but I immediately felt relief. This was hardly a place I’d run into one of the soul-sucking trust-funders, and even with all the retirees seated in front of the slots and the businessman/tourist blend surrounding the tables, I was awash in the isolation I’d craved since my plane touched down at Louis Armstrong. Keycard tucked into my back pocket and several twenties folded in my hand, I started to wind my way through the banks in search of a machine that whispered promises of millions.
Within a minute of wandering, the headache that had been blossoming in the back of my skull was already waning and my shoulders were starting to relax. I was able to dismiss the stresses of bridesmaid obligations much more easily than I’d expected, all to the tune of recorded nickels tumbling into waiting cups.
Ting-ting-ting-ting-ting-ting-ting!
“Oh, god!” I yelped, jerking backward unexpectedly as my shoulder crashed into another shoulder and lukewarm liquid splashed over my front. I was scouring the slot bank nearest the blackjack tables, and my intense analysis of the Crazy 7’s had prevented me from seeing the gray tailored suit in my path.
His arm shot out, and a hand clamped around my wrist. He tugged, pulling me upright and helping me regain my equilibrium, but I was too dazed to trust his strength and trying to compensate, bent too far forward. His other hand flattened against my collarbone to stop me from tumbling onto my face. “Let me guess… you’re a world-renowned gymnast famous for your skills on the balance beam.”
“Funny,” I muttered, finding it suddenly difficult to take in air. Finally stabilized, I lowered my face to hide my burning cheeks and refused to meet his gaze, which I could feel pressing into my temple. “Sorry about that.”
“No harm done.” His voice was like butter, warm and rich and silken, and I could hear the amused smile woven between his syllables. I was too embarrassed to look at him, but the fingers still wrapped around my wrist were long, young, and well-manicured, and the palm pressed to my upper chest radiated pleasant heat through my top. When I was younger, I’d gone to plug in a Christmas tree, and when I did, a spark of electricity had traveled up my arm, keeping me rooted to the spot for a few moments before the circuit breaker blew.
That was how I felt now. Rooted. Under siege by something unexpected and unfamiliar.
Horrified at having potentially destroyed a suit that no doubt cost more than Grace’s wedding dress, I snatched the hem of my shirt and darted forward, determined to scrub the stain away. “God, I’m so sorry.” Regret for my stupidity mingled with a dull fear that I’d be expected to buy a replacement. “I wasn’t paying attention.” He didn’t step away or brush my hand aside as I attempted to rub the splotch clean, but the heat of his stare rested heavily on my head as I sped my hand up, making my voice falter.
It didn’t occur to me I was basically stroking his crotch until I felt a mild stiffening beneath my touch and heard his grunt of amusement. I paused and glanced around. Others were watching me too. A trio of girls barely twenty-one were snickering amongst each other, and an elderly man with a slicked toupee was eyeing me with uncomfortable interest. One woman was smiling sympathetically as she punched the SPIN button on her machine so fast her hand was almost a blur. I just wanted to get away from the scene I’d created.
Straightening up with burning cheeks and tugging my wrist from my victim-slash-savior’s hold, I again mumbled, “Sorry.” Without giving him a chance to reply, I hoisted my purse strap securely back onto my shoulder and hustled away, ducking between two electronic slots featuring Playboy-blonde mermaids in gleaming LEDs.
It took me at least five minutes to finally feel like nobody was staring at me anymore. I’d never been one to seek out the spotlight, certainly not for something as embarrassing as ramming into an innocent bystander in a crowded room, and while I didn’t consider myself shy, I didn’t care for attention in exorbitant quantities. Having too much attention always made me feel like I was covered in sand after a trip to the beach, itchy and uncomfortable. As soon as I thought I’d wiped myself clean of it all, I always found a little more. Hunkering down in front of one of the more isolated game choices brought me back to the state of relaxation I’d been hunting for when I came down to the casino in the first place.
The acrid sting of cigarette smoke and gentle burn of vodka from the cocktail waitress-delivered screwdriver stripped away my lingering irritations minute by minute until I was twenty dollars in and completely absorbed in finagling bets and lines to maximize my profits. The machine I’d retreated to wasn’t one of the flashy modern noisemakers to which most people flocked, but it chimed appreciatively every time I won as little as two cents and offered enough bonuses to keep me interested. I was actually starting to forget the whole reason I was in New Orleans at all when, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted an unwelcome reminder.
“You’re skipping a fantastic meal at an elegant restaurant to do this?”
Grace had managed to transform herself from the casual, albeit expensively outfitted, bride-to-be I’d seen upstairs to a shamelessly glittery mannequin in the short time since I left her room. Layers of bronzer had deepened her skin tone to better match her reddish-brown hair, dense false lashes perched atop her perfectly acceptable natural ones, and a sparkling purple dress more akin to adjoined ribbon strips than fabric clung to her slim form like plastic wrap. It was hard to look her in the face, especially when she moved and shards of light ricocheted off her sequins directly into my eyes.
“Wow,” was all I could manage.
She looked smug for about a half a second before the scowl returned to her painted lips. “Why don’t you just go upstairs and put something nice on and come out with us?”
I lifted a shoulder. “The only thing I have that’s nice enough for this kind of restaurant is the bridesmaid’s dress.”
“Seriously? You came to New Orleans without any formalwear?” I nodded, and she shook her head in judgmental disbelief. “Well, whatever. You can just borrow something of mine, I guess. Come on.”
“Grace, I really don’t want to go out,” I insisted, rotating on the padded stool to show her how serious I was.
She threw her arms out to the sides dramatically. “This is my wedding! Don’t you care that you’re embarrassing me? What am I supposed to tell everyone about why my cousin isn’t doing anything with us?”
I was inclined to snap something at her about telling them the duties of alternate bridesmaids aren’t quite so involved, but I kept my cool and ran my peacekeeping mantra through my mind for the umpteenth time. “Anything you need me to do for the wedding, I’m happy to do, but I’d really appreciate some time alone tonight. I can’t be much help to you if I’m a wreck myself, can I?”
“Hmph,” she grunted. I could tell she wanted to comment that I wasn’t much help anyway or I was always a wreck no matter what I did or something else in the snotty vein, but like me, she controlled her impulses. Apparently, we weren’t as different as I wanted to think. “If you’d rather hang out pushing germ-infested buttons and losing your money, I’m not going to stop you. Just—”
“Eleven tomorrow.” I forced a tight smile. “Right.”
She turned on her platform heel and walked away, and I swiveled to face my machine again. I was actually feeling pretty proud of myself for staying as polite and collected as I had, because the last thread of patience I maintained for Grace’s snobbish attitude and ridiculous demands was fraying. Stamping my forefinger down onto the flashing green circle, I watched the reels start spinning and mentally congratulated myself. Maybe I’d make it through this weekend without imploding after all.
When a dark figure materialized in my peripheral vision, however, my pride was snatched from me as that single thread snapped. I swung around, steam practically pouring from my ears, and barked, “I said I’m not go—!”
It wasn’t Grace. A tall, dark-haired man stood where my uppity cousin had just been, wearing a gray tailored suit and an amused smirk on his beautifully carved lips.
CHAPTER TWO
Owen
She was strange.
It was the first thing I thought when I looked down to see who’d crashed into me so violently. Everything from her bumpy blonde ponytail to her scuffed Hello Kitty sneakers was strange, especially in New Orleans, and her unbalanced flailing made her seem even more bizarre. I tried to help her regain her footing before squaring in on her appearance.
“Let me guess… you’re a world-renowned gymnast famous for your skills on the balance beam,” I quipped, hoping to break the ice and eliminate some of the inherent awkwardness. Her cheeks, as round as apples, were hot pink and splotchy with embarrassment.
“Funny,” she replied with strained annoyance. She wouldn’t meet my eyes, either because she was still flustered or because she was still dazed from the near fall, so I took the opportunity to study her.
I couldn’t figure her out. The jeans she wore were distinctly non-designer, and the flowing olive tank top screamed Midwest club scene, but the slightly askew black frames on her nose hinted at the artiness of a Brooklyn transplant. Her shoes were unequivocally West Coast, along with cherry-shaped studs in her ears, yet her skin had the natural glow of someone raised in Miami sunshine. Nothing about her made sense. Nothing fit together to form the completed puzzle. She was the essence of quirk, and I was fascinated.
“Sorry about that,” she apologized half-heartedly.
I felt her pulse throbbing beneath my fingers where the pads met her wrist, and I was reluctant to remove my hand from her collar for fear this ungainly nymph would tumble over again — and, frankly, I was reluctant to give her reason to walk away. “No harm done,” I assured her, smiling against my will. I didn’t want her to think I was laughing at her, but I couldn’t help myself. She was just so unusual. And when she started grinding the bottom of her shirt into my prick while mumbling further apologies, I knew I wanted her. If she felt the blood poo
ling in my nether region, she knew I did too.
She still hadn’t made any eye contact when she pulled her arm out of my grasp, and I tried to tilt myself just enough to see into her face properly as she bumbled a repetitious, “Sorry.” She was gone before I could ask her name.
Women were hardly a weakness of mine, not to say I had strings of them or enough notches on my bedpost to whittle it into a toothpick, but there had been a time or two when I’d found myself drawn to a particular female without much rhyme or reason. The first had been a girl in my sixth grade Christmas pageant who insisted on being one of the Three Wise Men even though her gender didn’t exactly suit the role. I’d liked her because, yes, she was pretty, and yes, she was nice, but she was determined to be different, and I wanted different.
In the years since, I’d maintained interest in women who were leggy and beautiful and charismatic, but each had possessed at least one skill or interest to distinguish her from the last. Twenty years later, I was still looking for different.
This one was different, but far from the cliché of the phrase because she didn’t try. She just was. I felt it in her skin.
“Are you betting, or have I crushed your ego enough?”
I slowly tore my stare from the slot machines that had swallowed the mysterious creature to find Howie turned in his seat and grinning toothily at me. I’d known the guy since we were seven, and that clownish grin had never changed. More than once, I’d pictured him at eighty with crinkled eyes and a stretched mouth exactly like he had now, but with nothing except gums to show.
“Yeah.” I lifted a shoulder and attempted to turn my attention back to the game. “I’m betting.”
Taking my vacant seat next to him, I slid two chips forward without caring to notice their value. The others around the table mirrored my action, and the dealer began his routine. He, too, was a man I knew well, a burly fellow I’d nicknamed Jeeves long ago after learning he’d attended a butler training academy in England, and he kept one eye on me as he expertly doled two cards each to the players. In a way, I thought he had a better idea what was going on in my head than Howie, mainly because Howie was caught up in rehashing a date with Janine, the float designer.
