by S. A. Wolfe
Faithful
S.A. Wolfe
All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2014 S.A. Wolfe
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The Author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.
http://www.sa-wolfe.com
Cover Design by Damonza
Editing and Formatting by C&D Editing
For my family
*This is a standalone novel in the FEARSOME Series.
A bombshell waitress who wants more. A former FBI agent who wants less … except for her.
Imogene Walsh has always been unapologetically confident and ruthlessly opinionated with people, particularly men. No one is spared from her unfiltered mouth, but it hasn’t seemed to deter Cooper MacKenzie. Although he is not the clean-cut, businessman type she’s always thought she should pursue, Imogene is drawn to the sexy outsider who is the hottest topic in town gossip, the fantasy heartthrob women love to speculate about.
She has spent most of her life in the little town of Hera, NY, putting her numerous forgettable relationships behind her and floundering in both her professional and personal life. Work and men—neither have gone well for her. Now it’s reached the point where she wants to stop playing it safe.
It may be time to live up to her tough reputation and take a chance on Cooper, the only man who isn’t intimidated by Imogene’s brash personality. However, it could be a thrilling ride that doesn't end well.
One
I glance back to see him following me as I run. I like the sound of his voice as it releases my name over the buzz of the party.
My breath escapes in misty pants as I sprint around the maze of tall hedges, chasing five-year-old Toby, one of the neighbor’s rambunctious boys. I’m laughing at the ridiculousness of the situation—a little boy running away with my sandal.
My bare left foot digs into the cool damp soil as I turn corners, trying to remember the way around the garden maze that has been a focal point of many parties at Lois’s, one of the grand dames of Hera, a sixty-something who excels in hosting parties. I mastered her garden maze before I was a teenager; however, the endless glasses of champagne tonight have left me bewildered, as though I’m disoriented in an unknown forest.
I hear Toby’s giggle up ahead and laugh loudly in response as I get closer to my prey. I am becoming more light-headed as I hear the sounds of party guests and music playing in the distance. Dylan and Emma must be dancing or maybe they’ve already departed for their surprise honeymoon, the same way they surprised everyone at tonight’s outdoor party with an impromptu wedding service.
My mouth was full of potato salad when Lois told everyone to shut up, and then Dylan and Emma approached the front porch of the house where a judge was waiting to preside over their vows. I had looked around, just as startled as everyone else. Although happy, I was also somewhat sad to be losing more friends. Yes, that was how it had felt, like I was losing something.
My single friends are getting married and caught up in their newfound blissfully wedded lives of creating homes and being spouses. Meanwhile, I’m being left behind.
Therefore, I did what any normal woman would do. I grabbed the first bottle of champagne Lois had opened and got busy, pushing that tinge of sorrow and jealousy so far down my throat all I could feel was a complacent numbness.
Now I’m losing the cute, little runt, and I’m lost, stuck in the maze. I stop running and put my hands on my hips as I catch my breath while Toby’s giggles continue to grow farther away.
“Imogene,” a deep voice purrs my name, smooth and rich like sweet liquid on his lips.
When I turn around, he smiles. Man, he is handsome. I’ve always thought so, but tonight, the moonlight captures his tall, lean form in an unearthly sight of mythical beauty. His shoulder-length golden hair shines, and his gray eyes stalk me like a wild cat. Being drunk takes my imagination to thoughts I have been dismissing for months. Inebriation is also what makes it easy for me to walk quickly towards him and fling my arms around his neck. Then I pull him down for the kiss I have long fantasized about.
Strong and solid, he resists my brazen behavior before giving in and kissing me deeply. The smoothness of his movements comes from experience and confidence and, hopefully, excitement for me.
One of his hands presses against my lower back, pulling me tightly to him while the other reaches under my skirt and firmly holds one of my butt cheeks.
I grab fistfuls of his thick hair as I stand on tiptoes to kiss him. When we unlock our lips for air, I feel him smile against my cheek, and then I bury my face against the warm skin of his neck.
“Imogene,” he whispers, his breath tickling my ear and sending a shiver of tingles through me.
I close my eyes and hold on to him. “I think I drank too much.”
“I’ve got you.”
I feel my feet leave the ground as he lifts me up. My head is about to roll backwards before he adjusts me so my face rests against his hard chest. My arms are still wrapped around his neck as a sleepy contentment takes over my body. I sigh, and his chest rumbles with a laugh.
This is an unexpected turn of events, one I don’t want to end.
Two
Regret sets in the minute I hear Lauren pounding up the stairs, shrieking for me to wake up. She’s the prison matron for Cell Block H. Sure, we live in a nicely renovated Victorian house, courtesy of our friend Jessica who rents it to us rather cheaply, but it’s still the place I have to work day and night on the struggling jewelry business I run with Lauren. When I’m not here working or sleeping, I’m at my family’s diner, Bonnie’s, breaking my back with those heavy, oversized serving trays.
With the exception of my four years at Syracuse University with Lauren, I’ve spent my whole life in Hera, a miniscule town in the Catskill Mountains, a town that barely eclipses Horton’s Whoville. We’re far enough from New York City to offer countryside solitude and close enough for me to realize how mundane my life is compared to those in the city. However, I’m also a lifer; it’s in my bones. I don’t think I could ever move away from the family and friends I’ve known since I was in kindergarten. Hera is lacking in excitement and available men, but I’m still holding on to my last shred of hope that things will improve for me.
Two years ago, I was full of optimism and courage to start my business venture with Lauren, designing one-of-a-kind repurposed jewelry from vintage pieces we find by scouring estate sales and online auctions. Despite being labor intensive, we’re rather proud of our unique style that has been picked up by a few high-end boutiques in New York City. We’ve even generated a small but steady following for our online web store. Our price point, which averages between eighty dollars for a pair of earrings and four hundred dollars for a necklace, makes our line too expensive for mass retailers yet affordable for the shabby chic crowd who shop at specialty stores.
In the beginning, my math said we would only need a few hundred retailers around the country to allow Lauren and I to quit our waitressing jobs at the diner and settle into our dream career. Boy, was I wrong. Start-up costs, selling, advertising, and gaining footing in a crowded market are killing us. Essentially, I have the same income as when I started while I’m working more hours, seven days a week. Cell Block Hell.
Opening my eyes to the sundrenched room causes a stabbing pain to whirl around my head. With this unwelcome pitchfork in my face, I’d like to greet Lauren’s loud morning enthusiasm with a meat cleaver. Unfortunately, she enters my room where I have the energy and muscle tone of a sponge.
“Time to get up, party girl!” Lauren bounces into my bedroom like the effervescent cheerleader she was and will always be. She’s
a tall, skinny, blond, the opposite of me and my shorter, curvier figure and long, dark hair. Lauren’s sunny disposition is unnerving when things like stomach viruses and hangovers roll around.
For a moment, I think I’m having an out of body experience, watching as she hovers over me, her long, blond ponytail swaying back and forth as my lifeless arms reach up to strangle her. Of course, it’s wishful thinking; no part of my body has moved an inch unless you count my eyelids.
“Stop moving,” I hiss through my dry lips. “You’re making me nauseous.”
Lauren smiles and swings an open bottle of water towards me. “You look like shit.”
“I feel worse.” I swat my arm at the water bottle like a sad imitation of Frankenstein with his meaty, ungraceful paws. It takes everything I have to latch onto the bottle and guzzle that sucker until it’s empty without throwing up first.
“God, wasn’t that amazing?” Lauren beams dreamily at me.
“The amount of champagne I packed away last night or the fact that I’m still alive today?”
“The wedding. Dylan and Emma. I can’t believe they kept it a secret until the last minute.”
“The best part is we didn’t have to wear bridesmaids’ dresses or even buy gifts.”
“Oh, you. I would have loved it if they’d had a real wedding. No one has the big weddings anymore. At least, not in this town. Jess and Carson did the same thing.”
“I like these no-frills, honky-tonk weddings with ribs and three kinds of Jell-O. Between our failing fantasy business and our waitressing jobs, we’re living on a sinking ship. We don’t need more expenditures because I’m pretty sure we can’t afford life boats.”
“You’ve been awake for two minutes, and you’re already pissing and moaning again.”
“Lauren, we have a real problem. We have to do something drastic, or we have to give up on our business. Seriously, I cannot keep waitressing full-time and then run home and work through the night on the jewelry. Even if we stop sleeping, we still can’t produce enough inventory to make a profit at this rate.”
“That’s the hangover talking.”
“No, we’ve gone over the numbers. You and I have to make some real decisions soon.”
Lauren’s smile disappears and she sighs. “I know. You’re right. We’ve been winging it for too long. Carson said we need structure and to follow a real business plan. It’s probably time to sit down with Archie and go over our options.”
“Sounds a little scary.” I know we should meet with our friend Carson; he has a mind for business. And Archie, our lawyer, who is older than the sun and always meticulous in a three-piece suit, will guide us through the business dealings and contracts with care as if he were our grandfather. It’s all still ominous, though.
“Yeah, well, I need to go unpack our new boxes, okay? The stones and the copper findings you ordered came in, so I’m going to set up the project trays. When Leo gets back, we’re going out for lunch in Woodstock, and then I’ll come back and work with you on the new pieces. We can talk about it then.”
“Where’s Leo?” I’m used to Lauren’s live-in boyfriend making coffee and toast for us every morning. I could really use one of his hangover cures.
“He drove Dylan and Emma to the airport early this morning. They’re spending a week in Mexico.”
“Nice,” I say, thinking of our friends dashing off on their honeymoon.
I push myself up to sit and wince as the blob of pain and queasiness sloshes forward with me.
“Take a shower and eat something,” Lauren urges as she heads for the door. “I’ll be back soon.”
I suddenly notice I’m on top of the bedspread, still wearing the same tank top and skirt from last night, and the bottoms of my feet are black with soil.
“Lauren? How did I get home last night?”
“I drove you and Leo.”
“Did he help me up to bed? I don’t even remember walking up the stairs to my room.”
“God, no. Leo didn’t help you. He was so sloshed he fell asleep on the living room couch the minute he walked in the door. I was just going to leave you on the back seat of the car. You were snoring away, but Cooper insisted on bringing you in.”
“Cooper?” I ask sharply. “You mean he actually helped me walk up the stairs?”
“He was the one who put you in the car. Then he followed us home on his bike and carried you up to your bed.”
“Cooper,” I groan.
Lauren laughs. “Accept it; you finally have to be nice to him. At the very least, you have to thank him.”
She leaves, laughing all the way down the stairs.
Cooper.
I touch my lips and remember part of that rather sensual dream I was having. One minute, I’m chasing a little boy, and the next, I’m kissing a gorgeous wall of muscle. Oh, fucka-doodle-doo, that was Cooper. In my dream, I was getting hot and heavy for the very guy I’ve been avoiding for the past year.
I have to put Cooper’s sexy lips out of my mind and will myself to walk to the shower. I have to face some cold, hard facts about my life, my business, and setting a firm resignation date from the diner. My grandmother has owned the diner for decades along with my parents, and leaving the security of an established, successful business that has supported my family and me for years to make pretty necklaces for a niche market sounds really foolish at this moment.
However, if anyone can help Lauren and I sort this out, it will be Archibald Bixby, town lawyer extraordinaire and one of the few people who will help us for free, no strings or invoices attached. Yet the thought of sitting in Archie’s law office while he explains the cost of business expansion, loans, investors, and hiring people, thus increasing our overhead and payroll, gives me the willies.
I’m not as sure-footed and determined as our friend Carson, who started the furniture company in town. Between his high-end furniture business and his foray into building eco-friendly homes, he employs over one hundred locals. He’s become the favorite employer, generating enough in sales to pay far above the average as well as offering bonuses and premium benefits packages. I’m not sure Lauren and I have the fortitude to carry our business that far, to put ourselves out there with a high risk of failure and the fear of a huge debt.
Sometimes, I imagine us moving our little workroom from the second floor of this old house to a real studio and having several very talented employees assembling the necklaces, earrings, and bracelets Lauren and I design. In my scenario, it’s a comfortable, bright studio where we happily chat while we work, orders piling in, bills paid on time, and naturally, our business, brand, and income growing.
Then there’s the reality that most businesses fail. Lauren and I could take out small business loans to expand the abandoned garage at the end of the main street and hire a few locals who have been out of work for years. They won’t have any real skills or talent for beading, but we could teach them the basics so we can increase our inventory just enough to break even each month. We won’t have money to renovate our space; it will be shabby and gray with a few permanent oil stains on the concrete floor. While we work, we’ll all drink cheap coffee Lauren will provide with her Mr. Coffee machine she still has from our college days, and we’ll keep our conversations guarded, worried that each day brings us closer to bankruptcy. It’s a lousy scenario I revisit each day.
I’m not sure we can be as successful as Carson. I don’t know if we have his drive, although his came in part from a serious desperation and will since there were no other options besides success. He had been taking care of his younger brother Dylan for so long since their parents’ deaths, and Dylan needed medical help—his bipolar disorder had put him at risk for every possible horrific outcome. Carson Blackard is the most ambitious, determined person I know. He took on his new business and managed his brother like the shiny new steam engine that rolls into a horse and buggy town and shouts its arrival.
Carson helped revive our little town. He
also put a lot of good people back to work and brought in some new people, too. Not only did he get Dylan help, he has him running the sales division of Blackard Designs, which is shipping furniture to high-end retailers all over the country. Carson also hired one of my dear friends from college, little Miss Mobster Emma, as Lauren and I used to call her. I guess it’s not so funny now that her father was arrested in an FBI takedown of several high-profile mobsters last year.
Emma’s life is better now with her marketing position at Blackard, working with her new husband to boot. That’s right; she married our lovable, once mentally unhinged Dylan. In fact, both Dylan and Carson, the two men I expected to be lifelong bachelors, got married.
I love those two guys to pieces. I grew up with them, and they are like brothers to me, but how in the holy hell did they manage to find their soul mates and get married before me? Carson was all work and no play, avoiding women altogether, and Dylan had a terrible reputation as a womanizer, not to mention being crazy as fuck sometimes, while I worked hard at the dating scene.
I mean, I really worked it like it was a legitimate career from high school all through college, and I ended up in relationships with Mr. Douchebag-Who-Accidentally-Sleeps-With-The-Girl-In-My-Dorm, Mr. I-Care-For-You-As-A-Friend, Mr. We’ve-Had-Sex-It’s-Time-For-New-People, Mr. I-Have-Needs-And-One-Woman-Isn’t-Enough, and Mr. I’m-Leaving-Town-Without-Telling-You.
Yes, indeed, I’ve had my share of shitty men. I don’t know how it’s still happening since my resolution years ago to stop dating pretty-boy jocks or unbelievably good-looking, rugged hunks seemed like it would weed out the ones who were sure to disappoint or, worse, hurt me. I thought I had perfected my new no-wanker vetting system, but Jeremy somehow got through my firewall of protection. That wanker.
To fly under Grandma Bonnie’s cursing radar, I’ve adopted slang from British romantic comedies. My grandmother has pitch-perfect hearing when I mumble fucker or any variation of the word. So now, when I’m sizing up men at the diner, the pool hall, or any social event, I have my Wanker Radar on full alert. Apparently, I will be dateless until the end of time because, so far, every single guy I meet registers as a wanker.
