by Unknown
Just One Kiss
by
Susan Hatler
Just One Kiss
Copyright © 2016 by Susan Hatler
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner of this book. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
License Notes
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Cover Design by Elaina Lee, For The Muse Design
www.forthemusedesign.com
Titles by Susan Hatler
Kissed by the Bay Series
Every Little Kiss
The Perfect Kiss
Just One Kiss
The Sweetest Kiss
Better Date than Never Series
Love at First Date
Truth or Date
My Last Blind Date
Save the Date
A Twist of Date
License to Date
Driven to Date
Up to Date
Déjà Date
Date and Dash
Treasured Dreams Series
An Unexpected Date
An Unexpected Kiss
An Unexpected Love
An Unexpected Proposal
An Unexpected Wedding
An Unexpected Joy
An Unexpected Baby
Young Adult Novels
Shaken
See Me
The Crush Dilemma
Praise
“Susan Hatler has a knack for writing books that draw me in from the very first page!”
— Books Are Sanity!!! on Love at First Date
“Ms. Hatler has a way of writing witty dialogue that makes you laugh-out-loud throughout her stories.”
— Night Owl Reviews on Truth or Date
“Seriously you guys, you have to pick this one up if you are a romantic at heart. Deliciously sweet.”
— Getting Your Read On Reviews on My Last Blind Date
“An Unexpected Date is a wonderful and perfect release to a stressful or crazy day.”
— Cafè of Dreams Book Reviews
“If you enjoy a YA Romance jam packed with adventure and the unknown. I would recommend this fantastic read.”
— Tifferz Book Reviewz on Shaken
Just One Kiss
by
Susan Hatler
Chapter One
My childhood dream of making it big turned out to be my greatest downfall. Well, technically, my rock star ex-husband had been the one to make it big. But, still. I’d become famous by association, which was not all I’d thought it would be. Not even close.
Ronnie Clement and I had been high school sweethearts. We’d moved to Los Angeles after graduation so his band could book gigs at restaurants and clubs, while I studied acting at UCLA. We got married the week we arrived, two small-town kids full of hopes and dreams and the belief that all dreams were possible.
When a record label noticed Ronnie’s amazing singing voice, he dropped his band, changed his name to Rex Rockwell, and his career took off. Upon his request, I tabled my acting ambitions in order to support him. We agreed that my turn would come later.
Yeah, that didn’t happen.
There was always another album, another concert, another world tour, and my would-be acting career disappeared. In time, I felt myself disappear as well.
As Rex’s fame grew so did his ego, until he was partying so much he often didn’t come home at night. I’d heard the rumors of infidelity and read about it in the tabloids, but hadn’t been certain he’d stoop that low until I caught him with a groupie—ahem, naked—on the deck of our vacation house, in my favorite hammock. Rex pleaded for forgiveness and promised it would never happen again, but I couldn’t pretend to believe his lies anymore. So, I filed for a divorce.
I also replaced the hammock, because ew.
Despite tabloid reports that I’d made off with millions when I divorced my rock star husband, the truth was that I was now flat broke. During the divorce, Rex had fought me over every cent, begging me to stay with him. I settled quickly in order to end the fighting, and the only thing I received from the divorce—well, besides a crushed heart—was our vacation home on the bluffs in my hometown of Blue Moon Bay, California.
And now I had to sell the house.
Well, unless I could come up with a way to pay for the expenses with zero income. At twenty-seven, I had no job, no college degree, and only amateur theatre roles on my résumé. My lawyer was on her way over right now to go over the depressing details of my abysmal financial status. My nerves were so raw they could pass for sushi. I didn’t want to lose my home.
I dug my toes through the ropey-weave of the hammock I was lying in on my back deck overlooking the Pacific Ocean, my phone glued to my ear, barely paying attention to my sister Claire’s voice droning on as I fought against the rising panic in my chest.
My beautiful mansion on the bluffs boasted views of the dazzling blue ocean, the Spanish Colonial buildings of the storybook downtown nestled below, and the long spit of land where the world-famous landmark, the Inn at Blue Moon Bay, sat proudly.
This house had been my safe haven for the past year, protecting me from ruthless reporters wanting to get the latest scoop on “Rex Rockwell’s ex.” That’s seriously who I was known as to the media: Rex Rockwell’s ex. Not Charlie Rockwell, my actual name. Losing my home would mean having my cherished privacy ripped away from me.
I’d truly reached rock bottom.
Something Claire said caught my attention and sent frustration rushing over the already present panic. “You’re my sister, Claire.” I squeezed my cell phone against my ear. “Why do you sound positively giddy that I may have to move out of the home I love?”
“I’m not happy you have to move, per se, but maybe change will do you good.” Her voice came over the line, bright and cheery and way too pleased. “You’ve been hiding away in that mansion long enough. You need to start living again.”
“What do you think I’m doing right now? Dying a slow death?” I asked, and then realized that actually sounded kind of accurate. My loneliness felt palpable. I dropped my head back against the quilted hammock pillow.
“Hanging out inside a house, glued to the TV all day, is not living. You can’t vicariously experience life through your favorite soap opera. And don’t try to deny it,” she added quickly, before I could lie and claim I wasn’t addicted to a soap opera. “I know how you spend your days.”
I heaved a long sigh. “Oh, man. Is this what my life has come to? I used to be fun.”
“Yeah, I remember. Then you lost your backbone and everything became about Rex Rockwell.” She’d said his name like it was a lame reality show that was all the rage. “I still don’t get why you took that ridiculous divorce settlement.”
“The only thing mediation was doing was fueling the paparazzi,” I said, letting out a long sigh. “I fi
gured I’d sell this house and have plenty of money to live on. But this place has become my safe haven.”
“You mean your self-imposed jail cell.” Claire scoffed into her mouthpiece. “Hello? You were married to Rex Rockwell, who won so many Grammy awards I lost count, so half of that money should’ve been yours. If I ever get my hands on that rat ex-brother-in-law of mine—”
“Is there an actual reason you called, sis?” I jerked to sit up, but the hammock suddenly swung backward, threatening to topple me off. Quickly, I threw myself back again, bobbing side to side until the hammock stabilized. Close one. “If you just called to give me a bad time, I’d prefer to enjoy my final days here in peace.”
“I’m taking you to dinner tonight,” Claire commanded, using a stern tone. “You need to venture out among the living again.”
“I did that at the luxury women’s retreat last month and look where it got me,” I reminded her. While my heart had finished healing from all of the support at the women’s retreat, which had made me ready to date again, my first choice had flopped big time.
I’d started dating Wyatt, a firefighter who had been staying at the mansion next door to the retreat. He had seemed sweet at first. But he turned out to be a wanna-be musician on the side, and ended up asking me if I could score him one of Rex Rockwell’s old guitars. Um, seriously? Note the “ex” part of ex-husband, buddy, or browse any major magazine or newspaper to see how much my ex cheated on me. Rex and I hadn’t parted on the best of terms and the tabloids didn’t know the half of it.
Claire made a groaning sound. “At least you had a few fun dates . . .”
“I’d rather stay in the privacy of my own home, thank you very much.”
“We both know you’re hiding from the paparazzi. But, just so you know, they find plenty to write about you anyway.” She cleared her throat. “Rex Rockwell just released another hit music video, co-starring sexy Oscar-winner Virna DiAngelo, while Rex Rockwell’s ex continues to roll in his riches through outrageous spousal support, according to friends of the musician.”
“What friends?” I rolled my eyes, irritation flowing through me. “The friends Rex and I had in Hollywood hadn’t been friends at all, just people who wanted something from him. When he and I separated, they dropped me. Without Rex, I didn’t have anything they wanted. Well, except inaccurate stories to sell the tabloids, apparently.”
Claire sighed. “I’m just saying let’s go out to dinner. There’s more to life than daytime television, you know.”
“Don’t rag on my last pleasure in life,” I said, frowning. Then I heard a loud noise coming from the front of my house, which sounded like a car door slamming shut. Time to face the music. I eased off the hammock (carefully this time), and hurried toward the side gate. “My lawyer’s here. She’s going to break it to me how much money I don’t have. I’d better go.”
“What about dinner—”
“Rain check,” I said, and then hung up the phone. I opened the side gate to the front yard, my stomach churning as I walked through. I dreaded seeing my lawyer face-to-face and hearing her confirm that I was broke. Our meeting would make it real that I had to sell my house. My home was my Spanish Colonial style security blanket, the only place I felt safe.
And soon it would be gone.
Harper Avery, my lawyer, would state my options without sugarcoating anything. The woman was smart, savvy, and believed in dealing with problems head-on. Denial wasn’t a luxury she’d let me indulge in, but I wasn’t sure I was ready to face the real world. I just wanted one more year here to figure out where I went wrong. Or, maybe two years. . . .
Closing the gate behind me, I spotted Harper’s luxury sedan in the circular driveway. Then my gaze shot to the woman standing next to the car. She wore a tailored charcoal gray and white pin-striped suit, her dark hair was swept back into a French twist, and her green eyes lit up when she saw me.
Harper and I were both twenty-seven and single. I admired her tough exterior, although she had a serious attitude about men, making me secretly wonder if dealing with so many divorces had made her jaded. Or maybe she’d just had her heart broken one time too many.
“Charlie, good to see you looking so rested.” She shook my hand firmly, then fell into step beside me as we walked to the front door.
“Thanks for coming Harper, and for recommending that women’s retreat,” I said, even though it had used up the last of my savings account. Spending my remaining cash on a luxury women’s retreat hosted by Greta von Strand, the author of Men: Who Needs Them? had probably not been the smartest move financially. But Ronnie’s betrayal had cut me deep, and I’d needed something to help ease my pain.
More importantly, Greta von Strand’s event planner had been Olivia Lane, who had been my best friend in high school. We’d lost touch after I moved to Southern California with Ronnie. Reconnecting with Olivia—and by extension the other two girls who had been in our tight knit posse of four, Wendy Watts and Megan Wallace—had been priceless.
I inhaled a deep breath filled with the bittersweet scent of ocean air. “Just lay it on me.” I braced myself. “When are the taxes due? Will they give me an extension? How soon do I have to sell before I go belly-up?”
“Not so fast.” She lifted her Louis Vuitton briefcase, wiggling it in the air as if she had something worth gold inside. “I have an option that might help you with your expenses.”
My heart stopped. “Are you serious? Then, whatever it is, the answer’s yes. You know I’ll do anything to keep this house.”
She threw me a wary look. “You might not agree to this . . .”
“What do you mean?” I opened the front door, my head spinning. If there were a way to keep my house then—apart from remarrying Rex Rockwell—I’d do it.
“You’ll see.” She followed me through the foyer, down the hall, and into the living room. She took a seat on the sofa, set her briefcase on the coffee table, and then opened it up.
“Would you like something to drink?” I asked, although my gaze was glued to the opening of her brown leather case. “Coffee, tea, or—”
“No, thank you.” She waved a hand. “I’ve been up since four a.m. and have had as many cups of coffee. Anymore cups and I’ll vibrate out of Blue Moon Bay.”
I forced a tiny laugh at her joke, which was hard with my entire future at stake with whatever she held in that designer case. I dropped into the seat across from her. “So what’s your idea?”
She placed her hands in a steeple position, tapping her pinky pads against each other at high speed as if to release pent up energy. Or, possibly caffeine. “Well, I have two ideas. I believe you’re familiar with the first one.”
An ice-cold trickle ran down my spine. “What is the first one?”
“You spent two weeks with Greta von Strand at her luxury women’s retreat last month and she was very impressed by you. You’re aware that the pre-order of her upcoming release, Love: We All Need It, is currently ranked number one at all major retailers?”
“Yes,” I said, without admitting I’d pre-ordered my own copies in every format available. When I read her first bestseller—Men: Who Needs Them?—each word felt like she’d pulled it directly from my crushed heart. “Ironically, Greta got engaged to her ex-boyfriend at the end of the women’s retreat and apparently has a whole new perspective on life. Thus, the new book.”
While Greta von Strand was a ruthlessly ambitious woman, she’d also shown a vulnerable side at the end of the retreat that I could relate to, and I was secretly dying to read her next book.
“Yes, I read an article about her engagement in the Blue Moon Bay Beat,” Harper said, mentioning a popular local paper. “I also spoke with her agent, who said she’s flying through Love: We All Need It, and he’s working to line up Greta’s next bestseller, if you agree: a tell-all memoir by Rex Rockwell’s ex.”
“That’s what the book should be called, Rex Rockwell’s ex,” I said, through clenched teeth. I got up and went to the bar. I
plucked a bottle of sparkling mineral water from the tiny fridge, twisting the top off with a refreshing whisper. I took a quick swig as I leaned against the bar. “Or, how about Woman Scorned? Now that sounds like a bestselling book filled with a rock star’s secrets. Don’t you think?”
“He was a total jerk to you, Charlie.” Harper pulled a stack of papers out of her bag, stood up, and handed me an official-looking document. “You have every right to let the public know the truth. This is the advance Greta’s publisher’s willing to pay you.”
“An advance . . .?” I came close enough to take the paper, then stared at all seven zeroes after the first two numbers. For a minute, I thought about writing the book with Greta, about telling the world how fame had grabbed the boy I’d loved in its clutches, doused him in constant adulation until he transformed into the big headed celebrity he’d become. . . The man who had betrayed me, ripping my trusting heart to shreds.
Dollar signs flashed in my head, so many that I’d never have to worry about finding income again. I’d be able to keep my home and my cherished privacy forever.
“You’re out of money, and you’re perfectly justified after the way he treated you.”
“I know, but . . .” My voice trailed off as a long, forgotten piece of my heart softened. “He was still my husband.” I swallowed the lump that had appeared in my throat. “We loved each other once. And in some ways, I always will love him. I could never sell his secrets.”
“Even though the advance would save you?” She gave me a look like I’d completely lost my mind. “Rex is in St. Barts with Virna DiAngelo right now, spending what should’ve been your divided marital funds on her.”
“No, I still can’t do it,” I said, shaking my head. Just because he’d stooped low didn’t mean I had to join him down there. I handed her back the paper. “Is there another option?”
