You Complicate Me

by Isabel Jordan

  God, she was killing him. “Grace—“

  “The fact is that we are complicated together, Nick. The history between Sadie and Michael, the distance between us, the fact that we’re so different…it makes us complicated. But I’m not afraid of that anymore. I like that we’re so different; it keeps us interesting. I want you to complicate me, and I want to complicate you.”

  He sucked in a deep breath and held it as she impatiently brushed her tears away with the back of her hand.

  “Iloveyou,” she blurted, all in one breath. “Oh, God, I love you so much I can’t stand it. And I know that logically it’s too soon for us to feel this way, and that we should take it slow—”

  “Grace—”

  “—but the thought of taking it slow and spending even another minute without you makes me a little nauseous, you know? And I’m not sure—”

  “Grace—”

  “—what else to say, except to reiterate that I—”

  He grabbed her hand. “Grace!”

  Her tear-filled eyes shifted from his hand on hers, up to his face. She looked terrified. “Yes?” she whispered.

  “I need you to shut up,” he said.

  The old lady next to him sucked in a harsh breath, and the burly guy shot him a dirty look. He ignored them both as Grace nodded and said, “Okay. Sorry. I’ll just—”

  He squeezed her hand. “You had me at dumbass.”

  She blinked at him several times before asking, “I did?”

  Nick stood up and yanked her into his arms. “You did. I came to your room to tell you I’d been called into work this morning, but you were passed out.”

  “You didn’t leave to get away from me?”

  He shook his head. “I didn’t leave to get away from you. I’m never leaving you again. I love you, too, Grace.”

  She let out a watery chuckle. “You do?”

  In answer, he kissed her with everything he had, falling in love with her all over again when she responded just as passionately. They didn’t come up for air until the passengers around them started clapping and cheering. The stewardesses and the old lady next to him wiped away happy tears while the burly guy fist-bumped Grace and congratulated her on getting her man.

  “I can’t believe how much I love you,” he whispered in her ear.

  Without warning, she pulled back so fast he almost lost his grip on her. “Oh, my God!” she cried. “I’m on a plane! I got on a plane without Valium or alcohol!”

  “That’s good,” he murmured, snagging her bottom lip between his teeth and giving it a little nip before releasing it. “When you get unruly, I’ll cuff you this time. We can have more fun with that if you’re sober.”

  She smacked his shoulder playfully and looked up at him, heart in her eyes. “No, I think you cured my fear of flying.”

  He kissed her again, putting his whole heart into it. When he pulled back, he couldn’t help but ask, “How did you figure out where I was and make it onto this plane?”

  “Well,” she hedged, drawing the word out for several extra syllables, “it’s complicated.”

  He grinned at her. “Anything worth having is, angel. Anything worth having is.”

  The End

  Stay tuned for Gage and Sadie’s story! And keep reading for a sample (a whole first chapter, really) of Semi-Charmed, all my stalker links, and a personal letter to my readers!

  Other books by Isabel Jordan:

  The Harper Hall Investigations series reading order (all books now available everywhere books are sold):

  Semi-Charmed

  Semi-Human

  Semi-Twisted

  Semi-Broken

  Semi-Sane

  The Harper Hall Investigations complete series boxset

  A personal note from Isabel:

  If you enjoyed this book, first of all, thanks! It would mean a lot to me if you would take a moment and show your support of indie authors (like me) by leaving a review. Your reviews are a very important part of helping readers discover new books.

  Want to know more about me, or when the next book release is? You can email me directly at: isabel.jordan@izzyjo.com. Also feel free to stalk me on:

  Bookbub: https://www.bookbub.com/authors/isabel-jordan

  Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/SemiCharmedAuthor

  Private readers’ group (Bitch, write faster):

  https://www.facebook.com/groups/846416382191567/

  Twitter:@izzyjord

  Pinterest: https://www.pinterest.com/ijordan0345/

  Website: http://www.izzyjo.com/

  Sign up for updates on all things Isabel Jordan at: http://www.izzyjo.com/sign-up.html

  Thanks so much, and happy reading!

  About the author

  The normal:

  Isabel Jordan writes because it's the only profession that allows her to express her natural sarcasm and not be fired. She is a paranormal and contemporary romance author. Isabel lives in the U.S. with her husband, 11-year-old son, a neurotic shepherd mix, and a ginormous Great Dane mix named Jerkface (but don’t feel bad for him. He’s earned the name).

  The weird:

  Now that the normal stuff is out of the way, here's some weird-but-true facts that would never come up in polite conversation. Isabel Jordan:

  1. Is terrified of butterflies (don't judge ... it's a real phobia called lepidopterophobia)

  2. Is a lover of all things ironic (hence the butterfly on the cover of Semi-Charmed)

  3. Is obsessed with Supernatural, Game of Thrones, The Walking Dead, The 100, Once Upon a Time, and Dog Whisperer.

  4. Hates coffee. Drinks a Diet Mountain Dew every morning.

  5. Will argue to the death that Pretty in Pink ended all wrong. (Seriously, she ends up with the guy who was embarrassed to be seen with her and not the nice guy who loved her all along? That would never fly in the world of romance novels.)

  6. Would eat Mexican food every day if given the choice.

  7. Reads two books a week in varied genres.

  8. Refers to her Kindle as "the precious."

  9. Thinks puppy breath is one of the best smells in the world.

  10. Is a social media idgit. (Her husband had to explain to her what the point of Twitter was. She's still a little fuzzy on what Instagram and Pinterest do.)

  11. Kicks ass at Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon.

  12. Stole her tagline idea (“weird and proud”) from her son. Her tagline idea was, "Never wrong, not quite right." She liked her son's idea better.

  13. Breaks one vacuum cleaner a year because she ignores standard maintenance procedures (Really, you're supposed to empty the canister every time you vacuum? Does that seem excessive to anyone else?)

  14. Is still mad at the WB network for cancelling Angel in 2004.

  15. Can’t find her way from her bed to her bathroom without her glasses, but refused eye surgery, even when someone else offered to pay. (They lost her at “eye flap”. Seriously, look it up. Scary stuff.)

  Keep reading for a sample of Semi-Charmed, book 1 in the Harper Hall Investigations series!

  Semi-Charmed

  Chapter One

  Whispering Hope, New York, today

  Harper Hall swatted the fast-fingered hand of yet another horny, middle-aged CPA off her ass, but resisted the urge to dump tequila in this one’s lap. After all, the Prince Valiant haircut and underbite he was saddled with were punishments enough for his crimes.

  “Hey, baby,” Valiant’s friend said as he fondled his shot glass suggestively. “Is that a mirror in your pocket? ‘Cause I can definitely see myself in your pants.”

  Harper rolled her eyes and shot back, “Darlin’, I’m not your type. I’m not inflatable.”

  And with that, she turned on the heel of one of her requisite six-inch platforms and started for the bar as the CPAs chortled and bumped knuckles. They were probably looking at her butt too, but Harper chose not to dwell on that, or on the fact that most of said butt was probably hanging out of her Daisy Dukes. No
t her best look, to be sure.

  Lanie Cale, one of the other waitresses, grabbed her arm and leaned in, shouting over the music, “Hey, can you take over for me with the guy at table five? Carlos is letting me dance tonight. I go on in ten.”

  Harper gave her a quick once over. Lanie was five years her junior, ten pounds lighter, and had her beat by a full cup size. If she was Lanie, she’d probably aspire to be a stripper too. But as it stood, she was stuck waiting tables with the other B-cups.

  “Sure,” she answered. “But, Lanie, this guy at table five…he’s not a CPA, is he? I don’t think I have the strength for another CPA.”

  “No way is this guy a CPA. I’d bet Hugh Jackman’s abs on it,” she promised solemnly as she disappeared into the crowd.

  At that moment, the sweaty throng of dancers and customers and waitresses parted, giving Harper her first glimpse of the guy at table five.

  Wow. Hugh Jackman’s abs were in no danger tonight.

  The guy at table five was definitely not an accountant. Serial killer, maybe. CPA…um, no.

  Table five was wedged in the corner, to the extreme right of the stage, which was why no one usually wanted to sit there. But instinct told Harper this guy had refused to sit anywhere else. This was one of those never-let-anyone-sneak-up-behind-you types, maybe with a military or law enforcement background. Paranoid and probably with good reason.

  Everything about him screamed tall, dark, and brooding. From the black hair long overdue for a trim to the black-on-black wardrobe, complete with biker boots and a Highlander-like leather trench, this guy was either a true rebel without a cause, or the best imitation of one she’d ever seen.

  And he was drunk off his ass. Not the kind of happy, silly drunk the CPAs at table ten had going. No, Harper could tell by the way he was ignoring the half-naked dancer on stage that he was drowning his sorrows.

  Ignoring Misty Mountains wasn’t easy, either. Her brand new double D’s were mesmerizing, and the nipples kind of followed you wherever you went like the eyes on the creepy Jesus picture in her mom’s living room.

  As Harper watched, he polished off a bottle of Glenlivet and set it beside two other empties. She sighed. He’d probably pass out before he remembered to tip her. God damn drunks would be the death of her.

  Harper squared her shoulders and walked up to the table, then knelt beside him so he could hear her over the bassline of Bon Jovi’s Lay Your Hands On Me.

  “Can I get you anything else, sir? Like coffee?” Hint, hint.

  He didn’t even glance at her as he slid the empty bottles to the edge of the table and said, “Another bottle.”

  His voice sent a shiver down her spine. It was gravelly, raspy, almost like he’d growled the words instead of speaking them. Sexy.

  But sexy voice or not, she wasn’t about to serve him another bottle. He was probably a few inches over six feet and maybe a little over two-hundred pounds, but no one—not even a manly man like this one—could down four bottles of eighteen-year-old Glenlivet and blow a Breathalyzer that wouldn’t get him immediately arrested.

  “I think you’ve probably had enough for tonight.”

  He slowly glanced over at her as if he hadn’t really noticed her presence until just then. When her eyes locked with his, she completely forgot what they’d been talking about. Hell, who was she kidding? She forgot how to breathe.

  This had to be the most gorgeous potential serial killer she’d ever seen.

  He had a dark olive complexion most women would kill for, cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass, and eyes that were either black or the deepest blue she’d ever seen—it was too dark in the club to tell for sure.

  His perfectly arched black brows—and they had to be naturally perfect, because she was pretty sure this guy wouldn’t be caught dead waxing—raised sardonically as his gaze moved over her.

  Harper fought the urge to suck in her stomach and desperately wished her uniform was a size eight instead of a four. She had dignity in a size eight. Class, even. In a four…not so much.

  He lowered his gaze to her chest, and then slowly lifted it back to her eyes. “I doubt they’re paying you to think, sunshine.” Sliding the empty bottles even closer to her, he repeated, “Another bottle.”

  He’d said it very slowly, deliberately, in a manner most people reserved for slow-witted children and foreigners. The only part of her that wasn’t at all impressed with the guy’s fallen-angel face—which just happened to be her Sicilian temper—kicked in at that point.

  Harper straightened and snagged the bottles off the table, preparing to verbally flay him, but just when she’d figured out exactly how many four-letter words she could hurl at him in one sentence, a premonition hit her hard.

  People often asked her what premonitions felt like. Imagine someone punching a hole through your forehead and making a fist around your brain, she always told them. This premonition was no different.

  Harper staggered forward and planted one palm on the table to steady herself as images assailed her: a young, blonde woman in an alley pinned to a dumpster by a man twice her size.

  A vampire, she knew instinctively. Cold chills always shot down her spine when she saw them.

  Harper sucked in a deep breath and forced herself to concentrate on details other than the victim, just like Sentry taught her so many years ago. Instead, she tried to picture the dumpster, the buildings around it, street signs…anything that might tell her where this girl was so she could call the police and get her some help.

  And then she saw a logo printed on the side of the dumpster as big as life. Kitty Kat Palace.

  Holy shit, the vamp and his victim were here.

  Harper staggered back toward the kitchen, shoving drunks and other waitresses out of her way. In the kitchen, she tipped a wooden stool on its side and stomped on one of the legs.

  She bent down and scooped it up, testing its weight in her hand. Not the best stake, but it would do. Hopefully.

  Normally in a situation like this, Harper would let Romeo go after the vamp first, then help him if necessary. After all, slayers, even crappy ones like Romeo, were ten times stronger than the average human, and unfortunately, being a seer didn’t afford her any supernatural strength.

  But Romeo—the rat bastard—was probably at the Bellagio, hip-deep in hookers and craps winnings at the moment.

  Harper heard the woman scream as she kicked the back door open and stumbled into the alley.

  Just like in her premonition, a biker-clad vampire had the small woman pinned up against the dumpster with the weight of his body, one beefy arm across her shoulders, his other hand clutching her jaw so that he had a clear shot at her jugular.

  Harper’s heart clawed its way up to her throat as she met the woman’s horror-filled gaze. She could practically taste the woman’s fear.

  She swallowed hard and forced herself to break eye contact, taking stock of the situation. Her gaze flicked over the vampire.

  The vamp had at least eight inches and a hundred pounds on her. This could be a problem, common sense told her.

  But as usual, her mouth didn’t listen to common sense. “Hey, asshole.”

  The vampire raised his head from the woman’s throat, a crimson ribbon of blood dribbling down his chin. Cute.

  “Why don’t you pick on someone more my size.”

  Okay, so it was a line she’d picked up from watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer reruns. Witty repartee should never be wasted, even if it wasn’t original.

  He laughed, a hollow, cold sound that slithered up and down her spine, leaving goose bumps in its wake. “Run while you still can, little girl.”

  She shook her head and clucked her tongue. “I don’t think so, Vlad. Running? Not so much a good idea in these shoes.”

  His fangs slowly retracted like a cat’s claws, making him look almost human. Almost.

  “I like a girl with spirit,” he said. “Enhances her flavor.”

  “Wow, that was almost clever. I’m shocked.
I had you pegged as stupid and ugly. Maybe I can upgrade you to just ugly.”

  Harper had forgotten how fast a motivated vampire could move. One second he was ten feet away, and half a heartbeat later, he stood close enough to backhand her.

  And backhand her he did. For him it was careless, effortless. Like swatting a fly. It was still enough to fill her mouth with blood and knock her on her ass.

  From her position on the ground, she noticed the blond still frozen in place against the dumpster. “Run,” she mouthed.

  Obviously in shock, the blond stared at her as if she hadn’t noticed, and this time Harper shouted, “Run!”

  The girl finally seemed to snap out of her stupor. She spun on her heel and fled down the alley.

  Harper breathed a sigh of relief as she shakily climbed to her feet and faced a very large, very angry vampire.

  Yipes.

  “Bitch,” he said through clenched teeth, “I’m gonna take you apart piece by piece.”

  Again, common sense wasn’t Harper’s co-pilot as she spat back, “Gee, that might be scary if I didn’t already know you hit like a girl.”

  This time when he swung at her, she was ready for him. Harper kicked out as he lunged for her, catching him in the knee with her gold platforms.

  He went down with a yelp. “You bitch!”

  “Now, I’m getting real sick of you calling me that.”

  Harper tried to kick him in the face, but he was too fast for her. He grabbed her ankle and yanked it out from under her. She landed on her butt with an unladylike grunt.

  God, where was a good crossbow when she really needed one?

  He was on her before she could scramble to her feet, pinning her to the ground with his weight. She managed to free one of her hands and gouged his eye, gagging a little as her thumb sunk in up to the knuckle.