Seducing Lola
by Jessica Prince
Copyright © 2017 by Jessica Prince
All rights reserved.
Visit my website at www.authorjessicaprince.com
Formatting by Jill Sava, Love Affair With Fiction
Model Photo: Perrywinkle Photography
Editors: Erin Garcia & Hot Tree Editing
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Front Matter
Books by Jessica
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Epilogue
Connect With Jessica
THE PICKING UP THE PIECES SERIES:
Picking up the Pieces
Rising from the Ashes
Pushing the Boundaries
Worth the Wait
THE COLORS NOVELS:
Scattered Colors
Shrinking Violet
Love Hate Relationship
Wildflower
THE LOCKLAINE BOYS (a LOVE HATE RELATIONSHIP spinoff):
Fire and Ice – Griffin and Pepper’s story
Opposites Attract – Richard and Delilah’s story
Almost Perfect – Collin and Devon’s story
THE PEMBROOKE SERIES (a WILDFLOWER spinoff):
Sweet Sunshine – Derrick and Chloe’s story
Coming Full Circle – Ethan and Eliza’s story
A Broken Soul – Quinn and Lilly’s story
DEADLY LOVE SERIES:
Destructive
Addictive
Obsessive (coming soon)
CO-WRITTEN BOOKS:
Hustler – with Meghan Quinn
STANDALONE TITLES:
Nightmares from Within
Chance Encounters
Seducing Lola
Lola
IF YOU’D HAVE asked my twenty-year-old self what I saw in my future ten years down the road, I probably would’ve answered the same way as every other naïve co-ed living the college dream on Sorority Row.
I’d be married to the love of my life, raising our two perfect children in the suburbs — because the city is no place to bring up a family, obviously — and driving a top-of-the-line SUV that all the minivan moms would envy because I had way too much style to ever be caught dead driving a minivan.
Clearly, my twenty-year-old self was an idiot.
It was she who forgave — then was subsequently dumped by — my college sweetheart after finding him pile-driving my sorority sister from behind on the handmade quilt I’d spent countless hours creating out of his old high school football T-shirts as a birthday present. His brilliant excuse? “You’re just not adventurous enough, Lola. She’s willing to try things in bed that you aren’t.”
Apparently refusing to allow him to film us having sex and entering it into a contest on a porn site was just too vanilla for him. Last I heard, he was making a killing on the amateur scene.
Unfortunately, my twenty-one and twenty-two-year-old selves weren’t all that smart either.
It was my twenty-one-year-old self who discovered I’d unwittingly been made a beard by Brad, the guy I had dated for six months, because his evangelical parents just “wouldn’t understand.”
BTW, Brad and Phillip’s wedding was a really lovely affair. He asked me to stand as his best woman — since he considered our relationship the reason he finally made his way out of the closet — but I turned down the honor, choosing instead to get annihilated on mojitos at the open bar.
My twenty-two-year-old self thought I had finally found a decent guy. That was until I came home to find him doing something I’ll never be able to unsee to a pair of Louboutins I’d spent the better part of a year saving up for.
The saddest part? I hadn’t even had a chance to wear them before his defilement. I didn’t have the heart to throw them in the trash, so I let him take them with him when I kicked his ass out.
I should’ve known better, honestly. It wasn’t like I’d grown up in a home with my very own personal June and Ward Cleaver. Oh no, my parents split when I was only six years old. And it was anything but amicable. My mom never kept her hatred for my father secret. And dear old Dad never hid the string of women he kept on tap, one for whatever mood he may’ve been in. It was shocking that I hadn’t grown bitter at an even younger age, having to deal with their drama, but I was in my early twenties and still a believer in happily ever afters.
Like I said, I was an idiot.
Now I know what you’re thinking. After three miserable failures, I was probably a jaded cynic who was convinced true love didn’t exist.
Well, you’d only be half right. See, I believed in love, sure… as long as it was happening to anyone other than me. I’d been the fateful target of that bastard Cupid’s stupid-ass arrow three times already; I had no desire to go for a fourth. I wasn’t anti-relationship when it came to other people. To each their own and all that jazz. And I didn’t hate men. I just didn’t believe they were of any use to me for anything other than a few hours of fun that eventually led to a — hopeful — mutual release before I sent them on their way.
I learned from my mistakes, grown wise as the years passed. I knew exactly what I wanted out of my life, and believe me, there wasn’t a shitty picket fence in sight. If the suburbs were for families, then the city was exactly where I was meant to be. I was a successful, accomplished thirty-two-year-old woman who’d gotten where I was in life by hard work, perseverance, and the cluelessness of women all around the world.
My name was known in households all throughout Washington State. I, along with my two best friends, hosted Seattle’s most successful female-based talk radio show, aptly titled Girl Talk. I’d managed to make more money in the past ten years by offering relationship advice to helpless women than I’d ever know what to do with.
It was safe to say the rose-colored glasses were off. I lived in the real world where men cheated and women drowned their sorrows in vats of Ben & Jerry’s.
Sure, I wasn’t living the future I saw for myself when I was twenty, but then again, at twenty, I still thought Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston were meant to be, that Wedding Crashers was cinematic brilliance, and that the whole Tom Cruise/Oprah couch jumping “I’m in love with Katie Holmes” thing was actually romantic. What the hell did I know back then?
A lot had changed over the years. And as I gazed out the floor-to-ceiling wi
ndows of my penthouse apartment, overlooking the Puget Sound, I could honestly say without a shred of doubt that I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Lola
“AND YOU WON’T believe what that asshole you call a father did this time!” My mother’s voice echoed through the receiver, drowning out the honking cars and the clicking of my five-inch Gucci heels on the pavement as I crossed 7th Avenue. The typical bustling city sounds were lost as Elise Abbatelli ranted and raved through my cell phone.
“No telling, Ma,” I answered with a roll of my eyes.
“Well I’ll tell you!” she continued. “He showed up at The Met with that… that… woman! It was like he wasn’t the slightest bit embarrassed to have a call girl on his arm during the mayor’s birthday celebration! I tell you, Lola, that man has no shame whatsoever. It’s humiliating to know we run in the same circles.”
I let out a deep sigh as I shoved open the glass door of the Starbucks near my building and joined the line of customers, all of us in desperate need of a morning pick-me-up. I inhaled the rich scent of brewing coffee and the sweetness of the pastries as I searched for my calm. Talking to my mother had a tendency to drive me a little batshit. Then again, I came by it honestly, seeing as my own mother was more than just a little crazy.
“For the last time, Ma, Chelsea isn’t a call girl. She’s a gold digger. Contrary to popular belief, there really is a difference. And you wouldn’t run in the same circles if you’d just stop attending all the events you know Dad’s going to be at. The only one you’re torturing is yourself. Hell, no one would even know you two had been married once if you’d quit going around and announcing it to all of Manhattan.”
“Don’t you sass me, Lola Arianna Abbatelli!”
The irony that my father’s surname stood for “little priest” in Italian wasn’t lost on me. The last thing Roberto Abbatelli could ever be compared to was a priest. The man was toeing the line of sixty and still couldn’t keep his dick in his pants. But then again, why would he? He built his investment firm from the ground up, eventually earning so much success he’d been listed in Forbes more times than I could count. With money and power like his, fidelity and commitment were a joke.
“I’m not sassing you, Ma.” I sighed again, moving up another step as the long line shuffled forward. “I’m just stating facts. You’ve been divorced for over two decades. With the money you got from that settlement, you could go anywhere, yet you insist on staying in Manhattan where you know you’ll run into Dad constantly. What’s the point? Move to the Caribbean or something! Find a smokin’ hot cabana boy to fill your free time.” I heard a masculine snort of laughter come from behind me but was too entrenched in my mother’s rantings to give it any thought.
“I have a life,” she insisted haughtily. If I’d been standing in front of her, I had no doubt her chin would have been tilted up, nose in the air. “I have friends—”
“You have acquaintances. And I’ve met most of them, Ma. Believe me, you wouldn’t be missing out by shirking them off first chance you get.”
She didn’t argue with that, knowing good and well most of those so-called friends were nothing but bloodsucking leeches. “I have my work.”
I let out an indelicate snort. “You don’t work!”
“I’ll have you know I’m on the boards of many very influential charities.”
Another eye roll. “You can write a check from the beaches of Barbados.”
“Well… I have your brother!”
There was no way I could suppress my eye roll just then. “That’s just sad, Ma. Dom’s a grown man. You should’ve cut the cord a long time ago. You’re making excuses.”
“I am not!”
I lowered my voice, making sure to keep my tone soft as I said, “I get it, Ma. I do. Dad was the love of your life and it sucks having to let him go, but you’re never going to move on if you’re constantly bumping into each other. And I’m tired of seeing you get your heart broken. You deserve better than anything he could ever give you.”
The line was silent for several seconds before she finally declared, “I’m happy with my life, thank you very much.”
My shoulders slumped ever so slightly. It wasn’t the first time we’d had that particular conversation, but it didn’t hurt any less. My mother was in pain and refused to do anything about it. I tried to be understanding, but it was just so damned frustrating. It was like beating a dead horse, then turning around and banging my head against a brick wall. Trying to make her see reason was pointless.
“If you say so,” I told her as the line shuffled again. “But it’s your loss. There’s probably a young guy named Marco on one of those islands just waiting for you to come and show him what it means to be a real man.”
“So scandalous,” she chided, but I could hear the smile in her voice. “If you’re really concerned with making me happy, you’d quit this nonsense and give me the grandbabies I’ve been dying for.”
I finally reached the front of the line, holding my phone to my chest and placing my order before moving to the side and lifting the receiver back to my ear.
“Hate to break it to you, Ma, but if you want grandbabies, you need to start annoying Dom about it. Odds are he’s got at least one illegitimate kid out there anyway. He is his father’s son, after all.”
Mom gasped loudly, the very definition of scandalized. She was probably clutching her pearls just then. “You watch your mouth, young lady!”
I ignored her chastisement. It had always been like that. As far as she was concerned, Dominic would always be her “perfect little boy,” philandering man-whore and all.
“As it stands, if some guy’s spunk manages to break through the condom I’ll definitely be making him wear and my birth control pills, we have some serious problems of the biblical variety.”
“Language, Lola!” my mother admonished at the same time someone let out a choked cough from behind me.
I chanced a quick glance over my shoulder, my face drawing in the “sorry, didn’t mean for you to hear me” look I seemed to have to paste on my face every time I was out in public. That filter most people were born with, you know, the one that kept them from spewing totally inappropriate things when in crowded places? Yeah, I so didn’t have that. And it wasn’t something that had ever embarrassed me. Maybe it was the Italian in me, but I’d always said exactly what was on my mind right when I thought it, eavesdroppers be damned. I mainly apologized because it was the politically correct thing to do.
The man who’d just heard me trying to convince my mom to get her groove back Stella style while shooting down her hope for future grandbabies all in the same conversation was standing two feet away, hands in his front pockets and a knowing smile stretched across his picture-worthy face.
“Sorry,” I mouthed as I did a quick scan of his body. In just those few moments, I was able to tell his suit was high quality, no doubt designer. And judging from the broad expanse of his shoulders, tailored to fit his body. And what a body it was. Slightly disheveled chocolate brown hair, amazing green eyes, a square, chiseled jaw, and a nose that was just crooked enough to make him appear rugged without going Owen Wilson overboard wrapped up the insanely hot package. The dude was most definitely spank bank material.
I’d made an art out of reading men over the past decade, and this guy, with his expensive suit and casual confidence, screamed money and power. Both of those attributes, while hot as hell, were something I stayed far, far away from when it came to the opposite sex.
I tended to go for middle-of-the-line good guys who didn’t take life too seriously. I found they were the easiest to scrape off whenever the sex became monotonous or I just got bored and wanted to move on. Men who wielded power in their professional lives had a tendency to think they could carry that over into the personal side — including the bedroom. And when it came to sex, I always had the power. I didn’t allow it any other way. Losing power only led to heartbreak, and despite what my career would lead people to belie
ve, I was of the firm opinion that heartbreak was for suckers.
So, despite the fact that the man behind me was the type to rev my engine, sadly, it wasn’t meant to be.
“Lola? Lola, you there?”
I spun back around at my mother’s voice, determined to put Mr. Power Suit out of my mind. “I’m here.”
“You know, there’s nothing wrong with settling down,” she told me, the same line she used every single time we talked.
I snorted — loudly. “There’s nothing right with it either.”
“Lola Arianna—”
“Abbatelli, I raised you better than that,” I interrupted, imitating her nasally, put-out tone as I finished her trademark sentence for her.
“I do not sound like that,” she harrumphed, causing me to smile.
“How about this. You don’t push me for marriage and babies, and I won’t push you for hot, sweaty island sex. Deal?”
“What did I do,” she started, undoubtedly looking at her ceiling as she spoke to God — yet another thing I’d grown accustomed to seeing during my life, “to deserve such a crass, uncouth daughter?”
“Just lucky, I guess,” I answered snidely as the barista called my name and sat my drink on the counter. “Now I have to go,” I told her as I pushed through the morning crowd, trying to get to that big cup of caffeinated goodness. “I need to get to the station and I haven’t had coffee. I’ll call you back tonight and we can talk shit about Dad for your allotted thirty minutes.”
“I do not talk shit, Lola,” she said, as if the very thought were beneath her. “I simply express my exasperation at his childish antics.”
“Tomato, to-mah-to.” I shrugged, even though she couldn’t see. “Gotta go. Love you, Ma.”
“Love you too, sweet pea. Talk soon.”
I disconnected the call and slid my cell back into my red Kate Spade bag before reaching for my venti white mocha. “Mmm,” I hummed, eyes closed in delight as I sucked down that first necessary sip. That first hit was always the best. And yes, I was aware that comparison made me sound like a crack addict, but whatevs. I was a hardcore coffee addict and wasn’t the slightest bit repentant.
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