The bean counters at the publishing house had made it clear that’s exactly what would happen to Grace if Dr. Trulee Lovejoy didn’t agree to a book tour and media blitz. But Thea had compelling reasons for keeping her identity secret and refused to take part in the publicity campaign.
So Grace became Trulee, embarking on the requisite interviews, book signings, and talk show appearances. In retrospect she’d do it all again. That one decision had taken her from within steps of the unemployment line to bestselling author and daytime television star. Thea, who first opposed the subterfuge, became Grace’s reluctant partner-in-crime, keeping Grace’s secret, just as Grace had kept hers for years.
Now Grace, with occasional input from Thea, wrote the Trulee Lovejoy books, and Thea, the former reluctant love expert, was free to pursue her true passion—cooking. Thea’s first cookbook, Love Recipes: Secrets from Trulee’s Kitchen, became an overnight success. A month after the book hit store shelves, Grace had negotiated a half-hour cooking show for them on PBS. Love Recipes now appeared on affiliate stations coast-to-coast.
Tangled web, indeed!
“I’m not all that fond of Valentine’s Day, either,” continued her producer, “but tradition dictates and our sponsors demand that cooking shows feature holiday recipes. Turkey and cranberry dishes for Thanksgiving. Cherry pies on Washington’s birthday. Ham at Easter. Romantic dinners and to-die-for chocolate desserts for Valentine’s Day.”
“He has a point,” said Thea.
“Screw tradition,” said Grace. Valentine’s Day brought back the most painful memory of her life. For the past ten years she’d dealt with the day by calling in sick and throwing a pity party for two. Her only invited guest? Jack Daniels.
“We’re doing a Valentine’s Day show,” said Beck, “whether you like it or not. End of discussion.”
“If you insist.” Grace scowled at Beck, then turned to Thea. “Got any recipes for heart-shaped arsenic cookies?”
“What’s your problem with Valentine’s Day?” asked Thea once she and Grace left Beck’s midtown Manhattan office.
Grace sighed. “Long story.”
“I have time.”
“I’ll need a drink to get me through it.”
“One margarita coming up.” Thea steered her toward an upscale pub on the corner of Ninth Avenue and 50th Street.
“This tale requires something stronger than a margarita,” said Grace. “And definitely more than one drink.”
“Lucky for you it’s happy hour.”
“Don’t you have to get home to your hunky husband and that darling baby?”
“Luke is in Atlanta on business, and the nanny doesn’t expect me for another couple of hours. So I’m all ears.”
They found an unoccupied table in a back corner of the dimly lit bar. Grace waited to spill her guts until their drinks arrived—a double scotch on the rocks for her, a frozen raspberry margarita for Thea. “Brace yourself for another Dickhead story,” she said, referring to her ex-husband.
“Now why am I not surprised this has something to do with him?”
Grace scowled into her glass, then took a long swig to work up some courage. “We had a tradition on Valentine’s Day, dining at the restaurant where we spent our first date. Ten years ago, a week before Valentine’s Day, I found a receipt from Tiffany’s in his pants pocket.”
Thea raised her eyebrows.
Grace held up her hands. “I wasn’t snooping. Honest. I was taking clothes to the cleaner, and the jerk never remembered to empty his pockets before tossing clothes in the hamper.”
Thea nodded. “Go on.”
“Lucky me, I thought. But then late afternoon on the fourteenth Dickhead calls to say he’s had a client emergency and has to work late. He cancelled our reservation.”
“I can see where this is going,” said Thea.
“I couldn’t. Not at the time. I decided to place a take-out order. If he couldn’t come to the restaurant, I’d bring the restaurant to him. After all, he had to eat, right? Imagine my surprise when I arrived to pick up the food and discovered him all up-close and extremely personal with some skank just shy of jailbait.”
“Ouch.”
“Oh, that’s not the worst of it. While I’m staring across the room at him, not believing my eyes, he whips out a robin’s egg blue box from his pocket and hands it to her.”
“Double-ouch. Did he see you?”
“Not until I marched up to their table and dumped an order of steaming Shrimp Bolognese on his lap. I stormed home, locked him out of the apartment, and filed for divorce the next morning.”
She drained her scotch, then slammed her empty glass on the table. “And now you know why I hate Valentine’s Day.”
*
If Beck Delaney ruled the world, he’d cancel Valentine’s Day. Scratch that. He’d cancel all holidays. They only reminded him of everything stolen from him five years ago. Unfortunately, not only didn’t he rule the world, he didn’t even have total control of his own television productions. Gourmade, a major sponsor of Love Recipes, expected a Valentine’s Day theme to help sell their pricey confections.
Beck didn’t know why Trulee Lovejoy, otherwise known as Dr. Love, hated the one day of the year set aside for lovers. It made no sense, given the type of books she wrote. Not that he cared.
He knew little about his star other than she wrote books that women swore by. Love Recipes was PBS’s highest rated daytime show after all the kids’ programming, and that’s what mattered to Beck. The bottom line ruled.
He suspected Trulee Lovejoy was a pen name—what parents in their right minds would name their daughter Trulee Lovejoy?—but she’d never said, and he hadn’t asked. Beck believed in keeping the workplace purely professional.
He pegged Dr. Love at somewhere around his age, perhaps a few years younger, which would put her between her late thirties and early forties. With curves in all the right places and hair the color of honey, she looked damn good for a woman on the cusp of middle age. Every male head turned whenever she entered the offices or studio. Every male but one. His libido had died a long time ago.
*
Grace flagged down the waitress and ordered another double, her third.
“And an order of chicken quesadillas,” added Thea.
“I’m not hungry,” said Grace.
“I don’t care. You need food to sop up all that alcohol.”
Grace drained the last drops from her glass. “Whatever you say, mother.”
“When was the last time you went on a date?”
“Since the divorce?” Grace heaved a sigh. “Never.”
Thea’s jaw dropped. “Not once in ten years?”
Grace shrugged. “No time. Between working fifty hour weeks and single parenting, any free time is spent doing laundry. Grocery shopping. Cooking. Sleeping. And that was before I had to step in and become you.”
“And for that you’ll forever have my undying gratitude.”
“I know.” Grace smirked. “You owe me big time. However, you also scored the last man in the city worth having. Unless Luke Bennett has a clone hiding under some unturned rock in Central Park, I’m not interested. The rest of the species are either jerks, gay, or already taken. Or already taken gay jerks.”
“What about Beck?”
Grace laughed. “He falls into at least one of those categories, possibly more.” Although she had to admit Becket Delaney ticked off all her must-have boxes when it came to looks. She’d always been a sucker for tall hunks with dark, wavy-hair à la Patrick Dempsey. Beck looked enough like Patrick that when they first met, she’d nearly suffered whiplash executing a double-take.
“He’s taken?” asked Thea.
Grace shrugged. “He falls into the jerk category. Plus, I think he’s gay. Ever notice there are no pictures of a wife or girlfriend in his office? Has he ever mentioned one to you? He hasn’t to me.”
Thea laughed. “That’s pretty flimsy evidence. You never talk about your social life
. Does that make you a lesbian?”
The waitress arrived with their quesadillas, and Grace waited until she left to respond. “I don’t talk about my social life because I don’t have one.”
“Maybe Beck doesn’t, either. I think you need to get to know him better.”
“Why? Are you setting up a matchmaking business?”
“Because it’s time you moved on, Grace. Your hatred of Dickhead is keeping you from living your life. Ten years is long enough to wallow in self-pity. You need to make new memories to rid yourself of those old, painful ones.”
Grace bit into a quesadilla and waved away the suggestion. “Not interested,” she said around a mouthful of food. “One decimated heart per lifetime is enough for any woman, especially me.”
“Such an un-Trulee-like philosophy. Better keep it to yourself.”
“Don’t worry. I know what’s paying for those hefty tuition bills.”
“Good to know.” Thea grabbed a quesadilla. “You do realize if I’d espoused that philosophy, Luke and I would never have gotten together.”
“There’s always one exception that proves every rule.”
Even though she’d told Thea she wasn’t hungry, Grace had no trouble polishing off her half of the quesadillas. After she finished, she tossed her napkin onto her empty plate. “I hate to eat and run, but I need to finish editing a manuscript this evening.”
“Go. I’ve got the bill.”
“Thanks. My treat next time.” Grace reached for her purse and laptop. “Crap! I left my computer in Beck’s office.”
“Call him. He may still be there.”
Grace whipped out her cell phone and scrolled down her contacts list until she found Beck’s number. He answered on the third ring. “Beck? It’s Gr—uhm…Trulee. Did I leave my laptop in your office?”
“Hold on. I’ll check.” A moment later he said, “Found it. I’ll be here for at least another hour if you want to stop by for it.”
“Thanks. I’m on my way.”
Ten minutes later Grace stepped into Beck’s office and immediately spotted her leather laptop case where she’d left it on the floor next to one of the two chairs flanking his desk. She strode across the room. “Am I ever glad you’re still here. I have a ton of work to finish up tonight.” As she stooped to grab the case, the lights went out.
Chapter Two
“What the—?” Beck turned to look out the window. An overcast sky blocked the moon and stars. Only the headlights and taillights of the cars on the street below broke through the inky blackness that engulfed the city. All of Manhattan, from what he could see of it, had lost power. “This can’t be good,” he said.
“Tell me about it,” said Grace. “We’re thirty-four floors up. I’m certainly not excited about traipsing down all those stairs in heels in the dark.”
“You shouldn’t even consider trying it. What if you trip?” He squinted into the night. “It’s not snowing, so it can’t be weather-related. I’d think whatever caused the outage should be corrected soon.”
“You haven’t lived here long, have you?”
“A few years. Why?”
“Not long enough. Ten-and-a-half years ago all of New York, seven other states, and parts of Canada lost power for two days.”
“From a storm?”
“In a manner of speaking. A combination of untrimmed trees in Ohio and a software bug in the electrical grid created a cascading failure—a perfect storm, so to speak.”
“How do you remember such details?”
“Trust me, when you’re stuck twenty stories up in the dark for nearly forty-eight hours with two bored kids, one really pissed off husband, and no air-conditioning during one of the hottest weeks of the year, you remember every freaking detail of the nightmare. At least we don’t have to worry about heat stroke this time. Although I suppose we could freeze to death.”
“How optimistic of you. Wouldn’t the electric company have taken steps to prevent something like that from occurring a second time?”
“Probably.”
“Which means this outage is most likely caused by something else.”
“Like what? Hackers?”
“Possibly. Cyber-attacks are growing among terrorists.” Beck turned on his phone, bathing the room in a muted glow. “No service. Not a good sign.”
“I’m guessing you don’t have any candles,” said Grace.
“Not a standard issue office supply around here.” He used the light of the phone to guide them both across the room to the small sofa he camped out on during those nights when he couldn’t bear returning to his empty apartment. “We might as well make ourselves comfortable.” He settled into one corner while she seated herself at the other end. “So who are you, really?” he asked.
*
Could Beck see the heat rise up her neck and into her face? “You should conserve your battery,” said Grace.
He switched his phone off, plunging the room into darkness. “Is that your way of avoiding the question?”
She waited until her eyes adjusted to the blackness. She could barely make out the dim silhouette sitting a few feet away from her. “You know who I am—Trulee Lovejoy.”
“When you called, you started to introduce yourself as someone else.”
“You must have had poor cell reception.”
“Trulee Lovejoy can’t be your real name.”
“What’s wrong with Trulee Lovejoy?”
“Lovejoy I can buy. It’s not the most common of surnames, but it is a legitimate one. However coupled with Trulee, it becomes a joke. Like Kanye West naming his daughter North. Poor kid.”
“And yet he did. Celebrities often give their kids odd names.”
“Were your parents celebrities?”
“Does it matter?”
“You still haven’t answered my original question.”
Grace debated whether or not to divulge the truth to Beck. Did it really matter if he knew her legal name? She released a deep sigh. “My real name is Grace Wainwright.”
“Why Trulee Lovejoy?”
“I needed a pen name, and it works for the books.” He didn’t need to know that the pen name was originally chosen for Thea, not her.
“What does your husband think about those how-to-snare-a-guy books you write?”
“I’m divorced.”
“Because of the books?”
“Because of his penchant for jailbait.”
“Sorry.”
“That makes four of us.”
“Four?”
“You, me, and my daughters. There’s a certain ick factor involved when your father shacks up with someone young enough to be one of your classmates.”
“Understandable. Can I assume your divorce has something to do with your hatred of Valentine’s Day?”
All that alcohol she’d consumed with Thea might have loosened her tongue, but she wasn’t about to divulge her Valentine’s Day humiliation to a man she barely knew. “You can assume anything you want. I’m not answering any more questions until you dish up some answers of your own.”
“Like?”
“Like why you’re not very keen on Valentine’s Day, either.”
“I’d rather not say.”
“No fair.”
“It’s personal.”
Grace slammed her fist onto the sofa cushion. “So are the questions you’re asking me, Beck.”
“Let’s just say I’m not fond of holidays in general.”
“Is your real name Ebenezer Scrooge?”
He had the audacity to chuckle. “Guilty as charged. Are you hungry? I’m going to root around the other offices to see if I can find some food for us.”
Grace felt him rise from the sofa. “That was a less-than-subtle way of changing the subject.”
“I’m devious that way. Still, I am hungry. I’ll be back.”
As she heard him head down the hall, she wondered about the secrets Becket Delaney kept bottled up inside that hunky body of his. Their banter
would grow old quickly, and if the power didn’t come back on soon, a long night stretched before them. How would they fill those boring hours once they both grew tired of small talk?
She decided she’d ignore him and get some work done. Grace reached for her laptop. She’d charged her battery earlier in the day. That gave her at least four or five hours of juice, plenty of time to finish those manuscript edits. Hopefully, by then the power would be restored.
*
Foraging around unlocked offices in the dark netted Beck the remains of a birthday cake from a party earlier in the day, an unopened bag of pretzels, a dish of M&M’s, and half a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue Label.
“At least we won’t go hungry,” he said, reentering his office. Aided by the light from Grace’s computer, he deposited the stash on the coffee table in front of the sofa. “This should see us through to breakfast tomorrow. If the power is still out at that point, at least I’ll have daylight to aid me in my search for more provisions.”
Grace picked up the platter with the cake and removed the plastic wrap. “Forks?”
“Couldn’t find any. We’ll have to use our fingers.” He reached over, broke off a wedge of cake, and held it up to Grace’s mouth, smearing chocolate icing across her lips. “Open up.”
When Grace opened her mouth, Beck deposited the cake onto her tongue. “Hmm, delicious,” she said. Her tongue darted around her lips and the edges of her mouth, scooping up the chocolate.
“You missed some.” He ran his index finger along the corner of her mouth, then pressed it between her slightly opened lips.
Big mistake. When Grace sucked the chocolate from the tip of his finger, a certain part of his anatomy sprang to life—for the first time in years. He scooted away from her and grabbed the bottle of Johnnie Walker. Instead of dampening his sudden appetite, the large swig only heightened his growing discomfort.
He tried small talk to move his mind off the bulge in his pants. “What are you working on?”
“My day job.” She lowered the laptop lid, plunging them back into darkness. “And that’s all you get until you cough up some info on yourself.” A moment later Beck felt her finger skim chocolate icing across his lips. “Touché,” she said.
Love, Valentine Style Page 13
