ReWined Vol I ~ Kim Karr

by Karr, Kim

  I hadn’t thought about it like that, actually. He had a point, and I stumbled on my comeback. “It was manip . . . manipul . . . manipulative,” I finally managed.

  Tyler was beautiful—and I really did hate him. He took my hand. “Come with me, Love, we have some things to work out and not a lot of time.”

  I raised my palms in protest. “I am doing no such thing. Your contract mandates I have three of your children for goodness sake. Mandates!”

  He shrugged and looked chagrin. “Yeah, well, that probably wasn’t the best language to use. I can change that.”

  “Change it. How about you delete it!”

  His mesmerizing blue eyes widened, and he flashed me that dimpled smirk. “We can discuss it, calmly, alone in Wilhelmina’s chauffeured car, like the adults that we are. And for the record, naked would be my preference.”

  My heart drummed with an excitement I shouldn’t have been feeling. “I am not having sex with you in a car and I only want two kids.”

  That same smirk remained on his gorgeous lips.

  Was I really negotiating with him, here, at the courthouse, while another man was waiting to marry me?

  I stepped closer and narrowed my gaze. I wanted to tell him to climb a tree. Jump into a lake. Take a one-way trip. To forget it. To get lost.

  Anything.

  However, my eyes shifted and it was then that I saw his three friends. Grayson, Christian, and Julian were all dressed in suits standing at the end of the hall. Striding toward them were three women I knew from my short stay at The Jane Whitmore School for Girls, Tabitha, Darcy, and Lane.

  I’d heard Grayson had married Tabitha, but I had no idea Darcy was with Christian and Lane with Julian. Wait, no Darcy was with Julian and Lane with Christian. Wow, I never saw that coming.

  I pointed. “Why are they here? What’s going on?”

  He leaned down low, his warm breath washing over me when he spoke. “I told you, we’re getting married, Love, and they’re here to bear witness to happy occasion.”

  “Never,” I breathed out, my voice a husky whisper as I stared into those intense blue eyes. “You’ll have to handcuff me first.”

  That slow, sexy grin formed on his gorgeous face. “I’d be more than happy to introduce kink into the bedroom, but first you have to stop pretending you don’t want me as much as I want you.”

  I narrowed my gaze at him and he just smiled that smile that drove me wild. I looked back at Henri who wasn’t even going to fight for me.

  I was at a crossroads.

  Go one way, and I had Henri with a chance to turn Highway 128 around under corporate guidance. The thing was, Henri was under his parents’ thumb and I already knew he refused to stand up for himself, that was why he was marrying me. So, what were the chances of Highway 128 coming out in tact?

  Go the other way, and I had Tyler offering a merger with California Jane and no guaranteed outcome. However, I also had a man who was proving more and more to be very determined.

  Tyler pulled at some of the ruffles of my hideous dress. “Time to go. I had the girls run some errands for our wedding. You can change in the car.”

  In that moment, I hated him. I hated him so much it made my stomach as weak as my knees.

  He was arrogant.

  Rude.

  As charming as he was annoying.

  He was anything but husband material.

  Yet, I loved the way he looked at me. The tone of his voice when he spoke. The way he made me feel like I was the only person in the room.

  Loved?

  Love?

  Is that what I was feeling?

  It couldn’t be.

  His perfect square jaw ticked as if he was fighting a smile. “What did you just say?”

  Oh, crap, had I really said the word out loud for the second time in my life?

  “You’re so going to be my wife,” he chuckled.

  Was I?

  TO BE CONTINUED . . .

  Stay tuned for more Tyler and Paris in ReWined Volume II

  ReWined Volume II

  Sneak Peek

  Paris Fairchild

  I STARED AT the contract and tried not to laugh.

  The taped-up pieces of paper with my snarky comments written all over them didn’t exactly make it a legally executable document.

  Tyler and I were sitting in the back of Wilhelmina’s car and the driver was speeding down the freeway on his way to San Francisco.

  Using his sexual prowess to get what he wanted, Tyler tossed his chocolate brown hair out his flashing blue eyes and pointed to the entire page. “You want me to delete all of these items?”

  I nodded. “Yes, that one and the following page, too.”

  He took both pages and tore them in half the opposite way. Something primal entered his eyes when he handed both pieces to me. “See, I know how to negotiate.”

  Satisfaction brimmed in my gaze. “I have a few conditions of my own for you to add,” I said insistently.

  One sexy eyebrow lifted. “Do you now?”

  His tone was sinfully delicious and elicited a shiver that took it’s time running up my spine. “Yes.”

  “And those would be?”

  “First, you have to agree that this marriage is temporary. As soon as our families’ businesses are back on track, we go back to our separate lives.”

  “Not happening, Love. Marriages don’t work that way. There’s no language I can put in here that wouldn’t nullify the entire contract if I add the word temporary.”

  My gaze narrowed. “Fine, just as long as we both agree, this is temporary.”

  He shook his head. “It doesn’t have to be.”

  “It does, Tyler, you and you know why.”

  He closes his eyes. “I have changed, Paris, and I will spend whatever time we have proving it to you.”

  Believing him was easy, but letting the heartbreak go, that was anything but. “Next,” I said firmly. “I want separate bedrooms.”

  Covering his mouth, he laughed into his palm and then coughed. “Yeah, okay, sure, Love.”

  I pointed to the paper. “Write it down.”

  With his fancy pen, he wrote, “#25. Husband and wife shall maintain separate sleeping quarters.”

  “I also want a no cheating clause.”

  His body went taut. “You know I never cheated on you.”

  I motioned to the paper. “Write it down.”

  He did without protest. I had no idea if he had or had not cheated, but sitting beside him now, I believed him.

  Trust was a hard thing to earn and an even harder thing to keep, though, and we both had a long way to go before that word left out lips.

  Satisfied, I took the document from his grasp and found page 3. “Here, this clause, it bothers me.”

  He read it over and glanced up. “I can’t change that, Paris. There’s a huge chance we won’t be able to maintain the cash flow it takes to operate two wineries, even with the merger. One is more than likely going to have to fold into the other.”

  “And let me guess which one?”

  “You’d be wrong,” he said sternly.

  “But you’re telling me we have to decide between Highway 128 or California Jane?”

  He nodded.

  I gave a harsh laugh. “So it’s you and me in the boxing ring going round for round for the next eight months?”

  He bit his lip and sucked it between his teeth contemplatively. “I’m not sure I’d put it that way, exactly, but yes. In the end, we take the name of the family business that is most profitable at the end of the season. It’s spelled out in the following items,” he pointed.

  I skimmed them again and reluctantly agreed.

  “Should we address birth control?” he asked with a rueful smile on his lips.

  I glared up at him. “No, we shouldn’t because we won’t be having any more sex.”

  One eyebrow lifted and amusement twisted his lips. “Is that right? Should I add it to the contract?”

  I
snatched the pen from his hand. “That’s not necessary. Now, where do I sign?”

  His roaring laughter filled the car. “On the dotted line.”

  Don’t forget to pick up

  ReWined Volume II

  &

  If you enjoyed this dramatic romantic comedy,

  be sure to read:

  NO PANTS REQUIRED

  —a steamy enemies to lovers romance, also available in Kindle Unlimited!

  JUST THE MERE suggestion of karaoke gets everyone’s heart pounding. Whether it’s out of excitement or pure, blind panic depends on the individual and that person’s frame of mind at the time.

  The truth is that most people sing karaoke for the same reasons they go bowling—it’s a fun activity and they can drink while doing it.

  With that being said, perhaps some of the people that are here can get up and confidently belt out their most favorite song in the world with no concern for the eardrums they are perforating or the notes they are destroying. Unfortunately, I am not one of those people.

  To be honest, I can’t believe I even agreed to do this.

  Then again, Bar On is not where I thought I’d find myself tonight. This Chinatown lounge may be packed full of eager-to-sing regulars, but my friends and I are not those people. We are here on a whim after a few too many drinks at a restaurant down the street.

  Shuffling through the crowd, I stop when someone taps me on the shoulder. Thinking it’s one of my friends, I turn around to see a tall, leggy brunette with the most vibrant green eyes staring at me. Her face is stunning. She looks like Megan Fox. For a second, I wonder if she is.

  She steps closer and right away I can see this woman is a bit younger, though—my age, I’d say. “Do you mind if I get by?” she asks with one of those affluent tones I know all too well from my days in private school.

  Definitely not Megan Fox.

  Without waiting for me to answer, she pushes past, and in her rush, steps on my open-toed pump.

  Ouch!

  I glare as her red Louboutin soles make their way to the front of the lounge.

  “Come on,” my coworker tosses over her shoulder, not at all bothered by the woman who brushed past her, too. “Sandra found us a table.”

  India leads the way, and I follow, making sure not to step on any toes in the crowd. Finally, she stops at the only available table large enough for our group, which just so happens to be right in front of the stage.

  Fantastic.

  The white leather banquette is awash in the neon light emanating from the human-sized letters that spell the establishment’s name across the back wall. The light is nearly blinding. I look at Sandra. “Are you sure you want to sit this close?”

  She hands me a menu of songs. “Yes, this is going to be great.”

  “Pour Some Sugar on Me” is coming to an end and once I’ve slid all the way across the bench, I look up to see a group of very pleased guys jumping off the stage in unison. The Def Leppard wannabes are staring at us.

  This must have been their spot.

  All clean-cut, all fuck-hot, all about my age. Immediately, I can tell by their walk that they are definitely Upper East Siders. Prep school, riot club types turned Wall Street wolves would be my guess. You know—the kind of guy your mother warns you about.

  The type I should have stayed away from.

  The guy closest to me is wearing a red tie and has his black jacket slung over his shoulder. The others are dressed in dark suits, too. Hmmm . . . either dressed up for an occasion or still dressed up after the occasion. Not a wedding, since it’s a Thursday night. An office party, maybe? Or perhaps this group of drunken men is here for a going-away party like mine. Who knows? Anyway, the guy with the red tie gives the eight of us girls a quick glance and a smile but doesn’t stop.

  He’s cute. Really cute.

  At least he doesn’t seem to mind that we took their table. Then again, he’s too focused on the guy without a jacket farthest away from me. “Cam,” he calls out. “Don’t bother with her.” His warning is too late, though, because this Cam, whose white, rumpled shirt and dark hair are all I can see, is already allowing himself to be dragged away from his group by that Megan Fox look-alike who practically ran me over minutes ago.

  Fascinated by her assertiveness, I watch the two of them. I have to crane my neck to catch sight of them, and soon, too soon, they disappear into the crowd. Squinting my eyes, wishing I’d changed my dirty contact lenses, I search for them.

  In a matter of seconds, though, it’s not my poor eyesight but Sandra who prevents me from locating them. She stands in front of me with a huge-ass smile on her face. “What song did you decide on?”

  Giving a cursory glance at my choices, the perfect one is the first I see. “‘Total Eclipse of the Heart,’” I blurt out and point excitedly at the same time. This song I know, and know it all too well.

  Sandra is my neighbor and is more than aware of all my woes. That sad smile she gives me borders on pity.

  Not wanting to be that girl anymore, the one who got her heart broken, I grab Sandra’s arm before she heads toward the karaoke booth. “You know what, forget that song. Why don’t you pick one that represents the change coming in my life?”

  At that her eyes light up.

  Minutes later I’m being dragged up onstage by my friends and coworkers, and according to the screen, I’m about to sing a group rendition of “New York, New York.”

  Okay, I can do this.

  I know this song. Not as well as “Total Eclipse of the Heart,” but at least I know it. Besides, how hard can it be? I’ve sung it a million times—although admittedly mostly when I’ve been drunk.

  Then again, I have had a lot to drink tonight.

  The pressure is on. The eight of us gather around the microphone. The audience lights dim and a spotlight shines on us. I kind of feel like a star. No, I feel like Frank Sinatra himself without those penetrating blue eyes. But when the karaoke jockey asks, “Are you ready?” suddenly, I’m petrified. There is no way on God’s green earth I am going to be able to hit the high notes.

  The music starts. It’s too late to back out. First, it’s just the piano, but then the trumpet and clarinet join in. It’s odd, but the familiarity of the sound eases my nerves. When the lyrics flash in front of me, all my worries are gone and I don’t care anymore.

  I let all of my hang-ups go and sing.

  This, what I’m doing right now, is a glimpse into the old me. Somewhere between college and the real world, I lost that fun-loving girl, and I hope I can find her again.

  Don’t worry. I have a plan to do just that. Not only am I leaving the city I have loved for so long, but I’m also going to be moving far, far away, with no idea if I will ever be coming back.

  It’s how I hope to find myself.

  My friends squeeze my shoulders, and we continue to sing the lyrics. Unexpectedly, they alter the words, and instead of talking about making it in New York, they tell the story of making it anywhere—in my case, California.

  More than moved by this kind gesture, I gulp down the sorrow and move with them in a way that doesn’t match the tempo at all. It doesn’t matter, though, because they’re right: “If I can make it here, I can make it anywhere.”

  God, I hope that’s true.

  There’s a pause in the chorus and the piano melody quiets us all down. We’re now standing in a straight line onstage and swaying back and forth.

  Breathing for the first time in three months, regret isn’t a word I am going to allow myself to say . . . out loud, anyway.

  Yes, I admit it—I have a type A personality, which makes me hard to get to know and even harder to be friends with. Crossing my t’s and dotting my i’s will always be important to me. As is staying on a schedule. Making lists. And being organized. But none of that means I’m boring.

  The sting of the word still hurts.

  Sebastian was wrong. Is wrong—I am not boring, and even though he is out of my life I am going to pr
ove him wrong. No, scratch that—I am going to prove to myself that I can live my life wild and free, because truth be told, I may not be boring, but I am bored.

  I need a change.

  To find myself.

  The chorus starts up again and although we sing about coming to New York, we all do so knowing that I’m leaving.

  I still can’t believe I’m doing it.

  When my best friend, Maggie, suggested on the phone, “Why don’t you quit your job and move out here with me?” I nearly broke out in hives.

  I thought, why would I do that?

  My life was settled. I had a good job, an apartment, and a fiancée. Then I remembered that my boss was an ass, my apartment was a sublet, and my fiancée, well, he wasn’t mine anymore.

  Once I let the idea of moving sink in, I thought, why not make a new start? At twenty-four and a half, I can afford to make a change. I’ll get a new job. Give myself a year. Who knows, maybe even find myself.

  I have nothing to lose.

  If Laguna Beach isn’t the place for me, then I’ll come back to New York. And if I have to, I’ll grovel to get back my old job at the fashion house. My soon-to-be-former boss might be an ass, but he knows my value to the company as a designer.

  Completely oblivious to how this song ends, I mumble through it, laughing the entire time. When it’s over, I’m the first to stumble off the stage. Soon after, my friends follow, and we all huddle together. The group of boys our mothers warned us about have reoccupied their seats, leaving us homeless.

  “Let’s sing another one,” India suggests, practically jumping at the idea. India is—no, as of today, was—my coworker at Kate von Frantzenberg. We’ve been friends since we both started there right out of college. She’s married to a great guy named Elvis—yes, Elvis. And she, like Sandra, saw me through the dark times following my breakup with Sebastian.

  Another song does seem like fun. Karaoke is addicting. However, my bladder is about to burst. “You guys go for it,” I tell her. “I’m going to use the bathroom and I’ll hop in when I’m done.”

  “Stay out of trouble,” she calls to me.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll be good,” I tell her and weave my way through the crowd toward the restrooms.