by Olivia Luck
Independent.
Fierce.
Brave.
Life stretches ahead of me with endless possibilities.
I’ll never forget my dear Max, and I’ll never stop being grateful for all of the gifts he gave me.
Now I’m able to see that one of the gifts Max gave me was the knowledge that he loved me enough to want the best for me. Always.
The best for me, it turns out, could be the man cradling me in his arms.
“You’re my light, sweet Violet.” Cameron’s lips are hot on my ear. Pleasant shivers crawl up the length of my spine.
And the rest is magic.
Cameron
“Where are we going?” Violet asks for the third time. There’s a blindfold obstructing her vision while the driver navigates through the city. Chuckling, I thread her fingers through mine.
“Be patient.”
Violet grins. She looks too damned sexy wearing that blindfold. This is something I’ll have to bring back to my place tonight. We pull into the circular drive of the tower. Gripping Violet’s hand in mine, I help her emerge from the car.
“I can’t see anything,” she half complains.
I slip my arms around her waist, walking her forward. My voice is low when I speak against the shell of her ear. “I’ll never let you fall, Violet, unless I’m there to catch you.”
Passing by the doorman, I smile and indicate he be quiet. The man nods knowingly and opens the security door, allowing me to take Violet toward the elevator. We enter the car and I press the button for the penthouse. Violet’s back presses against my front, and my arms are snug around her.
“Will we make it to our friends by midnight?”
It’s New Year’s Eve and I stole Violet away from the party at Stella and Blake’s to bring her here. This time last year, she and I watched the snow fall and talked about fate. Tonight’s going to be very different. Confidence is at an all-time high.
“Probably not,” I respond.
“I hope Iris is okay there. She’s been off lately and no matter how many times I ask, she won’t fess up,” Violet worries.
“She’s a big girl. You’ve got to give her some space to find her own way.”
“I guess,” Violet grumbles.
She can’t see, but I’m smiling at her overprotective tendencies.
The penthouse opens to a private apartment. Huge. Four thousand square feet. Only the best for my Violet. With our hands linked, I walk her to the floor to ceiling windows, listening to the click of her heels on the floors.
“Okay. That elevator trip was too long to be anywhere low to the ground,” she muses.
Slowly, I unravel the blindfold and tuck it into my pants pocket for safekeeping. I slip my arms around her waist again, pulling her back to me. The evidence of my arousal is impossible to hide, but she decided to wear the same dress as from the Scrapers gala. She gasps at the sweeping views of the city.
“Wow,” she says breathlessly. “This is stunning. But . . . what is this?” She arches her back enough to tilt her head up toward mine.
“This could be your view every day if you want it to be.” I know my expression is mischievous and the mystery bugs Violet because she jumps out of my embrace and whirls around to face me.
“Explain yourself, Cameron Stone.” She crosses her arms over her chest, drawing my attention to her breasts. I forget myself until she prompts me with an exasperated sigh.
“I want to live with you, Violet Harper. Do you like high rises? How about a loft? This could be our place or somewhere else. Anywhere else. Let’s make a home together—our home with Rocky. Live with me.” Taking her hand in mine, I raise it up and brush my lips against her knuckles. “I want to go to sleep next to you and wake up next to you. I want to fight over what to order in for dinner and keep trying to teach you how to cook. I want to fall in love with you more and more every day.”
I’ve known for what seems like ages but didn’t want to rush Violet by saying those three little words.
“You love me.” It’s not a question. By her tender expression, I know my confession is well received. I anticipated this type of reaction and inwardly I smile. “That’s good. Really good. Because I want to live with you and Rocky. I want to make a home together, one with a big bed for us to lie down together in at night and rise up from the next morning. I want to argue with you about Thai versus Indian and I want you to keep trying to teach me how to cook, no matter how hopeless I am. Most of all, I want to fall more and more in love with you every day.”
Halfway through her response, I move forward. By the time she’s finished, her back is pressed up against the glass. Somewhere in the distance, fireworks crackle, illuminating the night sky.
“Happy New Year, Violet.”
And then we’re not talking at all.
The End
PINPOINT
IRIS’S STORY
All my life I followed the rules. I lived under the iron rule of my father and did what was expected of me.
Until now.
I want to live in the big city. Make new friends. Get a great job. Meet a man that makes me swoon. Fall in love.
Sounds straightforward enough, but making my way in a city of six million isn’t as seamless as I want it to be. And the man is more sour than sweet.
Something’s got to give. And this time it won’t be me.
AN EXCERPT FROM PRESSURE POINT,
STELLA AND BLAKE’S STORY.
Moving day for new students and those heading back to Illinois University, a school smack dab in the middle of the state, for another year away from home is full of possibilities and excitement.
For new students: What will your roommate be like? How big will your room be? Who will be your new friends? What major should you choose?
For returning students: How long ’til you ditch the parents and can start partying? Who will your date be for winter formal? Will your fake ID still work at the bars?
That’s all well and good for them. But not me. I’m a Resident Advisor, also known as an RA. I’ve already been on campus for two weeks and had the time to agonize over date parties, bars, and my major in business management. Today, for me, to put it plainly, sucks.
For RAs, there are edgy parents fretting about leaving their kids behind to do heck knows what at college. Once the parents are finally gone, it’s time to help the petrified freshmen connect their televisions to the cable boxes and tell them how to find the dining hall.
Luckily for me, I don’t have to deal with roommate issues as an RA. Because I’m a junior, I’ve scored a coveted spot in the singles dorm. As in, each one of the residents on my floor has a private bedroom. No fights over a late night party in the room and sex while the other roommate is sleeping lay in my future. For that, I am wildly grateful. Unluckily for me, as an RA, I can’t escape the duties of helping new students settle into their life at Stanley Hall.
I knew all this when I signed up for the position, but the free room and board was too tempting to turn away. There will already be a neat pile of student loans waiting for me when I graduate next year, but my scholarships and the meager salary my RA job provides will help to lessen the balance. Once move-in is over, the job is cake. It’s the first week with students that’s tiresome and, frankly, annoying.
Reaching up, I tighten my ponytail holder, giving my long hair some volume. It does little good. Many strands frame my face instead of being pulled back. But it’s my job to be a perky one-woman welcoming committee to ease the nerve of the parents, not a beauty queen. To that effect, I’m wearing a pair of jean shorts, a university t-shirt, and white Chucks.
I wander down the boring, eggshell-colored hallway. Aside from the nametags I painstakingly cut out of construction paper and affixed to each doorway, there’s not much personality to Stanley Hall’s corridors. Give the freshmen one week and they’ll turn this place into a sty. As I stroll by open doors, I offer a welcoming smile at the residents. I’ve introduced myself to all but one
so far, and I don’t dare interrupt the final moments of family bonding.
At the end of the hall, I find the last resident has finally arrived. Zoe Baker, according to the roster I have, is from Chicago and will major in library sciences. Her door’s wide open when I peek in and I hear a muffled yelp from inside.
“Crap!”
No parents fret around this dorm room. Time to turn on the RA charm.
Tapping the back of my hand on the wide-open door, I peer into the 150 square foot room. Without a window, it kind of looks like a jail cell, but that’s neither here nor there when it comes to privacy from a roommate.
“Come in, Blake.” Her voice comes out muffled from the depths of the closet.
“I’m not Blake, but I can offer help if you need,” I tell the mass of white blonde hair as I survey the chaos surrounding the room. Half-open suitcases litter the floor and boxes are stacked high. The one thing that looks to be functioning properly is a flat-screen television, mounted to the wall and broadcasting the sports channel.
Zoe turns around, slightly startled, but a huge friendly smile set in place. “That would be much appreciated. I don’t know where Blake went.” Her brow furrows. I assume that Blake’s the boyfriend. It’s not really my business and I’m not here to get the lowdown on her social life, just provide assistance when necessary.
“What’s happening?”
“The bar thingy in my closet fell and I swear that I didn’t hang anything on it. Poked my head inside and it crashed down.”
“Ah, the unforgiving bar thingy. I’m familiar with that one,” I tell her with a smile of my own. Last year, I had some students from hell living on my floor, snobs who wanted nothing to do with the lowly RA. Zoe being friendly right off the bat is refreshing. “May I?” I point toward the closet rod in her hand.
“By all means.”
I drift around a plastic drawer organizer and meet her at the closet door. She hands me the slippery device and I step in the closet.
It only takes a minute for me to snap the bar back in place. It’s a tension rod and probably got knocked around when the cleaning crew came last week to do a final run through of the dorm. Leaning down, I lift up her velvety hangers (Fancy. I have the plastic ones.) from the ground and place them in their new home.
“You’re a lifesaver!” Zoe cheers when it’s in place. She throws her arms around me while we’re still half in the closet and squeezes me.
I can’t help but laugh. “It’s no sweat off my back. I’m here to help.”
“Cupcake?” The voice is gravelly.
“In here, Blake!” Zoe calls, pushing the door open wider so we can walk out.
The second my eyes snap to the aforementioned Blake, I freeze. Locked up tight like the Italian sculptures my mom is always prattling on about.
He’s beautiful. Can you say that about a man? Too bad if it’s emasculating to think that about an Adonis. I’m employing that word in this situation because it is one hundred percent accurate. He looks strangely familiar, but surely, I’d remember coming across a man this gorgeous. I shake off the strange sense of recognition, cataloging his appearance covertly.
Or as covertly as possible.
The first thing that I notice is his smile. God, it’s gleaming. Straight white teeth in a perfect row, their brightness is practically blinding. His hair is the color of Frangelico, the hazelnut-colored Italian liqueur that my mom uses to make martinis. It’s styled off his forehead, longer on top and shorter on the sides, but in an orderly fashion. His eyes are a few shades deeper than his hair and are serious. Not unfriendly or standoffish, but I get an immediate sense that not much slips past his all-seeing gaze. There’s a few days’ worth of stubble covering his chin. It does nothing to take away from his appeal. In fact, it makes him more masculine, more alluring.
“Did you find my corkboard?” Zoe asks.
Shoot! Zoe. The girl who lives on my floor. The girl who I am responsible for. How is Blake related to her? Is he a boyfriend? The guy looks to be at least ten years older than her, and a few less than that older than me. Gawking over this guy is not part of my Resident Advisor duties.
“Yes, yes.” He waves the black-framed board at her. “It fell under the seat.” He glances at us curiously. “What’s happening in the closet?”
Zoe gives a self-deprecating but still smiley shrug. “Of course, I busted the bar. But she . . . Wow, you saved me from a freshman year with clothing piled at the bottom of my closet and I didn’t even get your name.”
“Stella.”
Whoosh. All the breath in my lungs departs when he says my name. Did he mean to sound that sexy? And how did he figure out my name? Maybe I do know him from somewhere. It’s possible that he’s been in my family’s restaurant in Chicago’s Little Italy neighborhood, but I would have a remembered a man like him.
“Do you know Stella?” Zoe jumps in, and at the same time, I blurt out, “How do you know my name?”
Smooth.
Blake arches an eyebrow that’s slightly darker than his thick hair. “I can tell you two will get along famously.”
I dare to look at Zoe, who’s watching me. When our eyes meet, it takes only half a beat for us to burst out laughing. We must have realized it at the same time.
“My name tag.” I shake my head then extend a hand to Zoe. “Welcome to IU and Stanley Hall. I’m your RA and closet aficionado, Stella Baccino.” Instead of taking my hand, she throws her arms around me in another laughing hug. At first, I’m startled by her affection, but then I go with it. And that’s coming from someone who loves sharing her fondness for friends and family through hugs.
“My brother’s right, this will be the beginning of a beautiful friendship,” Zoe says. Her enthusiasm is contagious and suddenly I’m looking at the whole RA job differently. Maybe Zoe and I will get close.
Hold that thought. Zoe just called that gorgeous male specimen her brother. A sense of relief washes over me like I was anxious about him being taken. Wherever these reactions stem from, they’re confusing. One second, I’m drooling, the next, anxious, and now calm because I know that he’s not Zoe’s boyfriend. The chaotic emotions are all kinds of wacky and unlike my normally even demeanor.
Blake hasn’t seemed to notice the war of emotions battling deep within me. In fact, he’s watching Zoe with unchecked confusion.
“I know,” she huffs in exasperation, “but my RA should know my brother in case of an emergency, right?”
Hmm. That reaction is strange. Why wouldn’t he want me to know that they are related?
“Sure,” I chirp, all about not revealing what I’m thinking.
I need to get out of here before I make a fool of myself.
Donning an invisible shield of nonchalance, I retrace my steps from Zoe’s moving materials. “It was a pleasure to meet you both. Zoe, I’m on the opposite end of the hall if you need anything.”
Just a few more steps and I can retreat to my room where I’ll forget this incident ever happened. Mooning over the brother of my resident is clearly a mistake—one to toss in the garbage the moment that I shut my dorm room behind me. I’m too busy imagining ways to pretend this whole meeting never happened to notice the extension cord half a foot from Blake and the only obstacle in my way of making a hasty escape.
The toe of my sneaker catches on the cord, and my body jerks forward, arms flailing as I try to maintain my balance. “Oh!”
Automatically, Blake launches into action. Large, warm hands clasp my shoulders tightly and lock me in place. It’s the simplest of touches, no intimacy at all, but still I swoon. Crappity, crap, crap! There’s a flash of heat where his hands rest on me, and then just as quickly, chills cascade down my shoulders. Now, more than ever, I need to escape this room.
“You okay?” he asks; his serious eyes now lit up with humor.
There’s no mirror on her wall yet, but if there was, I’m sure I’d see scarlet cheeks in my reflection. They’re steaming hot and I’m mortified. My gaze
jumps to Zoe, who is too busy wrenching open a box to observe the comedy hour going on over here. I step out of his grasp quickly and his hands fall to his sides with no desire to touch me any longer than necessary.
“Fine, just fine.” The words tumble out of my mouth like gibberish. “There’s one more thing that I forgot to mention.” Does Blake actually think that I planned to stick around? By the way he’s fighting a smile, it’s obvious that he can tell that I’m flustered. “Floor meeting at six outside my room. See you then.”
I whirl around, scrambling out of the room without waiting for a response from either of them. If I were the type of person to write in a journal, then the entry for today would start out with, “Dear diary, today I embarrassed myself in front of the hottest guy I’ve ever seen. Nice.”
No one on the floor calls out to me as I hurry back toward my safe haven. It takes all the strength that I have not to turn around to see if Blake or Zoe is watching the crazy lady who departed the room. But I don’t feel any eyes on me. They’re probably too busy unpacking to realize how big of a dweeb I am.
Yeah, that’s what I’ll tell myself.
On move-in day, RAs are required to keep their door open until the hall meeting. There’s only one sliver of hope to shut out the world to me when I enter my brightly decorated room. Second to free room and board, a private bathroom is the top perk of being an RA. Inside the windowless room, I click the lock shut behind me.
I brace my hands on either side of the tiny white vanity and stare at my pale blue eyes in the mirror. Something weird happened to me and I have little explanation for it. Normally, I’m pretty reserved. My twin cousins, Max and Dominic, teased me relentlessly while we were growing up to elicit a reaction. What can I say? I’m even-keeled.
Except for today, apparently, and it’s a little scary to think that some random guy could elicit this physical response from me. There’s only one person who I can tell this charade to, and I think that I need to wait until Blake’s left the premises to call my mom and moan about my gawkiness.
