Love Him: A Love Him, Hate Him, Want Him Novel

by Blaze, Stella

  Stacey blinked. “That’s a really long time.”

  I shrugged. “That’s the point.” I suddenly felt kind of stupid for giving her such sage advice, and for the second time in less than a month I’d personally fallen into bed with Jake… on our first dates.

  I got a head-rush just thinking about it.

  I shook those thoughts out of my mind and looked to Stacey. She looked contemplative, like she was mulling over what major to go for in college.

  “That’s smart,” she finally said, and then turned around and checked her makeup in the mirror. “Forty days and forty nights… I can do that.”

  Thank god. I sighed and threw my wadded up paper towel in the trash as I made to leave.

  “Hope?” Stacey asked just as I reached out for the door handle.

  I stopped and looked back.

  “Does that mean I have to stop having sex with other people for forty days and forty nights too?”

  Oh sweet Jesus, HELP!!!

  “Well, Billy seems like a one-girl-at-a-time kind of guy, doesn’t he?”

  She smiled. “Yeah, he does.”

  “So you think you might want to be that one girl?”

  She took a beat and then nodded.

  “Well then, you have to decide if you want just him, or if you want an open relationship. Whatever you decide, though, you need to talk it out with Billy. It’s only fair.”

  “Yeah,” she said, “It is.”

  Oh the tangled, messed up love lives of the young.

  I caught my reflection in the mirror over the sinks and could hear my inner voice chime, “Look who’s talking.”

  Thank the culinary gods that our food was waiting for us when we got back to the table.

  I was starving!

  Chapter 48

  I was still in a silver cloud of happiness the next morning. Jake had gotten up early and left me with a long, deliriously lovely kiss. Even in my sleepy haze I'd tried to drag him back into my bed with me. But the man could not be deterred from his job.

  An admirable trait at any other time… but as long as he came back, either with food or his sexy self, then I’d let his admirable traits slide.

  I took a shower and was sitting in my kitchen wearing a pair of jeans and a t-shirt that I must have put on on automatic pilot, because I didn’t remember picking them out. I had an empty mug of coffee in my hand, staring out my kitchen window.

  Another thing I hadn’t noticed was that Raphael was sitting in my kitchen too. His cup of coffee wasn’t steaming any longer, and the look on his face was not only vacant but kind of miserable looking.

  Two people in the same room lost in their widely different thoughts.

  My thoughts were happy, utterly sex and love soaked.

  Raphael’s seemed more on the end of the world theme.

  I opened my mouth to ask what the problem was, but then decided that I might need the coffee I hadn’t poured myself to handle anything he might end up telling me. Especially if it was about me… or about Bette.

  Especially about Bette.

  I got up, poured myself a cup of coffee, snagged a piece of peach vanilla bread Raphael had obviously brought over—yum, at least the man didn’t lose his ability to bake just because he was at whit’s end—and retook my seat.

  I opened my mouth again to ask Raphael what was wrong, and my backdoor swung wide open.

  Bette stood there, her hair in a sloppy ponytail, no makeup on, and her wardrobe…

  Well, she looked like she’d prowled around in my closet to get the outfit she was wearing. A pair of mousey, loose fitting brown corduroy pants, a strange pink and orange t-shirt that somehow made her magnificent chest look nearly nonexistent, and a pair of pink Crocs.

  Crocs?!?!

  I didn’t even own a pair of Crocs.

  What the hell was going on?

  Bette stood there, motionless in my doorway for a few awkward beats.

  Raphael looked up at her, his expression blank, but every one of his lovely muscles clenching—even his jaw.

  Oh, this was not good. It was worse than I’d thought. They’d gone from mild sparks and flirtation to bitter exes—all in less than twenty-four hours.

  What. A. Mess.

  I rolled my eyes. “Shut the door and pour yourself some coffee.” Bette blinked at me. “We’ll start the meeting as soon as everyone’s caffeined up.”

  “What meeting?” the two of them said together.

  “The meeting for the Chronically Clueless in Love, that’s what.” Not that I’d fared all that well until yesterday, but I couldn’t stand to watch my two neighbors flail around in No Love Land.

  Just then my phone rang and I tapped the screen on the smart phone. “Hello?”

  “Jesus fucking Christ, Hope! What in the name of god have you done?”

  It was Janine, and she sounded oh-so-pissed-off at me.

  “Janine, let me explain—”

  “Explain!” I heard something crash to the floor on the other end of the connection, and then a muttered “Goddamn it!”

  “Janine…”

  “I told you how important it was for you to get Poe to work with us. I think I was more than clear that this had to happen, no matter your past personal relationship with the man.”

  I clenched my eyes closed and tried to think of something to say that would appease her.

  “Janine, could you just—”

  “Do know how many of our authors want him on our team? How many potential authors are showing interest in Branded Publishing just because he was rumored to be interested in working for us?”

  I felt all the happiness I’d pulled around myself in the last day just fall away. I was going to lose my job. No matter how good I was at it, no matter how many covers I’d shot for her, Janine was going to fire me.

  Unless I consented to work with Eric.

  And that was one thing, no matter how I looked at it or thought about it, I just couldn’t do.

  I wouldn’t do.

  I felt suddenly like I was looking up at the world from the bottom of a deep pit.

  Was I going to submit? Did I have any choice?

  I felt Raphael’s hand close around my hand, the one holding onto my phone.

  I stared up at him as he took the slim device from me—I had forgotten he was even here.

  “Hope is busy right now,” he said into the phone, his expression pissed off. “She’ll get back to you whenever she gets the time.” And he thumbed the phone off and slid it in the front pocket of his jeans.

  I sat there, too stunned to say anything.

  Bette looked about the way I was feeling at the moment. We were both extremely confused.

  “That was my boss,” I whispered, my voice cracking.

  “I know.” He walked over and picked my laptop up off the counter and headed for my back door. He opened the door and looked back at me, impatiently tapping his foot. “Well, are you coming? This will be so much easier with you there.”

  “Me there… for what? And where is there?” I asked, standing up and looking at him like he’d gone crazy.

  “Grab the bread,” he said, then gave me a wink. “We’re going to my place. I’m going to make you a star.”

  Chapter 49

  So I grabbed the delicious peach breakfast bread and traipsed after Raphael, closely followed by Bette.

  “What is he doing?” she asked as we traversed the side yard and headed to his house.

  “Well,” I said as I tripped on some overgrown grass. “He said he was going to make me a star. Maybe he had too much caffeine today? He was acting really weird until you showed up.”

  Bette stopped in her tracks for a second, and then rushed after me. “What do you mean?”

  I had to roll my eyes. “Well, until you walked in he was sitting, staring off despondently, like his little hottie heart was broken—or he had cancer of the puppy.”

  “Oh.”

  Yeah, oh…

  “So I guess something bad happ
ened between you two?”

  Bette suddenly got real quiet.

  Just as well, we’d just made it to Raphael’s backdoor. It was open and he was sitting at his table, my laptop and his open. He was typing into his, but my laptop’s screen was flicking from file to file.

  “What are you doing?”

  Raphael looked up at me as if he didn’t know who I was. It was a little scary, until he blinked and shot me with one of his megawatt smiles.

  “I’m just making you a little website.” His eyes jerked to the side and then flicked here and there over the room. As if he were seeing or reading something that wasn’t there.

  Creeeeeepy…

  I looked to Bette to tell her exactly that, but found her with a rather enamored look on her face. Like she were looking at That Puppy in the Window.

  When I looked back Raphael was typing on his laptop again, making my laptop flicker and beep like it was having a freaking orgasm.

  “What are you doing to my laptop?”

  He didn’t even look up, just kept on typing, his fingers moving just under the speed of light.

  “I connected it to my home group, so I can us your cover designs and some…” he stopped for a moment, even his fingers stopped typing. He had a wicked smile on his lips when he looked up at me again.

  Oh no…

  “When was this Finding Nemo picture taken?”

  Crap!

  Bette rushed up behind him and whooped with delight.

  I didn’t have to look: I knew what they were looking at.

  A year ago I got sucked into a trip to Disney on Ice, and wound up backstage with three youngsters, their hyperactive mother, and the national silver medalist female ice skater who was playing the titular character in the Finding Nemo ice show.

  Suffice it to say, I ended up donning the orange and white striped costume at the kids’ rather loud insistence—since the national silver medalist was refusing to pose with any fan under twelve: she claimed they might injure her during their time of physical contact.

  She was, of course, spot on. I had more bruises from that fifteen minute experience than I had from my one and only fender bender.

  I closed my eyes and cringed as they both heckled me and laughed. Bette was on the verge of tears.

  “Please tell me you’re not using that photo on the website you’re creating.”

  Raphael chuckled. “Nah, I think the one of you in the white angora sweater is more… alluring?”

  Shiiit…

  I’d forgotten that one. I’d toyed with the thought of going as Peg Bundy from Married with Children to a Halloween party last year. After I’d snapped the picture I’d decided to try another costume. The results of teasing my hair and putting way too much makeup on—added with the breast enhancing power of the angora sweater—was just disturbing.

  Leave it to Raphael to find my only “trampy” photograph.

  “Does there have to be a photo of me on the website?”

  “Yes,” Bette and Raphael answered in the same matter-of-fact tone of voice… speaking of creepy.

  “Customers are more apt to buy from a seller who has a personal picture on their profile,” Raphael added, taking a moment to reach for his coffee.

  “But I’m not selling anything.” I said. Why was he making a website for me anyways? “It’s not like I can just start selling book covers…”

  They both turned and looked at me at the same time, identical expressions on their faces.

  And those expressions both said, Yes, you can.

  And they were right. I could. I could become a freelancer.

  Sure, sure… that’s a great idea. You’re sure to make a living that way, and to keep the mortgage up on the house, and gas and insurance on the Taurus, and electric and…

  It took backing and internet professionals, and high-tech savvy to start up a business. And the only book covers I’d ever made were for Janine and Branded Publishing.

  I looked over Raphael’s shoulder as he typed what looked like spy code into his laptop.

  I looked over to my laptop and saw a website… my website.

  It was a dreamy, cloudy white, with a touch of pink and orange and gray—like a beautiful sunset. And there was a revolving line of the book covers I’d done for Branded Publishing—including the Olivia Lovelace cover, with Jake…

  The white clouds really made the covers pop on the screen; made each one look absolutely beautiful.

  I scrolled down on my computer and saw my angora sweater photo.

  “Can’t I have a picture that represents what I really look like, not Peg Bundy!”

  Bette came over, handed me a cup of coffee, ran her fingers through the front of my hair, and then stepped back, raised her cell phone up, and snapped a picture.

  “Hey!” I groused.

  Bette tapped her fingers on her phone and said, “I just sent you a pic, Raff. See if this one makes her happy.”

  I took a deep breath and glowered at her, ready to lay into her, when the new pic replaced the angora sweater picture.

  There I was, just like I always was, ponytail, t-shirt and a cup of coffee.

  Bette came up beside me and scrutinized the photo. “Absolutely no drama or glamour.” She looked at me and shook her head. “Suits you to a T.”

  I looked at the picture and didn’t care. It did suit me to a T.

  I watched as Raphael and Bette put together my website. Bette would advise Raphael on the look of the site, and even dictated my profile bio.

  I was surprised when Raphael started to fill in my experience. Not just that I’d created the photographs and designed the covers, but how well each books did—how they sold. I literally never look at how Janine had changed the covers on the Branded Publishing home page. Four of the books I’d covered had made it onto the New York Times Bestseller List. Many more, almost all of them, had been on the USA Hot 100.

  I was shocked I hadn’t heard anything about it from Janine. And truthfully, a little disappointed I hadn’t found this stuff out for myself.

  All I would have had to do was go to the Branded site and look.

  Maybe Raphael was right? Maybe I was being egregiously undervalued?

  That stirred me up inside, the thought that I’d been a dupe for the last two years.

  But in the pit of my stomach I could still feel that nagging insecurity. Could I really, truly go on by myself? Could I attract clients without being associated with Branded or Janine?

  “So I’m using your existing email,” Raphael said, looking up from his laptop at me. “Unless you think you’d rather have a dedicated business email?”

  “That would mean checking two emails, daily?”

  He nodded.

  “Then I’m firmly on the side of one email.”

  After all, it wasn’t like I was going to get that much business from…

  My jaw dropped as I took a gander at my brand spanking new website.

  It. Was. Gorgeous.

  Looked like heaven, and the best part was that everything on it I’d created.

  I had no idea my work was so… pretty.

  No, not pretty. It was beautiful.

  I’d created things of beauty.

  “You’re a genius,” I said, my voice breathless. I looked at him and blinked. “How much do I owe you?” A website like this had to be expensive.

  Raphael shrugged his big, hard shoulders. “Nothing.”

  “Oh, come off of it. How much do I owe you?”

  Raphael clicked on his laptop to show me a page full of what was assuredly some sort of computer language. It might as well have been in Chinese.

  “I used your credit card to sign you up with a good server.”

  I blinked and tore my gaze from my gorgeous website. “How did you use my credit card?”

  He smiled wickedly. “Don’t worry, it’s only a twenty dollars a month charge, and since it took me,” he checked his wrist—which didn’t have a watch on it, “about twenty minutes to set the ent
ire site up, I’d say you could buy me a really nice large pizza. Double pepperoni.”

  I snorted. What an asshole: a sainted, too freaking kind, generous, brilliant, infuriatingly arrogant asshole.

  He turned back to his computer screen and started clicking keys again. My laptop started flicking through all the pages he’d created to go along with my site. One page was a contact page, so potential customers could just type in their requests and hit send.

  “This page, and the Contact button that leads to it, are the most important features on your site. Customers must easily be able to contact you. That’s another reason I made your site so simple.”

  Simple?

  “Not everyone has streaming wireless, so you want to keep your website easy for them to download if that’s the case.”

  “Of course,” I said, and shook my head. The man really knew what he was talking about.

  “And here.” My laptop flickered to another page, this one with a line of the covers I’d made up as examples of possible covers for Janine’s party… what, a couple days ago?

  Seemed like months ago.

  As I watched, the line of covers slid away and another line of my covers took their place.

  “These you can market as pre-made covers. That way you can sell them with the least amount of fuss. Just type in their title and name, and voila!”

  Wow…

  “How much do you want to charge for these?”

  How much? Well…

  I told him how much I was paid per cover from Janine, and Raphael scoffed, and then posted a flat price for all the pre-made covers that was three times what I’d said.

  “No one’s going to pay that much,” I shrilled.

  Now there was a good way to go out of business before I even started.

  “I made it simple for them. I put numbers—one to fifty-five—for each cover.”

  I had fifty-five pre-made covers?

  “So if someone wants to buy one, they just email you, send you the payment via PayPal, and you finish the cover and email it to them. Simple.”

  I nodded dumbly. “Simple…”

  “Just check to make sure the payment has been made before you finish the cover and send it, okay?”

  “Okay.” My head was swirling.