Sweet Life

by Nina Lane

  “I strongly suggest,” he corrected.

  “Too bad you weren’t around when Sam and I were at the chapel.” She crumpled up the bag, her mouth twisting. “You could have strongly suggested I said no instead of yes.”

  “Would you have listened to me?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “Frankly, so do I.” She tilted her head back, squinting up at the stars. She pulled her legs into a cross-legged position, wavering off-balance for a second. “Oh, shit.”

  She clutched Warren’s arm. He let her steady herself on him. Julia gave a breathless laugh, curling her fingers into his shirtsleeve. Her breasts pressed against his forearm, the strap of her dress slipping down again. Warren cursed under his breath and grabbed her shoulders.

  “Careful,” he warned.

  “I don’t like being careful.” She pushed closer, blinking up at him, her blue eyes luminous in the stark light of the parking lot. “I like being carefree.”

  She tugged him so they were face-to-face—her seated on the car hood, him standing. Warning signals flashed in his brain again.

  “Come on.” He took his keys from his pocket. “We’re going home.”

  “Becca will be mad at me for getting drunk.”

  “As well she should be. If you want to stay with us, you need to be responsible.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “What a horrible word. Responsible. You sound like Becca.”

  He tugged his arm away from her. “Let’s go.”

  “Not yet.”

  He turned the instant she fisted the front of his shirt and pulled him closer. Her mouth crashed down on his, open, hot, and wet. She moaned, gripping his arms, her fingernails digging into his skin. In the instant of shock before his rationality broke through, he tasted butter on her lips, lemons, something sweet like cherries.

  “Julia!” Warren yanked his head away, his chest filling with an unnerving combination of irritation and heat. “Stop it.”

  “I don’t want to.” She scooted to the edge of the car hood, twisting her fists into the front of his shirt. Her breathing increased as she hooked her legs around his waist. “Kiss me back.”

  “No.”

  He grabbed her wrists, untangling her grip from his shirt. She tugged again, rising up to press another open kiss to his mouth. Christ, the girl kissed like she was made for the act—all eagerness and soft, wild heat. She drew his hand to her breast, and again before he could think straight, he felt her hard little nipple against his palm, the heaving of her chest, the warmth of her skin burning through the thin material of her dress. She murmured his name, crushing her body against his.

  Goddammit. He ripped away from her so fast she almost lost her balance again. She gave a growl of frustration and slid off the hood, wavering as she took a step toward him.

  “Steady.” Warren darted forward, sliding his hand under her arm before she fell.

  She lowered her head, her long hair sweeping down to conceal her face. Trembles ran visibly through her body, and he realized she was crying.

  He groaned inwardly. “Julia, let’s go home. It’s been a really long night.”

  “I don’t want to go,” she wailed, dropping her head against his chest. “I’m sick to death of her being the perfect one and me being the screw-up. I have a life too, and just because it’s not like hers doesn’t mean it’s worthless.”

  “She never said it was.” Warren patted her arm gently. “Now get in the car.”

  “And go back to your house so you can be with her?” Julia sniffled. “I’m so jealous that you guys have this, like, perfect marriage and I couldn’t even get mine to last more than three months. Why can’t you just give me a taste of what you and Becca have? No one needs to know.”

  “Julia, I am married to your sister. I’m… oh, for fuck’s sake.”

  She’d pulled away from him and was starting to lower the straps of her dress to expose her breasts.

  “Julia, stop it.” Warren held up his hands, his spine stiff enough to break.

  “Is that an order or a strong suggestion?” she asked mockingly, twisting one strap between her fingers, lowering it just enough to—

  “Everything okay here, folks?” An authoritative voice boomed through the night air, a bright light suddenly shining in their direction.

  Shit.

  Julia froze. Warren turned to find a police car parked nearby, two officers standing outside the open doors. He moved between Julia and the officers, blocking her from their view, his hands still up.

  “Everything’s fine, officers,” he said. “My friend here just had too much to drink and is walking it off.”

  “Looks like she’s doing a little more than walking,” the second officer observed, peering past Warren’s shoulder.

  “She’ll be fine,” he said, sensing Julia’s distress like a sudden storm. “If you need my ID, it’s in my wallet. Okay if I reach for it?”

  The officers exchanged glances.

  “Never mind, but you’d both better move along,” the first one said. “We’ll wait for you to go.”

  Warren nodded, turning to grab Julia’s hand. She was trembling, her eyes dark and her skin burning red with embarrassment. He guided her around to the passenger seat and got her buckled in. Giving the officers another nod of thanks, he climbed into the driver’s seat and left the parking lot.

  Julia huddled against the car door, wiping tears from her cheeks.

  “You okay?” He couldn’t help reaching out to touch her hand, hoping to offer some measure of comfort.

  “I’m so sorry.” Her voice was very small.

  “It’s over. Everything will be different in the morning.”

  And it was. Because Julia was gone.

  Chapter

  ELEVEN

  Julia is a Latinate feminine form of the Roman family Julius. Julius is derived from the founder Julus, son of Aeneas and Creusa in Roman mythology. The name may also derive from the name of the Roman god Jupiter.

  Interesting. Not mind-blowing, but interesting.

  But considering Julia-derived-from-Julus had one week left before the Deck the Halls final performance and needed to finish the Jingle Belles’ dresses, she really didn’t have time to sit at the Wild Child bakery searching name websites on her laptop.

  Although it was nice to be able to check another item off her Before Fifty list.

  Julia put a blue checkmark beside #39—Learn the etymology of my name—and slipped the paper back into her handbag.

  Conversation, music, and the scent of coffee drifted in the air around her. She sometimes came to Wild Child to work, both to get away from the office and because she enjoyed the comforting, bohemian atmosphere Polly had created with rustic tables, flowering plants, and local artwork.

  She turned back to her laptop. Instead of opening her email, she found herself looking up “Rubik’s Cube solutions” and “vodka gummy bears” and “1000 piece puzzles.” Then, clearly because she was possessed, she placed overnight express orders for several items.

  Tomorrow’s news headlines would surely read: Fashion stylist Julia Bennett Loses Her Last Thread of Sanity.

  “Here you go.” Polly Lockhart, Luke’s wife and owner of the Wild Child Bakery, set a black coffee in front of her.

  “Thank you.” Julia closed her laptop and picked up the coffee.

  Polly pulled out a chair, which meant she was in a chatty mood.

  “So whatcha doing?” She rested her chin on her hand and studied the designs on the sketchpad open on the table.

  “Working on some new designs.” Julia attempted to close the cover on the pad, but Polly got to it first.

  “Can I see?” she asked. “Hey, Mia, come and look at Julia’s new designs.”

  Julia sighed as pretty blonde Mia sauntered over with a coffee drink topped with a pile of whipped cream so high it was lopsided. While Julia liked Mia, the sight of her was a sharp reminder that Warren had fired her from planning the Sugar Rus
h party and turned the job over to the other woman.

  “Oh, I’d love to see them.” Mia sat beside Polly, eagerly scooting her chair closer. “Fashion is so much fun.”

  Julia forced her mind away from Warren—again—and watched the two younger women study her designs. A few years ago, after Luke had been slammed with a damaging false paternity suit, Julia had eyed her nephews’ girlfriends—any woman who approached them, in fact—with deep suspicion and dislike.

  So far, however, her wariness had proven unfounded. Luke’s wife Polly, whom Julia had wrathfully accused of gold-digging (not without reason), had not only earned her respect for having one hell of a backbone, but also her trust and affection. Polly’s sister Hannah had healed Evan’s heart in ways that went beyond the physical. Kate Darling, Tyler’s significant other, was even more efficient than Julia herself, not to mention highly intelligent and an excellent partner for the youngest Stone brother. Her nephews had chosen well.

  “These are nice,” Mia remarked, though her tone was oddly subdued.

  Julia frowned. “Just nice? They’re for young career women like you. You should love them.”

  Mia closed the book and smiled. “Oh, sure. I love them.”

  “She hates them,” Julia told Polly.

  “Totally.”

  “I don’t hate them,” Mia protested. “They’re just a little too… I don’t know. They remind me of stuff my mother used to wear.”

  Julia bared her teeth in a forced smile. “Do you mean they’re old?”

  “No!” A horrified look flashed across Mia’s face. “I didn’t say that. Did I ever tell you I want to be like you when I’m… er, a few years from now? I was only talking about the clothes. Oh my God, you’re going to put a curse on me now, aren’t you?”

  Hah. Mia was so sweet that even a curse from Julia would probably come to a screeching halt in front of her and burst into a bouquet of flowers.

  “No,” Julia said. “I appreciate your honesty.”

  Polly blinked. “Wow. Have you been infused with the Christmas spirit?”

  “I could use some Christmas spirits, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Hey, come with us to the Tipsy Angel tomorrow night.” Mia turned and waved over Kate, who was working on her laptop at another table. “Kate, come here.”

  “What’s going on?” Kate came over with her laptop and latte.

  “We’re going to the Tipsy Angel tomorrow, and Julia’s coming with us.”

  “Really?” Kate arched one eyebrow.

  “I am not,” Julia said. “What is the Tipsy Angel anyway?”

  “It’s legit the hottest club in town.” Mia pulled out her phone and scrolled. “The Blooming Onions are there tomorrow. Come with us and get your groove on.”

  “My groove doesn’t need to be got on, but thank you for the offer.” Julia rose to her feet and zipped up her satchel. Much as she liked the younger women’s company, the thought of sitting in a crowded, smoky, noisy club while they fired off words like legit and hunty was… less than appealing.

  “I have a great deal of work still to do for Deck the Halls,” she said by way of an explanation. “I hope you all got my email with your volunteer duties?”

  “How could we miss an email with the subject line Open this or be cursed?” Polly asked.

  “I’m glad it worked.”

  Julia reached for her coat, catching the eye of a nice-looking man at least ten years younger than her seated by the window. He was staring at her with unabashed interest, which was not at all unpleasant. He lifted his coffee to her in a salute and winked.

  She almost smiled. Almost.

  She turned to pick up her handbag. All three younger women were watching her with raised eyebrows and knowing expressions.

  “What?” she asked.

  “He’s cute,” Polly offered. “You should totally have a Wild Child hook-up. I’ll get you a plate of muffins, and you can go over and say hi. Maybe he’ll show you his baguette.”

  “Or you can ask him if he wants to bake you happy,” Mia said.

  “Or tell him you like his buns,” Kate suggested.

  They all giggled.

  Julia huffed and buttoned up her coat. “As if I have time for that sort of nonsense.”

  “I’m guessing Mr. Stone wouldn’t like it either,” Kate said.

  Julia and Polly exchanged looks. Aside from the fact that Kate still had trouble calling Warren “Warren,” she never just randomly brought him into a conversation.

  “Why would Warren not like it?” Julia asked, her tone clipped.

  Kate shrugged and swiped her tablet. “I thought you two had something going on, that’s all.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Julia swallowed, her heart thumping against her ribs. “Why would you think that?”

  “Just a suspicion.” Kate took a sip of her latte, her expression totally uncalculating. “I’ve seen the way you two look at each other. Right, Polly?”

  “Uh, sure.” Polly gave Julia a ‘Yeah, I didn’t get that at all’ glance.

  Julia’s stomach tensed. Had she really been that transparent? She’d always kept tight control over her suppressed feelings for Warren. That was part of the reason she’d honed her cold reserve—the better with which to conceal her emotions.

  But Kate had just said, “The way you two look at each other.”

  Did that mean Warren had also been unable to hide his feelings for her? Exactly how had he been looking at her? Had anyone else noticed? And would he pass her a note in English class and ask her to sit with him at the cool kids’ table in the cafeteria?

  For God’s sake. She was a fif—forty-nine-year-old woman who did not need to speculate about a ridiculous crush on a man she’d known most of her life. Even if that man had shot her clear up into the stars.

  “Don’t be silly.” She picked up her coffee and placed a plastic cover over the top. “Warren and I have better things to do than sit around making goo-goo eyes at each other.”

  “Well, if you’re going to make goo-goo eyes at any man, he’s certainly worthy,” Kate remarked.

  “He is super-hot, right?” Mia agreed.

  Julia gave an exasperated sigh. She really didn’t have time to sit around listening to younger women wax rhapsodic about Warren’s “hotness.” Even if it was the truth.

  “I’ll see you all at Deck the Halls on Christmas Eve,” she said. “If you’re not at your stations at your allotted times, I’ll unleash my flying monkeys.”

  “And how will that be different from any other day?” Polly asked sweetly.

  “They’ll be wearing Santa hats and sleigh bells.”

  Julia crossed her arms and tapped her fingernails against the sleeves of her Dolce & Gabbana suit jacket. The Jingle Belles stood in a row in front of her, each woman clad in a deep red, matte dress that Julia had designed in record time. She’d then mobilized every person on her staff to help get the dresses made. Though the color was the same, each dress had a different cut and length depending on the woman’s figure—empire waist, sweetheart neckline, tea-length, A-line, and a sheath for Gail, whose work as a personal trainer accounted for her toned figure.

  “Turn,” Julia ordered.

  The women, having become accustomed to obeying in the course of numerous hasty fittings, rotated in slow circles. Julia ran a critical eye over their hips and rear ends, assessing the fall of the skirts, the straightness of the hems, and the narrowing at the waist. She moved closer to ensure that the seams didn’t pucker, the necklines lay flat, the fabric didn’t sag or bulge anywhere, and that the slit on Gail’s skirt was perpendicular to the floor.

  Finally, she stepped back and gave a short nod.

  Behind her, Enzo and Anisa breathed out audible sighs of relief.

  “I can’t believe it.” Sharon stared at herself in the mirror on the opposite wall. “I mean, I really can’t believe it.”

  “You’re a miracle worker.” Connie ran her hands over her skirt. “I’ve never worn
a dress like this.”

  “I’ve never been able to find a dress like this,” Beverly said. “It’s like it was made for me.”

  “It was made for you,” Julia reminded her.

  “Thank you so much,” Sharon said. “But… er, this all must have been terribly expensive.”

  “I told you there’s no charge.” Julia eyed the other woman’s hair. “However, styling is not only about the clothes. We need to work on the rest of you as well.”

  Sharon touched her hair, faint worry appearing in her eyes. “What are you going to do?”

  “Don’t even ask,” Enzo advised. “Julia is at her best when she does whatever she wants.”’ “Which is, like, always,” Anisa muttered.

  Julia slanted the younger woman a mild glare before turning back to the Belles. “Let’s get to work on your hair and makeup. Then my assistants will be ready to recreate the looks for your Deck the Halls performance.”

  The women changed back into their regular clothes—the sight of which still made Julia’s nostrils flare with their boxy, unflattering cuts. Enzo and Anisa got the women situated at dressing tables, and a flock of hairstylists and make-up artists entered.

  “You know, there are plenty of places where you can find nice, ready-to-wear clothes that suit your body type.” Julia stepped back to let the hairstylists do their work.

  “I’ve tried.” Connie shrugged. “So many clothes for women our age are just frumpy.”

  “I’m not that far removed from your age,” Julia said, not that she enjoyed disclosing that fact. “And I would never wear frumpy clothes. I don’t even like saying that word.”

  “Well, look at you,” Sharon muttered. “With your figure, frumpy isn’t an option. Unfortunately, for the rest of us…”

  “It’s not that hard to find clothes that fit well,” Julia said.

  The women laughed, almost startling her.

  “In the real world, it is,” Connie said. “The regular retail world, not the world of designer stuff and special alterations that none of us can afford.”