The Art of Love

by Kayla C. Oliver

  Everything we had been through over the last year had done nothing but bring us closer and closer. We had created our own little family of two, happy to be alone in our apartment, eating good food and laughing about our lives. I fell in love with Anthony long ago, but even when I thought I couldn’t love him any more, something would happen and I would feel like I was going to burst from the seams. I had never been a girl that got super attached, but Anthony had become my best friend, and we did pretty much everything together. Even Missy and Mason were on board, and instead of going out separately, we had a couple’s night at least twice a month. They were so much fun, and Missy loved to watch Anthony and I together as a couple. She swore that we were meant to be together, and that one day we would get married and have a house full of babies. When the elevator doors opened, I rushed across the hall with my keys out and ready.

  I turned the doorknob and froze, squinting my eyes in the apartment. I put the keys in the bowl and dropped my bag, closing the door behind me. It was strange—all the lights in the house were off, and there were candles lit everywhere. The electricity wasn’t out—I had just taken the elevator. Either he was planning something, or he had completely lost his mind. Either way, this was seriously starting to concern me. I crept down the hall and into the open space, looking around at the shadows of the candles dancing across the ceiling.

  As I stepped forward, I stopped short, realizing there were flower petals strewn all across the floor. I took in a deep breath, and the smell of roses wafted into my nostrils. I panned the room for Anthony and found him standing at the window, looking out over the cityscape. I looked in the kitchen and shook my head, finding candles in every area of the house. I was completely confused by what was going on. I looked at Anthony from the back of his head down to his heels and realized he was wearing a tuxedo, the one he had worn to the charity event over a year ago.

  I walked carefully down the steps into the recessed living room, glancing over at the bottle of champagne on ice and the tray of chocolate-covered strawberries. I pulled my coat off and slung it over the back of the couch and stood there staring at the back of Anthony’s head. As if he could sense my glare, he slowly turned around, his bow tie perfect and his smile wide and charming. He stood there smiling at me, one hand behind his back, the other at his side.

  “Anthony,” I chuckled. “What’s going on? I thought you were having a problem.”

  “I’m okay,” he whispered with a smirk. “Sorry to have scared you.”

  “Okay,” I said, scrunching my eyebrows in confusion.

  He took in a deep breath and stepped down from the edge of the stairs and into the pit. He walked a few feet and paused, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small black velvet box. He lowered himself down onto one knee, and I gasped, pulling my hands over mouth. He was proposing to me.

  “Eliza,” he began. “When I met you, I thought that all hope for a happily ever after had died with Amy. I thought that I was destined to roam this earth wanting something I could never have again. I had told myself to get comfortable in my misery. Then you came along like a cool breeze on a hot summer day. You stood by me through thick and thin, and you comforted me through some really difficult times. I love our life, our laughter, and our friendship. Please make me the happiest man on earth and be my wife.”

  He opened the box to reveal a large round diamond on a platinum setting. I stepped forward, tears rolling down my cheeks and my hand still covering my mouth. I looked him in the eyes and saw exactly what I had always wanted—my forever.

  “Yes,” I said, quietly sobbing. “Yes, I’ll marry you.”

  He stood up and placed the ring on my finger, pulling me in close and kissing my lips. I had finally found my happily ever after, and I no longer had to worry about losing it. Anthony was here to stay.

  Signing Him (Bonus)

  Kayla C. Oliver

  Chapter One

  Marnie

  The office looked like an auditor’s in tax season. Papers were strewn across the desktop in what equated to confetti. Lights lined the creases in the wall where the roof met the walls, but I didn’t like using them. They were hollowed tubes of personality-lacking fluorescence. That was why I had a desk lamp, the kind that bent over the desk and had a green cover over the top, so that it illuminated only the length of the desk, not the person hunching over it. That would be me, Marnie McKenna. I had seen it when I was a kid at the public library, and after that, I was desperate to have my own.

  Some dreams do come true, I thought wryly as I propped my feet up on my cluttered desk. I crossed my ankles, pulling the heel of my right foot slightly off so that I could bounce it lightly by the tip of my toe.

  I wound the cord around my finger as I lounged back in my chair. Yes, I had an old phone. The kind with the curly cords that stretched and tangled as I walked around the office until I looked like I was a Christmas tree half-decorated. The cradle and the receiver were both designed to look old-timey. It wasn’t so far as rotary; I made too many calls to fuss with waiting for the damn wheel to spin back so I could dial again. But it looked fancy. All black with golden edges and sleek lines.

  Sexy, I thought.

  “I feel like they want to change the entire story!” Cathleen Darling burst out, her voice nasally and high-pitched over the phone. “Like I, the fucking author, have no creative freedom to speak of!”

  I nodded, though of course she couldn’t see me, and let her rant while I went over several options in my head. Cathleen Darling was an author. I was her editor. Officially, all my edits and revision suggestions went to the higher-ups, meaning sexy Dorian Desmond, but it was pretty rare that anyone said shit about my work. I was a badass editor, but more importantly, I was good with the clients.

  Desmond sent me the toughest clients, the biggest pains in the ass, and a workload that would’ve had most quitting by Christmas of their first year—or at least drowning their sorrows in a bottle of the good stuff.

  But not me. I was focused and a real brownnoser—in the best sense of the word. I knew how to please people and how to back them into a corner, fight or flight, and get what needed to be done. It was a gift I’d had since about third grade, when I shoved little Billy into the sand for picking on Court. At the time, it had gotten me into a lot of trouble with the teachers, parents, principals, everyone.

  Now, it served me well.

  “—signed a damn contract, but I’ll take my business elsewhere if they think they can just bully me like this,” Cathleen continued her rant.

  I imagined her puffing up like a little rooster trying to pick a fight. I snorted before I could help it and had to quickly turn it into a cough before Cathleen caught on that I was snickering at her. “Ahem. Sorry,” I apologized, then dove into my job—smoothing over difficult clients. “You know that I would never suggest anything to you that I didn’t think would do wonders for your already brilliant story.”

  Cathleen paused. I imagined her pouting, her lower lip fat and her arms crossed. “Don’t think you can appease me with flattery,” she told me indignantly. “I’m an author. I have principles.”

  I rolled my eyes. Principles, yeah, right. You’d sell out if I gave you a goddamn turkey sandwich. “Of course you do, Cathy, sweetheart,” I told her in my sweetest voice. “That’s why we love you; that’s why you’re such a great author. You have power in your words, and I would never want to lose that.”

  “Then why did you cut my baby to ribbons!”

  I covered the mouthpiece of my phone so she wouldn’t hear my sigh of frustration. Cathleen did this every damn time I sent her manuscript back. She was the kind of author that thought her words were seamless, perfect, in need of absolutely zero editing to speak of. And every time she sent me something, I had to fix every little grammar mistake, cross out the shit that didn’t make sense, and point out the major plot holes or inconsistencies. For my trouble, I then got a phone call from her telling me that I’d destroyed her “baby.”

&n
bsp; She’d had about ten “babies” at this point, nine of them best sellers, and this one likely would be, too—if I could convince her to let me help her.

  “Cathy. Stop,” I ordered in a soothing but firm tone. It was all about tone with authors. “You know I love your book. I’ve loved all of them, that’s why I’m sticking with you, you know that.”

  That was a small, white lie. The truth was, Dorian had specifically assigned Cathy to me because she was a problem client and I dealt with problems. Go me.

  “But sometimes the world isn’t ready for genius,” I continued, leaning back a little farther in my plush chair. “Sometimes, you have to ease people into what they aren’t ready for. Think Vonnegut. Think Kafka. Hell, even Hemingway was misunderstood during his lifetime.”

  “You’re saying I should wait until I’m dead to be appreciated?” Cathleen deadpanned.

  I smiled, showing teeth. “No. I’m saying you should wait until you’re dead to be understood. To be appreciated, you should listen to what I’m saying. You’re brilliant. I’m just making that brilliance accessible to the general population. I’m getting your words out there in a way that the rest of the world can understand, because you just can’t expect the masses to understand brilliance.”

  There was a long pause over the phone, pure silence coming through. I wondered briefly if I’d laid it on a little too thick. The fact was, Cathleen was incredibly intelligent, but she wasn’t an easy read. If I left her manuscript completely alone, she would have to wait until she was dead to be appreciated. Why? Because everyone wanted brain popcorn, light fluff that was easy to process and addicting as hell. You didn’t get that with the complicated shit.

  Finally, Cathleen said, “Well. I guess you haven’t changed that much.”

  My grin widened. “I haven’t changed much of shit. Your novel doesn’t need changing, it just needs a little shove to get it out to the audience, you know that. We signed you because we trust you and in your vision. I just want to make sure the world sees that vision just like I do. I’m no author, I’m just an invisible helping hand.”

  “I’ll look over the changes again,” Cathleen finally said. “I mean, there’s no harm in that, right? And if you think it helps get my story out…”

  She trailed off, but the implication was clear: I had won.

  Swiping my feet off the desk, I plopped them back down onto the floor and sat up straight. “You’re a peach, Cathy, and I love working with you.”

  “I still want to make sure the story isn’t changed too much,” she added quickly, almost like she just couldn’t be fucking happy without being a little unhappy with something.

  “Of course, of course. If you think anything is too drastic, shoot it my way and we’ll come up with a better option. This is your story.”

  “Thank you. I hate going through Dorian. He never gets this stuff, you know?”

  Shaking my head a little, I told her, “I don’t know if it’s ’cause he’s a guy or ’cause he’s the boss, but some people just aren’t on the same page.”

  “Amen to that.”

  We chatted a little longer about benign stuff—how were the twins? Did that no-good-piece-of-shit ex of hers ever pay alimony? Did she get that leak fixed?—then hung up the phone. Cathleen was happier for our conversation, and I had another victory story to tell.

  Just as I was ending my session with Cathleen, there was a brief, perfunctory knock at the door. A second later, Dorian pushed the door open and poked his pretty head in.

  He was a sexy man. Tall, muscular, with dark hair and a broad smile, he was great with the ladies. I had my dirty fantasies of some of the things we could do together, but never really considered pushing for anything more than a business relationship. Mainly because I liked my damn job and I wasn’t about to risk it over some romantic affair that would likely end in a ball of fire. My career was what mattered, not all this romance nonsense floating around out there these days.

  “Are you busy?” Dorian asked with a smile.

  I waved him in. “Never for you. Besides, Courtney would have told you if I was.”

  Dorian laughed as he stepped into the office. He closed the door about 90 percent behind him, which told me that he wanted to talk about something serious and or private. Because Dorian was my boss and a smart man, he never completely closed the door. Too risky. Since I was a female, there was every possibility that I could jump on the opportunity to call sexual harassment on his ass, whether he’d done anything or not, and he’d have to settle before anything went to court.

  Not that I would ever do that, but there were assholes out there.

  “Very true,” Dorian said, taking a seat in the chair on the other side of my desk. He looked almost comical in it, too big to fit in the chair that was designed for skinny, lanky authors instead of the well-built man in front of me. “Do you mind if I steal a minute?”

  “Steal away,” I told him happily. “I just finished up with Cathleen, so I wouldn’t mind talking with someone who isn’t a pain in my ass.”

  He grinned at me. “Cathleen’s a pain in everyone’s ass. That’s why you have her.”

  I smiled back at him sweetly. “Why, thank you. You’ll be happy to know that her ruffled feathers have been smoothed out and she’s not breaking her contract and going to another publisher.”

  “Like I said, that’s why you have her.”

  Although I always thought my clients were sort of suckers for buying into the flattery bullshit, I acknowledged that some part of my own nature admitted that I liked it, too. Who didn’t like to be told they were awesome? “So what’s up, boss?”

  He folded his hands across his flat stomach. He looked good in the soft gray suit and the purple power tie, not a look every man pulled off. But he had that darker skin tone and a fit body, so he got away with more than most.

  “I wanted to say how impressed I’ve been with your work.”

  My eyebrows rose. More compliments? Why’s he buttering me up? “Well, thank you. It’s good to know my work’s appreciated.”

  “It is. And as a reward, I’d like to give you more.”

  I laughed. “Isn’t that always how work is rewarded?”

  He smiled and nodded. “That’s the game. Are you still interested in playing?”

  I sat up straighter, sensing that the conversation was more important than Dorian was letting on. “Of course. I live for the game.”

  “Good.” He gave a single nod. “Because I’m thinking of making you my partner, and I can’t have a lazy partner.”

  I froze. Partner? It was everything I’d dreamed of and more. It was what I’d been working for, from the ground up, and had been told by every Tom, Dick, and Harry that I would never get. Partner. It wasn’t just the money—though the salary was pretty slick for the job—it was the knowledge that I’d crawled my way to the top, beat out the boys, and come out lookin’ pretty. I wanted this. I needed this. My mouth watered for this.

  “I assure you, sir, that I am one hundred percent not lazy.”

  “I believe you, but I do have one more requirement before I give you the job.”

  “Name it,” I told him instantly, a fire lit inside me now. What I wanted was within reach, and I’d be damned before I let it go.

  “I need you to sign Trent Parker.”

  And just like that, my world crumbled. Trent Parker? Otherwise known as the biggest asshole playboy out there? In the publishing world, Parker was the equivalent of Midas—everything he touched turned to gold. Instantly. Just putting his name on something made it sell. But the problem was, he knew he was a gold mine and he milked it. For someone who wasn’t a rock star, he sure as hell acted like one.

  My nerves twitched, but I folded my legs and smiled to cover it. “Oh? Is that all? I thought it was going to be something challenging with the way you were talking.” I forced a laugh and hoped it didn’t sound nervous.

  Dorian grinned and stood. “Great. Glad to hear Parker won’t be a problem for you. I
knew you were my girl.”

  Only two people got to call me girl. My father and my boss and for two very different reasons. Standing, I reached my hand across my desk to clasp his. We shook.

  “Thank you, sir. I’ll sign him.”

  “Keep me posted.”

  He left after that, and it wasn’t until I distantly heard the ding of the elevator that I let my fake bravado drop.

  “I am so fucking screwed,” I said aloud. “Court, c’mere!”

  Courtney Hughes was compact, short, sexy-curvy, and took absolutely no bullshit. She ate people alive if they weren’t on their toes. She had also been my best friend since we were in elementary school.

  “What’s up?” she asked. “This about Dorian?”

  I nodded. “I need everything you can get on Trent Parker, or so help me God, I’m going to lose my fucking job and my mind.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Don’t be dramatic. I’ll get you the dirt. Give me a couple of hours.”

  She turned and left then to make some calls and work her magic. I sat back in my chair, slumping and rumpling my power suit, wondering if there was any hope that I was going to be able to sign Parker as promised.

  Chapter Two

  Callum

  I paused outside the little café that catered to hipsters who liked to pretend they were too cool for Starbucks and liked the indie scene because it was just so “genuine.” This was why I had stopped at Starbucks along the way to have my venti-double-foam-café-caramel-macchiato with extra cream, sprinkles, and two shots of espresso. The café was fine, but its coffee sucked—they did it like real coffee, the bastards—and I wasn’t going to figure out what whole-wheat low-calorie health crap they served as pastries. Nobody got a damn pastry because they wanted to be healthy.