by Shen, LJ
Copyright © 2018 by L.J. Shen
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Resemblance to actual persons, things, living or dead, locales or events is entirely coincidental.
Dirty Headlines
Edited by: Angela Marshall Smith, Jessica Royer Ocken
Cover Model: Lucas Loyola
Cover Designer: Letitia Hasser, RBA Designs
Interior Formatting: Stacey Blake, Champagne Book Design
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Epigraph
Dedication
Soundtrack
Synopsis
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Epilogue
Keep in touch with L.J. Shen
Books By LJ Shen
Acknowledgements
Before You Go
“Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind,
And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.”
—William Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night’s Dream
To Vanessa Serrano and Vanessa Villegas, and to (virtual) hugs and (real) gratitude
“Promiscuous”—Nelly Furtado and Timbaland.
“How Soon is Now?”—The Smiths
“Le Chemin”—Kyo feat. Sita
“Makes Me Wonder”—Maroon 5
“Anybody Seen My Baby”—The Rolling Stones
“Bloodstream”—Stateless
“Hey Jude”—The Beatles
“Down”—Jason Walker
“Moi Lolita”—Alizée
Célian Laurent.
Manhattan royalty.
Notorious playboy.
Heir to a media empire.
…And my new boss.
I could have impressed him, if not for last month’s unforgettable one-night stand.
I left it with more than orgasms and a pleasant memory—namely, his wallet.
Now he’s staring me down like I’m the dirt under his Italian loafers, and I’m supposed to take it.
But the thing about being Judith “Jude” Humphry is I have nothing to lose.
Brooklyn girl.
Infamously quirky.
Heir to a stack of medical bills and a tattered couch.
When he looks at me from across the room, I see the glint in his eyes, and that makes us rivals.
He knows it.
So do I.
Every day in the newsroom is a battle.
Every night in his bed, war.
But it’s my heart at stake, and I fear I’ll be raising the white flag.
On her deathbed, my mother said the heart is a lonely hunter.
“Organs, Jude, are like people. They need company, a backup to rely on. That’s why we have lungs, tonsils, hands, legs, fingers, toes, eyes, nostrils, teeth, and lips. Only the heart works alone. Like Atlas, it carries the weight of our existence on its shoulders quietly, only rebelling when disturbed by love.”
She said a lonely heart—such as my lonely heart—would never fall in love, and so far, she wasn’t wrong.
Maybe that’s why tonight happened.
Maybe that’s why I’d stopped trying.
Creamy sheets tangled around my legs like roots as I slipped out of the king-sized bed in the swanky hotel room I’d been occupying for the last several hours. I rose from the plush mattress, my back to the stranger I’d met this afternoon.
If I stole a glance at him, my conscience would kick in and I’d never go through with it.
I was choosing his cash over my integrity.
Cash I very much needed.
Cash that was going to pay my electricity bill and fill prescriptions for Dad this month.
I tiptoed across the room to his dress pants on the floor, feeling hollow in all the places he’d filled in the previous hours. This was the first time I’d stolen anything, and the finality of the situation made me want to throw up. I wasn’t a thief. Yet I was about to wrong this perfect stranger. And I wasn’t even going to touch the one-night-stand issue for fear my head would explode all over the lush carpet. I didn’t normally do one-night stands.
But I wasn’t myself tonight.
I’d woken this morning to the sound of my mailbox collapsing from the weight of the letters and bills crammed into it. Then I’d failed a job interview so miserably, they’d cut the meeting short to watch a Yankees game. (When I’d pointed out there was no game—because, yes, I was that desperate—they’d explained it was a rerun.)
Defeated, I’d stumbled my way through the cruel streets of Manhattan, the early-spring rain loud and punishing. I’d figured the best course of action would be to slip into my boyfriend Milton’s condo to dry off. I had the key, and he was probably at work, polishing his piece about immigration healthcare. He worked for The Thinking Man, one of the most prestigious magazines in New York. To say I was proud would be the understatement of the century.
The rest of the afternoon played out like a bad movie piled with clichés and reeking of bad luck. I’d pushed Milton’s door open, shaking the raindrops from my jacket and hair. First, low, guttural moans seeped into my ears. The unmistakable visual followed immediately after:
Milton’s editor, Elise, whom I’d met once before for drinks, bent over one side of the couch we’d picked out together at my favorite flea market, as he relentlessly pounded into her.
Thrust.
Thrust.
Thrust.
Thrust!
“The heart is a lonely, cruel hunter.”
I’d felt mine shooting an arrow of poison straight to Milton’s glistening chest, then heard it crack, threatening to split in two.
We’d been together for five years. Met at Columbia University. He was the son of a retired NBC anchor. I was on full scholarship. The only reason we hadn’t lived together was because Dad was sick and I didn’t want to leave his side. But that didn’t stop Milton and me from crocheting our plans into the same colors and patterns, entwining our lives one dream at a time.
Visit Africa.
Get assigned to the Middle East.
Watch the sunset in Key West.
Eat one perfect macaron in Paris.
Our bucket list was etched in a notebook I’d keenly named Kipling, and it was burning a hole through my bag right now.
I hadn’t meant to throw up on Milton’s doorstep, but it was not a big surprise, considering what I’d just walked into. The bastard had skidded on my breakfast as he chased me down the hall, but I’d pushed the emergency stairway door open and taken the stairs two at a time. Milton had been very much naked, with a condom still dangling from his half-mast dick, and at some point he’d decided bursting into the street in his birthday suit was not a good plan.
I’d run until my lungs burned and my Chucks were wet
and muddy.
Bumping into shoulders, and umbrellas, and street vendors in the pounding rain.
I was angry, desperate and shocked—but I wasn’t devastated. My heart was cracked, but not broken.
“The heart is a lonely hunter, Jude.”
I’d needed to forget—forget about Milton, the stacks of bills, and my unfortunate lack of employment the past few months. I’d needed to drown in alcohol and hot skin.
The stranger in the suite had given me exactly that, and now he was about to give me something we had never agreed on.
Judging by this place, though, he won’t have trouble paying for the cab to the airport.
A curved, wrought-iron staircase that cost more than my entire apartment stared back at me, leading to a Jacuzzi the size of my room. Plush, red-tufted velvet couches taunted me. Floor-to-ceiling windows dared me to drink in the view of well-heeled Manhattan with my poor eyes. And the teardrop chandelier looked eerily similar to little sperm.
And to make it through next week, Judith Penelope Humphry, you will stop thinking about jizz and move on with your plan.
I reached for the back pocket of his Tom Ford dress pants, where he’d tucked his wallet shortly after sliding out a chain of condoms, and examined it in my shaking hands. A Bottega Veneta leather creation, black and unwrinkled. My throat bobbed, but I still couldn’t swallow my nerves.
I flipped the wallet open and slipped out the stack of cash. Turned out Stranger Junior wasn’t the only thing thick about this one. I counted hurriedly, my eyes flaring as they took in all the cash.
Hundred…two…three…six…eight…Fifteen hundred. Thank you, Jesus.
I could practically hear Jesus scolding me. “Don’t thank me. Pretty sure thou shalt not steal was way up there on my not-to-do list.”
Yanking my phone out of my shoulder bag, I searched the brand of the wallet in my hand. Turns out it cost a little less than seven hundred bucks. My dysfunctional, albeit heavy heart pounded as I began to toss out plastic cards without giving them a second glance. The wallet was sellable, and as it turned out, so were my morals.
My gut knotted in shame, and I felt my face growing hot. He was going to wake up and hate me, regret the minute he’d approached me at the bar. I wasn’t supposed to care. He was going to leave New York come morning, and I would never see him again.
Once his wallet was empty, and all his cards and IDs neatly arranged on his nightstand, I slipped back into my dress and electric pink—although crusted in mud—Chucks and chanced one last look at him.
He was completely naked, his groin haphazardly covered by the sheet. With every breath he took, his six pack tightened. Even in sleep, he didn’t look vulnerable. Like a Greek god, he rose above susceptibility. Men like him were too conceited to be played. I was glad there was going to be an ocean between us soon.
I opened the door and hugged its frame.
“I’m so sorry,” I whispered, kissing the tips of my fingers and brushing them over the air between us.
I waited until I was out of the hotel before I let the first tear fall.
Five hours earlier.
I stumbled into a bar, hiccupping a whiskey order to the bartender between sniffs and shaking the rain out of my long, dirty-blond hair.
I tugged at the collar of my black dress and groaned into the drink he slid across the bar for me. My Chucks—I’d opted for low-top pinks this morning as I’d still been foolishly optimistic when I left the house—dangled in the air while my 5-foot-2 frame sat on the stool. My earbuds were firmly tucked into my ears, but I didn’t want to taint my playlist of perfect songs with today’s shitty mood. If I listened to a song I liked now, I’d forever associate it with the day I found out Milton liked it doggy-style after all, just not with me.
I tried to give myself an internal pep talk as I gulped whiskey I couldn’t afford like it was water.
My job interview had gone horrifically bad, but my heart had never been set on working for a Christian gluten-free-diet magazine anyway.
Milton had cheated on me. But I’d always had my doubts about him. His smile always dropped too soon after we’d hung out with my dad or met someone on the street. His right eyebrow always arched when someone wasn’t in agreement with him.
As for the growing medical bills—I would find a way to tackle them. Dad and I owned our apartment in Brooklyn. Worse came to worst, we’d sell and rent. Besides, I didn’t need both my kidneys.
I was sniveling into my drink when the scent of cedarwood, sage, and an impending sin skulked into my nostrils. I didn’t bother to raise my head, even when he said, “Semi-drunk and conventionally beautiful: a predator’s wet dream.”
He had a strong French accent. Smooth and raspy. But my eyes were locked on the amber fluid swirling in my glass. I wasn’t in the mood for small talk. Usually I was the person who could make friends with a brick. But right now, I could stab anyone with balls simply for breathing in my direction. Or any other direction, really.
“Or a horny man’s worst nightmare,” I responded. “Consequently, I’m not interested.”
“That’s a lie, and I don’t do liars.” He rolled a cocktail stirrer between his teeth in my periphery, shooting me a wolfish smirk. “But for you, I’ll make an exception.”
“Cocky and full of yourself?” I inwardly slapped myself across the face for even answering him. I had my earbuds in. Why had he talked to me in the first place? That was the international signal for leave-me-the-heck-alone. Never mind the fact that I wasn’t actually listening to anything, just wanted to push away potential conversationalists. “Good thing you didn’t say you put the STD in stud and now all you need is U.”
“I take it you’ve been hit on by extremely unsophisticated men. How rough was this day of yours, exactly?” He erased the rest of the distance between us, and I could now feel the heat of his body radiating from beneath his tailored suit.
I had a feeling if I turned around and looked at him—really looked at him—he would steal the breath from my lungs. My heart, angry and wounded from earlier today, thudded dully in my chest. We don’t want any intruders, Jude.
Tall, French, and Handsome slipped a one-hundred dollar bill to the bartender in front of me. His eyes caressed the side of my face as he asked him, “How many drinks did she have?”
“This is her second one, sir.” The bartender offered a curt nod, wiping the wooden surface in front of him with a damp cloth.
“Get her a sandwich.”
“I don’t want a sandwich.” I yanked my earbuds out of my ears and slammed them on the bar, finally looking up and spinning on my barstool to stare back at him.
A colossal mistake if I’d ever made one. For the first few seconds, I couldn’t even decipher what I was seeing. He was a level of gorgeous most people were not programmed to process. I’m talking Chris Pine perfect, Chris Hemsworth mammoth, and Chris Pratt charming. He was a triple-C threat, and I was S.C.R.E.W.E.D.
“You’ll have to eat one.” He didn’t bother sparing me a look, tossing his phone on the bar. It was lighting up like crazy, with dozens of emails pouring in every minute.
“Why?”
“Because I’m above fucking a drunk girl, and I would very much like to fuck you tonight,” he said calmly, peppering his casual statement with a dimpled, bewitching smile that turned my guts into warm goo.
I tried to blink away my shock, still staring, cataloging his face. Deep blue eyes—tiger-slanted and dark, dark, dark like the bottom of the ocean; mud-brown hair tousled to a fault; a jawline that could give you a papercut if you touched it; and lips made for saying filthy things in a sexy language. He was a specimen I had yet to encounter. I’d lived in New York my entire life. Foreign men were not a foreign concept to me. Yet he looked like an improbable cross between a male model and a CEO.
His navy suit made him look severe. The curves and edges of his face were ruthless. Filling in between those cutthroat cheekbones and square chin were a pouty mouth and straight nos
e.
I averted my gaze to his fingers to check for a wedding band. The coast looked clear.
“Excuse me?” I straightened my spine. Just because he looked like a god didn’t mean he had the right to act like one. The bartender slid a hot plate with a roast beef, mayo, tomato, and cheddar cheese sandwich on a brioche bun in front of me. I wanted so badly to remain defiant and tough, but unfortunately, I also wanted to not puke up pure whiskey in about an hour.
Hot Stranger Guy leaned against the bar, still standing—six one? six two?—and cocked his head to the side. “Eat.”
“It’s a free country,” I quipped.
“Yet you seem chained to the idea that fucking a stranger is somehow wrong.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name, Mr. Not Getting The Hint.” I yawned.
“Will Power. Nice to meet you. Look, you’re obviously having a bad day. I have a night to burn. I’m flying back home tomorrow morning, but until then…” He jerked his arm, allowing the sleeve of his blazer slide up as he glanced at his vintage Rolex. “I’m going to make sure whatever’s on your mind is forgotten for the night. Miss…?”
Screw it. And him. He was the kind of hot I very much doubted I’d even get to meet again in my lifetime.
I could put the blame on Milton.
And the medical bills.
And the whiskey.
Hell, I could blame the entire state of New York after the day I’d had.
“Spears.” I narrowed my eyes and took a bite of the sandwich. Darn. I flipped the napkin that came with the sandwich to check the name of the bar. Le Coq Tail. I made a mental note to return in about twenty years, after I’d finally paid my dad’s medical bills and stopped living off ramen noodles.
“Like Britney Spears?” He arched an incredulous eyebrow.
“Correct. And you are?”