Happily Ever After: A Romance Collection

by Amelia Wilde

I looked up and shook my head. “Can’t say that I have. What is it?”

  “It’s a Brazilian drink made with cachaça, which is kind of like a rum.”

  “Oh, I’ve already had a few tonight. And it’s getting kind of late.” It was almost eleven thirty.

  “Come on, Crosby, have a few with us,” Eric wheedled from behind Ana. “It’s a Friday night, right? You gotta have some fun some time, and there’s nobody here who’s going to try to feel you up. Only Ana has to deal with that.” He pinched Ana’s butt, causing her to shriek and scamper away.

  “It’ll be the perfect thing to warm you up before you go out into the cold again,” she added, heading into the kitchenette. “I’ll make you one. You hate it, no problem. You like it, maybe you have another, eh?”

  “Okay, okay,” I relented with a grin. She was so sweet and friendly; it was hard to say no. I could see why Eric wanted to come over.

  Unsurprisingly, the drink was delicious, a blend of lime and sweet without the cloying taste of rum. I had already knocked back two and was dancing the samba with Ana in my stockinged feet before I thought to check the time again.

  “Oh, shit!” I yelped. “It’s past midnight! I really have to call a car if I’m going to catch the T home.”

  “You do that,” said Eric, who had taken my place with Ana in a much more intimate way of dancing. I sank into the couch while he maneuvered her toward the hallway on the other side of the apartment.

  “Eric!” She batted him helplessly on the shoulder but allowed herself to be steered away. “Skylar, make yourself at home,” she called in between bouts of giggles. “I just, ah, have to show Eric something in my room.”

  With that lame excuse, they were gone, leaving me trying to find cell phone service. I stood up and paced around the room, but there was no signal.

  “Shit,” I muttered to myself as a throaty laugh floated down the hall. I made a face. I wasn’t overly eager to listen to Eric having his way with Ana, no matter how charming she was. Aside from the fact that it skeeved me out to hear my pseudo-brother getting it on with his lay of the week, I also didn’t care for the reminder of just how easy it was for some women to enjoy themselves that way.

  Maybe I wouldn’t have been so frustrated if the lackluster reaction I’d had to Trevor were the exception, not the norm. But it always seemed to come back to that, whether it was during the first, crucial kiss, or later on when I was supposed to be screaming with ecstasy.

  It wasn’t that I was into the wrong gender either. No, I was definitely interested in men, but they just couldn’t seem to keep me focused long enough to enjoy myself. I’d become distracted by the lighting, the uncomfortable chafing between bodies, or the weird shape of my partner’s nose. It didn’t help that most guys couldn’t seem to distinguish my clit from my elbow, or if they could, didn’t have a damn clue what to do with it. Maybe some girls (like Ana) could get off from pure friction, but I sure as hell wasn’t one of them.

  Another, much louder giggle escaped from the hallway, followed by an ominous thump. I scowled and headed toward the stairs. Ana had said that the owner wasn’t home. As another yelp erupted from the hall, I decided to take my chances with trespassing to escape what was starting to sound like an amateur porn flick.

  I opened the door at the top of the stairs into one of the largest and most beautiful kitchens I had ever seen. The entire thing was easily as large as my apartment, with dark-wood cabinetry and white marble countertops bordering the periphery. Two huge farmhouse sinks faced each other on each side of the room, bookending a double oven and a six-burner Viking stove. In the middle of the kitchen was a large, marble-topped island, surrounded by several stools and topped by a hanging rack of gleaming copper pots and pans.

  An airy, adjacent room containing a tufted, cream chaise lounge and a farmhouse table sat directly off the kitchen, creating a sense of space and luxury in a common area that still managed to be comfortable. Large picture windows looked out onto a small courtyard garden planted over the servants’ quarters. I wasn’t much of a cook, but if I were, this would undoubtedly be my dream kitchen.

  I checked my phone. Still a dead zone. I pushed through the kitchen door into a hallway that passed a bathroom and led into another massive, open room. A huge, white stone fireplace lorded over one wall, and gaping bay windows looked out over the snowy Commons. Dark-wood floors continued from the kitchen and were covered with several plush sheepskin rugs, the kind that begged a person to fall asleep on them in front of a crackling fire. The walls looked like they had the original dark-wood wainscoting, above which they were painted a warm cream color and bore a number of gorgeous modern art pieces.

  Whoever had decorated the place knew their business, or paid someone who did. The aesthetic was warm yet posh, traditional yet modern, inviting yet imperious. There wasn’t a doubt in my mind that every furnishing in the room was likely worth more than everything I owned put together, but I felt oddly comfortable, wishing for nothing more than to sink into one of the overstuffed sofas for a long nap.

  I walked over to one of the bay windows and looked out at the park, which was nearly deserted in the snowy conditions. Beacon Street was also quiet as the occasional car made its way very, very slowly down the road, careful on the not-yet salted concrete. The snow was quickly morphing into a blizzard; flakes were coming down in sideways droves. The T-stop was only just across the park, but it might as well have been across the entire city.

  I sat down on the wide sill, which was trimmed with a few pillows for such moments. Nights like these made me yearn for the comforts of my family’s cozy old house in Brooklyn, with its big front porch and my room carved into the attic. There I would snuggle in the armchair next to the window and watch the snow gather on the oak tree outside while my father and grandmother chattered downstairs about the news and neighborhood politics.

  Bubbe and my grandfather had owned the house for almost thirty-five years before he had passed away when I was a baby. Since I had left for law school, it was just her and my father in the drafty old place. But despite the fact that they were sitting on a million-dollar piece of property, they refused to sell it and kept my bedroom open for me whenever I was able to come home.

  That was happening less and less these days. I had lived in the house with Dad and Bubbe through college and during my year on Wall Street, but I left for Boston when I was offered a spot at Harvard. I had no regrets, but the demanding schedule of classes, studying, and interning had reduced my bimonthly visits to holiday weekends and breaks.

  I pressed my nose up to the cold glass. My dad would love being stuck at home on a snow day like this, when he wouldn’t have to empty trash cans at the crack of dawn and could sit in his armchair all day if he wanted. Before college, I’d join him. We’d play Risk and watch old movies until we crashed on the faded plaid couch in the living room. A snow day in Flatbush was magical; in Boston, it often felt cold and unfriendly. Except maybe in a house like this.

  The front doors swept open with a bang. I jumped from the windowsill, sending my phone onto the floor with a clatter. I scrambled down to find it, and when I stood up, I found four pairs of eyes staring at me.

  There were three men, all of whom looked to be in their thirties or early forties, and who were dressed impeccably in tailored suits and the kind of cashmere overcoats that cost as much as my food budget for a year. One had brown hair and a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. Another had a mustache framing very thin lips. The third was probably the handsomest man I had ever seen. Clean shaven but for a bit of stubble, he had a ruddy, tanned complexion that betrayed a life that couldn’t be lived entirely in an office, and ear-length, sandy-blond hair brushed back from his face. The wind had made a few stray locks topple forward in that sexy, carefree way only certain men can pull off. He looked edible.

  The other person was a very pretty woman, also dressed in a suit and overcoat, albeit much more fitted ones. With black hair tied back from her face, very pale skin, and bright
red lips, she was beautiful in that severe way only a few very powerful women can pull off. All four people stared at me as though I were a stray animal that had managed to find its way inside the house. Come to think of it, that wasn’t entirely incorrect.

  “Sterling,” said the mustached man with a mischievous grin. “You didn’t tell us you had company waiting for you.”

  “No,” said the woman in a tone that implied she was not at all happy with my presence. “He didn’t.”

  “I didn’t know I had,” said the blond man, who, even as his companions turned toward him, continued to stare at me in a way that made me feel frozen in place. Our eyes locked. Even in the dim light, I could see that his were a brilliant blue, the color of an Alpine lake. I felt my mouth drop slightly, but couldn’t do anything about it. I stood like a damn statue, completely transfixed. He was absolutely mesmerizing, but I couldn’t have explained why.

  “Sterling? You all right, man?”

  The brown-haired man’s voice broke the spell, and my cell phone clattered again to the floor as I lost my grip. I blinked, able to move and speak at last.

  “God, I’m so sorry,” I said, scrambling down for my phone. “I’m a friend of…um…Ana’s…shit, I’m on my way out.”

  I practically tripped as I ducked around Sterling and his friends, running down the hallway toward the stairs. I thundered down to the servants’ quarters, dug my coat and shoes out of the front closet, and opened the door while I was still pushing my arms into my coat.

  The clear sounds of Ana and Eric’s ecstasy rang in my ears as I escaped into the intensifying blizzard, reminding me yet again of what I couldn’t quite attain. As I started the long walk across the park to the nearest T station, I recalled the blazing blue of Sterling’s eyes. Somehow, I doubted the women he knew ever had that problem.

  3

  It wasn’t until I was about halfway through the park that I heard a voice echoing behind me.

  “Wait! Miss! Fuck, I don’t know your name, but will you just stop!”

  I turned around to find Sterling bounding doggedly through the snow. He stumbled, nearly fell on a crack in the sidewalk, but rebounded with the reflexes of a trained athlete and caught up with me in a few more steps. A few more errant locks fell across his forehead, and I was faced with a smile that made my legs feel as if they were immersed in a hot tub, not the frigid New England air blowing up my skirt.

  “Do you always go wandering through the Commons after midnight?” he asked as he regained his breath. “It’s not exactly safe. Especially for someone like you.”

  I didn’t have to ask what he meant by that, considering my size and gender. Instead, I flushed, suddenly embarrassed by my idiocy. I wasn’t some hayseed from the hills. In my desperation to escape that house and the very disturbing effect that, well, this man seemed to have on me, I had done what every city dweller knows not to do: wander a public park at night.

  “You left without saying goodbye,” Sterling said with a sardonic lift of an eyebrow. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name. Or what you were doing in my house.”

  “God,” I said, finally finding my voice, but able to look everywhere but directly at him. Like the sun, he exuded energy so bright I couldn’t see clearly. So instead, I rambled.

  “I’m so sorry about that. I’m a friend of Ana’s, your housekeeper. She just let me in for a minute but had to go, uh, deal with something in her room. I didn’t have any cell reception down there, so I came upstairs to find a signal. She had no idea, really, so please don’t blame her. I didn’t mean to intrude in your, space, truly, and, um...”

  I didn’t stop babbling until Sterling placed his hands on my shoulders and bent down so his chiseled features were level with mine.

  “It’s okay,” he said slowly, and I found myself rolling my eyes at his playful tone before I could stop myself.

  “Sorry,” I repeated, but the babbling stage was over.

  “Your name?” he prompted again, releasing my shoulders and standing back up straight.

  It was then I realized again just how very tall he was. A frame that must have been close to six-four filled out a charcoal-gray suit in a way that made me wonder just how much time he spent wearing a suit and how much time he spent at the gym.

  “Yum,” I whispered before I could stop to think.

  “Your name is Yum?”

  “Oh, no,” I said, flushing an even deeper red. “Christ. Sorry. It’s Skylar.”

  “Skylar Crosby?” he asked quickly.

  I frowned at him. I wasn’t cold like Bostonians, but as a New Yorker, I had a deep suspicious streak. A stranger knowing my name definitely qualified as suspect.

  “Yes…” I said, taking a few steps backward. “How did you know that?”

  “I make it a point to know all of my employees’ names,” Sterling said with a brief, white smile. “Even the interns. Skylar’s a memorable one.”

  Even though it was snowing outside, that was when I truly froze. The dots connected, and I suddenly realized who this was: Brandon Sterling, the elusive name partner at the firm he also founded. He was a legend in the office, but hadn’t been seen once by any interns. That in and of itself wasn’t unusual—we were disposable labor, so most of the partners were unlikely to take much interest. But even most of the junior associates who oversaw our work had never met him personally. He was a phantom.

  “Oh, Jesus,” I breathed. “Jesus Christ.”

  “No, just me, I’m afraid,” Sterling replied with another bright smile. “Although it’s a nice comparison.”

  “I’m so sorry, sir,” I spluttered. “Oh my God, oh God, I was intruding on your home, and I really shouldn’t have. A friend of a friend invited me to wait for a car inside because of the weather, but it was completely inappropriate. I only went upstairs to find cell reception, I swear, and then you walked in…”

  Shut up, shut up, he already knows this, shut up! My inner dialogue went crazy trying to censor the blather again pouring out of my mouth. When I looked back at Sterling, I was mortified to see him trying unsuccessfully not to laugh.

  “Ms. Crosby,” he interrupted gently with yet another knee-weakening smile. “Really. Don’t worry about it.”

  “I’m just…very sorry for intruding,” I said lamely. “And for babbling. It’s something I do when I’m…”

  “When you’re what?”

  “Um, nervous,” I admitted.

  “You’ll have to fix that if you want to be a litigator,” he joked, causing me to turn bright red all over again. Fuck, could things get any worse? Although I wasn’t sure I wanted the job at Sterling Grove, it would have given me a springboard to any other I wanted. I could kiss that opportunity goodbye.

  “It’s all right,” Sterling said yet again, patting me gently on the arm.

  In the cold, his touch seared through the heavy wool of my jacket. He shivered, and for the first time, I realized he had chased me into the snow in just his suit and very expensive-looking leather shoes, which were already getting watermarks from the snow around the tips. I looked down at my feet. My Manolos were also as good as ruined.

  “I’m going to head back inside,” he said, tossing back toward his house. “Care to join me?”

  “Oh no, sir, I’m really fine,” I said. “The T is just down this path, and it goes right back to Cambridge.”

  Sterling glanced at his watch, which also looked very shiny and very expensive, but not flashy like that fool’s from the bar. Subtle. Tasteful.

  “It’s almost one,” he said. “You probably already missed the last train, if you don’t get robbed in the park on your way there. Come on. My driver’s out of town, but I can call you a car while you wait.” When I hesitated, he reached out and squeezed my hand before letting it go, an intimate gesture that seemed to surprise him a bit too. “What kind of boss would I be if I made my interns stay until after midnight and didn’t give them a ride home?”

  “Um…” For some reason, I couldn’t quite t
ell him that his office wasn’t the reason I was out so late.

  “Let’s go,” he said again in a tone that brooked no argument and started to make his way back through the snow.

  Someone (most likely Ana) had wised up to Sterling’s arrival. A large fire was alive in the fireplace when we reentered the house through the double-door entrance. There was no sign of his three companions. The house appeared to be empty but for him and me.

  Sterling slipped off his shoes and carried them over to the fireplace. He set them down on the hearth while I loitered awkwardly in the foyer.

  “Have a seat,” he said, nodding at one of the overstuffed couches I had been eyeing earlier. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  He disappeared upstairs while I sat down. When he returned, he carried a newspaper and a small box covered in scratches and paint splotches. He had removed his jacket, vest, and tie, and was decidedly more informal, with his white shirt unbuttoned at the throat and rolled up to his elbows. Though it was practically identical to the outfits of just about every other man I’d seen that night, there was something about the way the tendons in his forearms tested the limits of his rolled-up sleeves that made my mouth water, as if his casual regalia were trying to tame an animalism that was literally splitting seams to escape. Padding silently across the thick carpet, he reminded me of a lion tracking its prey.

  “May I?” he asked, kneeling in front of me and taking the heel of my shoe in his hand.

  Wordlessly, I watched as he slid my pumps off each foot, then carefully set my stockinged feet back onto the sheepskin. When he looked up, our eyes caught as they had when I had first seen him. The moment quickly passed. He cleared his throat and stood up.

  “Manolos,” he said, holding up one of my prized pumps. “The lady has expensive taste.”

  “The lady has only one pair,” I responded sadly. “So I hope you’re not going to throw them in the fire.”

  “Hardly,” he said, the “r” of the word flattening with a surprisingly thick Boston accent. He set both pairs of our shoes down on the hearth and proceeded to stuff them with crumpled newspaper.