Merry Ever After

by Vi Keeland, Penelope Ward, Lucy Score, Marie Force, Tijan, Kennedy Ryan

  “You grabbed the keys so I couldn’t take the car.” I laugh in his face. “How’d that work out for you?”

  “Just come on. Let’s go. This was a mistake.”

  I look closer, and though his clothes are rumpled, I know the slackness of his face, the look of satiation after he busts a nut. His jaw is too tight. Lips pinched at the corners.

  “What happened?” I ask, narrowing my eyes in suspicion as I reach behind to zip my dress. “With you, I mean?”

  He lowers his head, studying his shoes. “We didn’t . . .they, well . . .they changed their minds.”

  Laughter bubbles up from a deep well in my belly and overflows. I cover my mouth, but there’s no use. Hysterical giggles spill between my fingers. “They changed their . . .”

  I can’t even get the words out, but bend over a little, clutching my middle.

  “You didn’t get . . .” I wheeze at this boon the universe granted me. “Fucked. I got fucked and you didn’t.”“No,” he admits stiffly. “This was a bad idea. This whole night.”

  I slide on my shoes, glancing over Trey’s shoulder to where Harper leans against the wall, wearing his clothes, now fully restored, and a mocking smirk.

  “The night actually turned out great for me.” I grab my purse, take the keys from Trey, and start walking toward the office door, leaving him agape. When I reach Harper at the wall, his expression sobers and he reaches for my hand, ignoring the outraged sounds coming from Trey behind us.

  “I want to see you again,” Harper says.

  “That’s not how this works, man,” Trey growls. “It’s one night. You’re not supposed to ask for more. It’s part of the agreement.”

  “Oh, he didn’t agree to anything,” I turn my head to tell Trey. “He didn’t come for the swing party. He’s just some random man I fucked.”I turn back to catch Harper’s stare. “No offense.”

  “None taken,” he replies, but the set of his shoulders stiffens. Something goes tighter in his face, and I regret my words. I lay my palm flat to his strong, muscled chest.

  “It was exactly what I needed,” I tell him. “It was special, but it was just this once, right?”

  Some irrational part of me that doesn’t understand the rules of hook ups or doesn’t want to abide by them, shouts in my head it doesn’t have to be one night. I silence it, though. That would be hella complicated. Harper lives across the country in LA. This was a chance encounter. Even if Trey doesn’t realize it yet, I’m about to get divorced. There is a lot ahead to navigate in my life. Trying to see if things could work out with a random who busted my back at a swing party? Doesn’t sound wise.

  So despite a nagging voice in the back of my mind hissing are you sure???

  Despite the heavy, satisfied ache between my thighs taunting that I may never find another man who can lay pipe like this.

  Despite the tiny prick of my heart that asks . . .who knows what this could become?

  Despite all of that, I tip up on my toes, kiss the muscle flexing in Harper’s jaw, and walk out the door never glancing back.

  Harper

  Eighteen Months Later

  I kinda hate New York.

  Inconvenient since it’s my new home.

  I shouldn’t complain, but I do miss LA, the literal opposite of this city in every way that counts. A year ago I was still writing drivel pieces for travel blogs. Not the best use of my MFA. There was no way I could have known the turn my life would take. No way I could have predicted I’d be attending a Christmas party in New York hosted by my new agent.

  I have an agent.

  I have a publisher and a debut novel releasing soon.

  The only constant in my life lately has been my family, and right on time, my phone vibrates with a call from my brother Carl as I climb the stairs from the subway to the street above.

  “Yo,” I answer, orienting myself to gauge how close I am to my destination before striding swiftly, navigating the crowd out for Christmas in the city. “What’s up?”

  “What’s up with you, big time author?” Carl asks. “Just checking on my little brother since the holidays can be depressing, even for budding literary superstars.”

  “Kind, but unnecessary.”

  “Young man sets off for the Big Apple in pursuit of fame and fortune. It’s lonely at the top. Or so I’ve been told. I’m stuck selling cars here in the Chi.”

  “We all have our crosses to bear. I’ll be home for Christmas next week.”

  “You better be!” Kelly yells from the other end.

  “Do you have me on speaker again?” I ask, rolling my eyes.

  “We have no secrets from each other,” Carl says.

  “Oh, I found that out the hard way. Had any more orgies lately?”

  “They are not orgies. It’s usually couples choosing other couples or individuals. We never—”

  “Well there was that one last month that got out of hand,” Kelly reminds him . . .and unfortunately me. “That was a big ol’ group, and we all—”

  “Okay, okay, okay,” I cut in, needing to bleach my ears after this conversation. “I know you don’t keep secrets from each other, but it’s perfectly fine if you don’t share all the details of your sex circus with me.”

  “Not like you never partook,” Carl says, wicked humor threading his voice. “That sweet little piece you had when you visited. Everyone in the house heard her screaming.”

  Even the mention of that hour with Sinclaire, if that was even her real name, calcifies my dick in my pants.

  “Her asshole husband ever show up for any more parties?” I ask, hoping I sound casual.

  “No, and before you ask me again if I have any way to contact her or him, the answer is no. It’s coordinated through an app that guarantees privacy. Even if I did, it’d be against the rules to give out the personal information of anyone who attended one of our parties.”

  “She does live in Chicago, though, right?” I press. I know it’s stupid, but I can’t seem to pry that night from my mind. I dream about her high cheekbones and luscious mouth. That ass. Her hair. Her scent and the thick syrup of her voice. Last, but certainly not least, that sweet, tight pussy. In my dreams, I taste her all over again. I discreetly shift my dick in my pants as I walk toward my agent’s apartment. Sporting a hard on the size of Harlem is not how I want to show up for the annual Christmas party.

  “I don’t know anything about her,” Carl gives the same reply he has every time I inquired. “He’s never showed up again. That’s a cold trail, buddy.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “She really got to you, huh?”

  I open my mouth to deny it, but she did get to me. In an hour, I can’t say it was love at first sight, but it was for sure lust and fascination. She drew me in, held me like no one ever has before or since.

  “She was beautiful and sweet,” I settle on understating.

  “And a great lay by the sound of it,” Kelly pipes in . . .still on speaker phone.

  “I’m gonna go,” I say hastily, wondering how I lucked up with these two for relatives. “I’ve arrived at this party.”

  “See you next week for Christmas,” Carl says. “And please don’t mention our . . .um, lifestyle to Mom and Dad. She’ll have me in a confessional faster than you can say rosary.”

  “You keep my secrets, I’ll keep yours, brother,” I chuckle. “See you next week.”

  We disconnect and I enter the impressive apartment building with its revolving glass doors. My agent is living the high life.

  “Good evening,” the security officer behind the desk says. “Can I help you?”

  “Yeah. Harper Calloway here for Merrin Sanders,” I tell him, checking my phone for the invite details. “Apartment 1050.”

  He calls to confirm I’m expected and directs me to the elevator. The level of luxury is slightly intimidating. My black slacks and button up felt perfectly fine in my Brooklyn loft, but now I’m wondering if I should have upped my game. Merrin has an impressive st
able of authors. I’m probably the newest to the game. I’d hate to be the only one who looks like I don’t have a bestseller to my name yet.

  When I ring the bell of the tenth floor apartment, the door swings open and Merrin greets me with a white smile, dazzling in contrast with her rich brown complexion.

  “Harper! Glad you could make it.” She steps back and motions me inside. “Come on in. Lemme get your coat.”

  I hand her my peacoat, letting my eyes wander over the discreetly expensive apartment. Set into a sunken floor, a massive sectional dominates the living room. A Christmas tree, maybe a ten footer, is positioned in front of a floor to ceiling window, which showcases a breathtaking view of the city. An assortment of candles decorate the mantel, three red, three green and one black for Kwanza.

  “You have a beautiful home,” I say, following her into the room and nodding to several people already sipping from flutes of champagne.

  “Thank you.” Merrin grabs a glass from a server passing by with a tray. “Here you go. Imbibe.”

  I accept the glass and take a sip.

  “That’s delicious.” The bubbles tickle my nose and the taste settles on my tongue, effervescent and fruity.

  “It’s Stuyvesant,” Merrin says. “One of the few champagnes made by a Black woman.”

  “Nice.” I take another sip. “Never heard of it.”

  “Now you know,” she says with a grin. “Come on and meet some of the other authors, and then we’ll eat.”

  There’s ten of us. Merrin says most of her authors live elsewhere, but she has the ones based in New York over for a casual holiday gathering each year. I try my best not to be intimidated by the assembly of brilliance in the room, but imposter syndrome is a motherfucker.

  “You’re Harper, right?” a tall man with sharp eyes asks when I find myself nursing a glass of champagne in the crook of the sectional.

  “Uh, yes.” I lift a querying brow. “I’m not famous or anything. How’d you know?”

  “Merrin tells me it’s only a matter of time. She thinks your book will be an instant success.” He extends his hand to shake mine. “Phil, by the way. The husband.”

  “Oh, nice to meet you. She told me you’re a professor at NYU, right?”

  “Yes, economics when she hates to even balance a check book. We’re exact opposites in just about every way imaginable, but we make it work.”

  “That’s amazing. She said you’ve been married . . .a long time.” I laugh. “I can’t remember how long.”

  “Thirty-three years. We married when we were ten years old.”

  “As young as you both look, I halfway believe that.”

  “We keep each other young. No one else I would have chosen to do this life with. Did she tell you about our girls?”

  “She did mention you have four daughters.”

  “Yes, all of them will be home for Christmas next week. Our youngest is actually coming a little early. Should be here tonight. You may get to meet her. She just divorced.”

  “Oh, sorry to hear that.”

  “We aren’t.” He grimaces. “We never liked him. Asshole.”

  “Wow. Sounds like it’s a celebration.”

  “It is. We’re glad she didn’t waste any more time on that . . .” He shakes his head, a frown pleating his brow. “You have to let your kids make their own choices, their own mistakes, but we knew from the beginning he wasn’t good enough for her.”

  Before I can respond, Merrin summons us to the dining room for dinner. I’m glad to be seated beside Phil at one end of the table, while Merrin holds court at the other. Two authors across from me also have books releasing soon, so we commiserate about all the shit that comes with navigating the publishing industry.

  “It’s been a fantastic year,” Merrin says, standing to address us about an hour into dinner. “Tonight is just my way of saying thank you for trusting me with your book babies. You’re all so talented and I promise to always do my best to let the world know that.”

  She raises her glass, lips parted to go on, when there’s a sound at the front door. The sound of keys and shuffling steps.

  “Oh!” Merrin beams. “That’s probably my daughter.”

  I lift a glass of mulled wine to take another sip, but my hand freezes halfway to my mouth when the woman who is presumably this daughter walks into the dining room and straight into Merrin’s arms.

  It can’t be.

  I’m dreaming again, only this time it has to be a nightmare because surely my agent’s daughter can’t be—

  “Sinclaire,” Merrin murmurs, squeezing her daughter close. “You made it.”

  “Yep. Caught an Uber and came straight from the airport,” Sinclaire says, turning to face the table fully for the first time, her expression chagrined. “Sorry to interrupt, everyone. I . . .”

  Her eyes lock with mine and her mouth falls open like a startled fish.

  “Shit,” she says, the curse very loud in a room gone silent.

  My sentiments exactly.

  What are the odds that the woman I had a one-night—correction one-hour stand with—would be my agent’s daughter? Would be home for Christmas?

  Would look even better than the last time I saw her. In a lemon-colored sweater and dark jeans ripped at the knee paired with leather boots, hair wild and free tonight, she’s exquisite. Her dark eyes stretch when they meet mine, and I see the same panic reflected there that has scattered my thoughts. As much as I wanted to see her again, not under these circumstances. What if her mother finds out? Merrin’s my agent. I fucked her daughter.

  At a swing party.

  Seated beside her father, a rather large man with hands that could crush me now that I take notice, sweat beads along my forehead.

  “What’s wrong, honey?” Merrin asks, frowning.

  “Nothing. I . . .” Sinclaire averts her eyes, rubs the back of her neck like it’s tight all of a sudden. “I didn’t realize I’d be interrupting the party.”

  “Nonsense,” Phil says. “Come on down here. There’s an empty seat and we’ll get you a plate.”

  An empty seat beside me.

  What have I done to offend the ghosts of Christmas past so grievously that this is how they repay me?

  “I can just go to my room and—”

  “Don’t be silly, baby.” Phil pulls the chair out beside me. “We got you right here.”

  She meets my eyes for a nanosecond, dismay clouding her expression, and then she comes, approaching like she’s taking a long walk on a short plank.

  When she sits beside me, she smells the same. A mix of vanilla and something unidentifiable that could just be the way her satiny skin absorbs the scent. I fix my eyes on my half-empty plate, denying myself a long hard look at the contrast of delicate and bold her profile offers.

  One of the servers brings a loaded plate and sets it down in front of Sinclaire. She stares at it for a few seconds before shifting her gaze to me. It’s only then that I realize I’m not denying myself at all, but I’m actually staring at her, taking in the bevel of her cheekbone, high and curved. The fine-grained skin like velvet stretched over a loom. She widens long-lashed eyes at me meaningfully, and drags a wary gaze from her father to her mother at the other end of the table.

  “How was the flight, Claire?” Phil asks, eyes crinkled with affection at his daughter over the rim of his wine glass.

  “Oh.” Sinclaire takes her fork from a napkin and spreads the roll of linen across her lap. “It was great. Fine.”

  “Glad.” He slices into what’s left of the delicious lamb chop. “Wasn’t sure you’d make it out of O’Hare ahead of the snow.”

  She answers only with a nod, eyes lowered as she samples the grilled Brussels sprouts and whipped sweet potatoes.

  “And what about Trey?” Phil asks, a line deepening between his salt and pepper brows. “The papers came through? I hope that no-account Negro hasn’t been—”

  “Daddy!” Her horrified gaze pings between her father and me. “
Can we not talk about him? Please? Everything is settled and final. We’re . . .It’s over.”

  Despite the discomfort of the situation, some of the weight lifts in my chest. Maybe it’s excellent champagne, two glasses of mulled wine, the lamb chop, the conversation—I don’t know what does it—but my perspective flips on its head. What if this isn’t the universe’s punishment, that I fucked my agent’s daughter at a swing party and could end up dropped from the firm, unrepresented before my novel even hits the shelves? What if it’s a gift, a what are the odds offering from the hook up deities? I haven’t been able to evict Sinclaire from my thoughts and she has occasionally plagued my dreams. I’ve inquired, not so subtly, about how I could find her, with no success.

  Until tonight.

  Through no finagling of my own.

  Maybe this is a gift.

  “Since Claire doesn’t want to talk about the idiot who shall not be mentioned,” Phil says, slanting a wry smile to his daughter. “Why don’t you tell us about your novel, Harper.”

  Oh, shit.

  “Um, it’s just simple boy meets girl kind of thing.” I clench my fists in my lap, grit my teeth and reach for the wine.

  “Did I hear you say simple?” Merrin elevates her voice so it carries from the other end of the table. “It is anything but. One of the most fascinating premises I’ve read in a long time.”

  Phil leans one elbow back on the armrest of his chair, holds his chin in his hand. “Well tell us about it. Merrin said she’d found a rare talent, but didn’t tell me about the book.”

  “Yes, I did.” Merrin rolls her eyes with good-natured exasperation. “You’ve probably forgotten. I knew right away this book would sell.”

  “Now you have to tell us about it,” one of the authors chimes in from midway down the table, his eyes glinting with interest.

  “He’s being so bashful,” Merrin says. “I have no idea why, but I’ll tell it. I did have to pitch it all over, after all.”

  “Oh, no.” My gaze flies to meet Sinclaire’s curious stare. “We don’t have to—”

  “So there’s a guy who ends up at his brother’s house for an uplanned visit,” Merrin says, red-painted lips spreading into a grin. “Because his flight gets canceled and he has to crash with his brother and sister-in-law for the night.”