by Vivian Wood
"I don't think that'll be necessary, Sir."
And that was that. Neither of us is very good or practiced at talking about our feelings, especially toward each other. We worked around the L word for months, even though we both knew how we felt. When it finally did slip from my lips, it was right after he'd made me come, my hands tied at my back while he had his way with me, a collar closing in around my neck instead of his hand. He pulled at it, and when my climax hit me, the words followed on instinct. I was more shocked at it than he was. His only response was a repetition of the same, a whisper, heavy with meaning. "I love you, too, my little Button."
That was about three months ago, and since then, we've been acting like the most obnoxious couple in love, walking around with a silly smile and giving way to our insane desire for each other.
The fact the he's no longer running his political campaign had another pleasant side effect for me: I was able to work as a journalist again.
However, it wasn't easy to get back in the game, despite my initial excitement to do so. I'd only been out for a few months, but for a lot of newspapers and journals, that was long enough to forget about me. In some aspects, it was almost as hard as if I was starting out again, a completely fresh start. I no longer have to work for money, but I have to pick up stories that may not excite me, but could be crucial for bringing my name back into the game.
Jared has always been as supportive as he can be the entire time.
But I wonder what he will think about this one. I just finished up a phone call that could change my life, an opportunity so big that I never even dreamed of it. It was a pure coincidence, really, but I'm sure the fact that my name was brought into play can also be linked to my activities during the past year at the side of Jared King, the business prodigy who dipped his toe in the murky water of politics, just to realize that it wasn't for him.
I was asked to join the press team of yet another promising political figure, a candidate who's running for a much higher office than what Jared strived for. It's actually the highest office.
I was offered a chance to write for a presidential campaign. Of course, this is gigantic news, great news, but it comes with its own hardships and conditions. Traveling, for example. Working in an environment that Jared has actively secluded himself from. I'd be busy as hell, leaving less time to be with him, at least for a while. It would put our young relationship to a test, and I don't know what he'll think about it or how he’ll react.
It doesn't help that we're celebrating our anniversary today. We never had something that we'd classify as "the talk,” but both Jared and I agreed that the day he came home to me, finally realizing that I was not out to get him, and I had come to a similar realization of my own, that that day would be our day. It has been exactly one year since then, and it feels like almost a farce that I received this offer now. It's been in the talks for a few days, and being who I am, I didn't share any of it with Jared until now. I received the actual offer today. All I had to do was to say yes.
If only it was that easy.
Jared is at the office all day, but he's made reservations for us at the same restaurant where we met for the very first time. It's a special day, so I took extra effort to look good for him, wearing a new purple Gucci dress, and letting my long hair fall down over my shoulders in elegant curls. He loves it when I wear my hair down, and I'm sure he'll appreciate the work I put into making my hair curl this way.
I'm nervously pressing my purse against my abdomen, as if it was a barrier for protection. My nerves calm down a little, when I see the look on his face as I walk through the door.
"You look stunning," he greets me, getting up from his seat and placing his hands on my hips as he pulls me in for a kiss that may be a little too sensual for a public place. It does wonders for my shaky emotional state. I instantly feel calm and protected, confident that he'll support me no matter what.
He's wearing a black suit with a silver tie, his hair gelled neatly to the side, displaying his edgy undercut that I've always found extremely attractive. The suit must be new. I can't remember ever seeing him wear that particular suit.
He's a true gentleman when we're out in public, pulling the chair out for me and making sure that I have a glass of champagne in hand as soon as I'm seated.
Meanwhile, I feel like I'm going to burst if I don't tell him. We clink glasses, and he can tell by the way mine is shaking that there's something on my mind.
"Tell me," he says, ominously smiling at me. "What's troubling you?"
I throw him a coy smile. "There's no place for secrets with you, is there?"
He shakes his head. "Not when it matters. Now tell me, Button. I can tell that something is up."
I take a deep breath - and another sip from my glass of champagne. The restaurant is busy, and the dining area is dipped in warm candlelight and unobtrusive background music. We're sitting at a table at the far end of the dining room, rather secluded from everyone else right in front of a big window that allows for people watching on the street.
"I got a job offer," I begin, catching his attentive eyes. "A pretty good one."
He smiles. "That's great! What kind of job?"
"Working for a presidential campaign," I continue. "I was asked to join the press team for Gregory Coldman."
Jared arches his eyebrows. "Let me rephrase that: that's beyond great, Button! How the hell did you pull that off?"
I give him a cautious smile. "It's... I know it's great. But it would mean that I'd be busy as hell, and I'd have to do a lot of traveling, especially if he makes it as far as becoming a candidate."
Jared nods.
"I understand that," he says. "But it's a great opportunity for you, far bigger than what we are."
"Nothing is bigger than we are," I correct him, feeling slightly hurt at how easily he's ready to part with me.
His face changes into a solemn smile. "Of course, you're right. Which is exactly why you need to do this. If that is what you want."
"It is," I say. "I mean, I know you didn't exactly feel comfortable in that area, but I think it could be really exciting. And I wouldn't be gone that much, at least not at first. And if it ends up becoming super huge, then-"
"Then we'll deal with it," he finishes my sentence. He leans forward, fixating his attention on me with his dark eyes while reaching for my hands. "I'm so fucking proud of you."
I blush at his praise. Him telling me, the man I love, that he's "fucking proud" of me is the most wonderful thing I could think of. I never doubted his respect for me, despite the way our dynamics change once we're playing, but the way he looks at me now, the way he understands, respects, and loves who I am... what else could I ever ask for?
"But there's one thing that worries me," he adds, knitting his eyebrows.
"Yes?"
"You, out there, all by yourself," he says, his eyes locking onto mine. "My sexy Button, turning every man's head with her beauty, her sass, her talent. You're more than most men would ever dare ask for."
I blush and let out a helpless chuckle. "I don't think th-"
"Let's just make sure that everyone knows you're mine," he says, cutting me off.
I don't know what he's trying to say, until he gets up from his seat, still holding my hand while he walks around the table, coming to a halt right next to me.
"Jared, what..."
My voice breaks when he goes down on one knee, a smile that never lacks his characteristic obscurity appearing on his face.
"You're mine," he says. "My partner in crime, my equal, my savior, my everyday challenge, and my everyday delight."
He pauses, smirking at my reaction as he produces a little jewelry box from the inside pocket of his jacket and drops to his knee. He opens the box, revealing a simple twisted split band ring with a round diamond setting.
"Ann Porter, will you do me the honor of wearing this ring and letting the world know that you're my everything, my wife-"
"Yes!" I cut him off, before I dro
p down from my chair, falling right into his open arms, tears threatening to betray my idea about being a strong and self-sustained woman. "Yes, yes, yes."
"And here I was, thinking that this could be the last time you'd let me have the final word," he breathes into my ear. "My sassy Button."
"Never," I reply, between showering him with kisses. "You're mine just as much as I'm yours."
Thank you for reading!
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The Bet
Natalie Wrye
Prologue
VIOLET
TWO YEARS AGO
We had done it; every bone in my body was telling me so.
The cushion underneath the backs of my knees is cold, and in a hospital gown the color of an early morning sky, I can’t stop moving. Can’t stop fidgeting in the itchy blue uniform.
I swear the goddamned clock on the wall is taunting me, and as I stare at its slow-moving hands, panic starts to set in, making my fingers and toes tingle in the frigid white room.
I can’t breathe my heart is beating so hard, until at last that cold blue door opens with the doctor. The “Sorry” written in her small smile is enough, and she walks closer, closing the door behind her, I let go of a long breath, my fingers flying to my brow as I wipe away a line of sweat.
My hand shakes as I lower it, my lips spreading into what I fear is a watery smile. I glance up at her.
“So?” I prod. “Bad news?”
She nods, her brown eyes dimming. “I’m sorry, Violet… I’m afraid so.”
I laugh, feeling no humor in the sound. “Guess I’m not getting the Christmas present I’d hoped for.”
My doctor smiles, the sad expression still reassuring on her pretty face. “Consider this, Violet. You still haven’t given up yet. And you shouldn’t.” She reaches her hand out to shake mine. “If it isn’t this Christmas, it’ll be the one after that. Or the one after that. Sometimes the gift we want right now isn’t the gift we need.” She nods slowly. “Give it time. It will happen, Mrs. Hudson.”
The sound of my marital name on her lips is enough to dissolve me into sobs, and within minutes, I am in Dr. Wannamaker’s arms, wrapped in the warmest hug the physician can offer.
I dress quicker than a runway model, my feet practically skating as I exit the icy offices. Climbing behind the black leather wheel of my white Jag, tears—hot and steady—form at the corners of my eyes, falling everywhere, and as I take a turn out of the parking lot, heading home, my mind is still stuck on all the holiday gifts I haven’t picked up, the loads of errands still left to do before Christmas Day weighing down on my mind like a load that won’t let up.
I drop by the nearest gift-wrapping place I can find, fitting a couple of my early presents in.
The doctor’s news bubbling up inside of me, I can’t resist the urge to drop by my house for a drink. I practically crawl into my front door less than fifty minutes later, my arms aching as I set a baseball team’s worth of bags onto my cherry hardwood floor, my tear-filled eyes too blurry to notice the unexpected company in my condo.
Until I hear the footsteps.
The soft sound of shoe-falls makes me stop inside my own threshold, and instinctively, I reach towards my stomach, holding one hand over my belly button as a flutter finds its way there and stays.
I call out, my voice cracking on a croak. “Hello?” I say towards the kitchen, fear planting my feet to the floor. “Is anyone there?”
Warm brown eyes appear at the corner, looking straight at me. I exhale loudly, my body sagging as I reach for my best friend Jasmine, who steps forward, a magnificent magenta dress fitting over her perfect frame.
She holds me briefly, letting go quickly, her small smile shaky as she stares. She takes a step back.
“You’re home early,” she states, her mocha irises roaming from my figure to the floor. She clasps her hands.
“I know,” I reply, sighing. “I took an early lunch.” I point towards the bags. “Christmas shopping.” I plaster a smile that’s sure to break. “See for yourself.”
Kneeling next to the gigantic bags, Jazz peeks inside, her eyes going wide as she ruffles through its overly cute contents. She pulls the pacifier out first, waving it in the air, and I watch her swallow slowly, her gaze clouding, her silky voice trembling as she stands. She wrings her small delicate hands.
“You’re pregnant.”
It’s a statement, not a question. I answer with a shake of my head, my neck threatening to break.
I exhale loudly, the breath blowing hard out of my cheeks. I can barely say the words. “No… I’m not, Jazz. Just wishful thinking. Guess Santa missed my house this year again, huh?”
My throat squeezes and I reach for her again, needing a body to cushion the blow, needing my closest friend’s comfort to push the very real nightmare away.
I feel her stiffen.
My best friend’s body turns to cement, and with a hug much colder than my own doctor’s, I pull out of her hold, my head tilting as I examine her expressionless face.
The shout flying from further inside the condo air cuts off my next words.
“Jazz!” I hear from beyond the kitchen. “Get your sexy ass back in here! Daddy’s got something big and hard for you.”
The air goes still immediately after. Several seconds pass before reality registers, and I drop the pink clutch in my hand, my feet hurtling towards the back bedroom before my brain can catch up.
Jazz grabs for me, missing me as I sprint without a second thought farther into the confines of my over-priced condo. I halt when I find my bedroom door open. I crack it farther, my eyes landing on the broad body standing against the farthest wall.
In nothing but boxer briefs.
The world goes eerily quiet as my nerves hum. I stare at the handsome man, my gaze grazing his pale skin from head to toe, and my pulse leaps into my throat, thrumming hard, my fingers sweating as the truth takes hold and nearly chokes me. My heart stops.
He turns to face me, a smile printed on his full lips. The grin slides from his mouth as his stare at last meets mine, and I watch as recognition hits him like a pile of bricks, shock sucking the life out of his bright blue irises. He opens his mouth to speak.
But I don’t hear a damn thing. Couldn’t if I tried.
There’s a roar rumbling in my ears. An actual thunder. Every word, every noise, every other sound is blocked, barred and closed off—overshadowed by the sound of my own heart breaking in two.
Chapter One
Violet
PRESENT
I have never been more fucked in my life.
A thousand footsteps beat a rhythm across my skin, the faint smell of window cleaner and coffee shifting for position under my nose. The tile beneath my shoes is slippery, and I stumble—in heels, no less—from the confines of a single-file line, the chrome metal detector overhead letting me through without as much as a whine.
My heart is humming. My fingers are tightened into a fist around the handle of my overstuffed bag.
The watch on my left wrist reads 7:01. The time on my ticket reads 7:10. And with a tug to my bloated luggage and briefcase, I barrel past the bright blue shirts of airplane security, the edges of my red-bottoms clicking furiously across the floor.
Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. There has to be a faster way to my gate.
But the signs along th
e ceiling all read “No.”
I can’t believe this…
I’ve never missed a flight before. And somehow in the most important twenty-four hours of my life, everything seemed to go wrong. Traffic was thicker than oatmeal. My second carry-on broke, forcing me to shove everything into the first. And the security line…
It’s like they put every rambunctious toddler in front of me on purpose, just to see how much pressure I could handle. I wanted to cry, rage and scream like I’d seen the two-year old in baggage check do.
But I was a twenty-eight year old woman. In the span of half a mile of white tile and busy travelers, I’d aged eighty more years, and each additional footstep towards my gate is another hurdle that my already tired body can’t handle.
I’m no longer walking at this point; I’m practically running.
The wheels on my luggage squeak, barely able to keep up. I’ve clutched my purse so tightly to my side that it’s left an imprint.
Gates flash overhead in a rush of letters and numbers.
D27…26…25.
D06 seems so far away, and as my hand starts to hurt from the exertion, my legs and lungs burning from the run, I rush up to the gate. Just as it begins to close.
I know I look as horrible as I feel.
The airport attendant shoots me a look of shock, and with little fanfare, lets me through to the bridge of the plane. With as much dignity as I can muster, I throw my head back, pulling my shoulders straight.
I slip quietly into my first class seat, surprised to find the one beside it empty. Raking shaky fingers through my mussed red hair, I try desperately to fix the mess that is me. I’m still smoothing my hair back into a barrette when I feel a light caress along the line of my navy trench coat-covered shoulder.