BLISS: A Wedding Enemies to Lovers Alpha Bad-Boy Billionaire Romance

by Marr, Maggie

  “Uh huh. Just like when you snuck out of the house at sixteen to visit Nana?”

  “Nana confirmed the story.”

  “Nana was an easy alibi, plus a sucker for your big blue eyes. I know you went to see Carolyn Dombrowski. She told me.”

  “You need proof to convict.” I smile. I’ll let my big sister bust my balls as long as I can bring Lily doughnuts this weekend. “Kind of an important concept for a judge to forget.”

  “And yet more than some of the attorneys who appear in my courtroom seem to know. So, you’re coming over this weekend?”

  “Thinking about it. Does that work for you?”

  “Yes.” Rachel pauses and takes a deep breath. “But I’d really love it if you’d go visit Mom.”

  What’s left of my heart cracks. I open my mouth to respond, but before I utter a word, big sis continues.

  “She’s been asking about you. She wants to see you, she misses you, and—”

  “Rach, she doesn’t even know who I am when I’m there.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “It is.”

  “Not always.”

  “When I visit, Mom thinks I’m Dad.”

  Rachel sighs. My assessment is accurate, whether Rachel wants to admit it or not. Mom, when she asks about me, is really asking about twelve-year-old me, because that’s where her Alzheimer’s-addled mind has landed. For Mom, based on whatever neurons still fire, I’m forever gap-toothed, gangly, and twelve. So while I want to see Mom, it’s pretty dammed painful, and I’ve already had my fair share of pain for this lifetime. I’m all about the pleasure now.

  “Plus, when I go, because she thinks I’m Dad, she asks me about Susie.”

  Rachel gasps.

  “But I’ll go,” I offer up. knowing its been ten days since I’ve seen Mom, and that’s longer than I usually go without seeing her, even if it is painful. Beside, big sis sees Mom almost every day, and she’s got a courtroom to run and a kid to raise. How big of a selfish slacker can I be?

  “We’ll all go,” Rachel offers. “The three of us. It’s fun. Mom calls Lily ‘Rachel’ and thinks I’m her mean nurse. Maybe that’ll take the heat off, so she won’t bring up—”

  Rachel pauses. She can’t even say her name. I don’t blame her. It was only this year that I could finally say Susie’s name without putting a fist through a wall or having my throat close up.

  “Sunday? Meet you there around two?” Rachel asks.

  “You got a date, but I’ll be by your house on Saturday morning. I promised Lily—”

  “Doughnuts. I know.”

  “She ratted me out?”

  “I’m her mother”—I hear the smile in Rachel’s voice—“I can read her mind. But yeah, she totally caved while we were on the phone. Firstborn. Not a good liar. Usually it’s the youngest who can twist the truth.”

  I smile. My big sis, always with the digs, even when they’re accurate. I say good-bye and finally slide my key into the lock of my front door. The Tokyo Stock Exchange opens in a couple of hours, so I’ve got time to eat before I play.

  Today was a good day.

  I’m exhausted—but the kind of tired you feel after you do something you enjoy. The spicy sweet and sour scent of my two favorite Chinese dishes, plus two appetizers, wafts up from the bag. I’m hungry and I’m home. My happy place. My silent refuge where I can—

  “Hey, neighbor.”

  I glance over my shoulder. Tara, my neighbor, who I know in a friendly acquaintance sort of way, stands across the hall. A soft crooked smile decorates her face. The smile is a lie. Her eyes and her makeup and everything on her face looks a little cattywampus, like she’s been crying. Her dark hair is up in a haphazard ponytail. She hoists a giant white hanging bag and holds it high over her right shoulder while she struggles to get her key into the lock.

  No. Go. Her keys fall to the ground. I’m hungry, I’m exhausted, and I’m ready to disappear inside my place and gorge myself on Chinese food, but Tara has been my neighbor for going on three years. She’s a good neighbor. Brings in my mail if I’m out of town. Gives me baked goods at Christmas. Invites me to her parties. Smiles. Even has a pretty decent-looking dog. If not for the asshole fiancé she’s had for two of the three years she’s lived across the hall, Tara’d be downright perfect. I hitch my Chinese take-out bag onto my arm, turn, and in three steps and one slick move pick up her keys and unlock her front door.

  “Thanks.” A blush curls across her face. She shifts the giant hanging bag a little higher.

  “Dress?”

  She nods.

  Wait . . . A thought percolates through my head. White envelope. Crisp black calligraphy. Gold lining. RSVP.

  “The dress?”

  A sickeningly sad-ass attempt at a smile crosses Tara’s face.

  “Congratulations,” I say and smile back. I know what’s important to women, and bringing home her wedding dress is definitely a big moment for a lady. “Dinner plans with George?”

  “Greg, it’s Greg,” she says for probably the millionth time.

  I know his fucking name. I simply refuse to say it.

  “Right, right. Greg.” I overemphasize, as though I’m an idiot and I really am trying to remember Douchebucket’s name. Nope. I’m not. Greg will forever be “douche-something” in my head. “You two going out to celebrate the dress?” I ask with a nod toward the gown now draped over her arm.

  She shakes her head and looks at the floor. “He has a work thing tonight.” Tara tries to mask her sadness. Maybe I’d believe her if we hadn’t been neighbors for nearly three years.

  Greg’s choice of career as big-shot commercial real estate salesman ups his quotient on my douchebaggery scale. In my mind, he’s one paved parking lot away from being a used-car salesman.

  “Ah, got it.” I drop her keys into her hand and turn back to my own door, with way too much Chinese takeout in the bag on my arm. Again I glance over my shoulder. “I have Kung Pao Scallops and Moo Goo Gai Pan,” I say. “Care to join me?”

  Tara is . . . well, she’s beautiful. All women are beautiful, but Tara has this kindness that starts in her eyes and hovers around the curve of her mouth. She’s the type of woman any man worth his salt would worship, because Tara’s smart, kind, and—dammit, I’m not sure how Greg has managed it after all the shit he’s pulled—loyal.

  She pauses. One eyebrow lifts. We’ve been to parties at neighbors’, but we’ve never had a meal together alone . . . have we? No, not hardly. I moved into my condo long before Tara moved into hers and back then I was still involved with . . . with . . . well, I was still involved. Then I was gone for a while. Then I was back. Then there was Tara’s douchepickle. So no, while we’re friendly the way neighbors are friendly, Tara and I haven’t really had a meal together, or hung out alone, ever.

  “Let me hang this up”—she nods toward the dress—“and change.”

  My glance takes in her clothes. Suit. Heels. Silk blouse that hints at her cleavage. I’d take her whether she changed or not.

  “Fifteen minutes?”

  “Deal.” She walks into her place and closes the door.

  Nothing wrong with being neighborly.

  Chapter 3

  My condo is quintessentially male. I don’t entertain often. Okay, once, in all the years I’ve lived here. Not for me, but for Rachel. Big sis was dumped, preggers, and on her way to divorce court, while my morally bankrupt brother-in-law Dalton was on his way to Costa Rica to start a new life with his secretary. In my mind, Dalton and Greg were cut from the same cloth.

  Actually, to be fair, ladies, we all are. Men. We’re all a variation of Greg or Dalton. All card-carrying penis holders, harbor these douchey, cheating traits. It’s simply that some of us discover our own proclivity to douchebaggery and fix it or corral it or contain it . . . we do whatever the hell we have to do to make our cocks behave. Or if we don’t, we act like assholes and take off for Central America with our twenty-something secretary, leaving our pregnant
soon-to-be-ex-wife behind.

  I close my front door and like iron to a magnet, my eyes are drawn to my unused balcony. Thirty-two stories up, it’s got a helluva view. That’s the main reason I bought the place. On a clear day I can see all the way to the ocean. If I actually went outside onto the balcony. Which I don’t. Not now. Closing in on six years.

  I pull my eyes from the balcony and the view. I put the bag of Chinese food on the counter and head to my bedroom. I pull on jeans and a T-shirt. If the neighbor is going to be comfy, I might as well be too. I head back to the kitchen and get out plates and utensils. Do a quick sweep to make certain the place is clean. Which it is. I sleep. I eat. I work. I don’t have pets, children, or a girlfriend—the place looks like a high-end furniture catalogue.

  I like my space. I dig my privacy.

  The doorbell rings.

  My heart jumps.

  What the hell? I shake my head and smile. Wow, seriously? My heart jumps because of my engaged neighbor? The one I’ve lived across the hall from for three years? I open the door.

  My heart jumps again.

  Yeah. This neighbor. Her hair is still up in a ponytail, and I can’t tell if she has on makeup or not, but she smells like some fresh flowery scent and that smile hovers around her lips.

  “I brought champagne.” She lifts a bottle of Veuve.

  “What’re we celebrating?”

  Her smile falters and something cracks behind her eyes, but she recovers quickly and her smile brightens again. “A bright future.”

  “I’m down with that. I’ve got beer and Chinese food, a bottle of great champagne and a pretty cool neighbor to have dinner with, so my future already looks good.”

  Tara walks into my place. Gone are the high heels and skirt and silk blouse. Instead, she wears a comfy shirt and leggings with pictures of—“Are those bears on your pants?”

  She glances back at me and smiles. “Grizzlies.”

  Leggings with grizzly bears. The woman does comfort clothing well. I’m pleased.

  I uncork the champagne and pour two glasses. She walks toward the view.

  “I always wondered if the extra price was worth it, but standing here, I think it might be.”

  She’s referring to the nearly fifty percent more that condos on my side of the building go for than the ones on her side. She takes the champagne flute I offer her from my hand.

  “To good neighbors with great views,” she says, tapping the crystal glass to mine.

  “To neighbors, I say.” She has a gleam in her eye. A mischievous look, as though she’s a woman with a secret. That is power for a woman, when they look like they know more than you, because they usually do, and men know it. Plus, they are killer with the details.

  “You work at home, don’t you?”

  I take a sip of champagne and nod.

  “So you get this view all day, every day.”

  “Not all day every day.” I don’t mention that there are some days, like today, where I’m at The Four Seasons in Beverly Hills or the Westin Bonaventure downtown or The London in West Hollywood for entire mornings, afternoons, or nights. I walk to the kitchen and pull out two platters from the cabinet above the stove. I know I own these two platters only because Rachel borrows them every year at Thanksgiving. I dump the two entrees onto the platters and walk to the dining room table, which I’m uncertain I’ve ever actually sat down and eaten at.

  “This view, I can’t get over it.”

  A knot lodges in my throat. I don’t follow her gaze. Instead, I pull out Tara’s chair and then sit at the head of the table.

  I serve Tara and then I serve myself. She finishes her glass of champagne and pours another.

  “You two planning on living here after the wedding?” I ask, knowing that I don’t want Douchebucket on my floor but that I also don’t want to lose Tara as a neighbor. I enjoy seeing her smile on the elevator and in the hall—plus the baked goods she gives me at the holidays.

  She frowns. “I don’t know.” Her voice drifts away with uncertainty. Her jaw is tight and her lips are pursed. Is it Douchey-McDouche-Face that causes Tara’s normally soft features to harden, or is it the idea of moving? Not my rodeo. Not my place to state an opinion. So instead of asking, I take a bite of my dinner.

  “So what is it you do, again?” Tara asks. I notice she’s changing the subject but don’t comment.

  “For money?”

  She creases her eyebrows and smiles, a questioning expression on her face.

  “I help new businesses.”

  “Help?”

  “Venture capital.”

  She probably thinks that she knows what that means. She’s smart and inquisitive. Goes with her job. “You still with the LA Post?” I ask. One of the few things I know about my neighbor is that she has a gig as a reporter for an online news service. I can neither confirm nor deny that I provided a big chunk of change to help the LA Post cover start-up costs for the company that is now her employer.

  “For now.” She sips her champagne. “I’m . . . I’m not sure I’ll stay. Kind of depends on what happens.”

  I lean back in my chair. I never really thought of Tara as a marriage-ends-my-career type of woman.

  “You keep the strangest hours.”

  I pause mid-bite. I tilt my head.

  “I’ve been working from home the last three weeks, and I noticed you’re in and out at the weirdest times.”

  Discomfort worms through my belly. I keep things clean and tight. Private and discreet, for obvious reasons. Not even my sister knows the details of my life. What to think? My egress and entrance is interesting to my journalist-neighbor?

  “I mean, I’m not stalking you.” She smiles and shakes her head, her glass nearly empty again. “This all sounds very weird. Okay, so when you open and close your front door, my bed shakes.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Look, I don’t know how or why or what exactly causes it, but I noticed it about a year ago. For the longest time I thought it had something to do with the elevator shaft, but then I realized that—”

  “When I shut my front door your—”

  “Bed shakes.”

  “I really don’t know what to say to that.”

  “Right. Well, since I haven’t been going into the office I sit on my bed to work with my computer on my lap, and I know when you’re coming and going.”

  “I’m not certain the correlation is accurate. How can you be sure that when your bed shakes it’s actually me who’s leaving?”

  That blush. The one that starts in the v-neck of her T-shirt and then rolls up that long neck and floods her cheeks. “Because”—she swallows—“once I’d formed my hypothesis I needed to prove it. So for the last two weeks, any time my bed shakes I dash to my front door to see if you’re walking down the hall.”

  “And?”

  “And half the time you are and half the time you aren’t.”

  “Which leads you to believe—”

  “That half the time you’re entering your apartment, and half the time you’re exiting.” She pours more champagne into her glass. Discussing her hypothesis finally brings a true Tara-smile to her face. “I’m kind of embarrassed to admit that I’ve been running from my bedroom to my peephole to track you.”

  “Just borderline stalker-ish.”

  “I needed to prove my theory.”

  “So proving your theory has more value than not looking like a stalker?”

  She presses her lips together and her gaze lasers on me. “For me, proving a theory has more meaning than nearly anything. I’m an investigative journalist, so yeah, if I have a theory, I need to prove it. Don’t I? No matter what it takes to get the proof. My job is my life, it’s what I live for . . . it’s my vocation.”

  I glance up from my beer. I nearly choke on the word.

  Vocation.

  I understand vocation. What a person is willing to do to pursue a calling that is greater than himself. Or herself. I understand the complete and
utter compulsion a vocation causes.

  “I’m still not convinced.” I lean back in my chair and cross my arms. Lift an eyebrow and send her a dare with my eyes. A dare, that I’m pretty certain a woman who has spent her life taking risks to prove every hypothesis she’s ever had, is willing to take. “Prove it.”

  She sets down her glass with a seriousness that I know means “game on.”

  Like a flash of lightning to my cock, I’m aroused. Wow. Not the usual reaction I get unless I’m in a hotel room with a semi-anonymous woman, but the look on Tara’s face, the need to prove her case, the idea that she will not be derailed by my cocky bullshit makes me hard as hell in an instant. Fight. Chutzpah. Balls. Tara, as cute and adorable as she is, has all of them times ten.

  “Not a problem.” She stands. A pretty graceful move. I barely notice she’s tipsy until she grabs for the table edge. “You” —she points at me—“will sit on my bed and I”—she taps her palm on her chest—“will open and close your door.”

  “Done,” I say and follow my cute, sexy, but very engaged neighbor to my front door.

  * * *

  Adorbs. I think that’s what the kids are saying these days. Or that’s what some of the mothers I sleep with tell me the kids are saying. Tara’s place is adorbs in that kind of thrown-together girly way, with overstuffed chairs and silver and comfy rugs and framed pictures of friends and family and—

  “Jango!” I yell as her shepherd-retriever mix jumps up and plants his paws on my legs.

  “Jango, down,” Tara says and pets the pup on the head. He looks at her, looks at me, gives my hand a lick, and gets down. But he sits right beside me, tail swishing back and forth on the floor.

  “How funny.” She scrunches her eyebrows and shakes her head. “Jango usually doesn’t like men. Never liked Greg.” She turns toward the back of her condo.

  I eye Jango. “Smart boy,” I mouth and stroke the top of his head. He wags his tail like he completely agrees. We’re both dudes. We know a douchesalad when we see one. I trail after Tara toward her bedroom.