“Yeah.” I hung up and almost immediately, the phone started buzzing in my hands. “What’d you forget?” I asked, answering the phone.
“Noah Tripp,” a voice snapped in my ear and I slammed eyes closed, squeezing them shut as hard as I could. Dammit. Why didn’t I check the caller ID first?
“Hazel,” I said, greeting my best friend’s new wife. “Hey. How’s married life.”
I heard Reid in the background mumbling something and Hazel snorted. “Reid is telling me to be nice to you… which frankly, the fact that I’m giving you this call… this head’s up is my version of nice.”
“What head’s up?”
“Rosa is on her way to Maple Grove.”
Every muscle in my body knotted. I couldn’t have heard her right. “Excuse me?”
“Rosa. Is. Coming. To. Maple. Grove.” She punctuated each word in a snotty way that paralleled the way my twin sister, Callie would have spoken to me.
“Why?” My lungs felt tight… like they were too large for my chest cavity and I pressed to my palm to my sternum.
“Why?” she repeated. “Are you seriously asking me why? When you left yesterday and didn’t answer anyone’s calls, I told her you were going home for your sister’s wedding and she hopped on the bus. She should be there any minute.”
“But… but she doesn’t know where I am.” I breathed a little easier, knowing that she didn’t have my mom’s address.
“Oh, she knows. Your sister’s wedding invitation was in your hotel room in Atlantic City.”
I dropped my head, the breaths now coming in short, sharp waves. “Shit,” I hissed. “I have to go, Hazel.”
I hung up the phone and immediately dialed Rosa. It started ringing and my blood ran cold. Because behind me, I could hear her ring tone.
I hung up and slowly turned around from where I was sitting on the dock to find Rosa standing there, her hands on her hips, glaring at me.
“Well hey there, darling.” Her voice dripped with sarcasm.
She was gorgeous. Denim jeans hugged her tight curves and a Burberry scarf draped around her neck. She had a small black rolling suitcase beside her and her dark hair was wild around her make-up free face.
Up until two nights ago, Rosa and I had never kissed. Never dated. Never fucked.
And then, two nights ago, drunkenly in Atlantic City… we got married.
Rosa was my wife.
About the Author
When Katana Collins was younger and stole her mother’s Harlequins to read beneath the covers with a flashlight, she wanted to read about the tough as nails heroine. The perfectly imperfect girl with quirks and attitude and sass. And the anti-heroes who were anything but “Prince Charming.” Forget the knight on a white horse … she wanted the bad boy on a motorcycle.
So, now, she writes those romance novels she craved to see on the shelves all those years ago—the sassy heroines. The badass heroes. She penned her first romance novel back in 2012 and now, a few years later, she is a Top 100 Amazon Best-Selling author with 15 published books, in a wide range of contemporary romance genres (Paranormal, New Adult, Small town, Erotic Suspense … you name it!).
She lives in Portland, Maine, with an ever-growing brood of rescue animals: a kind of mean cat, a doofy lab, a very mellow chihuahua, and a very not mellow cairn terrier puppy ... oh yeah, there's a husband somewhere in that mix, too. She can usually be found hunched over her laptop in a cafe, guzzling gallons of coffee, and wearing fabulous (albeit sometimes impractical) shoes.
She loves connecting with booklovers like herself, and fellow sassy storytellers, so feel free to drop her an email, visit her on her website. She also loves connecting on Instagram, Facebook or in her reader group, Kat’s Kittens!
Check out Bewitching You…
Did you love seeing a glimpse of the candy store owner, Kandi? She has her own Halloween Novella, Bewitching You, available now!
Chapter One
With a name like Kandi Cornne, you were likely to either become a stripper… or own a candy store. I am the latter. And before you ask, yes… that is my real name.
My parents had a cruel sense of humor when they chose it. My entire childhood, when I was being mocked mercilessly, they told me that someday I’d thank them. Well guess what? I’m twenty-five years old… and I’m still not about to write out any thank you cards for that name choice.
Don’t get me wrong… I love my parents. They are a trip and a half. They’re eccentric, to say the least. And apparently, I’d been conceived on Halloween night nearly twenty-six years ago. That, combined with our surname… I suppose they just couldn’t resist, God love them.
It was two days before Halloween, my busiest season ever as a candy store owner. Plenty of other holidays love candy too, but Halloween? The holiday is solely based around candy. Unlike Thanksgiving, which focuses on togetherness. Or Christmas, the holiday of toys. Even Valentine's Day, I have to share with the flower industry. But Halloween is all mine.
My store sits in the center of Maple Grove, a beautiful New England lake town, nestled in between a nail salon and a flower shop. This was one of those rare years, where Halloween fell on the weekend. A Sunday to be exact. And tomorrow I was hosting my annual pumpkin decorating contest. This was my third year, and we not only raised money for underprivileged children, but we also gave them free pumpkins, and a fun activity that will at least keep them out of trouble for a day. It was my favorite day of the year.
Friday morning, I sipped my hot coffee, stepping briefly out onto my balcony to inhale the crisp October air. It was brisk. I hugged my cardigan tighter around my body, closing my eyes as a sharp gust of wind sliced across my face. I sighed into it, enjoying one more moment before I went downstairs and unlocked the door.
The blaring sound of a honking horn disrupted the silence. I jumped, sending hot coffee splattering down the front of my shirt and cardigan. Below me on the street, was Ford Kane. He stood outside of his truck, but leaned in through the front window his hand leaning on his horn.
I set my now half-empty mug of coffee down on the table beside me and leaned over the railing. The cornered edge of the wood press sharply against my stomach. "What the hell are you doing? You're going to wake up the whole neighborhood."
He stopped honking, stepping back from his truck. Glaring up at me, his hands against his hips held such a viselike grip, that I could see his white knuckles from up on the second floor balcony. "It's 9 in the morning, Princess. Everyone in Maple Grove is already awake, except for you."
“Don’t call me Princess,” I snapped. God, he was infuriating. He’d been best friends with my ex-boyfriend, Ben, for over a decade. Even when Ben and I were dating, Ford and I never got along. I narrowed my gaze at him and gestured up and down my body. "Does it look like I'm asleep?" I was clearly awake. Dressed. And showered.
"Well, it doesn't look like your downstairs answering your doorbell. I rang it three times."
My gaze slowly trailed over the back of his truck bed, which was filled with boxes and boxes of small to medium pumpkins. Carefully, I folded my arms back over my chest and quirked a brow. "Our delivery was scheduled for 9:30. It’s only 9:05."
His expression soured. "Look, Kandi. It's great for you that you have a business that doesn't have to open until 9:30. But this is my busiest day of the year, and I have eight more deliveries to make before 5:00 today. Three of which, I need to go back to the farm and load up the truck first. So, forgive me for not wanting to sit here calmly while you sip your coffee like a princess on her high horse.”
A princess on her high horse? What an asshole. I worked my ass off for this candy store. I might not be out there harvesting pumpkins in the dirt, but that didn’t mean I worked any less than he did. I glared at him. “You have my phone number. There are other, more civilized ways to ask me to meet you earlier, you know? Rather than standing outside my window, honking your horn.” Some women might be into assholes. But not me… I’d been down that road once be
fore without even realizing it. But before I knew it, I was two years in on a relationship with a man who always put his own selfish needs first and never once tried to find ways to communicate with me about what I might want, as well. And while I hate to lump all men into the same group… Ford was Ben’s friend. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was exactly the same way.
“I called you four times,” he growled. “Once last night and three times this morning.”
Uh-oh. I had a new policy of turning my phone to airplane mode and only taking calls on the house phone after eight in the evening. Sure, it was a weird rule in this age of technology… the fact that I even had a house phone was something most people scoffed at. But that was precisely the reason I implemented the rule. I needed to stop staring at a screen every night. Among the many reasons Ben and I broke up, one of them was because after work, he would just stare at his phone, playing games and texting. He barely spoke to me. Barely asked me how my day was. He only put that thing down at the prospect of food or sex. Hence, my new no screen rule, even if it was just me at home. The only exception to this rule was my iPad for reading. And the only reason my it worked was because I had my home phone number for emergencies—my close friends and family had that number if they needed to get in touch with me.
But obviously, Ford was not close friends or family. I cringed, turning my phone off airplane mode and immediately saw four missed calls from Ford’s number. Well, crap. I hated being wrong.
Downstairs, Ford held out both hands in silent exasperation. “Well?” he prodded… this time, not so silently exasperated.
“Sorry,” I said. “My phone was off. I’ll be right down.”
Eating crow is bad enough. Eating crow from your ex-boyfriend’s best friend? Even worse.
Loving Kandi and Ford? Keep reading over on Amazon or Kindle Unlimited!
Sneak Peek of Callback
Silhouette Studios #1
Available on Amazon!
Chapter One
Marly
“When my career goes to shit, under no circumstances are you to allow me to go on a reality show. Got that? No Celebrity Survivor or sad MTV seasons about how far I’ve fallen.”
The other end of the phone line was heavy with silence. I could practically hear the grinding gears in my agent’s brain.
I waited, gripping the steering wheel with blanching knuckles. I was good at this game. Good at silence. Good at waiting. I smirked, holding the wheel steady and passed a slow driver in the middle lane. Eventually, Kyle said, “Marly, I think you’re over-reacting. Stop planning for doomsday when you haven’t even stepped into your audition yet.”
True. But planning was what I did. It was who I was. I flicked a glance to the spiral bound turquoise planner in the front seat beside me. My travel buddy. Without that planner, I was lost. I swallowed, the sight of it bringing bittersweet memories of my dad. “I hope for the best, but plan for the worst, Kyle,” I recited Dad’s words, ignoring that vicious, painful ache behind my ribcage and the gaping hole in my heart since his passing.
“Don’t I know it,” Kyle muttered. “You ever heard of self-fulfilling prophesies?”
“Having a plan isn’t going to cause a disaster.” I tossed a quick look over my shoulder before swerving into the next lane and slipping off the exit ramp. “Who am I meeting with again? It's not just some 'producer' with a camera in a rent-an-office, is it?”
An audition at Silhouette Studios should mean I’d be safe from that sort of audition. As one of the largest production houses in Los Angeles, it should mean that I was stepping into a professional audition, where nothing out of line was expected of me. This wasn’t some B-Movie audition with a greasy guy named Chet filming me on his cell phone. It was a top three studio. It should mean I could trust them.
But I know better. It only takes one burn from a candle to be wary of all fire. And sometimes, the more powerful the person, the more they don’t believe the rules apply to them.
“No, no. Today is the real deal. You'll be meeting with the casting director—Nicole Stevens of Stevens Casting. Probably a couple of producers, the director. There’s nothing to be wary of with this one. Trust me, you’ll see.”
“You can’t trust everything you see—even salt looks like sugar.” Another Dadism.
Kyle sighed again. He was the king of sighs. “But Marly, you should know—”
“Let me guess ... the producer expects a blow job under his desk in exchange for the part? Don’t worry, I have a plan for that, too. And it involves my foot being lodged so far up someone’s ass, I could file my toenails on their tonsils.”
Kyle grunted. “Jesus, Marly. Graphic much?”
I sneered. It should be a ludicrous statement. It should be such a ridiculous notion for a proposition like that to happen at a huge Hollywood production studio … except that it had happened to me already. Twice.
Shame and guilt burned hot in my stomach and my grip on the wheel tightened. What the fuck did I have to feel guilty about? I had done the right thing. I refused him, shoving his hand away from beneath my skirt and walking out of that audition. Without the part. Without the callback. But with my dignity. Even with being a well-recognized face in this town, it still wasn't enough to halt the advances. To sway the rumors. Maybe it wasn’t happening despite my well-recognized face, but because of it.
From the other end of the phone, Kyle sighed again. “Do you really think I would knowingly send you into an audition where they expect sexual favors?”
I opened my mouth to answer—of course not—and yet, nothing came out. My throat felt tight, my skin hot and prickly and my ears flushed in the way they always did when I lied. Kyle was a good agent. I liked him. He had always had my back in the years we’d been working together. I did trust him … to an extent. So why couldn’t I just say that?
My silence earned me another sigh. “Thing is,” Kyle said, “you don’t have to trust them. But you do have to trust me. And those propositions should stop now that you and Omar went public with your engagement.”
I smiled while cutting across three more lanes of traffic to take the next left. Omar Blake. My best friend and “fiancé,” according to US Magazine's latest report. Our plan had worked perfectly. Omar needed a beard and I needed directors to stop thinking I would use my vagina as some sort of magical ticket into Hollywood. “That's true,” I replied. “Nothing's happened since we announced our engagement.” The diamond on my ring finger caught a gleam of the Los Angeles sunlight, nearly blinding me. My mother’s ring. Once more, my heart squeezed with memories so faded, that I almost couldn’t call them memories anymore. “Then again,” I sighed, “I also haven't gotten any parts since the announcement, either.” Omar, on the other hand, was in the final stages of callbacks for a huge franchise movie deal. At least six movies contracted and potentially more within the franchise. He needed that deal. Especially after he’d spent most of his savings to stop his jackass ex-boyfriend from outing him to the press.
“Well, this audition could change that. It's a great role—buzz around town is that it has Oscar potential.”
The yellow light in front of me changed to red and I slammed my foot onto the brakes, screeching to a stop. Damn—that came out of nowhere. Butterflies fluttered around my belly at the thought of being in a film well-regarded by the Academy. I loved my romantic comedies, but I wanted—no needed to show people the kind of chops I had. Back in my college days, I had played Antigone and Lady Macbeth. I had brought audiences to tears with my parts in the Laramie Project. I swallowed, turning into the Silhouette Studios lot, easing off the gas as I approached the guard. “Hold that thought, Kyle,” I said into the ear piece, then leaned out the window. “Marlena Taylor,” I said to the guard. “Here for my meeting with Stevens Casting.”
“Yes, Ms. Taylor.” He scanned a list on a clipboard in his hands before he pointed beyond the first few buildings in front of us. “Studio Eight. You're gonna go straight and take a right at the water tower, follow
that road down to the end.”
“Thank you.”
“Marly,” Kyle pulled me back into the conversation. “As I was saying, you know the film's about Dominant/submissive lifestyles, of course—in the same vein as Secretary. But it requires nudity. Lots of it.”
I rolled my eyes. “That's fine, Kyle. I don't have a problem with tasteful nudity.”
“Full frontal?” He gulped on the other end of the line. “Look. I know it’s not my place. And as your agent, the last thing I should be doing is trying to talk you out of an audition. But as your friend, I have to say … maybe it's something you should think about considering the rumors Jack started—”
“Jack doesn't get that kind of power over me,” I snapped. Jack Seaver. The ass I gave my heart to while filming Bridesmaid Retreat. When I ended things with him, he smeared my name all through Hollywood with awful rumors that I'd offered sexual favors in exchange for my leading role in his movie. And Los Angeles, being the town it is, believed him. “This isn't porn, Kyle. It's a film—an Oscar-worthy film. Nobody berates Julianne Moore or Jennifer Connelly for nude scenes.”
Kyle's voice wavered on the line. “I know you pretty well, Marly, and I don't think you'll be able to handle the backstabbing and whispers happening at Hollywood parties behind your back. I'm just worried for you, that's all.”
My inhalation was shaky at best and the single butterfly in my stomach was now in full flight. “I'll be fine, Kyle.” Catching my reflection in the rearview mirror, I realized I almost believed it myself. Leaning forward, I wiped beneath my eyes where the smoky eyeliner had smeared a touch too much, then pinched my shimmery cheeks. When I was done, I hardly recognized the woman behind the thick coating of makeup. Long, thick lashes blinked back at me in the rearview mirror.
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