“Picnic’s waiting. Get in the shower. I’ll pick you out something pretty to wear.”
He tips me off his lap and smacks me affectionately on the butt as I head down the hall. Fresh out of the shower, I find clothes laid out on my bed: black leather pants, barely-there crimson halter top, and spiked heels. Excellent.
When we pull up at Picnic, a cut bouncer helps me out of my car, and Rey palms my keys to a valet. There’s a line snaking halfway around the block, but we get in, no problem, with a nod from a Secret Service-looking guy with a clipboard.
“Thanks, Tony,” says Rey.
We get a wink and a nod in response, and I welcome the burst of warm air that hits us as Tony holds open the door. The club is crowded for a weeknight, and clothes have already started to come off. I admire the fit bodies of men moving effortlessly to the beat, and the balls of the less-cut who are working it like they’ve got something to prove. There aren’t many women here and even fewer men who might find me fuckable, but I like it that way. Rey’s admirers drift over after we’ve gotten our first round, but instead of turning on the charm to get laid, he focuses their attention on me.
Soon I’m being coddled by half a dozen gay men sympathetic about my break-up. I get a lot of “oh, honeys,” several brightly colored fruity cocktails, and eventually invitations to dance my cares away. On the dance floor, the pounding beats, the sweaty masculine bodies—moving skillfully, enthusiastically, but with no prurient interest against mine—and the half dozen drinks I’ve imbibed let me forget for a while. I’m asleep on my feet by the time Rey wrangles my drunk ass into my Mercedes. Presumably he takes me home because I wake the next morning with less of a hangover than I’ve earned and a note next to my bed:
ILYK. Call me.
I haul my ass to the gym, where Adam busts my chops for having been gone for so long.
“You’ve gone soft like a cheesecake, princess,” he berates me as I do my zillionth crunch. It’s true I’m a little out of shape, but no one else would notice. I’m glad Adam does and uses it as an excuse to work me like a draft horse. Another way for me to silence the longing and muffle the ache.
But as soon as Adam’s no longer barking in my ear, it comes back, and every song on the radio on my sticky, sweat-drenched drive to work reminds me of what I’ve lost.
*
A few more days pass. Cris stops trying to contact me. I’m half-grateful and half-gutted. I think about calling, emailing, texting, even writing him a letter—which I think he’d like. A lot. And the waiting would be good penance for me.
I draw little stick figure Indias with speech bubbles: I’m sorry. I miss you. I—before I crumple them up and throw them away. I think about getting on a plane, but I don’t. Instead I repeat to myself, “It’s easier this way.” But it doesn’t feel easier. It feels like a slow, painful suicide.
I talk to Rey a lot. I think about asking him to get me someone new, but I can’t afford the time away from work. Besides, Cris has me so tied up in knots, I’d feel like I was cheating on him. I’ve never cheated on anyone in my life, and it wouldn’t count as that now. There’s no contract, and no contract means no cheating. But I feel queasy when I think about being with anyone else, so work it is.
And work I do. I landed the contract with Phoenix, and it’s my baby, the only kind of baby I’ll ever have. Jack is going to have minimal supervision and input. I’m going to run the show. Greg Wu is going to be my new best friend for the next three years. I like him, I understand him, and though he’s tough as nails and ridiculously demanding, I think he’ll be happy with me. They usually are.
I set myself to developing our work plan, scheduling and assigning tasks and due dates, making notes about information I’m going to need. It’s soothing to be the puppet master, to be doing something I understand, that makes sense to me, that I’m good at. I schedule a metric crapton of travel for myself. I don’t care for Phoenix, but the desert won’t remind me of Cris so damn much.
I’m two-thirds of the way through compiling our list of deliverables when Lucy’s voice comes over the speaker.
“Ms. Burke?”
“Lucy, how many ways do I have to say I’m not to be interrupted?”
“I’m sorry. It’s just that you have a phone call.”
“I told you to hold all of my fucking calls. Do I need to write you a memo?”
“No, Ms. Burke. It just… It sounded important.”
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. If I ripped Lucy a new one every time she deserved it, she’d be Swiss cheese.
“Who is it?”
“A Mrs. Mary Ardmore? She sounds upset.”
Shit. Why the fuck is Cris’s mother calling me? No scenario I come up with is good. I’ve never even met the woman. How does she know who I am and where to find me? Hasn’t he violated my privacy and broken the rules enough? When is he going to get it through his thick skull? I don’t want to talk to him. We’re over, and even—no, especially—a phone call from his mother—his mother!—is not going to change that. For fuck’s sake, Cris, give it up. This is excruciating as it is.
But I can’t have her making a scene with Lucy. “Put her through.”
“Yes, Ms. Burke.”
I steel myself before I pick up the phone and do a fair impersonation of collected when I bring the handset to my ear. “Mrs. Ardmore, this is India Burke. What can I do for you?”
“Ms. Burke, I’m sorry to bother you—”
“It’s no bother. What can I do for you?” Despite my words to the contrary, my icy and clipped tone clearly conveys this is a bother and she’d best get to the point. The sooner I can get Cris out of my head and move on with my life, the better.
“I’m sorry, it’s only…”
Shit. Maybe I shouldn’t be so mean. She does sound upset.
“Do you know my son?”
Her voice cracks, and a chill of alarm runs down my spine. “Yes… Did something happen to him? Is Cris okay?”
“No,” she chokes, tears in her voice. “He’s been in an accident.”
Thank you!
Thanks for reading Personal Geography. I hope you enjoyed it!
• If you’d like to know when my next book is available, you can sign up for my new release mailing list at www.tamsenparker.com, follow me on twitter at @TamsenParker, or find me on Facebook at facebook.com/tamsenparkerauthor.
• Reviews help readers discover books. I appreciate all reviews and the time it takes to share your thoughts.
• You’ve just read the first book in the Compass Series. Intimate Geography, the second half of Cris and India’s story, will be coming out in Early 2015. Turn the page for a peek.
Coming Early 2015
Fiercely protective of her heart, India Burke let down her defenses when Cris Ardmore went from another notch on her D/s playdate belt to everything she could never admit she wanted.
But being disowned by your family and betrayed by your lover aren’t easy to get over, and India’s old fears of intimacy creep in against a backdrop of professional drama that forces her return to a place that never really felt like home.
Though she proved her loyalty when it mattered most, love is about more than grand gestures and Cris wants all of her—which may be more than India is able to give. Can Cris and India navigate to a shared future or will they forever be off course?
Other Books by Tamsen
The Compass Series
Personal Geography
Intimate Geography (Early 2015)
Anthologies
Winter Rain
Acknowledgements
The list of people I have to thank is long. I’m grateful to have so many wonderful people in my life.
My CPs and betas who have read and reread, offered advice and unflagging encouragement, and been generally awesome. I would not have survived this without AJ, Cara, Megan, Teresa, Lexi H., and Audra.
My other writer friends who have kept me sane through this whole crazy process (bonus points
to Nicole, the blurb queen), my small corner of the Twitterverse, my NECRWA chaptermates, and Romancelandia as a whole. I feel privileged to be a part of a community of such smart, generous, and amazing people.
My family, who has eaten far more takeout than is probably advisable and done without me on evenings and Saturdays so that I could make this happen. Especially my husband, who has been tireless in his support. If there were an award for Spouses of Romance Writers, he’d be a shoo-in.
My real-life friends, who cheered me on from the sidelines, even when they had absolutely no idea what I was talking about: RMW, MTS, AJ, LG, CB, NW, AL.
My editor, Del, who sometimes drove me crazy but in the way that editors get paid for, and my copy editor, Rebecca, who isn’t afraid of the occasional semicolon. Not to mention my enthusiastic proofreader, Michele, and my cover designer, Amber, who deserves a medal for putting up with me.
About the Author
Tamsen Parker is a stay-at-home mom by day, erotic romance writer by naptime. She lives with her family outside of Boston, where she tweets too much, sleeps too little, and is always in the middle of a book. She should really start drinking coffee. You can find out more about Tamsen at tamsenparker.com, follow her on Twitter at @TamsenParker or on Pinterest as tamsenparker, or friend her on Facebook at www.facebook.com/tamsenparkerauthor.
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Personal Geography: © by Tamsen Parker
Editing by Delphine Dryden
(www.delphinedryden.com)
Copy Editing by Rebecca Weston
(raweston.com)
Cover Design by Amber Shah of Book Beautiful
(www.bookbeautiful.com)
ISBN 13: 978-1-942427-00-1
Kobo Edition
All rights reserved. Where such permission is sufficient, the author grants the right to strip any DRM which may be applied to this work.
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