Forked

by Melanie Harlow

  Copyright © 2014 Melanie Harlow

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. References to real people, places, organizations, events, and products are intended to provide a sense of authenticity and are used fictitiously. All characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and not to be construed as real.

  ISBN-13: 978-1502896636

  Frenched is book one in this series, and while each book can stand alone, Forked will be even more enjoyable if you’ve already read Frenched.

  “Frenched is perfectly paced, elegantly written, and deliciously sexy.”—M. Pierce, bestselling author of the Night Owl trilogy

  “One of my favorite romances ever, Frenched has it all, from the sexy charming hero to the clever dialogue to the dreamy Parisian setting. And it has the most delicious treat of all—sweet, scorching, passionate, toe-curling, fan-me-with-palm-fronds sexy scenes.” —NYT and USA Today Bestselling Author Lauren Blakely

  “Frenched was a fun, sexy romantic escape!! I read it in one sitting this afternoon and it was just a wonderful little getaway to a beautiful city with loveable characters, steamy hot sex and a whirlwind romance!!”—Aestas Book Blog

  “Frenched is FLAWLESS. I can be extremely nitpicky, and there isn’t one single thing I would change about this book. Nothing. It was expertly written, with the perfect level of humor, charm, romance, whit, and heat (my God, the HEAT)!”—Kyleigh Jane, Smut Book Club

  “I love Melanie’s writing...everything about it. It’s light and has a great flow, her tone is spot on for me and has this fantastic blend of happy, fun, and flirty with emotional, powerful, and sexy.”—Lisa, True Story Book Blog

  A heart which has loved as mine cannot soon be indifferent.

  We fluctuate long between love and hatred before we can arrive at tranquility, and we always flatter ourselves with some forlorn hope that we shall not be utterly forgotten.

  Heloise d’Argenteuil

  This moment called for some whiskey.

  I pulled out the bottle of Two James Grass Widow Bourbon I kept stashed in my bottom desk drawer and poured myself two fingers. It was only three o’clock, but it was Friday and I had no clients coming in this afternoon, so I took a sip for courage and crunched the numbers.

  Sixty-two thousand dollars. That’s what I needed if I wanted to put twenty percent down on the house and get a mortgage payment I had a prayer of making. Fuck. I took another sip.

  Thirty-one thousand dollars.

  That’s what I needed if I wanted to put ten percent down and struggle each month. Goodbye lattes, La Mer, and Laphroaig.

  Then there were closing costs, bank fees, taxes, and moving expenses. Plus the arm, leg, breast, eyeball, elbow, and ass cheek it was going to cost me to renovate the hundred-year-old place.

  I took a third glug of bourbon and propped my forehead in one hand.

  Twenty bucks.

  That’s what I needed to buy a hammer at Sears and pound my head in, which was going to happen if I didn’t get out of my parents’ house soon. I’d moved back home eight months ago to save some money for a down payment, but living with your parents and Lebanese grandmother at age twenty-eight is a special kind of torture. They were perfectly nice people, but they had an opinion about everything, from my wardrobe to my hair color to my love life, and they weren’t shy about sharing it.

  That skirt length isn’t really right for you, is it?

  Why is your hair blue at the bottom? Was there an accident at the salon?

  Don’t worry, habibi. Plenty of girls don’t get married. In my day we call them old maids, but I bet there is nicer name now.

  I cracked open the whiskey a little early that day too.

  Tucking one side of my bottom lip between my teeth, I checked my savings account balance. The crazy thing was this flutter of hope I had in my belly, as if maybe it had grown overnight on its own, magic beanstalk style.

  Nope—less than fifteen grand.

  I released the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding, my shoulders slumping in defeat. There was no way I could afford this house. And yet there was no way I could let go of the idea of living there, either. It was my house, dammit. I knew it the moment I walked in, even if it did smell like cat pee circa the Kennedy administration.

  Twisting my brown hair with blue tips (not an accident, thank you very much) into a knot at the top of my head, I stuck two pencils through it and looked again at the numbers I’d scribbled on my note pad. My real estate agent had just called to tell me someone else was going to make an offer on the house. If I wanted it, she said I’d have to act fast, as if indecision was my problem. I was totally willing to act fast. When it came to something I wanted, waiting around was not my style.

  But act fast and do what? Get a second job? Rob a bank? Sell my eggs?

  Don’t think I wasn’t considering it.

  I took a bigger swallow of booze and contemplated asking my parents for the other seventeen thousand I needed to put ten percent down, which is what my agent thought I should do. They had plenty of money, and they probably wouldn’t even make me pay it back, at least not right away. But they’d think offering their financial help meant they got A Say in what I bought, and I could just imagine all the arguments we’d have over my buying a hundred-year old, five thousand square foot fixer-upper by myself.

  Redo the kitchen? That’s absurd. You’ve never even picked up a hammer!

  A yard? Don’t be silly. You don’t know how to mow a lawn.

  A house like that needs a man.

  I slugged the last of my Two James and eyed the bottle, seriously considering pouring another, even though the numbers I’d scribbled were beginning to swim a bit.

  “I’m heading home.” Mia poked her head into my office and grinned. “Gotta start packing my bags.”

  Grateful for the distraction, I popped up from my chair and rushed over to embrace her. “Eek! This is so exciting! I wish I were going with you!” Mia was leaving on Tuesday for France, where she would be married two and a half weeks later. Erin and I would fly over six days before the wedding.

  Mia let me squeeze her slender frame and laughed when I didn’t let her go. “Me too. There’s so much to get done before the eighteenth. And I wish I spoke French; it would make things so much easier.”

  She sniffed. “Have you been drinking?”

  Releasing her, I put one hand in front of my mouth. “Just a little.” But then I couldn’t resist taking her by the shoulders, shaking her gently. “God, Mia. I can’t believe you’re getting married in two weeks—to Lucas! At a villa! In Provence!” Both of us jumped up and down a few times.

  “I know!” She bit her lip. “But don’t jinx me, Coco. I don’t want anything to go wrong this time.”

  Mia had been engaged once before, but her asshole fiancé had called off the wedding a week before it was supposed to happen.

  “Stop it.” I squeezed her upper arms. “Nothing is going to go wrong this time. This is totally different. You and Lucas are made for each other, the wedding is going to be the most beautiful thing we’ve ever planned, and every little detail will be perfect.”

  Mia closed her eyes, as if saying a quick prayer.

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “I am. Want me to come over and help you pack?”

  She shook her head. “It’s OK. I’ve got my lists made already.”

  “Of course you do.”

  She pinched my arm. “Don’t make fun of
me. It’s my wedding; I get to make lists. And you’re on your own here for the next two weeks. I’m sure you’ve got things to do.”

  “Yeah, like obsess over the house I can’t afford.”

  Mia frowned. “Which house?”

  “The one in Indian Village. I can’t stop thinking about it.”

  “The old one? Coco, are you drunk? They’re asking over three hundred grand for that place! It’s huge! And it needs so much work!”

  Fidgeting, I admitted, “It would be a project, I know. But I love old houses! And when I walked through it, I got a feeling.” I shivered as I recalled moving through rooms with high ceilings, creaky wood floors, lead glass windows. Maybe there were a few cracks in the plaster and some smelly carpet—not to mention a kitchen that hadn’t been remodeled since 1975—but there was an old newspaper covering a broken windowpane and it was dated September twenty-sixth, which was my birthday. It was clearly a sign.

  “A feeling?” Mia asked dubiously, her upper lip curling.

  “Like I was supposed to live there. Like it’s been waiting for me. And that newspaper in the kitchen—it was a sign!”

  “A sign that that window has been broken since your twenty-first birthday.”

  I held up my hands. “I know it sounds crazy, but I felt a connection to the place. I can’t explain it completely. I mean, we were in that neighborhood looking at another house entirely.”

  “Yeah, one you could afford.”

  “I know, but then I saw that one and fell in love. I think it was fate.” I clasped my hands over my heart and rose up on tiptoe. “I want it, Mia. And my agent just called and said there’s going to be an offer on it. She said I better be prepared to act soon.”

  “Of course she did. They all say that.” She shook her head. “Don’t let her push you. Buying a house is a huge investment and you need more time to think it through. You need a plan.”

  My heels returned to the ground. “I gotta get out of my parents’ house, Mia.”

  “I can understand that.” She shrugged. “You could stay with me and Lucas for a while. We have a spare room.”

  I gaped at her. “What? You’ll be newlyweds! No way.” Not only would it be a gross intrusion on their privacy, it would serve as a painful reminder that everyone else on the planet was having sex and I wasn’t, even if the drought was self-imposed. I wasn’t looking to get married, much to my grandmother’s chagrin, but it would be nice to meet someone attractive, fun, and fucking stable to hang out with.

  The last couple guys I’d dated either had prior records, vicious exes, or Mommy Issues. I was done with that.

  “Fine, then with Erin.”

  My chin slid forward and I stubbed the toe of my red wedge sandal into the floor. “I want that house. I need it.”

  “Coco…” Mia’s voice held a warning note.

  “What?”

  “You can’t afford that house. Promise me you’re not going to do anything rash while I’m gone.”

  My eyes shifted to the left. “I’m not, I promise.”

  “Coco!”

  “What?” I leaned down and fussed with the straps of one shoe to avoid meeting her eyes.

  “You are the worst liar in the world. Listen to me.” She grabbed my arm and brought me up to eye level. “I know how you get when have a feeling about something. But you can’t buy a house with a feeling.”

  “I had a feeling about you and Lucas, remember?” I asked brightly. “Look how well that turned out!”

  “Coco.” Her voice was stern and her grip tight. “Yes. You are a very intuitive person. But you’re also very impulsive. We just got your finances in order. Your credit card balance is down and you have a good amount of cash saved up. You just need to stop the crazy spending.”

  My eyes slid left again. “I don’t crazy spend.”

  She let go of my arm. “Oh no? What about the four-hundred-dollar sets of Le Creuset cookware you bought for all of us last year?”

  I twisted my fingers together. “Well, it was Christmas…almost.”

  “And the two-hundred dollar Beachwaver curling irons?”

  I threw up my hands. “That was a limited time offer on QVC! I can’t be expected to pass those up.”

  “Uh huh. And the trapeze lessons?”

  I opened my mouth but nothing came out. Yeah, I couldn’t really defend that one. Exhaling, I shook my head, my spirits wilting like a week-old wedding bouquet. “But this isn’t like that—this feels different!”

  Mia spoke in a calmer tone. “Look, after the wedding, I’ll sit down with you and we’ll make a list of all the other houses we’ve seen and discuss pros and cons of each of them.” Either she didn’t see me wrinkle my nose or she ignored it. “And if you still don’t feel like one of those is right for you, we’ll keep looking, OK?”

  Grimacing, I tried to resign myself to the fact that she was right, and I was stuck living with my parents for the time being. Endless nights of cribbage and criticism loomed in front of me. My shoulders slumped. “I think I need another drink.”

  She patted my head. “What you need is a little boost. Tell you what. Any business that comes in while I’m gone is all yours—the entire twenty percent commission.”

  I gasped. “Really?”

  “Really.”

  Throwing my arms around her, I squealed. “Thank you! You’re the best friend ever!” With any luck, I’d book a wedding or two in the next week. If they were big enough, I could count on earning at least ten grand. Granted, I wouldn’t see that money for a while, but with it guaranteed to come in, maybe I’d revisit the idea of borrowing from my parents.

  Please God, send me a bride. A sweet, lovely angel bride with exquisite taste and deep pockets!

  As if on cue, I heard a voice. “Hello?”

  I let go of Mia and peered around her to see a short young woman in my office doorway. She had long, impossibly platinum blond hair blown perfectly straight, and she wore skinny black jeans, a zebra-print tank top, and a lot of eye makeup. A tangle of gold necklaces rested between breasts unnaturally large for someone her size, and a tiny white dog peeked out from a Louis Vuitton bag she carried under one arm.

  I smiled at her. “Hello. Can I help you?”

  “I don’t know. I’m looking for Devine Events.”

  For an angel, she had a very shrill voice. And an amazing tan.

  “You found us. Please come in.” Mia held out her hand. “I’m Mia Devine, and this is my partner, Coco Thomas. I’m on my way out, but she’ll take good care of you.”

  Instead of shaking Mia’s hand, the girl handed her a business card. “Angelina Spackatelli.”

  My heart raced. Even her first name was seraphic! But she placed a little extra emphasis on her last name, and my stomach tightened up when I realized why. She had to be the daughter of Tony Spackatelli, sometimes called Tony Whack. Officially he ran a sanitation company, but unofficially he controlled Detroit’s arm of the mafia. Mia must have recognized this too, because she glanced at me behind Angelina’s back, eyebrows raised.

  Maybe this wasn’t my angel.

  “Nice to meet you.” I took a card as well, gesturing to a chair in front of my desk. “Please have a seat.” Her card was hot pink with white print. On one side was a picture of her and her little dog, both wearing tiaras, and the other side listed her name and social media information. The fancy font was hard to read but under her name I thought her title said Italian American Princess.

  Interesting. I didn’t know we had those.

  The bottle of Grass Widow beckoned from its place on my desk next to the empty glass, but I quickly tucked them back into the drawer before sitting down.

  “What can we do for you, Angelina?”

  After lowering herself into the chair, she snapped her gum and set her dog-in-a-purse down by her feet. “Well, first I wanna make sure—are you the ones that did that wedding on TV this year?”

  I smiled. “Yes, we are.” Earlier this spring Devine Events had been
chosen to design Detroit’s Wedding of the Year, and it had been a huge success. We’d gotten a lot of great press out of it. “Are you looking for someone to plan your wedding?”

  “Not yet. But I want you to plan my engagement party.” She flashed her ring at me.

  As prompted, I cooed appreciatively at the crab-apple-sized diamond set in gold. “Wow. Congratulations. What kind of party would you like?”

  “A blowout.” She made a little exploding motion with both hands. “For five hundred people.”

  Five hundred people for an engagement party?

  Jesus, how big would her wedding be? And more importantly, if I did a good job planning the party, would she let me do the wedding too? I glanced over at Mia, and she gave me a thumbs-up.

  “That sounds like fun.” Lifting my eyes to the

  ceiling, I said a quick thank-you to God for sending me this miracle and pulled up a blank contract on my laptop. “So when were you thinking? Something later this year?”

  “That’s the thing. It’s a little bit short notice.”

  “Short notice?” Mia, who was still lingering in the doorway, looked a little panicked. Short notice was her least favorite expression. “How short?”

  Personally, I didn’t care how short the notice was—I needed this gig. Flashing Mia my best I Got This grin, I shooed her out of my office. “Go on home, babe. You have lists, remember? I’ll talk to you later.”

  “But—“

  “I’ll take care of everything here. You be on your way now.” I did everything but put my foot on her butt and shove her out the door.

  She smiled. “You’re right. Sorry.” Lifting her hand in farewell, she disappeared into the hallway and might actually have cleared earshot if Angelina spoke at a normal volume.

  “It’s next weekend. Saturday, August fourth. It has to be then because of the TV people. I’m gonna be on a reality show.”

  I could practically hear brakes screeching in the