by Kim Karr
Meeting with me?
A cold shiver ran down my spine at the exact moment a beep-beep alerted me that someone had come through the front door. This confused me. How could the security system have been updated already if the technician was standing in front of me?
It became painfully clear the man in front of me wasn’t from the security company when a very excited young woman came rushing toward him.
This was my client.
This was Rory Kissinger.
That I knew without a doubt.
“I can’t believe you got here before me,” she squealed. And throwing her arms around him, she then added, “You really must love me after all.”
Are you kidding me?
This guy really was Rory Kissinger’s fiancée! They must have had a lover’s quarrel, and that was why he’d practically fucked me with his eyes.
In my book that was about as close to cheating as any man could ever come. I shot him a look of disgust, but that wasn’t enough. It didn’t stop the anger I was feeling from building. His fiancée deserved to know just how despicable he really was.
There was no way in hell I was ever going to allow this cheat to be my client. In fact, this guy really needed to be taught a lesson.
“I can’t believe you,” I hissed.
That bottom lip pouted again. “Believe what?” he somehow managed to ask around the body that was wrapped around him.
His fiancée’s body, that was.
All the tension and anxiety I had been feeling for weeks unfurled within me, and before I could stop myself, I had the cute little silver-rimmed plate in my hand with the giant piece of chocolate cake still sitting upon it. And then as if I’d snapped, I was lifting the plate in an arcing motion. “This!” I said with deep satisfaction.
The kitchen door pushed open while I was midway in swing, and I heard Montgomery’s thick accent. “Dr. Kiss, what are you doing here?”
Dr. Kiss.
Who in the ever-loving world was Dr. Kiss?
Could it be this man wasn’t Rory’s fiancée, but rather someone Rory loved, and an acquaintance of Montgomery’s, as well?
Dr. Kiss.
Oh my God!
Kiss, as in Kissinger.
A relative.
No!
No!
No!
Suddenly, my uncle’s voice echoed in my ear. “Always do your research so you can anticipate your client’s needs.”
And I had. Or I thought I had. But what I hadn’t done was Google any images of my clients, and that would have been so easy. For goodness’ sake, I had just searched Rory’s fiancée on my phone. All I had to do was click on images.
Oh no!
Another wave of panic struck me. The groom-to-be was the governor’s son.
The governor’s son.
Oh my God, the press.
The bad press.
The fall out.
I would never land another job as long as I lived.
This could mean the end of my career if I didn’t turn this situation around.
Unfortunately, the perilous act I had planned on committing was already in motion. Much to my horror, I was smashing that substantial-sized piece of chocolate cake in this handsome stranger’s face before I could stop myself.
Rory jumped out of the way and started screaming at once. Montgomery shouted, “What are you doing, Juliette!” And then as if that wasn’t enough, the door was beeping again. A younger guy came inside with a t-shirt on, which apparently read TULANE UNIVERSITY across it.
Going to stand beside Rory, the younger man stared at me in shock like I was a lunatic, and then he turned to Rory and said, “What did he do now, honey?”
This guy had to be her fiancée.
Pulling the plate away as fast as I could, I felt dumbstruck as the cake slowly fell in pieces all over Dr. Kiss’s shirt. Some of the morsels landed on the T, which I figured out was meant to represent Tulane University, not the security company.
That part was at least an understandable misunderstanding.
I might not have comprehended who everyone was, but I knew they had a connection to each other. Then again, did the specifics truly matter anymore? “I’m so sorry,” I apologized, setting the plate down.
In the way those icy blue eyes were glaring at me, I wasn’t sure what I should do. Taking both hands, he swiped across his nose and then shook the frosting from his fingertips. “What the hell was that for?”
Quickly dropping down to my knees, I began to pick up the morsels from the ground. When I looked up, more cake fell and landed on my own face. I ignored it and tried to answer him. “I . . . I . . . I have no idea what came over me. I thought . . . well . . . I thought . . . you were the groom-to-be and that you were coming on to me,” I confessed.
He used his fingers to wipe the cake from his own lips this time. “And what? You were going to put me in my place with a piece of chocolate cake? How old are you? Twelve?”
There was no way to explain that the butterflies he had given me were something I hadn’t felt in a long time, if ever, and then when I thought he was only screwing with me, well, I overreacted.
He was right. I had not only responded impulsively, but immaturely. Feeling like there was nothing further I could say that would make any sense, I stood up and glanced around for something to clean him up with. “I’ll get some towels.”
Rory had stopped screeching at least, but now she started laughing. I tried to catch her attention, and when I did, I silently begged her to stop. Instead, though, she strode around the table to get a little closer and then crooked a finger to swipe up some of the cake. That was on his face. Her laughter was out of control. I was at a loss for what to do. Dr. Kiss then glared at her too, but she didn’t seem to care one bit, which was evident when she licked the frosting from her finger and made a Mmmm that’s delicious noise.
Her fiancée, on the other hand, was still looking at Dr. Kiss with his mouth hanging open. “Remy,” she said to him as she took her place beside him once again. “Come on, you can laugh. It’s way too funny not to.”
Remy?
Not Kyle?
Or Robert?
Was there a third son I hadn’t found?
How had Google failed me?
With no time to worry about the fact that there was a messed up K on the cake where there had once been a glistening R, I started grabbing all the decorative dishtowels that were scattered around the counters. I thought about crying while I did.
I should never have doubted Montgomery.
The cake.
My client.
My life.
Once I had all the towels I could find, I rushed back to the center of the room and attempted to pat the remaining cake from Dr. Kiss’s face. Montgomery was there as well and trying to ease the situation.
As to be expected, Dr. Kiss shrugged away from me. “I’ll do it myself,” he gritted through his teeth.
It wasn’t a peace offering, but I held out one of the towels, and much to my surprise, he took it.
On my heels, Archer had come into the room and grabbed another towel from my hand to assist in removing the chocolate from his face.
When it became evident removing the cake wasn’t going to be an easy job, Montgomery said, “Come on, Doc, let’s go in the kitchen and get this mess cleaned up.”
The glare Montgomery shot me while speaking made me feel like a child who was about to get scolded.
Even though there was absolutely no way I would be getting this job after what I’d done, I had to atone for my actions in some way. Somehow. And to do so I needed to do more than offer a simple ‘I’m Sorry’.
I had acted impulsively.
Just as I was about to try to give a better explanation for my actions, not that I could just out and say I was attracted to him, Rory chased after Dr. Kiss, and somehow managed to speak around her laughter. “Looks like I’m not the only one you pissed off today, brother.”
Her brother.
Of course, Dr. Kiss was her brother.
I sighed. I wished she’d told me about him. Instead, her emails had stated the appointment would be with the groom-to-be, her, and myself, only. When I asked if she was sure she didn’t want to invite a family member along, she had been rather adamant she would be doing this alone.
Unmistakably, she’d changed her mind, which of course, was her prerogative. If there was any doubt that I hadn’t lost the job, it vanished right then.
Her brother was apparently here for a reason—to help her make a decision. And I’d just lost his vote.
Stopping just before the kitchen door, Dr. Kiss jerked his head toward her. “This isn’t funny, Rory. As soon as I get cleaned up, I’m out of here.”
“Come on, Jake,” she whined, “you can’t go. We haven’t even listened to the wedding planner’s proposal.”
More chocolate fell from his lips as he spoke. “Trust me, I’ve heard and seen enough.”
“But the cake, didn’t you see the cake?” she pointed. “It’s perfect.” Clearly, she was impressed. And clearly she loved what he had not.
Perhaps there was hope after all.
After rubbing his chin and leaving a stain of chocolate behind, her brother narrowed his gaze at her. “Not even an hour ago you told me you wanted a vintage wedding with antique Louis Vuitton suitcases and a classic Rolls Royce. How the hell do birds fit in that picture?”
“They don’t,” she answered almost contritely.
Wait! No birds?
I glanced from the cake to my dress, and my frown turned even deeper.
When was this day going to be over?
Those eyebrows of his rose as if to say I told you so. At least there wasn’t any cake stuck on them.
Rory bounced on her toes over to the cake. “But that’s only because I changed my mind. If I hadn’t, this is exactly what I would have wanted. And besides, if you’d been listening to me the past few weeks, which you clearly were not, you would have known that lovebirds were my first choice. I might not want them for my wedding theme any longer, but that doesn’t mean the cake didn’t still wow me.”
I had wowed her.
At least there was that.
“Rory.” His tone was authoritative, and by the way his sister practically stamped her feet, it was painfully obvious he was the decision maker.
I was so screwed.
And not in the way I had thought I might be only minutes ago.
Interested in knowing what makes Finn tick?
Look for his story, SOMETHING JUST LIKE THIS, coming later this year.
AND ALSO: A LOOK INSIDE WHAT
READERS ARE CALLING THEIR FAVORITE KIM KARR BOOK EVER . . .
NO PANTS REQUIRED
This book is guaranteed to warm you up from the inside out.
Just the mere suggestion of karaoke gets everyone’s heart pounding. Whether it’s out of excitement or pure, blind panic depends on the individual and that person’s frame of mind at the time.
The truth is that most people sing karaoke for the same reasons they go bowling—it’s a fun activity and they can drink while doing it.
With that being said, perhaps some of the people that are here can get up and confidently belt out their most favorite song in the world with no concern for the eardrums they are perforating or the notes they are destroying. Unfortunately, I am not one of those people.
To be honest, I can’t believe I even agreed to do this.
Then again, Bar On is not where I thought I’d find myself tonight. This Chinatown lounge may be packed full of eager-to-sing regulars, but my friends and I are not those people. We are here on a whim after a few too many drinks at a restaurant down the street.
Shuffling through the crowd, I stop when someone taps me on the shoulder. Thinking it’s one of my friends, I turn around to see a tall, leggy brunette with the most vibrant green eyes staring at me. Her face is stunning. She looks like Megan Fox. For a second, I wonder if she is.
She steps closer and right away I can see this woman is a bit younger, though—my age, I’d say. “Do you mind if I get by?” she asks with one of those affluent tones I know all too well from my days in private school.
Definitely not Megan Fox.
Without waiting for me to answer, she pushes past, and in her rush, steps on my open-toed pump.
Ouch!
I glare as her red Louboutin soles make their way to the front of the lounge.
“Come on,” my coworker tosses over her shoulder, not at all bothered by the woman who brushed past her, too. “Sandra found us a table.”
India leads the way, and I follow, making sure not to step on any toes in the crowd. Finally, she stops at the only available table large enough for our group, which just so happens to be right in front of the stage.
Fantastic.
The white leather banquette is awash in the neon light emanating from the human-sized letters that spell the establishment’s name across the back wall. The light is nearly blinding. I look at Sandra. “Are you sure you want to sit this close?”
She hands me a menu of songs. “Yes, this is going to be great.”
“Pour Some Sugar on Me” is coming to an end and once I’ve slid all the way across the bench, I look up to see a group of very pleased guys jumping off the stage in unison. The Def Leppard wannabes are staring at us.
This must have been their spot.
All clean-cut, all fuck-hot, all about my age. Immediately, I can tell by their walk that they are definitely Upper East Siders. Prep school, riot club types turned Wall Street wolves would be my guess. You know—the kind of guy your mother warns you about.
The type I should have stayed away from.
The guy closest to me is wearing a red tie and has his black jacket slung over his shoulder. The others are dressed in dark suits, too. Hmmm . . . either dressed up for an occasion or still dressed up after the occasion. Not a wedding, since it’s a Thursday night. An office party, maybe? Or perhaps this group of drunken men is here for a going-away party like mine. Who knows? Anyway, the guy with the red tie gives the eight of us girls a quick glance and a smile but doesn’t stop.
He’s cute. Really cute.
At least he doesn’t seem to mind that we took their table. Then again, he’s too focused on the guy without a jacket farthest away from me. “Cam,” he calls out. “Don’t bother with her.” His warning is too late, though, because this Cam, whose white, rumpled shirt and dark hair are all I can see, is already allowing himself to be dragged away from his group by that Megan Fox look-alike who practically ran me over minutes ago.
Fascinated by her assertiveness, I watch the two of them. I have to crane my neck to catch sight of them, and soon, too soon, they disappear into the crowd. Squinting my eyes, wishing I’d changed my dirty contact lenses, I search for them.
In a matter of seconds, though, it’s not my poor eyesight but Sandra who prevents me from locating them. She stands in front of me with a huge-ass smile on her face. “What song did you decide on?”
Giving a cursory glance at my choices, the perfect one is the first I see. “‘Total Eclipse of the Heart,’” I blurt out and point excitedly at the same time. This song I know, and know it all too well.
Sandra is my neighbor and is more than aware of all my woes. That sad smile she gives me borders on pity.
Not wanting to be that girl anymore, the one who got her heart broken, I grab Sandra’s arm before she heads toward the karaoke booth. “You know what, forget that song. Why don’t you pick one that represents the change coming in my life?”
At that her eyes light up.
Minutes later I’m being dragged up onstage by my friends and coworkers, and according to the screen, I’m about to sing a group rendition of “New York, New York.”
Okay, I can do this.
I know this song. Not as well as “Total Eclipse of the Heart,” but at least I know it. Besides, how hard can it be? I’ve sung it a million times—although admittedly m
ostly when I’ve been drunk.
Then again, I have had a lot to drink tonight.
The pressure is on. The eight of us gather around the microphone. The audience lights dim and a spotlight shines on us. I kind of feel like a star. No, I feel like Frank Sinatra himself without those penetrating blue eyes. But when the karaoke jockey asks, “Are you ready?” suddenly, I’m petrified. There is no way on God’s green earth I am going to be able to hit the high notes.
The music starts. It’s too late to back out. First, it’s just the piano, but then the trumpet and clarinet join in. It’s odd, but the familiarity of the sound eases my nerves. When the lyrics flash in front of me, all my worries are gone and I don’t care anymore.
I let all of my hang-ups go and sing.
This, what I’m doing right now, is a glimpse into the old me. Somewhere between college and the real world, I lost that fun-loving girl, and I hope I can find her again.
Don’t worry. I have a plan to do just that. Not only am I leaving the city I have loved for so long, but I’m also going to be moving far, far away, with no idea if I will ever be coming back.
It’s how I hope to find myself.
My friends squeeze my shoulders, and we continue to sing the lyrics. Unexpectedly, they alter the words, and instead of talking about making it in New York, they tell the story of making it anywhere—in my case, California.
More than moved by this kind gesture, I gulp down the sorrow and move with them in a way that doesn’t match the tempo at all. It doesn’t matter, though, because they’re right: “If I can make it here, I can make it anywhere.”
God, I hope that’s true.
There’s a pause in the chorus and the piano melody quiets us all down. We’re now standing in a straight line onstage and swaying back and forth.
Breathing for the first time in three months, regret isn’t a word I am going to allow myself to say . . . out loud, anyway.
Yes, I admit it—I have a type A personality, which makes me hard to get to know and even harder to be friends with. Crossing my t’s and dotting my i’s will always be important to me. As is staying on a schedule. Making lists. And being organized. But none of that means I’m boring.