Almost Like Love

by Abigail Strom

  BOOKS BY ABIGAIL STROM

  The Millionaire’s Wish

  Cross My Heart

  Waiting for You

  Into Your Arms

  Winning the Right Brother

  Almost Like Love

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2014 Abigail Strom

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Montlake Romance, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Montlake Romance are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781477825884

  ISBN-10: 1477825886

  Cover design by Mary Anne Smith

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2014940350

  For Mikel and Owen, my favorite geeks

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER ONE

  This was a mistake.”

  As Kate Meredith stared at the East Village club from inside the taxi, her courage evaporated. She glanced down at herself and cringed at the sight of the bare skin Simone had insisted she put on display.

  How had she let her friend talk her into this outfit? A leather miniskirt and a bustier, for God’s sake. A bustier that, by the feel of it, had been designed by the Marquis de Sade out of black lace and agony.

  At least she didn’t have to worry about humiliating herself inside the club. She’d never make it that far on the four-inch heels Simone had convinced her to wear. The minute she stepped onto the sidewalk, she’d fall flat on her face.

  “This is not a mistake,” Simone said firmly. “As far as I’m concerned, this is the first rational thing you’ve done in years.”

  Kate turned her head to glare at her friend, who didn’t look like a poster child for rationality at the moment. She was wearing a dress made of canary-yellow plastic, along with fishnet stockings and combat boots, and her short black hair was spiked with a product that had turned her normally silky locks into lethal weapons.

  “This is your world, not mine,” Kate said, turning back to look at the line of people waiting to get into the club. “I don’t belong here. I look like a kid playing dress-up. Why did I let you—”

  “The only thing I did wrong was failing to pour whiskey down your throat before we came here. Let’s go rectify that now, shall we?”

  Simone reached across her to open the cab door and then practically shoved Kate out onto the sidewalk. Kate teetered on her heels but didn’t actually fall, and by the time Simone paid the driver and came to stand beside her, she was reasonably confident she could keep from face-planting on the asphalt.

  While she was standing, anyway. She wasn’t so sure about walking. And as for dancing . . .

  She gripped Simone’s shoulder. “Not my world,” she said again.

  “May I remind you that your world kicked your ass today? That’s why you came to me, remember?”

  It was true.

  Kate had woken up that morning with a job and a fiancé. Eight hours later, she’d lost both of them.

  So she could plead temporary insanity, couldn’t she? Why else would she have pounded on Simone’s door and announced that the two of them were going shopping—and then clubbing? She never went clubbing with Simone. She loved her friend like a sister, but they had very different ideas of what constituted a fun Friday night.

  “I was obviously out of my mind. It was your job to talk me down off the ledge, not hand me a cape and tell me I could fly.”

  Simone laughed and put an arm around her waist. Since Kate was towering over her even more than usual, the hug brought Simone’s face into contact with her left boob.

  Simone took a step back and studied Kate’s cleavage with satisfaction. “Your tits are awesome in that. If I ever get implants, this is what I want them to look like.”

  Kate wriggled her shoulders in an effort to relieve some of the pressure on her C cups, which, ratcheted up by the bustier, now resembled double Ds.

  “I can’t take a deep breath in this thing. And it’s digging into me.”

  “No beauty without pain. I’m sweating like a pig in this dress, but do you hear me complaining? No, you do not.”

  Kate sighed and smoothed her hands over her hips. “I’m sweating, too, and it’s not even summer yet. Okay, you know what? I’ve completely satisfied my urge to cut loose. Mission accomplished. I think it’s time to go home now. I think I—”

  The theme song from Doctor Who played inside her purse. Someone was calling her.

  It was Chris. It had to be. He wanted to tell her he’d made a huge mistake—that he loved her, missed her, couldn’t live without her.

  “Hello?” she said breathlessly, not even bothering to check the caller ID after she fished the phone out of her purse.

  “Kate! Oh, sweetie, how are you doing?”

  Not Chris. Jessica.

  Jessica, who was getting married in June. Jessica, who’d roomed with her and Simone in college and had asked them to be bridesmaids. Jessica, who’d once christened her Little Miss Boring after Kate had stayed in their dorm to watch the series finale of Battlestar Galactica instead of going to a frat party.

  Kate sighed. “I’m fine, Jess. What do you need?” Jessica never hesitated to make use of her many bridesmaids for wedding-related tasks, and even though it was ten o’clock at night, that was no doubt the reason she was calling now.

  “What do I need? Don’t be silly. You can’t think I’d be so cruel as to ask you for a favor when your heart is breaking.”

  Oh, great. Who’d told Jessica about—

  “Tom and I ran into Chris tonight, and he told us what happened. He asked if he could bring Anastasia to the wedding.”

  Anastasia? Her name was Anastasia? No wonder Chris hadn’t mentioned it when he’d announced that he’d fallen in love with another woman.

  “Tom said yes before I could say a word. But after we left the restaurant, I made him promise that if you have a problem with it, we’ll tell Chris he can’t bring her. After all, you’re in the wedding party—and I’ve known you longer than he’s known Chris.”

  Kate’s hand tightened around the phone. There was a roaring in her ears—the sound of a dam breaking, or possibly her head exploding.

  “Of course I don’t have a problem with it.”

  Her voice was eerily calm. Reasonable. Sweet, even.

  “Oh, Kate—you’re so brave! And don’t worry. We have plenty of time before the wedding to scrounge up a date for you. You won’t have to face Chris alone.”

  Jessica was going to scrounge up a date for her?

  The roaring grew loader.

  “You don’t have to do that. I already have a date.”

  Her mouth, apparently, had decided to lead its own life.

  “You do? Who is it?”

 
“No one you know,” Kate said quickly. “He’s, um, a rebound fling.”

  “A rebound fling? You’re having a rebound fling? What’s he like?”

  An excellent question.

  “Well, uh . . . he’s not much in the brains department, but he’s amazing in bed.”

  “You’ve had sex already?”

  Considering that Kate had had sex with exactly three men in her life and had been single today for a total of six hours, Jessica had some reason to sound stunned.

  “Yep. Lots and lots of sex. Actually, I think that’s him at the door. He must be back for a”—what was the phrase?—“booty call. So I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

  She stuffed the phone back into her purse and took a deep breath. For the first time tonight, she no longer felt like an awkward giant beside her petite friend. She felt like a Valkyrie. Like Athena going into battle. Like . . .

  Simone was grinning at her. “You’re having a rebound fling with a fictional guy?”

  “He won’t be fictional for long.”

  Her friend raised an eyebrow. “Really. And where are you planning to find him?”

  Kate nodded towards the club. “In there.”

  Simone looked skeptical. “I don’t think the men in there are your type.”

  “Exactly. I’m sick of my type. I’m sick of people like Jessica assuming I’ll sit in my apartment and cry over Chris until her wedding, which I’ll be forced to go to alone because I couldn’t scrounge up a date. I’m sick of . . . I’m sick of . . .”

  And suddenly it came out—the truth that had been bubbling up inside her since the network cancelled her show and her fiancé cancelled their relationship.

  “I’m sick of myself. I’m sick of being the well-meaning idiot everyone feels sorry for. I’m sick of always trying to do the right thing and always getting screwed. I’m sick of thinking about everyone but me.”

  The bustier didn’t seem so painful as reckless courage swept through her. “From this moment forward, I’m going to be a selfish bitch. I’m going into that club to find a man with tattoos and piercings and bad news written all over him. I’m going to bring him to Jessica’s wedding and make Chris Corrigan eat his cheating heart out. I’m going to use him for sex, and then I’m going to dump him. Ruthlessly.”

  “Ruthlessly?”

  “Ruthlessly.”

  Simone patted her shoulder. “Okeydokey. Let’s go find you a rebound fling.”

  Kate’s newfound confidence faltered for a moment. “Can we have a drink first?”

  “Absolutely. Many, many, many drinks.”

  Ian Hart didn’t usually spend his Friday nights in East Village clubs, or any club, for that matter. His partying days had been over for a long time. And even if he did want to go out, he wouldn’t have gone tonight. He was in a lousy mood, and he’d give anything to be home right now, going over last week’s ratings and financial reports.

  Unfortunately, this was a special occasion. Mick Kalen, one of his oldest friends, was getting married tomorrow, and this was where the best man had decided to hold the bachelor party.

  So Ian had gotten a babysitter for his nephew, dug out a pair of jeans from the back of his closet, and put on his old leather jacket over a long-sleeved shirt. Now he was sitting at a big round table covered with shot glasses, wondering exactly how much Wild Turkey it would take for him to go from pretending to have a good time to actually having a good time.

  “All right, Mick. Pick out the hottest girl in here, and I’ll get her for you.”

  That was Arthur, the groom’s brother and best man.

  Mick grinned at him. “How are you planning to do that? And what’s going to happen if you do get her? This isn’t a strip club, man. I don’t think one of the women in here is going to give me a lap dance.”

  “It’s not my fault you refused to go to the Foxy Lady.”

  “Not my scene.”

  “I know, I know. But can you at least flirt with a hot chick on your last night of freedom? Since you refuse to even get wasted.”

  “I don’t want to be hungover on my wedding day. But I’ll tell you what—I’ll pick out a girl, and if you can talk her into coming over here, I’ll flirt with her.”

  Out of the seven men sitting around the table, Arthur probably had the least chance of persuading a woman to do anything. He wasn’t bad looking, but he had one of the worst pickup track records of anyone Ian knew. He tried to start conversations about obscure comic books and science fiction shows, and although there were probably a few women in the world who would respond to that approach, you didn’t often find them in the strip clubs or trendy bars where Arthur usually tried to make his move.

  After a moment, Mick pointed across the room. “Okay, that one. The redhead at the bar.”

  The guys sitting on Mick’s side of the table whistled, but by the time Ian twisted his head to look, the woman was facing away from them, leaning forward to say something to the bartender.

  He couldn’t see her face, but the rear view was definitely worth a second look. Lustrous red hair tumbled down her back, and her body was incredible, showcased by a tiny leather skirt and a strapless top that laced up in the back like a corset. The outfit made her look like a va-va-voom Hollywood starlet with hourglass curves and legs a mile long.

  “I have the perfect opening line,” Arthur announced.

  “Yeah? What is it?” Mick asked.

  “She looks exactly like Red Sonja.”

  “Who?”

  The question came from several of the guys around the table, but Arthur didn’t hear it. He was already gone, heading towards the curvaceous redhead with the confident swagger he always used when he approached a woman.

  “Who said this bachelor party wouldn’t have entertainment?” Mick said, leaning back in his chair to watch his brother’s progress around the edge of the dance floor.

  “Who the hell is Red Sonja?” Ian asked, unable to take his eyes off of whatever was about to happen. It was like driving in a snowstorm and seeing a car go into a slow skid, heading towards an inevitable collision.

  “Star Wars or Star Trek character is my guess,” Gabe Myers said, before tossing back a shot.

  “That’s a safe bet,” Mick agreed. “This should be good.”

  Ian debated the wisdom of having another shot himself. Just as he’d decided against it, Gabe slid one in front of him.

  “Go for it,” his friend said. “You need something to cheer you up.”

  Ian frowned. “Who says I’m not cheery?”

  “Even the prospect of watching Arthur crash and burn in truly spectacular fashion hasn’t lifted you out of the pit of gloom you showed up here in. Did you have a bad day, or what?”

  In spite of himself, Ian flashed back to the image he’d spent the last eight hours trying to forget—Kate Meredith waiting for the elevator, her arms around a cardboard box of her belongings.

  When their eyes met, her expression went from forlorn to scathing in the blink of an eye. Then the elevator doors opened and she stepped inside before he could say a word.

  Not that there’d been anything to say.

  “I’m sorry I cancelled your show.”

  That would have gone over big. And why the hell should he apologize because her ratings were lousy? He was the VP of programming, not a guidance counselor.

  That was the problem with creative types. They thought they could sit in their ivory towers and make things up while someone else took care of the rest. They didn’t understand that no one was entitled to a living. That everything was a struggle. That you had to fight and claw your way to success.

  Kate always acted like she was above all that. She hated talking about ratings and ad revenue and all the practical aspects of running a television network. And in the end, her distaste for the financial side of her business had cost her. I
t wasn’t enough that she had written a good children’s television show—and Life with Max was good, Ian couldn’t deny that. His nephew loved it. But that didn’t mean—

  Arthur came up beside the curvy redhead and said something. She turned her head, and Ian got his first glimpse of her face.

  Kate Meredith.

  The curvy redhead was Kate Meredith.

  It couldn’t be . . . but it was.

  The Kate Meredith he knew never wore heels, or makeup, or even skirts. She didn’t give a damn about her appearance, which was one of the many things he found annoying about her. Your appearance sends a message to people, and you should always do everything in your power to make sure you send the right message.

  But Kate couldn’t be bothered to care about that. She was oblivious to it all, drifting happily along in her fantasy world where heroes and heroines were real, substance mattered more than form, and good triumphed over evil.

  Unlike most women in the entertainment industry, Kate never used her appearance as a weapon. She downplayed her height, her hair, her face . . . and her body. Even at network parties and awards shows, Kate dressed to blend into the background rather than stand out.

  Of course, she hadn’t been able to disguise herself completely. Even in her dowdy work clothes, it had been obvious that Kate was attractive—and that she had the potential to be a lot more.

  Ian had wondered more than once what it would take to make Kate cut loose. Apparently, losing her job had done the trick.

  A rush of attraction was followed by a wave of guilt. It was hard to say which feeling he resented more.

  She looked incredible. She was tall to begin with, but her high heels made her an Amazon. Her hair was a tumbled mass of red glory. And her body . . .

  Sweet holy Christ.

  She was stunning. She was every man’s fantasy. She was . . .

  Talking to Arthur Kalen.

  Of course she was. There was probably one woman in ten thousand who would actually respond to Arthur’s pickup approach, and Kate Meredith was it. She was a nerd, just like him—only it turned out she was trapped in the body of a sex goddess.