Imaginary Lover

by Sandra Chastain

  She forced herself to puff out little rhythmic breaths as she heard the truck door creak. She needed to calm down. She was in Montana, for God’s sake. Wes was in jail. She’d been found innocent. They weren’t after her anymore. She didn’t need to be afraid. Maybe, just maybe, she was about to be rescued by a handsome Western lawman.

  The driver’s-side door opened fully and a wizened old man eased himself out of the truck. He was dressed in wrinkled khaki pants and a leaf-print golf shirt that looked like it might be more at home in Florida than Montana. Her lawman fantasy quickly fizzled.

  As he shut the door, he shook his head. “Lady, what in tarnation you doin’ on top o’ your car? Did you see a bear?”

  “Bear?!” Her voice came out in an eep! “No. No bear. I have a flat tire.”

  “So you got on top o’ your car?” His hands stayed near his gun belt while he studied her, but she couldn’t tell whether he had a gun.

  Was this how cops dressed in Montana? Where was his uniform? “I don’t have a spare. I was just trying to see if I could see something besides … grass from up here.”

  “And do you see anything besides grass?” He strode up to the driver’s side of her rental car, eyeing it suspiciously.

  “Besides the Rockies on the other side of it? No, not really.”

  “Huh.” He looked at her quizzically. “How ’bout you come down from there and we’ll check out that tire?”

  “Oh, thank you. I’m so relieved you came along.” Kyla slid gingerly down the windshield on her rear end, then scooted down the hood, wincing at the dirt she was probably collecting on her backside. As she jumped off the bumper, her right leg buckled and she lost her balance, swaying for a long moment.

  The old cop’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You been drinking, young lady?”

  “No.” She adjusted her skirt nervously. “Absolutely not. I just lost my balance.” She pointed to her right thigh. “I broke my leg last year. It’s still a little unsteady.”

  He raised his eyebrows and smirked as he shook his head slowly. “Uh-huh.” He crossed his arms and widened his stance. “Let’s just check and see.” He walked by her and stood about ten feet in front of the car. “Step over here and put both feet on the white line.”

  Seriously? He was going to make her do a sobriety test? For tripping? She stepped warily to the front of the car and put her feet on the line as best she could.

  “You know the drill,” he growled.

  “Actually, sir, I don’t. I’ve never actually been pulled over … for anything.”

  He lifted his eyebrows in disbelief, shaking his head. He pointed at the white line. “Walk twenty steps thataway, then back. Try to stay on the line.”

  Welcome to Big Sky Country, Kyla thought as she took a deep breath and set out down the white line. She was still uncoordinated on a good day, so acing a sobriety test after three hours of sleep, a trial, and a full day’s travel was likely to be a challenge.

  “Where you from?” the cop asked.

  “Boston.”

  “When’d you leave?”

  “This morning.” Was he just making idle conversation? Or had she somehow aroused his powers of suspicion?

  The cop scratched his head. “Where’d you change planes?” Apparently suspicion. “Philly. Why?”

  “Kinda late to be arriving way out here all by your lonesome. Surprised you didn’t pick an earlier flight.”

  She turned around, gingerly trying to maintain her balance. “I had a commitment this morning.” In court, where I had to testify one last time against the man I thought I was going to marry. He’s enjoying a new six-by-ten cell and orange jumpsuit right now, but all the money he stole is still somewhere in the Caymans.

  “Look like you’re dressed for court.”

  She jolted. “No offense, sir, but why are you so curious?”

  “It’s my job.” He looked her up and down again. “So where ya headed? That newfangled spa up by Donovan’s Lake?”

  There was a spa here? A spa?! And Hayley had still chosen a dude-ranch vacation, knowing Kyla was deathly afraid of horses? The Whisper Creek Ranch website must have been very, very convincing.

  “I’m heading to Carefree. Am I close?” She got back to her car and stood ramrod-straight. “There. See? Totally sober.”

  “I’m not convinced,” the officer mumbled. “Carefree’s another hour north, give or take. That’s if I decide you’re sober enough to drive there. Otherwise, you get a free ride in my cruiser.”

  “Cruiser?” She felt her eyebrows hike upward as she glanced quickly at his truck.

  “Cruiser,” he deadpanned.

  Prickles took hold at the top of her head again, moving steadily downward. She was alone on a deserted highway, a woman in a suit and bare feet with a flat tire and no spare. Cripes, she was a serial killer’s dream.

  Maybe one posing as a cop, for instance.

  “Do you … have a badge?”

  He reached into his inside pocket and flipped open a badge holder that looked as official as all the others she’d seen this past year. Her shoulders relaxed a tiny bit as she stepped forward to look more closely, then tensed back up when he slapped it shut. She stepped back quickly, trying not to think about how easy it probably was to get one online.

  “Do you have a Breathalyzer? That would prove I haven’t been drinking, right?” If she kept him talking, maybe she could stall until another car came along?

  He stepped directly in front of her and put his hands out to the side. “Hands out like mine. Do exactly what I say.”

  Kyla paused. Putting her hands up left her whole midsection exposed. What was he going to do if she complied? If she didn’t?

  “You having trouble following my very simple instructions?” His eyebrows smushed together like a big, furry caterpillar.

  Kyla shook her head and put her hands out to her sides like a T, backing up as subtly as she could.

  “Okay, touch your left finger to your nose. No, other finger. No, nose.” Kyla did her best to comply, but he was trying to trick her by placing his right finger on his earlobe. She prayed desperately for the sound of another vehicle, any vehicle. This guy couldn’t be for real.

  He shook his head. “You’re not doing a very good job of convincing me, young lady. “Let’s see fifty jumping jacks. Go.”

  “In my bare feet?” She’d avoid mentioning her still-healing femur, just in case he was trying to gauge her ability to outrun him.

  “You think those shoes would be better?” He lifted his eyebrows toward the heels she’d kicked off.

  Kyla shook her head. “Guess not.”

  Fine. She’d do the jumping jacks and pretend she was compliant, but that was it. She put her hands at her sides, feet together, and started jumping, trying not to show how much it hurt. If he tried to make her do one more thing, she was making a run for the car. She should be able to get the window up before he could catch her.

  And then what, Kyla? Where do you think you’re going to go on three wheels?

  “You thinkin’ about makin’ a run for it?” he growled.

  “No, sir,” she huffed. At least not until you look the other way.

  He reached his right hand to his gun belt. “I wouldn’t recommend it.”

  Oh, holy hell. Did he have a gun after all?

  Read on for an excerpt from Lauren Layne’s

  After the Kiss

  Chapter One

  Julie Greene had built a career out of falling in love. Staying in love? Not so much.

  Julie’s boss apparently hadn’t gotten the memo.

  “I’m confused,” Julie said slowly, leaning forward with a placating smile. “You want me to write what?”

  Translation: You’re confused. I don’t write that shit.

  Camille Bishop leaned back in her chair and studied Julie with puzzled eyes. “I’d have thought you’d be jumping at the chance to have such a simple assignment after last month.”

  Julie pursed her lip
s together and considered. Last month’s assignment had been exhausting. Documenting the seven kinds of first kisses had required a lot of research.

  Pleasant research.

  But this? A two-page spread, to be called “How to Take Relationships to the Next Level”?

  What was Camille thinking? This was Stiletto magazine, not Dr. Phil. Stiletto was sex and high heels, not companionship and freaking clogs.

  The rocky post-honeymoon period just wasn’t Julie’s scene. Which is not to say she didn’t have plenty of other skills.

  The first date? She had men begging for it.

  The first kiss? An art form she’d long since mastered.

  The first time you lost your panties in his sheets? Soooo not a problem.

  This wasn’t to say that Julie had perfected only the major, most obvious dating milestones, however. She also knew how to finesse the subtler moments—those key moments where the breath caught and you thought, Yes, this. Julie could explain every single nuance, from the toe-curling euphoria when his hand brushed yours to the tingle when eyes held for just a beat too long. And then there was her personal favorite moment: the bone-deep satisfaction when you made him laugh for the first time—a real laugh.

  Most women thought these moments just happened. Julie Greene knew better. These moments were created.

  As for what happened after all that good stuff?

  Julie couldn’t care less. She had no need for the first fight, no desire to meet the parents. No interest in finding dirty boxers in her hamper or making room in her bathroom for a man’s razor. That was all a one-way trip to Julie’s personal vision of hell: couples movie night.

  Julie had found that the women of New York City erroneously used movie night as a yardstick of how close to the altar he was. After all, if he was satisfied to spend a Friday night at home instead of at a strip club, he must be whipped, right?

  Wrong. So wrong.

  Movie night was just another way of saying that you didn’t want to bother dressing up for him and that he didn’t care. Julie lived in fear of the moment when fancy dinners and cocktail parties would be a thing of the past, and the highlight of the weekend would be lounging in yoga pants and watching car chases or beautiful people making out on-screen.

  The sexiest part of that scenario was the butter on the popcorn.

  She shuddered. Julie Greene didn’t do movie night.

  “Camille, look,” she tried again. “It’s not that I don’t respect your suggestions …”

  “Oh?” Camille tilted her head, making her chemically straightened bob sway ever so slightly, and Julie froze. Over the years, Julie had come to think of Camille’s usually immobile hair as her “tell”—when it moved, someone’s life was about to get really messy.

  Up until now, it had never been Julie’s life.

  In the six years that she’d been working for Camille as a full-time columnist, this was the first time Julie had received a direct order on a story topic. Even when Julie had been fresh out of college with nothing but a handful of internships under her belt, Camille had given her wide latitude on what to write about.

  Julie knew that Camille trusted her judgment. So what was with the sudden power trip?

  It didn’t make sense. Julie was one of Stiletto’s best columnists, and they both knew it. And Camille had always encouraged her writers to play to their strengths. Julie’s niche was the single readers with the dream of falling in love. After that, they were on their own.

  Julie sat up straighter. Wait, no. That wasn’t entirely true. Readers did have someplace to go once they got past the fun part of dating.

  Grace Brighton.

  “Why not have Grace do it?” Julie asked excitedly. “She’s your relationship guru.”

  “And here I thought you and Grace were both my relationship gurus.”

  “We are,” Julie agreed quickly. “It’s just that we each have our own expertise. Anything having to do with long-term relationships is Grace’s.”

  Camille pursed her lips, painted today in a rather shocking coral. “And how would you describe yourself?”

  Julie’s heel jittered beneath the desk in frustration. Camille knew full well what Julie’s expertise was. Everyone at the Stiletto office did. Heck, half the women in Manhattan knew Julie by name. Knew what she stood for. Stiletto was the magazine to work at. The Dating, Love, and Sex department was the department to work in. And Julie, Grace Brighton, and Riley McKenna were Dating, Love, and Sex, respectively.

  Julie answered slowly. “I’m all about butterflies, first kiss, getting him to call. You know, dating.”

  “Mm-hmm, and how is it that a woman goes from those giddy first few dates to the comfortable, committed stuff that Grace writes about?”

  Julie’s mind went blank. There was really no good way to tell the editor in chief of the country’s largest women’s magazine that you’d never bothered to think about what happened after. And sure, maybe some people might think Julie a little insubstantial. But she was willing to bet those same people were perpetually dateless. Or entrenched in yoga pants and movie nights.

  “Um, well … I guess it sort of evolves?” Julie replied finally.

  “How?”

  “With the right person, it just happens. That’s the mystery of what makes true love so special.” Gawd, I almost made myself vomit.

  Camille shook her head. “Not good enough. You’ve seen the letters from our readers. They want to know the specifics. These are women who’ve already had the third date. They’ve even been on the seventh. But then what? How do they move forward?”

  Julie’s sleeveless Kate Spade turtleneck dress suddenly felt a little tight around her throat.

  “If not Grace, Riley could write it,” Julie said, grasping at straws. “You know, I actually think she’s been looking for a way to broaden her focus and take a break from the sex stuff for a while. Can’t you just see it? ‘Outside the Bedroom’ or something like that.”

  “Julie,” Camille said with a sigh, “Grace and Riley have their stories figured out for the next few issues. I’ve already okayed them.”

  “If you want a schedule of my future story ideas, I’d be happy to—”

  “My mind’s made up.”

  Okay, so Camille wasn’t going to be persuaded with reason. Time to go for the editor’s soft spot: Stiletto itself.

  “I’m not sure this is what’s best for the magazine,” Julie said demurely. “I just don’t have any experience with the … you know … long-term stuff.”

  But Camille wasn’t biting. “So? You think every writer in this office has personal experience with everything they write about?”

  I do, Julie thought. Or at least I did.

  “Julie, look around. What does this look like to you?”

  “Um, an office?” More accurately, a high-tech, state-of-the-art, killer corner office with a view of Central Park South.

  “Exactly. It’s an office of a magazine company. This is journalism, not your pink fuzzy diary,” Camille snapped. “If you haven’t been there yourself, talk to women who are going through that stage. Do what you always do—dive into our readers’ heads and answer the hard stuff for them.”

  Julie bit back a sigh, knowing the battle was lost. Temporarily. Camille was one of those scary women who had made her way to the top of the food chain by having steel ovaries and a penchant for making people cry. Julie had always figured that if they’d made a movie about Camille’s life she’d be played by either a stern Katharine Hepburn type or an intensely scary Robert De Niro on crack. She was about as soft as a hammerhead shark and half as friendly.

  Still, Camille was right about one thing: this article could be done with a little bit of strategic networking. A major in journalism from the University of Southern California had taught Julie that media was more about whom you knew than what you knew. But Julie had developed her own type of journalism over the years, one that involved a distinctly personal voice. And she hated the idea that she couldn’t
speak personally to a topic.

  “So we’re good?” Camille asked, standing to indicate that the conversation was over.

  Not even close. “Definitely,” Julie replied with a confident smile.

  Camille had already picked up her cellphone and was yelling at her dry cleaner. Something about white stains on a black dress. Awwwwwwk-ward.

  Julie slipped out the door and was immediately surrounded by the sounds of Stiletto on a Friday afternoon. The mood in the Manhattan office was crackling even on a slow day, but by the end of the week the vibe was positively electric.

  The office staff was made up almost entirely of women, with a handful of fashion-forward men. Everywhere she looked, there were skinny hips perched on a colleague’s desk, gossip about evening plans, and lip gloss exchanges over cubicle walls as office makeup transitioned to happy-hour makeup.

  Normally Julie would be making the rounds, figuring out if anyone had heard of something happening that she hadn’t. It was more of a habit than anything else; Julie couldn’t think of a time when she’d been the last to hear about a party. Being at the top of Stiletto’s ladder also meant you were at the top of New York’s social ladder. The girls of the Dating, Love, and Sex department didn’t have to fish for an invitation.

  Julie made a detour into the kitchen, where Camille kept a few bottles of champagne stocked for celebrations and promotions.

  Today Julie had another need for it—therapy.

  If she had to write about taking things to the next level, she at least needed a drink first. And Riley and Grace were always game for a little in-office happy hour.

  “Oh, Julie, I’m glad you stopped by.”

  Julie made a silent gagging motion at the fridge. Kelli with a freaking i. Julie should have hit the bottle sooner. Much sooner.

  Julie had often marveled that fate had blessed her with a nemesis-free childhood. There was no schoolyard bully, no junior high rival, no high school drama. But all fate had really done was help her preserve her energy to deal with her adult nemesis: Kelli Kearns.