Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Acknowledgements
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
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
EPILOGUE
Praise for Kiss and Hell
“A fun, lighthearted paranormal romance that will keep readers entertained. Ms. Cassidy fills the pages of her book with nonstop banter, ghostly activity, and steamy romance.”
—Darque Reviews
“Delaney, with her amusing sarcastic asides, makes for an entertaining romantic fantasy with a wonderful mystery subplot . . . Readers will relish this lighthearted jocular frolic.”
—Genre Go Round Reviews
“Cassidy has created a hilarious lead in Delaney Markham. Readers will run through all types of emotions while enjoying laugh-out-loud moments, desperate passion, wacky and fun characters, pop-culture references, and one intense mystery. The book’s charm is apparent from the first page, but the twisted mystery tangled throughout will keep the pages turning.”
—Romantic Times
The Accidental Human
“I highly enjoyed every moment of Dakota Cassidy’s The Accidental Human . . . A paranormal romance with a strong dose of humor.”
—Errant Dreams
“A delightful, at times droll, contemporary tale starring a decidedly human heroine . . . Dakota Cassidy provides a fitting twisted ending to this amusingly warm urban romantic fantasy.”
—Genre Go Round Reviews
“The final member of Cassidy’s trio of decidedly offbeat friends faces her toughest challenge, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t humor to spare! With emotion, laughter, and some pathos, Cassidy serves up another winner!”
—Romantic Times
Accidentally Dead
“A laugh-out-loud follow-up to The Accidental Werewolf, and it’s a winner . . . Ms. Cassidy is an up-and-comer in the world of paranormal romance.”
—Fresh Fiction
“An enjoyable, humorous satire that takes a bite out of the vampire romance subgenre . . . Fans will appreciate the nonstop hilarity.”
—Genre Go Round Reviews
The Accidental Werewolf
“Cassidy, a prolific author of erotica, has ventured into MaryJanice Davidson territory with a humorous, sexy tale.”
—Booklist
“If Bridget Jones became a lycanthrope, she might be Marty. Fun and flirty humor is cleverly interspersed with dramatic mystery and action. It’s hard to know which character to love best, though: Keegan or Muffin, the toy poodle that steals more than one scene.”
—The Eternal Night
“A riot! Marty’s internal dialogue will have you howling, and her antics will keep the laughs coming. If you love paranormal with a comedic twist, you’ll love this book.”
—Romance Junkies
“A lighthearted romp . . . [An] entertaining tale with an alpha twist.”
—Midwest Book Review
More praise for the novels of Dakota Cassidy
“The fictional equivalent of the little black dress—every reader should have one!”
—Michele Bardsley
“Serious, laugh-out-loud humor with heart, the kind of love story that leaves you rooting for the heroine, sighing for the hero, and looking for your own significant other at the same time.”
—Kate Douglas
“Expect great things from Cassidy.”
—Romantic Times
“Very fun, sexy. Five stars!”
—Affaire de Coeur
“Dakota Cassidy is going on my must-read list!”
—Joyfully Reviewed
“If you’re looking for some steamy romance with something that will have you smiling, you have to read [Dakota Cassidy].”
—The Best Reviews
Berkley Sensation titles by Dakota Cassidy
YOU DROPPED A BLONDE ON ME
KISS & HELL
MY WAY TO HELL
THE ACCIDENTAL WEREWOLF
ACCIDENTALLY DEAD
THE ACCIDENTAL HUMAN
ACCIDENTALLY DEMONIC
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
Copyright © 2010 by Dakota Cassidy.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions. BERKLEY® SENSATION and the “B” design are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley Sensation trade paperback edition / December 2010
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Cassidy, Dakota.
You dropped a blonde on me / Dakota Cassidy.—Berkley Sensation trade pbk., ed. p. cm.
eISBN : 978-1-101-44589-1
1. Single mothers—Fiction. 2. Middle-aged women—Fiction. 3. New Jersey—Fiction. I. Title
PS3603.A8685Y68 2010
813’.6—dc22
2010032481
http://us.penguingroup.com
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This book is for and because of some empowered, determined women who just wouldn’t get off my back and let me give up. They are Kate Douglas, Karen Woods, Sheri Fogarty, Angela Knight, Margaret Riley, Ann Jacobs, Treva Harte, Sahara Kelly, Maryam Salim, Diane White-side, Laura McHale, and MT. The power of their encouraging words, their late-night e-mails, their phone calls and instant messages during the darkest, freakiest time of my life kept me clinging to the edge of the cliff. The “Suck it up, Princess” rule comes from them. For that,
and so much more, I’m one grateful woman.
To Pam and Don at A Romance Review, who let me read and review books until my eyeballs warbled. Look what you created . . .
My parents, Robert and Eleanor, who, for the grace of God, still love me after cramming myself and my two sons into their eight hundred and twenty square-foot retirement village home.
To the real ladies of Leisure Village East—Mary DeWitt, Gail Kniffen, Gail Hammond, and Mary S. Or the Gail-Marys, as I lovingly once called them. You are treasured and priceless to me—always.
My agent, Elaine Spencer, who believed in this project and helped me flesh it out in a grocery store while we bought roast chicken. You da bomb diggity, chica!
Most especially to Rob—you were unexpected, and I was unprepared, but it’s been unbelievable. I’m so glad you didn’t give up. I love you.
Also, for anyone who has experienced or is experiencing the heartbreak of divorce, the fear and the anxiety this journey may have brought: Hold on. Don’t lose hope—even if you’re clinging to the last thread in a rope that’s frayed and worn. I know where you are. I also know where you can go if you don’t let go. Don’t. Let. Go.
And last, but so definitely not least, this is for the very patient but firm night manager at the 7-Eleven in Jersey who, on a rainy, dismal night told me he wouldn’t hire me for the midnight shift—which led to my mini-nervous breakdown of public, desperate sobbing and begging whilst I shared my tale of unemployable woe and divorce doom.
Dude, turning me down for that job (like my eleventy-billionth rejection. Surely you can see how that led me to public displays of histrionics, yes?) was the best thing you could have ever done for me. It was humiliation and degradation at its finest—but you handled me like an amateur psychologist who had a minor in soothing “broke divorcing women gone wild.” That night was a major turning point for me. The one where I realized if I didn’t grab the wheel of this runaway freight train, I’d lose control forever. Or become a pathetic candy-ass with a backbone made of Jell-O. It was my first lesson in the “suck it up” theory. I’m glad I opted to go Jell-O free.
So thanks—and thanks for the free cold Pepsi, too. All that crying and pleading makes for a dry mouth and sore throat.
Dakota Cassidy ☺
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The town of Riverbend is purely fictional, just in case you folks off the Jersey Turnpike take exception to me messing with your exits. But booyah to the fine people of Brick—exit 91 off the Garden State. You rule! And a quick note about New Jersey state laws on divorce. I’ve taken a smidge of artistic license, but not nearly as much as you’d think. In keeping with the idea that this is fiction, do note, any and all mistakes are mine.
PROLOGUE
The first rule of the Ex-Princess Club? Suck. It. Up.
What a difference one year, six months, eight hours, four minutes, ten seconds, and total empowerment makes. Today is the anniversary and a half of the official end of my trophy-wife days. Well, they didn’t officially end that day, but it was the catalyst to a slew of things that helped make the end. It’s when “Suck it up, Princess” found a whole new meaning for me, and the defining moment when I decided it was high time I traded in my frilly girl panties for a set of steel clangers.
And Jesus, it was butt ugly.
I was in the Cluck-Cluck Palace (yeah, that’s right. Fast food chicken, ladies), and my mouth was moving a mile a millisecond while I applied—okay, begged—the day manager for a job, accosted a teenager, and ran into someone who reminded me I hadn’t always been candy for someone’s sweet tooth.
Ironically, eight months prior to that day I could’ve owned the Cluck-Cluck Palace and everything in it. Okay, maybe I personally couldn’t have, but my soon to be ex-husband, Finley Cambridge, and all his lovely money could. But on that particular day, I had zilch. No money, no job, and no hope for future employment because I’d been nothing more than someone’s pretty toy for over twenty years. That is, until I wasn’t so pretty anymore. My ass was sagging, and so were the “girls” (which, if you ask me, should be called boys. If they were girls, they’d be team players and stay where they belong.), and I was visiting my swanky salon a whole lot more for touch-ups than ever before. Total harsh to my life buzz.
Anyway, it was on this day I realized I’d fallen and had forgotten to get the hell back up. There’s nothing like humiliating clarity, stark and in your face, to spur you into action. Or make you want to slink back to your dark, dank hole of depression.
It’s a choice.
Oh, and Christ, did I ever slink for a while after I was downsized from my cushy position as Mistress Of All Things Arranged In Glass Vases And Decorated In Silk. I cried. I didn’t shower. (I know. I know. Don’t judge.) I wore gray sweats. If you knew me, you’d understand the true depth of my despair when I resorted to the color gray. I moped. I whined. I cursed men with my fist raised to the sky. I cursed the universe with two fists. I listened to crappy love songs and boozed it up. I didn’t eat. I didn’t sleep much either. I, in general, behaved like a candy-ass.
And then one day, I didn’t slink or whine anymore. That kind of sissified crap wasn’t going to pay the bills—or support my son—or give me a reason to get up in the morning.
Because here’s the thing—if you’re anything remotely like me, you are where you are because you held the hand of your sugar daddy who skipped with you down the path of the totally sheltered, and you did squat to stop it. He wasn’t alone, friend, and you obviously weren’t paying close enough attention to where that path was going, ’cause it left you high and dry.
But I’m here to tell you, you can turn this mutha around. I did.
Though a word of caution—gird your loins.
CHAPTER ONE
Note from Maxine Cambridge to all ex-trophy wives on the art of sucking it up and how not to get a job after never having been in the workplace to begin with: Sometimes less really is more. While you, the unemployed, may find it therapeutic to spill your guts, or even foolishly believe rambling your woes to your potential employer will create sympathy and help you nab that much-needed job, news flash, sistah. In your quest for gainful employment, shut up. A lot.
“Welcome to the Cluck-Cluck Palace, where we speak beak. May I take your order?”
Leaning over the service counter, Maxine Cambridge kept her voice low. “I need to see the manager, please.” She gave a covert glance around the fast food restaurant’s dining area, checking to see if anyone she knew was maybe having a secret liaison with a double Cluck-Cluck combo meal. As humiliating as it would be to be discovered here, it wouldn’t be nearly as horrific as being caught eating in a batter-dipped Nirvana, all up in a Cluck-Cluck Palace’s triple chicken-nator’s business.
The all-natural juice bar this was not.
A worried frown formed on the young boy’s forehead, as yet smooth and unwrinkled by life’s little travesties. Hah. What did a kid like him know about worry? Worrying was filled with shameful events like digging for change in your mother’s old Jennifer Convertibles sofa so your kid could have frickin’ milk for breakfast. Or selling every pricey designer outfit you owned to an upper-end thrift store for a shitty twenty bucks, then walking away feeling like you’d just renegotiated the Geneva Conventions single-handedly and had come up a winner.
Worrying was being forced to move back to your small hometown in New Jersey, and seeing the people you’d known all your life look at you with pity.
Worrying was eyeball-rolling dissertations on a division of assets, losing your sole form of transportation, i.e., your snazzy red sports car, and being beaten weekly with glee to a frothy frenzy by an opposing divorce attorney who loved nothing more than to watch you while your panties wadded as you sifted through so much paper a tree had surely lost its life for the endeavor.
Worry was the pending end of your connubial bliss—a bliss you had no idea wouldn’t always be connubial. How could this sweet, sweet young boy know the half of what worrying was all
about?
“Is there a problem?” he croaked, interrupting her favorite mental game of “stare poverty in the face.”
Maxine shot him a reassuring smile and kept her response light, even though her intestines were tied up in knots and her head throbbed. “Oh, no. No problem. I filled out an application here a week ago, and I’m just doing a quick follow-up.” You know, before I head to the pawn shop to see if they’ll take my breast implants for cash.
“You filled out an application?” he asked, his fresh, alert eyes scanning her from head to toe, taking in the only pair of designer shoes she hadn’t sold to the thrift store. Yet.
A deep breath later, she said with a smile, “Yep. So can I see the manager?”
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