by Emily Bishop
“I wish I’d met her,” I said, and it was true. She’d created and raised Aurora, who was the most unique person I’d met. I couldn’t help but believe that Libby would’ve been an amazing woman and a wonderful grandmother.
“She would have loved you, I know it. She despised James,” Aurora said.
“Oh? You never told me that.”
“My mother was a good judge of character. Me, not so much. Till now.” My woman clung to me, and I lifted her left hand, which held the engagement ring I’d placed on it six months ago.
“We’d better get to work on arranging this,” I said. “Not that I care whether we’re married when the kid arrives. I can’t wait for you to be Mrs. Tombs.”
“Me neither. God, I’m so happy you’re happy.”
“Hey, why wouldn’t I be?” I turned her in my arms and studied her expression, happy yet tearful. “This is the best thing that could’ve happened to us. We’re going to be a real family.”
“Yeah, but it’s like I said, this is a difficult time for you.”
“No way. I’m going to call Rod, right now. I’ll reschedule the meeting.” If she needed me, I’d be here. The script could wait. I’d spent a year writing and rewriting, ensuring that the characters weren’t one-dimensional as those in Pride’s Death had been. Another nine months wouldn’t hurt.
“No! Please, no,” Aurora said and rose onto tiptoes. She kissed me quick, a light brush of her warm lips against mine. “I want you to follow your dreams. I have everything I’ve ever wanted, like I said. A family and a home, a real home that my mother would’ve been proud of. You don’t have your movie.”
“My dream? What if this is my dream, too?” I asked and tightened my grip. “Just being here with you.”
“You have a passion,” she replied. “It’s your calling, and you’re good at it. Performing, writing, being who you are. I think you have a real gift, Jarryd, and you need to share it with the world. Please, you’ve got to go on Monday.”
“Are you sure? What if you need me?”
“I’m eight weeks pregnant. I think it will be a while before I need you to paint my toenails for me.”
I chuckled and kissed her forehead, inhaled that oh-so-Aurora scent. “All right, I’ll go. But man, speak about nervous, I’m going to shit bricks on Monday. Rod wasn’t exactly happy with me the last time we spoke.”
“It will work out.” Aurora perked up. “Wait, does this mean I finally get to read the script?”
I hadn’t let her, because I wanted it to be a surprise, but nothing I’d written could top what she’d told me now, not that I wanted it to. “Yeah, I guess you could. I don’t know how you’ll feel about it—”
Aurora sniffed. “What’s that smell?” she asked and gave a couple more sniffles. “Smells like—”
I inhaled, too. The acrid tang of smoke on the air, and something else, something sweet. “Apples?”
“Oh, Jesus, the pies!” Aurora jerked out of my arms and rushed for the front door. “I totally forgot about them.” She dashed inside, and a series of clatters and muted cuss words followed. “Ow, ouch! Hot!”
I started for the door.
“It’s all right, I’m OK,” she called.
Mistress wandered out of the front door, her whiskers twitching. She flicked her tail. Apparently, she didn’t care much for the smell either.
“There goes my plan for afternoon pies,” Aurora called back. “Damn, so much for my domestic vibe.”
“I’m not marrying you for your cooking.”
Aurora poked her head out of the open window and narrowed her eyes at me. A thin plume of smoke drifted out behind her. “Then why are you marrying me?”
“For your tarot reading skills, of course,” I said. “I need you on my side and all the fortune-telling I can get.”
She bust her gut laughing, and that rolling mirth washed over me and echoed across the lake and between the trees.
“Forget about the pies,” I said. “Come out here. I’ll tell you more about the script.”
Aurora’s curious streak got the better of her, and she immediately disappeared from the window. A minute later, she walked out, brushing off her skirt with the kitchen towel. “I got a little burnt crust on me, can you believe it.”
“Take a seat, pregnant fiancée,” I replied and gestured to the bench.
She sank onto it and folded her dainty hands in her lap. I joined her then cursed and popped up again. “Always with the splinters, hot damn. Why doesn’t it happen to you?”
“Because I am at one with nature,” she said, in a put on British accent. She cleared her throat. “Well, what’s it about? Don’t renege on the deal now, Tombs. I’ve been waiting a year to finally hear what it’s about.”
“All right,” I said, and my nerves got the better of me for a second, dried up my throat and my thoughts. I lifted the script from the bench and held it on my lap, hand over the title.
Mistress hopped onto the spot the script had vacated and settled in to listen.
“It’s important that you like this. I was going to tell you about it tomorrow but now that—well, yeah. Aurora, if you don’t like it, I won’t take it to Rod. That’s an important point to understand.”
“Why wouldn’t I like it?” she asked and took my hand.
I lifted hers to my lips and kissed it, relished that flavor, that natural sweetness. “The movie’s name will be Gypsy.”
“Gypsy,” she said.
“Yes.”
“All right, and what’s it about?” She tilted her head as she always did when she listened, and Mistress mimicked her exactly on my left side.
“It’s about this actor who comes to a small town and meets this girl.”
Aurora inhaled sharply. “Yeah?”
“She’s a gypsy, a magical, gorgeous gypsy, who changes his life forever. The story is about how they overcome countless obstacles, her jealous ex, media scrutiny, and an obsessive actress to find the meaning of true love. The meaning of home.”
“Oh, wow,” Aurora said. “Jarryd.” She leaned in and kissed me, hard, sealing this moment, the one I’d worried over for an entire year, with the one gesture that meant more to me than anything else. Her opinion mattered and that was it.
“Do you like it?” I asked.
“I love it,” she whispered. “May I read it now?”
“Sure,” I said and held it out to her.
Aurora placed her hand on the first page then withdrew it, a smile as light as a rainbow dancing on her lips. “Actually, you read it. Read it to me and to the baby.”
So, I flipped to the first page and started reading them the story of how we fell in love.
There’s more...
Thank you for reading! Want the prequel to the book you just read? Read the chapters before chapter 1 to find out more about Jarryd and Aurora.
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No one can find out I’m pregnant.
Landing a job on the set of Billionaire Bachelor was amazing.
But being up close to this year’s bachelor, Blake Berringer, is enough to make me wet on the spot.
He’s an unhinged aristocrat with the face of an angel and the reputation of the devil.
A little part of me wants to get him alone and see if he remembers me.
We met once a long time ago.
But there’s 3 ironclad rules on set:
1) No wandering the bachelor’s property after dark.
Broke this one once.
2) Don’t accept any gifts.
Broke this one twice.
3) Don’t kiss the bachelor.
I can’t even count how many times we broke this one.
I’m such a bad girl.
But some rules are meant to be broken.
The producer is really going to flip her shit when she sees my baby bump.
Will I be fired, or will I be f
amous?
Prologue
Roxanne
“Are you an angel?”
“Not hardly. Come here…”
“You don’t even know how to drive?” an old lady in a long red gown asks me, her eyes child-like with shock. She isn’t the only one, either. There are four other ancient millionaires crowded around me, looming in anticipation.
“I—I know how to drive,” I answer her, cradling my own arms uncomfortably. “I just…have panic attacks when I try. For right now.”
Damn it, Pepper was right. It’s too soon for me to be doing stuff like this. I’m not ready. I thought it would be okay. It’s a boat, a fundraiser, free shrimp. The thing is, I hate shrimp. I shouldn’t have come.
The old lady gasps. “You must feel so helpless, Roxanne,” she coos. “Like you don’t even exist anymore. Oh, you poor thing. Look, Charles, her bruises aren’t even fully healed yet. Oh, heavens.” She reaches a shriveled hand to touch me, like I’m some broken doll on display.
“Refreshments?” a waiter interrupts, and I dodge the probing fingers to snatch a flute of champagne from his platter.
“Thank you,” I breathe. “And excuse me.” I weave and break through the crowd of murmuring patrons. The old woman yells something after me—something about my bravery and an inspiration, blah, blah—but I’m already breaking through the next cluster of curious, old-money patrons. Their faces are too big, looming at me, watching me with such studious interest, like I’m a wounded bug, and they hope that I can make it, but I’m still so very small compared to them. Compared to everything. I’m small. And empty.
I might be wearing a gown crusted in pearls, but I’m not one of them. They can all see it. They see it in the clouds that never clear from my gray eyes. They see it in the yellowed bruises on my upper-arms, still not completely healed.
I drag four fingers through my freshly dyed curls—black cherry—and inhale deeply, letting the intense ocean air purify my mind.
My body relaxes with each progressive click of my heels. I put more space between myself and these insanely polite zombies.
I can’t believe she asked me such personal questions in front of everyone. I felt like I had to tell her because this is a fundraiser for battered women, and I’m one of them. I’m a poster child now. I’m a walking commercial for Second Chances.
They tell me how sorry they are for what happened to me, and how lucky I am that Ms. Madden found me, that Ms. Madden took me in. This environment is supposed to be encouraging and supportive.
They smile and nod at me like I’m some four-year-old wandering the dance floor at a wedding reception.
I want to scream, I don’t belong on this stupid yacht! I don’t belong in this dress! Jared would love to see me now, see how I can’t do this. I don’t even remember how to talk to people anymore. I don’t remember how to be outside. He ruined me. He won. I ran two hundred miles too late.
I clutch the stern of this decadent yacht, staring out over the tumble and spray of dark ocean waves. Finally alone. My heart brims until I think it’s going to burst as another panic attack grips me. Shit. Shit. Just breathe.
I’m free. Everyone says I’m free now.
I’m surrounded by good people here, aren’t I? Their money pays for the women’s shelter that is my current address. And look at all the pretty Christmas lights strung overhead. Didn’t I see the massive Christmas tree on the main deck, swamped in baubles and tinsel? Didn’t I hear the orchestra playing “Deck the Halls”? How could I feel so miserable, so lost, in the middle of all this festivity?
I want to jump so damn much. Just fuck it.
“I’m lost,” I sob quietly, speaking to the ocean sprawled beyond, like it wants my answer.
I should’ve brought one of my girls with me. Pepper or Iggy. But I’m alone. It’s a blessing and a curse.
I stare out across the vast horizon and raise my champagne glass to it.
“So here’s to you, Jared,” I murmur, rising the champagne flute to my lips and downing it all in one gulp. The bubbles burn. My other hand slides along the smooth, cool metal of the railing, and I let my shoulders soften, let my back curve. My eyelashes kiss closed and I sigh. He’s gone now. He’s gone. But where does that leave me?
I loosen my fingers and let my glass tumble into the immense wake of the turbines. It flips end over end, winking in the moonlight, and then vanishes. I don’t even hear it. It’s just gone.
It could be like that for you, too.
I can’t even sing anymore. I can’t write anymore. I don’t remember how to make friendly conversation. I don’t remember how to handle money. I don’t remember anything except how to make Jared happy. How to run Jared’s house. How to be Jared’s wife. I still jolt when my phone vibrates. I still cry if dinner’s burnt.
I hitch up my skirt and swing a leg over the railing. Then the other.
On this side of the railing, the entire world changes. Winter winds rip at my gown and hair. The floor falls away, falls fifty feet to the black Pacific below. I’m very aware of my fingers all of a sudden. My mouth tightens with determination. My heart’s going like a jackhammer.
No one notices I’m doing this. The rumble of murmured conversation at my back doesn’t break. No one cares. No one even remembers which girl I am after I walk away. If I let go, no one will notice. They won’t turn around and come back. Nothing in the whole world will change. I only had one job to do—be Jared’s wife—and now that I’m free, what is there for me? Who am I? I used to be known for my earthy, resonant vocals. With Jared, I learned to speak softly. Slowly, my entire personality got carved away, and I was just a husk. An extension of him. Now that he’s gone…
“That bored?” a charming British accent wonders from behind me, and I flick a terrified glance over my shoulder.
A blond Goliath fills the space behind me, smelling lightly of aftershave. His shoulders are so broad, he could be more gorilla than man, but he is clean-shaven and fits perfectly into a royal blue suit. Cornflower blue eyes spring out at me. His gold hair is well-kept, trim on the sides and styled on top. He just doesn’t look like he belongs in such trappings. He looks like he could flex and bust out of them.
A fine tremble takes over my body as I begin to seriously doubt the spiraling emotions that brought me to this place.
“Are you an angel?” I ask him in a voice as delicate as spun glass.
“Not even hardly. Come here.” The blond spreads his hands down my shoulders and a brushfire of tingles sets off. I shiver, but he doesn’t notice, concentrating only on collecting me from the wrong side of the railing.
He gently twists me to fully face him, and I feel vertigo when I look into his eyes. They’re so familiar, even though I’m sure I’ve never seen him before.
I meant it when I asked him if he was an angel.
His hands scoop around and hook on the other side of my skirt. “Here you come,” he promises me warmly, lifting me into the air. I yelp and my hands claw behind his neck, clinging to him like a cat. I swallow the lump in my throat as soon as I can feel relatively solid ground beneath my feet. “See?” he says. “You do want to live.”
I gingerly extricate myself from his embrace, though one of his hands is still on me. I feel it burning into the small of my back.
“I just had to get away for a little bit,” I tell him, a hint of my real voice seeping out, husky and sonorous.
“But not forever, I hope.” He moves toward a bench along the stern and gestures to it, guiding me gracefully with one hand still planted at the base of my spine. Other than Jared, he’s the first man to touch me—even this tiny bit—in almost seven years. I should be having another panic attack right now, but I’m not. I’m mesmerized as warmth spreads from his fingers and across my skin.
I settle alongside him, my skirt splashing out in front of us.
“I used to escape all the time, too,” he confesses to me. “Then, a good friend of mine said something very useful: ‘A prison can become ho
me if only you have the key.’”
With that, he flourishes a single, intricately detailed brass key from his jacket pocket and holds it up for me to examine.
“He gave this to me. Here, take it.”
I obediently pluck the key from his fingers.
“Because you can always just go,” I agree, turning the key over between my fingers. “A key changes everything.”
It hits me for the first time since I arrived there two weeks ago: I need to get out of the Second Chances shelter. I need to have my own home. My own bed. A real job.
My own key.
I’m staring at the key so hard, I don’t notice the man stretch out a finger and graze the faded bruise on my jaw.
I gasp, and my eyes flash to his. He stares back at me knowingly, eyes dark with pain. His finger doesn’t move, and I don’t want it to. He’s so warm, his touch so…penetrating.
“It can keep everyone out,” the man whispers conspiratorially. His eyes seem to fill the whole world now. “Or it can let someone in.”
The clinking of forks against champagne glasses draws those deep blue eyes away from mine, snapping the tether that held us so tightly together. As his finger leaves my cheek, I feel the vacuum of December air rush between us.
A distant patron gestures to the golden boy, hollering that it’s time for the major contributors to make their speeches.
“Bollocks, I have to go,” the intriguing man in the royal blue suit murmurs, coming to a stand. His key is still clutched in my hand. He smooths one large palm down the front of his suit and uses the other to point a finger at me. “I’ll find you after this,” he promises, then pivots and marches away.
I slide the key into my little purse.
The yacht docks at the marina in Long Beach almost two hours later.
I never do see the mysterious blond again, and I step off the gangway with his key still tucked into my purse.
I wear it around my neck now to remind myself that I will never be imprisoned again.
Chapter 1
Blake
Cosmo calls my appeal ‘steel wrapped in velvet.’