by Deanna Chase
“To clarify,” said a voice somewhere in the middle of the pews on the left side, “You have not kissed, spent the night with, dated, or married Reese Cadwell. Is that correct?”
“What woman on this Earth wouldn’t want to kiss, sleep with, date, or marry Reese Cadwell?” asked Abby. “But those weren’t options for winning the contest.”
“Ms. Reed!”
“Do you—“
“Are you going to—“
“Is Reese—“
The machine gun questions were fired from everywhere, melding one into another, as the reporters strove to out-shout one another. Pain throbbed between Abby’s eyes. Was it any wonder Reese hated to do interviews or talk to reporters?
If Abby didn’t get out of here soon, meltdown was evident. Sean, bless his soul, sensed her frazzled state. He put an arm around her shoulder and scooted her to the side, leaning down to speak into the microphone. “Ms. Reed has another engagement, but I can take questions about the Chapel of Love Too, opening next spring. We will have a full-time Elvis impersonator, a Unitarian minister, and I promise you, everything pink will be painted, burned, or destroyed.”
Abby left the platform and hurried to the office, afraid one of the jackals might thwart her attempts to get away and used a psychic mind-meld to find out the truth about her and Reese. Good lord, she shuddered to think about what it would be like to face this kind of journalistic harassment all the time.
With a sigh of relief, she slammed the door shut behind her. Gina sat at the desk, a guilty expression on her face as she shoved a white chocolate truffle into her mouth. The large gold-foiled box on the desk still had plenty of treats, but that was irrelevant.
“Thanks for waiting, you cow.”
“I couldn’t take the pressure of being in the same room with Ethel M’s glorious tribute to candy,” said Gina, pushing the box across the desk.
Abby plopped into the cushy chair on the opposite side, vaguely wondering about the last time a client had sat in it, and plucked a little paper cup of goodness from the box. “I didn’t lie. Skirted the truth, here and there, but I didn’t tell outright fibs.”
“Can you help it if the press draws its own conclusions?”
“Nope.”
They contemplated the mouthwatering variety of calorie-rich, fat-infused, and carb-filled delights. Abby chose a coconut cup. Gina took a foil-wrapped liqueur shaped like a tiny barrel.
“I wish I’d been able to spend one more night with Reese,” said Abby. “How selfish is that? Hellfire! He shouldn’t have shown up on Saturday.”
“Did you ever think about the possibility he was into you? That maybe hot sex wasn’t the only reason he wanted to be around you?”
Abby almost choked on the coconut nugget. “Get real.”
“Who knows what would’ve happened if that asinine reporter hadn’t interrupted the two of you? No matter what else happens, Abby, you keep hold of the fact that Reese Cadwell came back for you.”
“He also left me the minute he realized our little get-together would be publicized. And let’s not forget he called me a ‘mistake.’”
“If you’re going to enjoy your memories of Mr. Cadwell, you’ll have to edit out those parts. Just remember the way you felt when you were with him. Nothing else matters.”
Abby slumped in the chair and studied the small, crowded office space. None of it was hers anymore. She’d signed the paperwork this morning, selling The Wedding Veil and everything in it to Sean. It wasn’t as painful or as difficult as she’d thought it would be—after all, she was giving up the business she’d tried to put her heart and soul into for the last seven years.
Her marriage to Dale had failed long before they’d gotten a divorce. She’d held onto the chapel with all her might because it was the only thing she had left, but truth be told, her joy for running it had disappeared long ago. She’d been a successful wedding planner in Oklahoma. When the opportunity came to move to Vegas and buy the chapel, she took it. She’d spent years ushering couples into marital bliss. Well, at least guiding them through the arduous and confusing world of planning a wedding. But she knew from experience that one day of joy did not a lifetime of love make.
Maybe it was being married, or maybe just being married to the wrong person, that made her subconsciously realize she didn’t want plan weddings anymore. In that awful moment in the chapel, with her lips swollen from Reese’s kiss and her ears ringing from Rachel’s verbal assault, she began to re-evaluate her life.
“Mom is thrilled we’re moving back to Oklahoma,” said Gina. “I can’t wait to get a home-cooked meal. I’m even looking forward to her fussing over us and giving us advice we don’t want.”
Abby laughed. “Me, too. It won’t take long to get the loose ends tied up. The realtor can handle the house sale without us actually living here. All we really have to do is get packed, pay the rest of the outstanding debts, and wish Sean the best.”
“Sean is all right guy. I still can’t believe he handed over a cashier’s check. No banks, no loans, no problem.” Gina licked chocolate from her fingers. “We’ll have fun starting our new business. Do you think Oklahoma is ready for Romantic Nights? ”
“Hell, yeah. Creating the perfect romantic encounter with lingerie, toys, food, locations … woo-wee, girl, we’re gonna have a lot of fun.” Okay, so I’m not as jaded about the love business as I thought. She and Gina stayed up until 3 a.m. this morning brainstorming ideas for their new business. Instead of fanning the flames of new love by planning and executing weddings, they’d stoke the embers of lasting love by planning fabulous getaways for already committed couples. “You know what? We’re brilliant.”
Gina’s concerned gaze assessed Abby. Then she looked away, apparently finding the wall behind Abby absolutely fascinating. Jeez. I must look more miserable than I feel. That was impossible. She felt like raw meat, stomped on, cut, and bloody, as raw and wounded as she’d ever been.
“Are you going to miss Las Vegas?” asked Gina.
“You know what the Las Vegas Convention and Visitor’s Authority says … what happens here, stays here.” Abby reached into the box for another piece of candy.
“Tell me the truth, sis. What about Reese? How do you feel about him?”
“It was just a fling.” The sudden tears in her eyes surprised her, but worse still, was the hurt that crushed her chest. Gina had asked for the truth. Why not admit to her sister what she could never convey to Reese? “Who am I kidding? I fell for him. He’s funny and sexy and handsome and wicked and—” She gulped a breath, tried to steady herself. The cherry cordial in her hand was clasped between trembling fingers. “It would’ve been nice to get to know him better, maybe find out what we could have together.” She sighed. “That’s what I really want.”
“Me, too.”
Startled at the sound of the male voice so near her ear, the chocolate in Abby’s hand went flying. It smacked the desk, rolled off, and landing on the floor, right side up.
Abby stood and turned around, her heart pounding. Blinking away the unshed tears, she stared at the Elvis impersonator standing just behind her chair. He had long black sideburns, big gold glasses with red lenses, and wore a white jumpsuit studded with gems. Christmas flare was added to the costume with red jingle-bell belt.
The hideous glasses couldn’t hide the soulful gaze she knew all too well.
Unable to formulate a coherent sentence, she looked over her shoulder at Gina. Her sister was rescuing the cordial projectile. “I will ignore the abuse of chocolate on this one occasion. I am also getting the heck out of here because, quite frankly, I’ve always thought the Seventies Elvis was five kinds of creepy.” Gina hurried out, winking at the impersonator as she passed him. The knob rattled and Abby knew her sister had locked the door.
“I was under the impression you’d never play Elvis,” she managed, even though her insides shook like Jell-O in an earthquake.
“For the right woman, a man will do just about anyt
hing.”
Her thoughts crashed together. She couldn’t wrap her mind around the idea that Reese Cadwell was standing in front her, dressed as Elvis for cripe’s sake, and admitting he wanted to be with her.
“The reporters … Reese, you can’t—”
“No one looked twice at me. Only in Vegas would a get-up like this be considered mundane.”
“But why did you—”
He grasped her arms and pulled her into his embrace, kissing her with an eagerness that left her weak-kneed and mind-wiped. When he lifted his head, she clung to him because she was afraid her legs might give out.
“The press conference was inspired,” he said, his fingers tracing the line of her jaw. “You rescued me again.”
“And my thanks is a bad impersonation of the King?” She grinned wickedly. “Are you going to sing Christmas carols?”
“I would never torture you with the horrible sounds of my crooning. Besides, you remember the last thank-you gift? You used the roses as lethal weapons.”
Abby laughed, and the tears fell, but they were joyous. She wrapped her arms around his neck. “You still owe me dinner.”
“We’ll eat whatever and wherever you want,” he said. “As long as I get you for dessert.”
Epilogue
“You’re doing that on purpose,” Eros accused, unable to keep the laughter from his voice. His wife Psyche wiggled some more as she poured a glass of water then turned, her lips curved in a wicked smile. He felt a surge of heat in his groin. “Keep tormenting me, my love, and I’ll show you—.”
“For Zeus’s sake! This is a boardroom, not a bedroom.” Aphrodite snapped as she appeared in a shower of pink and gold sparks. All three graces ringed her, their heads bowed in the ceaseless show of loving submission they always gave to their Goddess.
“Grace. Grace. And Grace.” Eros smiled. The lithe beauties smiled; their wide blue eyes both guileless and wise. “All three, Mom?”
“I’ve been summoned to your grandfather’s house for lunch. Hera has taken her ‘goddess of hearth and home’ title way too far. She’s cooking. Thousands of years without a single interest other than poking her nose into other people’s marriages and following Zeus around like she’s in an episode of Columbo, and now she decides to take up the kitchen arts.” Aphrodite sat down, her white silk scarf billowing behind her like a renegade cloud.
His mother was dressed in head-to-toe white, from her Versace dress to her Manolo Blahnik beaded mules. He only recognized the brands because Psyche had trained him well the art of shopping. He sighed as he considered the effects such knowledge had on his manhood. Somehow it wasn’t right for a guy to know the difference between a beaded mule and a beaded slide. There was much a husband suffered for the love of his wife.
“Hey, everyone!” Daphne popped into the conference room. She wore all black, too, except for her blood-red hair. Even her nails were painted black.
“It’s not Halloween yet,” said Eros.
“Nah. There’s a party at Hade’s crib later on tonight.” Daphne plunked herself into a seat. “Do we have an update on Reese and Abby?”
Aphrodite smiled. “They’ve been together six months and are deeply in love. The press fawns over the two of them, as they should. I think we should expect a Christmas wedding.” She looked at Daphne, triumphant. “Never doubt the Tingle. And speaking of….” She snapped her fingers, and file folders appeared on the table. “I’ll need your help one of these, Eros and Psyche. The lovers-to-be live in Broken Heart. You’re familiar with the fae Zerina and the vampire Faustus?”
“You’re kidding,” said Eros. He shared a look with Psyche. “Are you sure they’re a Tingle, mother?”
“Absolutely.”
POOF!
Hera appeared in a cloud of white smoke, which was not magical at all, but rolling puffs of flour. Eros breathed it in, tasting the salty powder, as he waved it away from his face. He heard sounds of coughing and hacking from the Graces and Daphne as well as the belabored inhalations of his wife and his mother. The air took on the thick scent of uncooked dough.
“Aphrodite,” said in Hera in a soft, but commanding tone. “You’ve been invited to lunch with me and your father.”
Hera inclined her regal, and flour-sprinkled, head to Eros then to Aphrodite. Despite the rumpled and stained state of her simple T-shirt and jeans, her red hair shone as bright as a shiny apple. Her perfect complexion glowed with health and beauty, marred only by some sort of brown gooey substance clinging to one alabaster cheek. She turned again to Aphrodite. “I need help in the kitchen.”
Psyche gasped, her shocked gaze following his own to Aphrodite. Horrified was too tame a term for his mother’s expression. She looked as if Hera had said, “You must throw all your Manolo Blahniks into the bonfire.”
“The Graces….” Mother gestured weakly toward the three women gazing at Hera in perplexed awe.
“No. They are hassled enough by your selfish whims. You will help me.” The tone was imperious, though Hera’s face showed no trace of her famous temper. Hera protected marriage and family with a ferocity that sometimes bordered on manic. She was kind, particularly to suffering women, but her love for Zeus was her only true weakness. She took no sass from mortals or from inferior Gods and that pretty much covered everyone in the entire universe.
“Come along, Aphrodite.”
His mother rose, resigned to her fate. Not even the Goddess of Love dared to defy Hera, wife to Zeus and queen of the Gods. Hera looked around the room with considerable interest.
“Don’t forget to look at the folders,” said Aphrodite. “I’ll be back later.” She sidled a look at Hera. “Probably.”
In another cloud of white, this one all magic, Hera, Aphrodite, and the Graces disappeared.
Psyche dusted off her shirt and shook out her hair. Eros and Daphne did the same. Eros reached for the nearest folder and flipped it open. “How the hell are we going to get Zerina and Faustus together? One’s undead and the other is…”
“Terrifying,” added Psyche.
“Sounds like we need to do recon,” said Daphne.
“All right,” agreed Eros. “Let’s get started.”
Also By Michele Bardsley
Want to read the first story that featured Aphrodite and Daphne’s matchmaking? Check out Some Lycan Hot and other Broken Heart paranormal romances here:
http://www.brokenheartbooks.com
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About the Author
New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Michele Bardsley lives in Texas with her husband and their fur babies. When she’s not writing, she reads romance and mystery books and crochets zombie hats.
Frost’s Bite
Liz Schulte
Copyright © 2015 Liz Schulte
All Rights Are Reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Orphan bounty hunters don’t celebrate Christmas, at least Frost never had. But now that she is officially part of a coven of witches who are determined to include her in the festivities, she has no choice but to go along with them. However, when her long buried past starts coming to the surface, Frost will need her friends more than ever.
1
“Don’t you dare.” I crooked a finger at Leslie, glaring at her.
She froze and the corners of her lips curled. “Santa!” she shouted for about the hundredth time as we passed the outdoor North Pole display in the center of shopping district. Then she giggled maniacally, her eyes glittering in glow from the street lamps. Katrina laughed too, and Jessica smile
d, though she also shook her head. Even the hot guy leaning against a building across the street, probably waiting for his girlfriend, smiled.
The movie reference wasn’t lost on me, but enough was enough. There was only so much Christmas cheer a person could take. It was bad enough they asked me to take off from my day job, bounty hunting, to celebrate the Yule sabbat with them—this time of year I couldn’t almost cherry-pick my cases. Holidays and orphans with no friends or connections wasn’t exactly a match made in heaven. Work was a natural outlet.
The real problem wasn’t the actual holiday. I didn’t care about that. It was the fact they were all so into it that took adjustment. Looking at them, I pictured commercial-like Christmas mornings, with doting parents handing mountains of presents to their adoring children, fulfilling their every wish. I couldn’t relate to that kind of past any more than they could understand hunting a vampire through a cemetery worrying that your heart was beating too loud and it would give you away. December had always been just any other month, only a little colder.
“Come on, Frost. It’s Christmas.” Katrina nudged me casually, which made every muscle in my body stiffen.
Even though nearly every inch of my skin was covered with multiple layers, being touched put me on edge. They all felt entirely too free to paw at me. It always started like this. First people were afraid to come close to me, which was actually better. Then slowly they got used to the curse and stopped respecting it. The curse couldn’t be taken lightly or people died—so many people.
I stepped further away from them. What if something happened and one of them died? Then they would reject me like everyone else and I’d be back at square one. That was something I couldn’t live with. Not because of guilt or anything like that, but because I felt so close to getting what I had always wanted: freedom.