With his last word, the room became eerily silent. Dozens of faces watched us, and the complete lack of noise freaked me out a little. I dropped down on my knees in front of Adam.
“You tricked me.”
He smiled. “A little. I figured you couldn’t say no in front of all these people.”
I spoke into the microphone. “I’m taking requests up here. What do you all think I should do?”
The crowd burst out in cacophony, but I clearly got the message. “Say yes!”
My mom was going to be so happy. I smiled at Adam and said, “Yes. Yes, of course! I love you.”
He placed the ring on my finger and kissed me to thunderous applause. Then he picked up the guitar, and right there on his knees, he played the song he’d written for me nearly a year before. And the crowd sang along.
But I only heard his voice.
Acknowledgments
This novel began like a song I couldn’t get out of my head. I furiously scribbled down the words, like so many notes and lyrics, until I had something akin to a demo tape that eventually grew into a finished recording through much studio production. I could never have achieved this alone, and I have so many to thank for making the music come alive.
Kristin Wright, you’ve been my maestro, the conductor of change, both dramatic and subtle. With a wave of your stylus, you’ve helped orchestrate order from my chaos. Thank you for your always caring direction and helping me tune up my act.
Kelli Newby, you are the rhythm section, the heart of my band. Thank you for your steady backing and for letting me know when it’s time to turn the beat around. Twue Wuv.
Laura Heffernan, Susan Bickford, and Rachel Reiss, you are fantastic critics. Thank you for providing wisdom and guidance through so many iterations of this book.
Shout-out to the CD, featuring Elly Blake, Kelly Calabrese, Kellye Garrett, Jennifer Hawkins, Margarita Montimore, Kelly Siskind, Summer Spence, and special guest Ron Walters. You are my biggest champeens. Thank you for constantly making me laugh long and hard.
Special thanks to Alex Trugman for allowing me to eavesdrop on your songwriting and for pushing me to take a leap. I wouldn’t have had the chutzpah to set my first word down if you hadn’t been so amazingly open and encouraging about the creative process.
Brenda Drake, I can never express my awe and gratitude for how hard you work to help make dreams come true for so many writers. It was through entering Pitch Wars in 2014 and later mentoring that I’ve met almost all of my writing friends. Thanks as well to the Pitch Wars ToT for your constant support. And to my Pitch Wars mentor Jaime Loren for everything.
I owe an enormous debt of gratitude to my agents, Rachel Stout and Jane Dystel, for seeing the potential in this story. And to my ever harmonious editor, Wendy McCurdy, for taking a chance on my debut novel, and for investing so much time and effort into transforming it into an honest-to-god novel. I’m so thankful to each of you for challenging me to level up.
Huge thanks to everyone at Kensington. I’m so happy with the beautiful cover (art, design, and copy) by Monika Roe, Kristine Mills, Lorraine Freeney, and Tracy Marx. And I’m in debt to the eagle-eyed Brittany Dowdle for editing expertise and to Paula Reedy for shaping this into a real live book.
Thanks especially to my husband and two daughters for putting up with my long bouts of immobility even when you weren’t sure I was doing anything productive.
I’m a fan girl at heart, and I couldn’t have conceived of this book without having followed musicians around until at least one was forced to ask, “Haven’t you been to enough shows?” I appreciate every musician who has let me hang around and experience a small corner of that universe.
And to all the friends who’ve shared my love of musicians enough to chase after bands with me and to everyone who follows independent artists and live music like lunatics, thank you for your support. We are the music makers, for we are the funders of dreams.
A READING GROUP GUIDE
SOME KIND OF MAGIC
Mary Ann Marlowe
About This Guide
The suggested questions are included
to enhance your group’s reading of
Mary Ann Marlowe’s Some Kind of Magic.
DISCUSSION QUESTIONS
1. If you could make anyone fall in love with you, who would it be?
2. If there were really such a thing as an irresistible pheromone perfume, would you want to wear it?
3. How would you feel if you discovered that your spouse/ boyfriend/girlfriend were wearing such a perfume?
4. Do you think that Eden makes the right decision about telling/not telling Adam about the perfume?
5. What do you think of Eden’s deal-breaker list?
6. Do you agree with her assessment of musicians, plumbers, proctologists, and salesmen?
7. Who would be on YOUR deal-breaker list, and why?
8. Given Eden’s “rules” about who she is interested in dating, and the assumptions she makes about Adam, what is it about him that leads her to break her own rules?
9. Why do you think that Adam is attracted to Eden?
10. How do you think Adam’s fame affected his previous relationships, and how is it different with Eden . . . or is it?
11. Have you ever had a crush on a rock star? How hard is it to imagine him or her as a regular person?
12. If you were famous, would that affect your trust in prospective romantic partners? Can you empathize with Adam’s reactions?
13. How would you feel if you discovered that the person you have just started dating is a celebrity? Would you handle it exactly as Eden does? What things would you do differently, if any? Would it make a difference if you were already a huge fan of his or hers ahead of time?
14. If you had a famous boyfriend/girlfriend, would you be able to resist spying on his/her activities online? Do you think this would create any problems?
If you loved Some Kind of Magic, watch for Micah’s story in Mary Ann Marlowe’s next romantic novel
A CRAZY KIND OF LOVE
available from Kensington Books in fall 2017!
Read on for a preview....
Stalker. When you put it that way, what I did for a living sounded despicable.
Paparazzi had a nicer ring to it. Slightly.
My editor, Andy, said I was too fresh to work the street. The way he told it, I still had the stink of human about me. “Josephine, you have to figure out if you want to work in this profession or have a soul.”
That Andy was a joy to work with. But I’d seen him in action, walking backward down the sidewalk, shooting pictures and asking questions, right up in the faces of people who behaved as though he were completely invisible. He still hadn’t let me live down the one time I apologized to a mark before taking her picture. In my defense, it was my first week on the job, and she’d just come out of the hospital with fresh bruises.
That was months ago, and I’d hardened up.
I’d been called “loser” and told to “get a real job.” One time, an innocent bystander intentionally blocked my shot of an incognito Jeff Daniels slipping through the airport unnoticed. In addition to ruining my chance to call it a day, said good Samaritan accused me of being a vile parasite before sitting back down to ogle Jennifer Aniston in another entertainment magazine’s photo spread.
Most people assumed it was an exciting line of work. But while I clocked more celebrity sightings in a week than most people would their whole lives, most days, I simply leaned against a brick wall for hours, shoulder cramping, hoping the stars would align. Literally.
On other days, like today, a tweet would take me on a journey to Brooklyn, where I’d narrowly missed getting a shot of Emily Mortimer rehearsing her lines in Prospect Park. Cursing the waste of the morning, I had no choice but to head back to the subway with nothing to turn in to my editor. But as I rounded a corner, I spotted Maggie Gyllenhaal coming out of the Park Slope Food Coop with her two daughters. I raised my eyes to the heavens
in gratitude and then steeled myself for the kill.
I wore two cameras strapped across my chest bandito-style. When Maggie stopped to adjust her bags, I grabbed my work camera off my right hip and caught her in my crosshairs. I disengaged my conscience and prepared to pester this person whose only crime was to have achieved a level of celebrity that made people willing to pay money to read about her and invade her privacy. It was my job to cater to that need.
Centering her in the frame, I got off one shot just as some oblivious jerk crossed right in front of me, completely obscuring my line of sight.
I threw my hand in the air. “Seriously?” Aggravated, I angled myself around the interloper for a better view of Maggie, but as I peered through the eyepiece, my viewfinder filled with a plasma-colored blob that auto-focus slowly resolved to reveal Mr. Oblivious now staring directly into my lens. I let my camera drop against my sternum with a growl of frustration, but my new friend didn’t register my impatience.
Rather, he moved in closer with a disarmingly friendly smile. “Who are you shooting?”
“It’s Maggie Gyllenhaal.” Still irritated, I spoke too loud, and a nearby woman gasped and repeated the news. My heart sank as the whispers grew, and I watched my last chance at a celebrity sighting disappear into a vortex of autograph-seeking passersby. A long exhale left my body along with my hopes of returning with anything Andy might want.
I glared at my nemesis, but even as I formulated a murderous plot, I became aware of how deliciously pretty he was. With his blond hair, blue eyes, broad shoulders, and tanned skin, he should have been holding a surfboard on a poster for a California travel agency. He really was too perfect to be roaming the streets without a chaperone.
But none of that mattered. He’d thrown a wrench into my morning, and I arched my eyebrow a fraction higher in reproof.
And yet, he continued to stare at me with a look of curiosity, as if somehow I were more interesting than the famous person half a block away. A famous person I still couldn’t see for the crowd surrounding her. He pointed at my camera. “Are you paparazzi?”
His fascination made sudden sense—he’d probably never seen the paparazzi up close and impersonal. I sucked on my teeth and considered the situation. “Look. I’m sure you don’t care, but you’ve cost me a candid shot of that actress, and that’s my bread and butter. The least you could do is give me a boost so I can maybe bring something back to my editor.”
His eyes narrowed for a beat, and he glanced down the block, then back at me as he pieced together my dilemma. I wasn’t short, but I’d need to stand on a bench to see over that crowd. A slight smile played on his lips. “You want to climb on my shoulders?” He waggled his eyebrows salaciously.
The idea seemed preposterous, but desperate times and all. I’d gone to greater lengths for less in the past. And somehow I felt like this guy might be a good sport. He’d maintained a devil-may-care grin throughout this entire exchange. And I really needed that shot. I closed my eyes and swallowed my pride. “Would you mind?”
He dropped to one knee with the speed of an eager suitor, and I winced as his bare knee hit the concrete. He merely bowed his head and said, “At your service.”
I couldn’t help but giggle at the absurdity. But then he lifted his eyes, and my laughter caught in my throat. Until that moment, he’d just been an annoying interference, but his smoldering gaze brought me thundering to reality. I took a half step away and drank in the beauty of my kneeling knight. Golden hair glinted in the late morning sun. Bright blue eyes shone with mirth and intelligence. Well-muscled biceps peeked out of a T-shirt that stretched across his broad chest. Thigh muscles flexed, and his smooth, taut skin cried out to be touched.
I swallowed.
He held a hand out toward me. “Come on, then. I don’t bite. Well, not in full daylight.”
I circled around him, hearing everything my mom would say in this situation. But this total stranger didn’t appear to be suffering from typhoid, and I hadn’t seen a gutted panel van in the vicinity, so I felt reasonably confident this wasn’t the way I was going to die. I laid my hand on his left shoulder and immediately yanked it away from the shock of how toned and solid he felt.
He twisted back and looked up at me. “You don’t need to be scared. I carry equipment all the time. I’ve only dropped a few.” His lips, lips I noticed for the first time, grew into a full-fledged smile, white teeth flashing like an ad for Crest, and I wondered if I could muster the nerve to climb on this beautiful man.
One of Andy’s many lectures came to mind: Get the shot at any cost. And just like that, fear of losing my job overcame my self-respect. Honestly, I’d been chipping away at that virtue ever since I traded art school for tabloid photography.
With a last farewell to my dignity, I swung my right leg over that mouthwatering shoulder. As soon as I felt his hand on my shin, I hopped up and sat square across the back of his neck. My human crane held my legs tight and stood.
And wobbled.
My free hand instinctively latched on to his hair, and he yelped. “Sorry,” I hollered down. A hint of coconut wafted up, and I fought off an overpowering visceral reaction—the desire to touch him, smell him, even taste him. I wanted to lean forward and plant my face into the top of his head.
But I’d spent months focusing on preserving my job and wasn’t about to crumble just because I straddled a Fifty-Most-Beautiful-People level of beautiful person. With those sexy lips. And his hands on my legs.
Focus, Jo.
The crowd below had begun to thin, and I was tempted to abort plan A, but I couldn’t take the chance that Maggie would walk away once she’d signed the last autograph.
I lifted my camera and zoomed in. There in the center stood my target. And she was facing the wrong way.
Crap.
I yelled down, “I can’t even tell it’s her from here. Do you mind walking closer?”
He began to move down the sidewalk, and my self-control faltered thanks to his neck now rubbing against my inner thighs—and more. His shoulders tensed and relaxed beneath my legs, heat intensifying in the most intimate way. My fingers gripped his neck, and goose bumps appeared. He lifted his arm and caught my hand in his. It was a miracle I didn’t fall from a spontaneous swoon.
Despite our conspicuous approach, we’d nearly reached our destination, when Maggie turned her head up and locked eyes with me. I quickly lifted my camera, but the appearance of a desperate pap precariously perched on a lumbering accomplice must have spooked her, because in the time it took me to point and aim, she’d lifted her bags, grabbed her youngest daughter by the hand, and fled down the block in the opposite direction.
I palmed my forehead. Unless I’d inadvertently captured something during that mortifying display, I had nothing at all.
My accidental hero lowered me back to the street, and I found myself out of breath even though he’d been the one exerting himself. He ran a hand through his hair, and I followed it with greedy eyes, already regretting my descent to ordinary earth after my perch atop a golden god.
He eyed me with equal interest. “Perhaps we should be formally introduced? I’m Micah.” He stretched out his hand. “And you are?”
“J-Jo.” I took a deep breath and let it out.
“Jo Jo?” In ordinary circumstances, his constant teasing might have put me off, but Micah had an air of easygoing charm about him. And he had just agreed to be used as a parade float for no other reason than generosity.
“Jo,” I repeated, a bit more confidently. “Josie.”
“Well, Jo-Josie.” His hand gripped mine, and his half smile hovered somewhere between charming and devilish. “Where are you from?”
I took a shuddering breath and tried to get my heart to stop galloping in my chest. I prayed my lack of composure had nothing to do with a sudden drop in my blood sugar, please, God, and rather everything to do with the proximity of the most attractive man I’d possibly ever laid eyes on. And I’d seen a lot of attractive people
in my line of work. “Georgia,” I said, then clarified, “Atlanta.”
He gently pushed my shoulder. “Get back, Jo Jo.”
I snickered at the dated song reference as though that joke hadn’t fallen from the lips of every class clown I’d ever known. I put on my twangiest Southern. “You shooin’ me on home?”
His blue eyes crinkled at the corner, and his playful smile stretched all the way to flirtatious scamp. Dimples emerged in his tanned, smooth cheeks, beneath a hint of blond stubble. His skin looked as soft as a baby’s. “Absolutely not.” He reached over and pulled one of my ash brown curls out straight, and I shivered. “It’s just, you don’t look . . .” He bit his lip and seemed to think twice about finishing that sentence. “You barely have an accent. I wouldn’t have guessed you were Southern.”
“ ’Fraid so. DeKalb County, born and raised.” I took a step closer. “And you?”
“Actually, you’ve wandered into my kingdom.” He twirled his hands out as though to present his domain. “Might I ask, what is your quest here?”
I gave him points for nerd humor and chuckled. “I seek the holy grail. Have you seen it here about?”
“Alas, no.” He winked. “I was just on my way to find it when I was accosted by a fair maiden in distress.” His bratty-little-brother smirk felt like a challenge.
“Is that so?” I flashed him a smile. “And do you make it a habit of photo-bombing innocent maidens?”
Some Kind of Magic Page 28