Love Me Now (Encounters #4)

by Fifi Flowers

  Love Me Now

  FIFI FLOWERS

  Champagne Girl Studio

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the above author of this book.

  Copyright © 2016 Fifi Flowers

  Kindle Edition

  Cover Design by Susan of Wicked Women Design

  Formatting by BB eBooks

  Published by Champagne Girl Studios

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  www.FifiFlowers.com

  WARNING: This book contains sexually explicit material and is intended for adult readers only.

  Other Books by Fifi Flowers

  – All Standalone Books –

  A Window to Love, (Book 1, Windows Series)

  Awakening to You Trilogy: Complete Book

  Just A Number, (Book 1, Downtown Series)

  Drawn to a Cowboy, (Book 1, Brothers Duet)

  Reclining Nude in Chicago, (Book 1, Encounters Series)

  Taming the Curator, (Book 2, Encounters Series)

  Falling in Paris, (Book 3, Encounters Series)

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  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

  Epilogue

  Other Books in the Encounters Series

  Recipe for Bertie’s Magical French Toast

  Other Books by Fifi Flowers

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Fifi Flowers News

  Chapter One

  Nick…

  What else could possibly go wrong, I thought to myself sitting at my desk, as I hung up the phone after speaking with my mother. My day had escalated from bad to worse since arriving to my downtown office, earlier than normal, to handle an east coast client’s crisis. That, I found, was one of the bad things about relocating a business to the opposite side of the country. But I had no desire to stay in New York and run my father’s very successful law firm that mainly consisted of Broadway stars, soap opera stars, and Hollywood actors who maintained residents primarily in Manhattan. And while it would have been easier to stay having passed the New York bar, I studied diligently and passed the California state bar as well. Truthfully, I figured that my chances of running into a certain beauty may be more likely if I was working in LA, where she was from. Not to mention the mountain was closer; only a six hour drive or about an hour by plane. But I wasn’t thinking logically on any front with my move—though I did prefer the west coast weather—since I had little-to-no other information about her. A last name would’ve been helpful for starters.

  Nope, I knew nothing more about my ski bunny girl (my friends’ nickname for her) than her first name, where she grew up, and that she was absolutely divine! I also knew that the pain of not finding her each year weighed heavily on me and I, both, looked forward to this time of the year, as well as dreaded it. Hopes of finding her, mixed with the possible agony of leaving the mountain empty handed and alone, once again. Those thoughts had me already in a semi-bad mood to begin with as Christmas was approaching. And for some reason, the pending season was rubbing me the wrong way more than usual. Then my mother made her less than appealing announcement that she and my father would be spending the dreaded (so far) holiday in my home. That sealed the deal. It was official, I was going to be in ho-ho-ho-hell!

  Realizing that I needed help to pull a bunch of festive shit together for my parents, I buzzed Lulu, my ever-faithful secretary. It was pertinent that I enlist her in some extracurricular activities. I had a few urgent situations that I needed to address and no time to add in pulling Santa-stuff out of a magical hat. Yes, Lulu was used to running errands for me, but this time, I was surely going to be pushing the envelope. I’d never really asked her to get involved with my personal life. Of course she had listened to some of my rants, and I was certain that she had definitely eavesdropped on a few of my conversations having to do with some of my private shit. But I’d never had her get involved in matters that required more than maybe making a phone call or two.

  Scribbling down a few notes, I waited for her to finish whatever task had her detained. Hearing her chair slide out from under her desk, I looked up and watched a petite, curly-topped, woman enter my office, obnoxiously snapping gum.

  Not wasting any time, I blurted out, “Can you decorate my house for Christmas?”

  And at the same time, I pulled up a black plastic trashcan from beside my desk, and uttered a word she was quite familiar with, “spit,” placing the can directly in front of her. I hated her awful gum-chewing habit and she knew it. Sometimes I thought she subjected me to her horrible vice just to get a rise out of me.

  Laughing as usual, she blew a great big, giant bubble before relinquishing the large wad which probably consisted of two or three chunky pink pieces of Bubble Yum—her preferred brand. Standing up from her perfect aim, she questioned me as she realized that I was serious.

  “Decorating? Are you kidding? My idea of decorating for Christmas is throwing silver tinsel on a white flocked tree, and directing a color-wheel toward it. Somehow, I don’t think that is what you have in mind.”

  Placing her hands on her hips, tapping a toe, I was wondering if she was about to do a little tap dance. She had a smirk on her face, waiting for my comeback. The banter between us seemed to be never-ending. A plus to most of my days, usually.

  Straight-faced, not wanting to disappoint her, I asked, “Is that how you enhance your home during the holiday?”

  “No, actually. But that is what I remember as a kid before my mother introduced us to our new religion which prevented us from celebrating the holiday. Then I married a Jewish man. Now, I’m double-removed from Christmas.”

  I had to laugh. It appeared that both of us were hopeless.

  Louise, Lulu as I called her, made my workday enjoyable. She definitely wasn’t your basic law office material, but I hired her on the spot. Just looking at her cheerful face, I was forced to smile. I envisioned her singing and tap dancing, stuffed into a business suit that was too big for her, wearing black patent leather shoes laced with ribbons. She reminded me of Shirley Temple, a figure I was familiar with thanks to my mother and sister’s classic movie addiction. Once she spoke, the sweet vision of her quickly disappeared, she was a real spitfire. I haven’t regretted employing her for one moment in the last four years since I relocated out west and set up my own offices in the downtown area. And while her attire has improved immensely after receiving her first paycheck, her wit and unconventional attitude has continued to delight me while she works diligently.

  I could see that my new request was going to be more than she could handle.

  “Okay,” I replied
, shaking my head and added, “how about hiring someone for me?”

  “I can call around. I might know an elf or two.” Not a twinkle of a smile played on her face.

  “Great, maybe you know a hooker or two, also. I could use a woman.”

  “Pimp was not listed on my resume.” Popping her hip out to the side, she folded her arms over her flat-chest.

  “I don’t remember a resume, as I recall.” I smiled back at her. “Maybe you have a friend that would like to make some extra shopping monies?”

  “Trying to fool your parents that you found a woman? Tired of them trying to fix you up?” She shook her head, then walked to a coffee bar installed within a bookcase in my office. Thinking, great, I could use a cup, I watched her pour herself a cup, then sit down across from me. “You don’t need a fake fiancée.”

  “Thanks for the cup,” I laughed. “You don’t know my mother as well as I thought you did. I have been avoiding her for the last few Christmases. I can already see her now, she will walk in expecting a tree and everything that goes with it; baked goods, champagne, roasted duckling…”

  “Roasted duckling? What the fuck? Are you the Vanderbilts? Rockefellers?”

  Her use of swear words combined with her very sweet look still shocked me.

  “Do you kiss your mother with that mouth of yours?”

  “Oh shut up! I am not living in that good-boat, candyland-world, you think I am. Seriously, are you ever going to realize that I am a real person, not your fantasy?”

  “It’s lollipop…”

  She cut me off, “Just tell me what else you want on a menu, I’ll call around for a duck caterer. As for the fine-feathered playmate, you’re on your own.”

  “Alright, but please tell me I don’t have to do anything and that you will organize everything. I trust you to guide everyone. And please remember the most important thing; nothing over the top, something homey, inviting, real.”

  “Sure. I hope I can pull a fairy godmother with a pumpkin out of my ass. Or at least a magic wand.”

  “That makes two of us,” I replied as she drained her cup, walked over to the sink, washed it, dried it, and then walked toward the door.

  “Well, I’m off to peruse the Ho Ho Ho Classifieds… Don’t get too excited by the ho word, I’ll be searching in the G-rated section. Meanwhile, you can practice chanting your Christmas sayings and get in the spirit.”

  “Singing carols, not chanting.”

  “Singing… chanting… whatever works.” She waved her hands in the air, and then she was gone.

  I wasn’t sure anything would work to get me in the spirit… Well, that wasn’t completely true. If only I could go back in time to seven years ago, I’d make sure that things turned out differently. Yes, I was sure that my life would be different. My parents would be happy. They would have the daughter-in-law they wished for, and maybe even the grandchildren they so desired.

  Grabbing my gear from my assigned storage locker at Mammoth Mountain Inn, I headed for the slopes. Nearing the lift, I dropped my skis, stuck my poles in the snow on either side of me. About to lock in, two girls swooshed by me screaming, “Oh my God! Oh my God!” over and over, adding, “Coming through! Emergency!” I turned to watch them clicking out of their ski bindings, tossing their poles, pulling off their gloves while talking about killing someone. Then they ran off as quickly as they could—given that they were wearing clunky ski boots—for the chalet, practically knocking people over in their wake. Forgetting that I was heading up to meet my friends on the slope, I remained as they had captured my attention and I had to know more. Not to mention, they were both stunning; one wore two dark brown braids, the other a long caramel ponytail, and both had nice shapely asses. Best thing about ski pants! As I waited for them to reemerge, I found myself organizing their equipment; picking up their skis, poles, gloves, and then placing them correctly against a wooden ski rack.

  When they reappeared several minutes later laughing and swearing, I was able to get a better look. As they neared me standing next to their belongings—no longer scattered on the ground—my heart skipped a beat or two, or three, who could keep count?

  “I thought you may be in need of legal counsel as I heard you both mention that you were plotting to kill someone.”

  They roared with laughter. Once composed, they introduced themselves and thanked me for rescuing their stuff. The darker haired one was Gracee, and the one with caramel-candy colored hair was Victoria—she looked delicious. Maybe that was why I associated the strands of her hair as sweet confection rather than just saying that it was blondish. Whatever the reason, she had me wanting a sample of her sugary goodness.

  “Let’s hit the slopes,” Gracee announced, elbowing Victoria, who had locked her dark eyes with my blue ones.

  I wondered if her thoughts were along the same line as mine and I needed to find out so as she turned toward her friend, I inquired, “Mind if I tag along?”

  I may have sounded pathetic, but I was smitten. I wasn’t letting her go that easily.

  “Sure,” my gorgeous candy girl answered in a soft voice. I wasn’t sure if she had something in her eye, or had she really batted her eyelashes in my direction, either way, she had me hooked.

  Clipped into her skis, Gracee broke the spell between us, laughing as she started to shuffle toward the ski lift. “Hope you have monies too. We may need bail when we find Emily.”

  Following behind her, Victoria and I rode up the mountain together.

  “I’m interested in your motive.”

  “Hmmm… It’s kind of a gross story. Not sure you want to hear it.” She blushed.

  “Well, I can’t present your case without firm evidence.”

  “Firm evidence,” she said, starting to laugh uncontrollably.

  She was so beautiful with deep, dark brown eyes and rosy red lips. I could’ve sat and stared at her for hours. Finally gaining control of herself, she spit out a story that involved their friend giving them dieter’s tea unbeknownst to them the night before. After eating a big dinner and having a few too many red-hot-shooters at a German restaurant near Warming Hut two, they were complaining about feeling bloated. So the possible murder victim brewed them some tea without full disclosure and the girls drank it all down. The following morning, Gracee and Victoria drank their usual coffee and ate freshly baked bran muffins along with bowls of fresh fruit. The combination proved to be a volatile mixture (disastrous I believe was the exact word she used) and attacked their intestines as they were skiing down their first run of the day. That was why I saw them zipping by in a heated rush—heading for the bathroom. We laughed about their predicament all the way up the lift, each of us making crude jokes.

  Reaching the end of the line, we skied off the lift, and we joined her friend just in time for my friends to arrive with questions.

  “Where have you been?” Many of them spouted.

  Leave it to my good friend, the womanizer, Pierce to turn on the charm. “Where did you meet these lovely ladies?”

  “He rescued our skis,” Gracee said laughing.

  My friends laughed all over themselves.

  “Oh, St Nick!”

  “St Nick strikes again!”

  I swear I could hear their ribbing clear as day as I sat in my office.

  “Hey, St Nick! I think I found the perfect Ms. Claus to whip your place into the North Pole. I’m meeting her at your place tomorrow. Looks like there’s going to be a miracle on your street,” she giggled from my doorway before she strolled off again.

  Suddenly, I felt a sense of relief knowing that it wasn’t too late, and that thankfully there was still some divine angel willing to perform magic that would satisfy my parents. But on the other hand, I was worried that my sister, Caroline, would be upset that they were abandoning her to rescue me. I knew how unhappy I had made her on a few Christmases, one in particular.

  Chapter Two

  Victoria…

  “Happy Holidays, St. Davine Interiors. How may I h
elp you?” I loved answering the phone that way—I never got tired of it.

  The high-strung caller on the other end of the phone line was interested in a total holiday home-staging, immediately. I was overbooked at the moment and about to shut down for the rest of the year, but she said that her need for decorating was a matter of life or death, her death if she didn’t hire me. She had heard from a reliable source that I was the best and that nothing-but-the-best could tackle her dire dilemma. She even offered to double my usual fee along with begging me to save her life more than once, laughing all the while. Someone else may have simply hung up the phone or at least politely excused themselves from the craziness being spouted on the other end of the line. But there was something about her, I couldn’t say what, but if truth be told, I was suddenly dying to meet her once I scheduled the consultation appointment.

  So the following day, armed with my electronic tablet filled with past job photos and a camera (my cell phone), I headed to a luxurious apartment building on Wilshire Boulevard. Parked in an underground structure, I made my way to an elevator that took me to the lobby. After checking-in with the front desk, I was given the okay to ascend to the top floor. Exiting the elevator, I was greeted by Shirley Temple—no joke—in a stylish business suit and I was a bit taken back. She was nothing like what I had pictured while speaking to her on the phone. Definitely, not the kind of woman I would imagine living in an ultra-modern, glass structure. No, I envisioned a cute little dollhouse or a gingerbread house complete with candy canes. I know that people don’t really live in those, but she is a one-of-a-kind person, and I learned that even more so as our appointment began.

  She did greet me professionally with her hand extended out toward me.

  “I’m Mr. Granger’s right hand, Louise.” I put my hand in hers and she added, “Sometimes I’m his left hand as well.”

  I smiled and shook my head as she turned her back to me as she unlocked the front door before ushering me inside.