Table of Contents
Foreword
Prologue: Lucy
Lucy
Dylan
Coming Soon!
Also by Carina Wilder
Going Hard
Carina Wilder
Contents
Foreword
1. Prologue: Lucy
2. Lucy
3. Dylan
4. Lucy
5. Dylan
6. Lucy
7. Dylan
8. Lucy
9. Dylan
10. Lucy
11. Dylan
12. Lucy
13. Lucy
14. Dylan
15. Lucy
16. Lucy
17. Lucy
18. Lucy
19. Dylan
20. Lucy
21. Lucy
22. Dylan
23. Lucy
24. Lucy
25. Lucy
26. Lucy
27. Dylan
28. Lucy
29. Lucy
30. Dylan
31. Lucy
32. Lucy
Coming Soon!
Also by Carina Wilder
Foreword
About the book:
Lucy hasn't seen Dylan in years. Not since a passionate kiss they shared one night back in college, when everything that seemed so right had somehow managed to go very wrong. So when she runs into him in Rome during a summer holiday, she wonders what fate could possibly have in store for her fragile heart.
Dylan has always thought of Lucy Horner as the one who would have gotten away. That is, if he'd ever gotten close enough to have her. Now he may just get another opportunity with her.
As long as he doesn't do something stupid again.
The most extraordinary city in the world, entrancing in its timeless beauty and romance.
When in Rome...
Don't be a bleeping idiot.
One
Prologue: Lucy
June 28 2010.
The worst date in the history of the universe.
That was the night when Dylan Emerson kissed me for the first time. The night when, at the far-too-old-to-still-be-a-virgin age of twenty years, I was supposed to lose my long-preserved flower.
Not at all coincidentally, it was also the night when I lost all faith in the half of the human population with testicles, hardened my fragile heart to stone, and decided that love was bullshit.
In retrospect, that may all sound a little melodramatic.
I guess another way to put it would be to say that I realized something profound, something that every woman must learn at some point in her life:
Men
fucking
suck.
Especially the devilishly hot ones with eyes that can power small cities with a smouldering gaze. The ones with sexy smiles and amazing physiques, with senses of humour and just enough kindness to convince you that they would never hurt you. The men who seem oh-so-trustworthy, at least until they don’t.
Dylan Emerson was just such a creature.
As far as I know, he still is.
That evening in June 2010, I was headed out to what was being called the Party To End All Parties, the great bonfire on the beach that would kick off the last summer of my college years. Everybody who was anybody was going to be there: the major fraternities, the minor ones. The sororities. The nerds, the jocks, the intellectuals, the all-around wizards of academia. Literally every human from our graduating class was invited. This party’s population was a massive slew of semi-drunk to very-drunk attendees from all walks of student life. So naturally, the college football team would also be there.
As would its star quarterback, who happened to be the boy I’d adored from afar for years, ever since I was a sophomore at Greendale High. It was in the hallowed halls of our high school that he’d first said hello to me one day, lighting my innocent, stupid heart on fire.
Dylan Emerson had it all: looks, brains, abs of steel, and the ability to turn me into a quivering bowl of jelly every time he spoke to me. We’d been friends since those high school days, which really only means that we occasionally ran in the same circles. It wasn’t as though we braided one another’s hair or confided in each other about our love lives. At most, we sometimes chatted about this or that professor or an upcoming exam.
The problem was, of course, that before we could ever get to anything good, our conversations were always interrupted by some girlfriend or other who was invariably lurking in the background, waiting for him to take her home and fuck her blue. A god like Dylan was never single. He was worshiped and adored by every female who knew him. I always thought it was a great injustice that some girls got to worship him up close, while my adoration was forced to remain a sort of distant, safe carnal lust. An I don’t have to worry about being rejected because I’ll never get close enough to have him laugh in my face sort of desire, that was really just an excuse for self-pity-laced solitude.
Over the years I dated other boys, of course. I refuse to call them men because, well, they weren’t. They thought they were, but they had a hell of a lot of growing up to do. In retrospect, so did I. Occasionally I managed to commit to someone for more than a week, but I never got serious about anyone. As long as I knew that Dylan occupied the same square mile as I did, it was impossible to bring myself to offer my pure-as-the-driven-snow body to someone else. He was the only man I’d ever really wanted. When I was kissing other men I fantasized about him. When I was alone, I fantasized about him. He was the king of my heart, the master of my arousal.
But most of all, he was unobtainable. Even so, I held out hope. I remained a virgin, holding onto my innocence like some precious gift on the off chance that maybe, just maybe I could one day bestow it upon the god of football and academics. A self-inflicted chastity belt for the man we called Dill Pickle.
Yup, was his nickname. It had nothing to do with his dick, which, of course, I’d never had the pleasure of seeing in the flesh. Rumour had it, though, that Manaconda would have been a more apt title for him. As well as everything else that made him a superhuman god-man, his impressive dick had become legend, which only cranked up my sexual fantasies to eleven.
As for me, I had a nickname, too. He and our other friends always called me Loose, their short form for Lucy. I wasn’t loose, of course; not at all. I was tightly wound, ready to explode at any moment. That’s what years of unrequited lust will do to you.
But on that fateful night in late June, things were about to unwind at last. I’d heard from friends that Dylan had broken up with his latest girlfriend, Chloe. Which meant that there was a one in a million chance that I’d finally get to be with him. Apparently those odds were sufficient to get me to drag my ass to the party, reluctant though I was to attend such a gathering on my own.
I was hopeful, wide-eyed and idealistic. And the evening couldn’t possibly have started better. The first person I saw was Dylan, standing by the fire, talking to one of his football player buddies. Aaron, I think his name was. The two of them weren’t all that different looking from a distance. Aaron, like Dylan, had thick blond hair and broad shoulders. He wasn’t nearly as handsome, of course. No one was.
Dylan looked so good, his light hair and lean, muscular frame standing out against the growing darkness. A walking, talking, breathing glass of something smooth, sexy and oh, so drinkable. His blue eyes could have captured any woman’s heart or soothed the most raging soul.
He was wearing his quarterback jersey, the number twelve highlighted in bold yellow digits on its back and front.
I walked towards him, not sure exactly what I
was doing. I suppose my plan was to say an awkward hello then spend the rest of the night drooling from a healthy distance, as I’d done for the last several years. Little did I dare to hope that we could actually wind up naked together; I wasn’t exactly a seasoned seducer of men at that point in my life.
Not like I am now.
But Dylan, god that he was, immediately took the pressure off. “Loose!” he shouted as I approached. When I heard my ironic nickname I froze and smiled. Waving Aaron off, he jogged my way, a wide grin spreading across his lips. My heart leapt, both as a thanks for rescuing me from the potential of awkward solitude and because, let’s face it, I wanted to rip his jersey off and bury my face in his pecs.
Have I mentioned that he was fucking perfect?
“Hey, Dylan,” I replied, or at least I think I did. More likely it came out as “Hurdy gurdy, Dibble.” I was already drooling, my tongue swelling three sizes as I took in the sight of his gorgeous face. All I remember is hoping he couldn’t hear the crazy disco beat that my heart was pounding against my chest. “How’s it going?”
“Great, now that you’re here,” he said, laying a hand on my lower back like he was taking immediate ownership of me. Another moment I’ll never forget. Who knew that a woman’s back could become an erogenous zone in the blink of an eye? “Listen,” he said, “you want a beer?”
Oh my God. The hottest man in California, or possibly the world, was asking me if I wanted a drink. With him. Of course I said yes. I wouldn’t have said no to anything that guy offered me. I was young, stupid and horny, a trifecta that easily cancels out all reasonable brain function.
Dylan ran off and came back with two red cups in hand before escorting me to a nearby log, where we sat down to talk. I don’t know how any of that beer made it into my mouth, to be honest. I was shaking like a nervous leaf on crack the entire time, unsure of what to do. I was the dog who’d finally caught the car. What the hell do you do with a man like Dylan when you finally have him to yourself?
Thankfully, he answered the question for me. After half an hour, every fantasy I’d ever had began to come true. He and I had chatted about everything from our hopes for our future careers to our dreams about traveling. Things were going great.
And then they got even better.
“Do you want to go for a walk along the beach?” he asked. I nodded my head. God yes. A beach walk could only end one way, right? Sex. Sex. Sex. Please, God, let there be so much sex, I silently prayed.
When we were far enough away from the bonfire and the rowdy, drunken crowd, the man of my dreams made his move. He stopped, turned to me and leaned in slowly, touching his lips to mine tentatively, like he wasn’t totally sure he was welcome. His tongue searched mine out, and when he found it, I thought I would die of happiness.
“Wait here,” he said abruptly when the kiss had ended. I could see desire flashing in his eyes; I was so sure that I wasn’t imagining it. He had to know how much I wanted him, too. “I’m going to get us a blanket,” he told me. “I’ll be right back.” With another quick peck on the lips, he was off like a lightning bolt, dashing towards the bonfire.
Oh, yes, yes, yes, I thought, my lips tingling as I danced around on my tiptoes, victorious at last. Sex on the beach wasn’t just a cocktail anymore. My heart fluttered in my chest as I realized that it was really happening; I was going to lose my flower to Dylan fucking Emerson on a sultry summer night.
Everything would go my way from that moment forward. We were going to make love. It was going to be amazing. And after we’d finished, we’d skip off hand in hand, go back to his place in his little red Honda and make love again. Ten times at least.
We would become two wild beasts, crying out with pleasure as our fingernails raked along one another’s flesh. I’d call out his name as I came I’d finally let him know how I’d felt about him for so long. He’d tell me that I was the only woman he’d ever really loved. Eventually we’d get married, have beautiful blond babies and live happily ever after in a state of perpetual carnal bliss.
Yup. Just as soon as he came back with the blanket, it would all begin.
But the thing was, he never came back.
I waited for what felt like half an hour, my heart going from happy to panicked with each second that passed. To be fair, he may have been gone for no more than ten minutes. But as everyone knows, when you’re horny and alone, time passes in slow motion.
The bonfire couldn’t have been more than a couple of minutes away, so I started heading back to see if Dylan might be having some kind of problem. Maybe he was at his car, looking for his massive collection of extra-large condoms, trying to pick out the perfect one for this auspicious occasion. Maybe someone had grabbed him and started a conversation that he couldn’t get out of. It had to be one of those two, because I couldn’t take the idea that he’d changed his mind.
When I got to the fire, I could see the orange glow reflected on the animated, happy faces that surrounded it. I wandered among party-goers, searching for the one face I wanted to see, frantically looking around for the blond god with the big bold twelve on his back.
When I didn’t find him, my eyes steered themselves towards the darkened parking lot in the distance. Yes, he had to be there. Maybe he was still at the car, hunting for that elusive blanket. There was still hope.
I’ll never forget the moment when I finally spotted him. He was also on his way to the parking lot. Walking away from me towards his car, that damned number twelve moving along under a head of thick, blond hair. He wasn’t going blanket-hunting, though; he was with a woman. No, not just a woman. It was Dylan’s ex-girlfriend, Chloe. Though she didn’t look much like an ex in that moment.
Apparently Mr. Sexy Quarterback was walking her to his car, her body wrapped up tight under the protection of his muscular right arm. It seemed that he’d forgotten about my existence. He’d left me on the beach alone without thinking twice.
It turned out that Dylan Emerson didn’t give a shit about me.
For some reason, I watched as they all but disappeared into the darkness of the sand-covered parking lot. When they stopped at Dylan’s red Honda Civic, his back was still facing towards me, almost like he was shunning me deliberately. That moment, it turns out, was a foreshadowing of our entire future. Never again would I look upon his face. My last sighting of him would be of his back, that evil number twelve mocking me, a grim reminder of how little he thought of me.
After Chloe kissed him on the neck, giggling, he politely held open the passenger door for her. My eyes blurring over with hot tears, I watched his silhouetted form walk around to the driver’s side, hop into the car and drive them both away.
That’s when I turned and ran.
That night I gave up on two things: Dylan Emerson and love.
Two
Lucy
Sunday July 30 2017
My name is Lucy Horner. I’m twenty-seven years old, and I’m about to die at the hands of a psychotic cab driver.
Correction: a psychotic Roman cab driver.
I’ve just arrived in the Eternal City. I’ve heard more times than I can count that Rome is the most beautiful place on earth, but I have absolutely no idea if that’s true, because for the last several minutes I’ve been covering my eyes with my trembling hands. That’s right, I’ve turned into the sort of wussy girl who avoids watching the most gruesome part of slasher movies, because I know someone’s about to die in a horrible, bloody mess.
I’ve silently dubbed my insane driver and would-be murderer Signor Smellissimo. To put it mildly, he’s a scruffy man. His aromatic scent is a potent mix of garlic, cheese, cheap cologne, and cigars, not necessarily in that order. On top of that, his stubble seems to have grown a layer of moss. Or is that mold?
The worst part is that his appearance isn’t nearly as offensive as his driving. Every time I dare a peek from between my tense fingers, I become more convinced that Signor Smellissimo is deliberately plummeting me towards an early grave along twisti
ng streets and masses of other insane motorists. To add to it, as if to taunt me, vespa riders veer in and out of traffic around us, trying to prove that they’re even more reckless than my taxi driver. Those guys are definitely vying for the Who’s the Craziest Fucker in Italy Competition.
One person did warn me about this place, of course: my mother. The most overly protective woman who’s ever breathed air, she’s also the most paranoid. When she found out I was coming to Rome alone, she informed me in no uncertain terms that I’d be robbed, killed and left in an alleyway only to be eaten by ravens after my body had been defiled by a lengthy series of evil vagrants with rusty knives and a hunger for American woman-flesh. Of course, my mother’s pretty convinced that the same thing could happen to me on the streets of Los Angeles, so this isn’t exactly anything new.
She’s also convinced that the one and only reason my life is in constant peril is that I’m single. Single women, it seems, have targets painted on their foreheads that scream “Please murder me in the most horrible way imaginable. I am helpless and pathetic.”
As for my pending demise on the streets of Rome…frankly, I’m okay with it. If I’m going to be the victim of a grisly crime I’d rather succumb in an exotic locale like this one than on the smelly streets of summertime L.A.
I can’t help but chuckle to myself as I hear my driver throwing out curse after Italian curse at the traffic, even as he makes illegal turns, swerves in front of oncoming cars and wreaks general havoc on my nervous system.
Going Hard (Single Ladies' Travel Agency Book 2) Page 1