To-Do Him List

by Denise Marie

  Table of Contents

  To-Do Him List

  Publishing Information

  Dedication

  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

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  About the Author

  Also Available

  Chapter One

  Also Read

  Thank You

  To-Do Him List

  by

  Denise Marie

  The Lipstick Diaries, Book One

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  To-Do Him List

  COPYRIGHT © 2015 by Denise Mallette

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com

  Cover Art by Diana Carlile

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewilderroses.com

  Publishing History

  First Scarlet Rose Edition, 2015

  Print ISBN 978-1-5092-0267-6

  Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-0268-3

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  It is very easy, as a wife and a mother, to become the one who supports others ambitions and say, “maybe one day” to her own. Without my husband and children becoming my cheerleaders and encouraging me to follow through with writing this novel, something I once referred to as a “pipe dream,” I would not feel the remarkable sense of pride and fulfillment I do now.

  There are many people, along with my family, who have supported this amazing journey—friends, coworkers, and editorial assistance from afar. You all know who you are. Because of the love and reassurance you have offered me, I can say with confidence to all hard-working wives and mothers, there are many crazy wonderful things out there for you too−go for it. Dreams do come true.

  Chapter One

  Dear Diary,

  If it’s written, it’s there for all to see. To know.

  Isabelle Chambers closed her eyes, and let her head fall back to the passenger seat. What next? The sun’s rays through the window warmed her face—a little too much considering the wave of heat from the driver. She tapped the stack of medical papers in her lap, loud enough to tune out the bluster of city traffic and her guilt. Springtime weather in Tampa, Florida lured in the tourists, and offered lots of distraction.

  “Thank you, Katherine.” Izzy tipped her head in the direction of her best friend since college and opened her eyes.

  From the anger on Katherine’s face and refusal to make eye contact, this wasn’t going to be an easy sell. “Don’t mention it. If you had told me three days ago when you were admitted to the hospital for the damn biopsy, I would’ve been there sooner rather than just when called for a ride home.”

  She scooted sideways with her leg bent in the little beat-up Ford Tempo, which had seen many sketchy paths given Katherine’s career as a Tabloid Reporter. “The tumor is benign, Katherine.”

  “But you still need surgery, Isabelle.”

  She put both feet back on the floor and crumpled the papers. Her friends called her Izzy; they only used Isabelle when mad.

  Uncomfortable silence reigned the rest of the way home. Katherine pulled into the driveway, close to the house. The well-groomed neighborhood screamed, “safe,” “family-oriented,” and “working-class,” but she too had endured many reprimands from Isabelle’s mother as well.

  “We single women need to protect ourselves at all times, girls. I feel like I’m teaching my young and naive teenagers at the high school sometimes with you ladies,” she would always say, her sternness reducing them to little kids once again.

  Isabelle unlocked the now trendy, on account of the several similar homes down the street, cerulean blue door on her white bungalow. She threw her car keys on the antique entryway table like any other day, and trudged into the living room.

  “Ahem.”

  She glanced back at Katherine, bent over to pick up the keys that landed on the runner that covered the dark brown hardwood floor, not the table.

  Huh.

  As per usual, she collapsed onto the cushy, gray sofa with a sigh and let her eyes drift closed. “Please don’t tell anyone.”

  “What are you going to do, Izzy?”

  Instant regret hit her when she dared to open her eyes and glance at Katherine, leaning against the doorjamb with her arms crossed. She closed her eyes once again and resumed avoidance. The glare in her direction pierced her eyelids. “I’m not too sure yet, but I know how I can decide.”

  The fake expression of happiness she’d mastered over the years, in attempt to ward off Katherine’s lectures, never worked, but she tried again. “The same way we always make decisions.”

  “You just had a hole drilled into your head, dumbass. You are not getting drunk.”

  She bolted from the couch and stuck her tongue out at mom on the way by. “A couple won’t hurt if you help me hide the rest.” Abigail and Taryn, also best friends and roommates from college, could be swayed to her dark side of recklessness. Okay, recklessness might be an overstatement, but she needed it now more than ever.

  Katherine’s chastising glare stung her back while several items women can’t seem to live without soared in every direction from her over-sized purse. A least it had dropped beside the table like usual. Yes, her unusual heightened mood would appear bizarre to most, but Katherine would, when she calmed down, understand her wish for uncomplicated distraction.

  She pivoted to the mess around her, waved if off, and headed back into the living room. The slight bounce in her step faltered when she stepped on something sharp. “Naturally.”

  Focused on the task at hand, she ignored Katherine and scrolled through her phone.

  My place, seven o’clock. Bring booze…lots.

  Send.

  ****

  The front door flew open at seven o’clock sharp. Each girl’s house was like an extension of their own, no knock required.

  “We have margaritas,” Taryn sang out in her usual confident voice.

  She laughed, already angling for the appropriate glasses from the oak, cottage-style cupboard when the tall bombshell and successful bartender, Taryn Scott, strode into the kitchen. She carried in a large blender filled with green slush, also known as stress relief.

  A tall, beautiful redhead paraded through the door and set her designer briefcase on the table.

  “What a day. Taryn, whatever concoction you made for us, make mine a double and keep them coming.” She sauntered over to the island, dragged out a stool to sit, and relaxed her arms on the stone top. Their common place to gather.

  Isabelle leaned against the counter with the margarita glasses in her hands and listened to the effortless banter of her best friends. Her shoulders relaxed, but not quite to the point of the comfort she needed.<
br />
  Taryn ripped the glassware from her grip, causing them to clink. She stuck her tongue out and gave Isabelle a hip-check on her way back to the ‘island of entertainment’ to fill them. The woman swept about the room with style, her familiarity with preparing drinks and snacks for a night of companionship apparent. Cocktails made by the notorious bartender, Taryn Scott, and food had solved many problems over the years, even made the toughest decisions achievable.

  “Oh, was it a tough day in the marketing world, Miss Money Hungry Abigail Jameson?” Taryn rolled her eyes.

  Abigail sighed, plucked a cocktail umbrella from Taryn’s bag of supplies, to throw at her, and glared in Katherine’s direction. “Katherine, honey, you are the oldest and bossiest, spank her for me, would you?”

  Taryn threw her hands in the air to surrender. Katherine’s pointed glare in her direction hushed everyone for a split second, not long before they used shovels of food or their hands to hide their chuckles.

  “So Izzy, spill.”

  Isabelle observed the pretty, salt-rimmed, drink in front of her. She needed to pace herself, make her actions believable, normal, even though Abigail’s request made the margarita taunt her. She picked up the liquid balm in one hand, a tray of food in the other and headed to the living room. “Let’s save the heavy stuff for later, okay Abby?”

  She tucked her drink away on the end table, set the tray of food down, and waited on the couch with her legs folded underneath her. Katherine and Abigail followed with trays of goodies while Taryn arranged all of the alcohol off to the side. Katherine sat next to her and dropped a bottle of water into her lap.

  She scrunched her nose at Katherine. The movement made the tiny incision on her head, hidden by her hair, sting. “Thank you,” she whispered, for Katherine’s ears only.

  Katherine tipped her head, silent.

  Her phone beeped, preset at the highest volume in case the night got a little rowdy, as it always did. She held her best and most observant friend’s gaze, and dug in her pocket.

  She had no clue what the beep could be; everyone was in front of her. The notification indicated a response to her earlier tweet, from before the biopsy.

  Liquid courage is a must today. Isabelle

  Her heart raced. She couldn’t explain her sudden interest in this site, or the responses she got, possibly from the real Cole Davies.

  Bad day? I could recommend some music to go with your beverage. Cole D.

  She tucked her phone away, but the corner of her mouth rose, just a little. The girls settled into their usual seats throughout the modest, decorated with pastel colors to make it appear bigger, living room. From their desperate hoarding of goodies and booze, tonight’s get together couldn’t be better timed, and soon she’d add to their stress.

  After several margaritas, or what her friends believed were glasses emptied by her, Isabelle gripped the water bottle in her lap and laughed at Taryn’s latest gossip about the bar. Heat lingered in her cheeks since she read his message, and made the little white lie about her so-called intoxication much easier to pass off.

  The painkillers prescribed by the doctor for the headache she might endure after the procedure, which she was, could knock anyone on their ass. She didn’t need the alcohol.

  Abigail stood on unsteady legs and held her glass in the air. “It’s later, Izzy?” She scoffed, as if she’d never overlook an unexpected reason for a girl’s night.

  Isabelle peeked up from her empty water bottle. The two drinks Katherine allowed didn’t offer much courage; her tolerance for observing her friends’ enjoyment while she pretended, wore thin about five drinks ago.

  She put the bottle on the table beside her. “I’ll be a lot lighter yet, when they cut a chunk out of my brain.”

  She closed her eyes and sighed. The sudden silence meant she hadn’t said that under her breath.

  “Izzy?”

  She boosted her tired in every way body from the couch and dragged her feet to the large bay window that faced the front yard. Taryn’s somber voice struck hard. This wasn’t going to be easy. She stared at the darkness outside and crossed her arms to keep the tremble at bay. It should have been an ecstatic pregnancy announcement.

  “Here’s the thing. Life sucks.” They would agree. When one of them experienced pain, they all did. It’d been that way from the start.

  “I had it all—a husband, rewarding career, and friends anyone would consider themselves lucky to have. Well, a drunk driver killed my husband a month ago. April was my happy month, our anniversary month. Not any longer.”

  She stiffened her stance, couldn’t handle their comfort just yet, and they’d swarm her if she didn’t make that clear. “I’ve just recently gotten my shit together enough to return to work. Being a teacher once brought joy. Now, I only see something I won’t experience myself. I was late…and nauseous, fatigued. Early signs of pregnancy.”

  Taryn and Abigail gasped, Katherine didn’t.

  “I’m not. I do, however, have a brain tumor.” Her voice shook. She eyed the ceiling to keep her tears away. She had to tell them and be strong for them. “Surgery is a must. It’s not cancer, but it’s complicated, and the odds of me surviving are not good.”

  The air weighted her down, and she couldn’t explain anymore without giving into it. Goose bumps formed on her skin. They needed to say something. A dropped pin would echo in the room. “Guys—”

  She spun around and before she could finish her sentence, several arms surrounded her. They squeezed so tight it would have taken her breath away if she weren’t already choked by fate.

  “So, when is the surgery scheduled to take place?” Abigail stood back and crossed her arms.

  She shimmied through their embrace, flopped down on the couch, and snatched a cushion to hold tight in front of her. A shield for what came next? The three women sat and faced her but didn’t speak.

  “This is where it gets difficult for me, guys. I don’t even feel like I’ve truly lived life. How can I get on the operating table and tell myself if that day was going to be my last, I would die satisfied with the things I’ve done? I’m not.”

  Everyone concurred, even though they were hesitant about it. The knot in her stomach loosened, just a little anyway.

  “I have always been a cautious, dependable, boring prude. I tried so hard to be an easy to raise child for my mother, avoided any situation destined to cause trouble. I want to get in trouble.” She threw the pillow to other end of the couch. “I want to have sex with more than one man before I die. Earth shattering, wild sex.”

  The girls giggled and reminisced about their own sexual experiences, Isabelle stared at her laced fingers, caught in the past. The night before David died.

  “David, we need to talk.” They sat in bed, like every night in their two years of marriage. Her, in her faded Jake Owen concert T-shirt, not a sexy look but comfortable, and David with his laptop in his lap. He placed it off to the side.

  “Sure, babe. What’s up?”

  She shut off the television and faced him. He was so tall, even while he sat. She’d never get tired of ogling his toned, olive skin, shaggy hair, and green eyes that captured your attention. He turned her on. “If I strolled in here swaying my hips, naked, would you feel so overwhelmed with hunger that you’d storm up to me, pin me against the wall and only lower your pants enough to fuck me senseless?”

  “Are your girly porn novels giving you ideas, darling?”

  Her brave posture gave way, and she slumped. “Never mind.”

  He pressed his hand to her bare knee, but didn’t slide it any further. Did he resist, or just not feel the same urge to lose control? “Isabelle, I’m sorry if I’ve offended you, but where’s this coming from?”

  She dropped her gaze to her twining fingers. “David, I want to explore with sex. I’m not the prude everyone sees—there’s more to me. God, the places we could lose control.” She bit her lip. “The not so typical things we could do.”

  “Are you sayi
ng you’re not happy with our sex life?” His tone was clipped, and he yanked his hand away.

  Ugh. It wasn’t playing out the way she’d practiced in the bathroom mirror earlier. “No, no. That’s not what I’m saying. I love having sex with you. So much so, that I think about all the different ways we could have sex.”

  “Like?”

  “Like…somewhat hidden, in public. Or, with me…tied to the bed. Have you ever fantasized about taking me from behind, anally?” Excitement rose in her voice, but she crashed down to reality when she met his uncomfortable, wide-eyed glare.

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yes.”

  He leaned over and closed his laptop, flicked the switch on the lamp, and lay down in the dark. “Can I have some time to think about this?”

  “Sure.” She placed the remote on the nightstand, snuggled under the covers, and rolled away from him—wide-awake.

  “Izzy? Where’d ya go?” Abigail crouched in front of her and touched her knees.

  She met her gaze and smiled. She didn’t want her friends to see the sadness she hadn’t been able to let go of yet. “Just remembering my last night with David.”

  She leaned over, snatched her hidden drink from the end table, and chugged. Relief didn’t come at the bottom of it. She spun the empty glass by its stem. “If I told you there would be no surgery,” she held up her free hand when their backs stiffened, “until I did a few things, would you understand?”

  “Like a, err bucket list?” Katherine teetered into Isabelle’s side and slurred her words.

  Her stomach knotted with guilt as she admired a friend she couldn’t imagine her life without. One so supportive, she drank her own margaritas and Isabelle’s when no one paid attention, so the others wouldn’t prod too soon.

  Isabelle tapped her closed lips with her finger and made eye contact with each friend before a framed picture captured her attention.

  David.

  “Yes Katherine, that’s exactly what I’m going to do.” She jumped from the couch and stood firm, with her hands on her hips.

  She scoured the room for a pen and paper, without a care for the things she knocked over in her haste. The girls followed her lead, yanking cushions from the couch, and gathered around the coffee table she’d found, abandoned, on the side of the road. Magazines supported its uneven legs. A temporary fix until she could refinish it to the potential she imagined. Her weakness for unwanted items no longer made them giggle.