The Stars Landing Deviant

by Jessica Gadziala

  Contents

  Title Page

  Rights

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twleve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Epilogue

  Don't Forget!

  Also By Jessica Gadziala

  About The Author

  Stalk Her!

  The Stars Landing

  DEVIANT

  --

  Jessica Gadziala

  Copyright © 2015 by Jessica Gadziala

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for brief quotations used in a book review.

  "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."

  One

  Cordelia

  I should have been excited. Working on an inn was a dream job. Especially after eight jobs in a row redecorating offices. I mean, how many times can you say "dark woods and deep tones" without genuinely getting sick of the sound of your own voice? So when I got the call about doing a complete overhaul of an inn in some town called Stars Landing, I jumped at it. If for no other reason than a desire to be able to use lighter color palates and comfortable furniture. Besides, it was the kind of job that could end up getting me a spread in a magazine. Which would be awesome for business.

  Not that I had any trouble landing jobs. I had been on retainer by EM Corporation for the better part of three years. Anytime they acquired a new business, I got a call expecting me to pick up and leave with a week's notice. And I got a lot of those calls. So many so that I gave up my apartment and started sleeping on the couch in my office. My storage closet became full of clothes and shoes and a box or two of knickknacks I couldn't

  bring myself to give up. It worked out pretty well once I had a contractor drop a shower into the bathroom.

  It made no sense to pay the price of an apartment in the city when I spend almost all of my time on the road: in my car, in hotel rooms. It was a system that had been working out pretty well. After each job, I breezed into the city. I checked my mail. I handled new clients. I slept on my office couch. I ate take-out. I packed a suitcase and I hit the road again.

  Which meant that my car had started long ago to look like I lived in it. I glanced around the floorboard in the passenger seat, taking in the half a dozen disposable coffee cups. Those were just from that morning. I had my purse on the seat along with a sweater, a map, and a notebook. The backseat was home to eight different paperback books, about fifteen different decorating magazines, a caddy full of paint flip books, material swatches, printouts from my Pinterest board, two sweaters, and the heels I planned to slip on as soon as I got where I was going. The trunk had a rolling suitcase, a garment bag, a makeup bag, and about six shoe boxes.

  My navigation called out a turn, the screen showing I was almost at the red dot indicating my destination.

  And I should have been excited.

  But all I felt was anxiety. Which, to an extent, was normal. You never really knew what you were getting into; what kind of clients you would have to deal with. Maybe the owner fancied themselves amateur designers because they watched an HGTV marathon one weekend. I mean... weren't pastels back in?

  No. No, pastels were never back in.

  But it felt like more than that. My stomach was in painful, twisted knots. My heart was beating with the weird fierceness of a hummingbird's wings. Maybe it was just the pressure. It wouldn't just be a couple of executive offices and a waiting room. It would be an entire building. The main floor including a kitchen and dining room as well as the guest rooms upstairs. And I would be working with a contractor to make plans to expand the building to make space for more guest rooms. It was going to be a huge job. And it was going to keep me situated in Stars Landing for longer than I was used to.

  Months, probably. Which was longer than I ever got to spend anywhere anymore. Hell, I would probably be sad to see it go once I was done.

  I drove past a big blue wooden sign with white calligraphy writing, welcoming me to Stars Landing. Not more than a minute later, the town came into view. I felt myself laughing at the Thomas Kinkade quaintness of it all. The main street, accurately called Main street, was a simple road without lines. On either side were small mom-and-pop style stores. There was a market, hardware store, a bookstore. I could always use more books.

  It looked like my food options would be limited with only one restaurant in town. But at least it was a diner... I could get pretty much any meal known to mankind there.

  The inn was situated at the far end of Main Street, sitting a bit back from the road. It was an old two-story Victorian with wrap-around porches on each level. Beyond the chipping white paint and too-simple landscaping, it was charming. It was exactly what someone thought of

  when they thought of an inn. There were plush purple and blue morning glories spilling out of the window boxes, white wicker furniture on the porch. A part of me wanted to tell them to just slap a new coat of exterior paint on it and call it a job well done.

  I parked my car on the street out front and sat there for a long couple of minutes, trying to push past the strange, but all too familiar crushing feeling of anxiety. There was nothing to be anxious about. It was just another job. A job I was really looking forward to. I was just road weary and stiff. That was the problem. I pulled down the the visor and glanced in the mirror.

  I was still in the process of getting used to a new haircut some hairdresser talked me into a week ago. Apparently long bobs were all the rage. And after having my hair falling long and straight down my back pretty much since I was twelve, I figured it was time for a change. And it wasn't bad. It was just different. It was cut in long, whispy ash blonde layers, the longest strands tickling my collarbones, parted to the side so I spent most of my day with some of my hair half-covering my left eye. But I had to admit, it was probably the best cut for my somewhat delicate-looking face, all soft chin and plump cheekbones.

  I reached into my purse, grabbing my mascara and applying a coat around my deep blue eyes then rubbed some chapstick on my, admittedly a bit too big for my face, lips. Simple. Professional. I climbed out of the car, stretching my short legs in their light bluejeans. I reached

  into the backseat and slipped my feet into a pair of blue heels and pulled a cobalt blue blazer over my white t-shirt.

  I took a deep breath and walked up the path, onto the creaky, potentially unsafe porch and into the front door which had bells on top that chimed happily as I walked into the main room. Directly in front was a staircase leading up to the guest rooms and a hallway which, I guessed, led to the dining room, kitchen, and staff quarters. To the left was a sitting room that hurt too much to look at. Who ever thought blue and yellow striped wallpaper and Victorian artwork would be a good idea was completely out of their minds. The light clue chaise and captain's chairs were old and worn, though not entirely wrong style-wise. The bookshelves on either side of the enormous fireplace look
ed sturdy and surprisingly clean.

  I turned toward the check in, situated in a nook to my right. There was a desk with a break to the left for employees to slip behind. To the back wall was a collection of cubbyholes that held various items. Beside that on the wall was a board with hooks, holding all of the old fashioned room keys. The whole area was cute, but too cluttered. There would eventually be need for more than one person at the check-in and the current space wouldn't allow it.

  Speaking of... there was no one at the desk. I looked into the sitting room and glanced down the hallway, but saw no one.

  "Cordelia," a voice called, happy, flirtatious, familiar.

  And then James Michaels was bounding up the hallway, smiling. A tall, gorgeous redhead was trailing behind him with much less enthusiasm. "James," I said, my head tilting to the side a little. I knew the inn was his pet project but I had heard he was going to be out of town for the meeting. "How are you?"

  "On my way out, unfortunately," he said, grabbing me and hugging me quickly before stepping back and putting an arm around the thin redhead's waist. So that was the way of it. Odd, for a womanizer, but good. It was good he was finally settling down a little. "But I wanted to hang back and introduce you two. This is Emily," he said, smiling down at her in a way that made me feel uncomfortable for witnessing it. So that was what love looked like. "Em, this is Cordelia." He looked back at me, boyish, charming as ever. "I would like to say you guys are going to hit it off splendidly, but that is not the case," he laughed. "But you'll both figure it out. Alright, I have to get going. Cordy... always a pleasure," he said, reaching out and touching my

  arm. "Now if you'll excuse us, I am going to pull her out onto the front porch and kiss her silly."

  I leaned up against the railing of the staircase and waited. And waited. And waited. Apparently James was getting kissed like he was going away to war.

  "They're downright sickening," a voice said, coming out from the hallway and slinking behind the desk. He was young. Maybe in his early twenties with brown hair and eyes. He had on horn rimmed glasses, a t-shirt with Einstein on it and a pair of way too tight skinny jeans. A

  hipster. In Stars Landing of all places. "It's been non-stop walking in on them fondling each other for the past four months. Sweet, sure. But a man can only take so much. So... you're pretty," he said, smiling at me.

  "Thanks," I said, finding myself smiling back. Sure, he was a few years younger than me, but that didn't mean he wasn't charming. "I'm Cordelia Cameron."

  "The designer. Obviously," he said, rolling his eyes, typing into the old computer. "I'm Devon, the slacker. But I can get away with it 'cause I'm good looking." He stopped to reach onto the wall of keys and pulled one down with a three burned into the little wood key chain.

  Maybe I was worried for nothing. Which wasn't unusual. I had skill in the art of anxiety. I could worry myself to ulcers over the tiniest, most minute situation, which usually turned out to not be a situation after all. Or lying awake in hotel rooms having imaginary arguments that never actually took place. Oh, yeah, I was a practiced worrywart.

  But all in all, this seemed like a good place. James was, technically, who was in charge. And he was always a delight, yessing me to death and declaring that everything I ever thought up was a masterpiece. Granted, he wasn't going to be around in the beginning, but he was only a phone call away if I had any issues. Emily would apparently be a challenge, but I doubted she was anyone I couldn't handle. I wasn't going to step on her toes, and I always brought options to choose from. And Devon seemed like a sweetheart.

  It was going to be alright. I felt the knot in my stomach subside gradually and I felt like I could take a deep breath for the first time in hours. Days, even. My lungs felt tingly with the new air and I sucked in deeply one more time, greedy for the sensation.

  But then the door swung open, chiming frantically with the rough motion, and a man walked in.

  And the breath got caught, strangled, in my throat.

  Two

  Cordelia

  I had heard the term "a god among men" before and I had always sort-of found it meant a man who was above and beyond normal human frailty, someone unbelievably good, someone with morals only a deity could possess. But at that moment, I decided it was a phrase that meant to describe a man like him. A man who was too unbelievably, unfairly good looking to actually be a mere mortal. Because it wouldn't be fair to other men. And it definitely wouldn't be fair to the women who would have to look at him.

  He was six and a half feet of solid muscle, wide of shoulder, solid in the center. His arms peeked out of his black t-shirt, thick coiled biceps straining against the material. On his right arm, from the wrist and sneaking all the way up into his shirt was a sleeve of black and red tattoos. From where I stood, I could see a clock, a bird, a rose, and the hint of writing on the inside of his arm above the elbow. I couldn't help but wonder what it looked like as one big masterpiece. Preferably naked.

  But it was the face that was making my chest feel painful. He was gorgeous. He was all sharp angles. He had low, straight eyebrows, making him seem almost angry and entirely intimidating. He had a strong, hard jaw with more than a hint of stubble and the slightest indentation of a cleft in his chin. And then there was the cheekbone hollows. Oh, dear lord, the cheekbone hollows. Deep enough to sink your fingers into. And lastly, the eyes. I'd seen a thousand shades of brown in my life. The dark, almost black browns. The milk chocolate brown. Even the strange, gorgeous, light as honey browns. But his were a color I didn't believe existed before. His eyes were gold. Gold with dark black lashes framing them to make them all the more bright.

  I shook my head, looking down at his clothes. His black t-shirt was dirty. Like... with actual dirt. And paint. It was also torn in several places. As were his soft, somewhat baggy bluejeans. His boots, I noticed were splattered with bright white paint.

  He moved into the entryway, coming closer toward me. And then I noticed the wet white tread marks, perfectly in the shape of his enormous feet, on the wooden floor.

  "You're leaving boot prints," I said, feeling almost offended by his complete lack of consideration for someone else's property. Who the hell tracked paint onto someone's floor?

  He paused, quirking an eyebrow up at me, a condescending smile toying at his lips. "Well then I guess you're going to have to refinish the floor then, princess," he growled and stormed up the stairs, bumping my shoulder in the process.

  To my credit, I managed to not turn and watch him go up the stairs. True, it was only because I was too worried about the paint on the floor, drying by the minute on a really nice rustic wide-planked hardwood floor.

  "Do you have a rag?" I asked Devon, reaching for the bottle of water he had open on the desk.

  He looked around and found one for me and I dropped down to the floor, wetting the rag and scrubbing the white spots in the entryway. Then up the stairs.

  "You know we have cleaning staff," Devon said, casually leaning against the front desk watching me. "Though you do look a lot better doing that than they do."

  "Ha ha," I said, shaking my head as I made it up onto the top landing, knowing he had been watching my ass for the past few minutes. It didn't matter. The floor was the only salvageable part of the entire place that I could see. It needed to be saved. I followed the prints up to one of the guest rooms, scrubbing furiously. Great. He was a guest. I guessed that meant I would have to see him on a somewhat regular basis. Hell, I would probably be cleaning up his tread prints daily.

  I was scrubbing the last set of prints up by the door when it flew open, giving me a second of dread as I flew back onto my heels, looking up. Why the hell did I look up? My shortness was never an asset. Especially not in a situation like that. My face was just below his crotch. And he was looking down at me, a mischievous smile toying at his lips.

  "You look good on your knees, princess."

  I really should have expected that. It was the most obvious
thing that could have come out of his mouth. Aside from: "Oh, I'm sorry about the mess. I'll clean it up myself", which, from the looks of him, was not something I would ever hear.

  Flustered, I got onto my feet, taking the paint-soaked rag and throwing it at his chest. "You're an asshole."

  He made a grab for the rag, glancing at it for the barest of seconds before looking at me again. "Oh, you're going to be fun," he said, shoving past me and heading back down the stairs.

  It sounded like a warning. Or like a promise.

  "You're right," a voice said behind me, making me jump and turn around. Emily was leaning against the wall at the top of the stairs.

  "About what?" I asked.

  She smiled, pushing off the wall. "He is an asshole," she said, holding out the key Devon had taken off the hook downstairs, the one with a three on it. She walked over toward me, a strange smile on her face as she walked over and slipped the key into the door.

  Right next to tattooed asshole's room.

  "Great," I grumbled, sighing.

  Emily laughed, walking inside. "Sorry. I would move you if I could. But we are booked right now. There's a wedding in town this weekend. We are full of relatives."

  "It's okay," I said, looking around at the floral wallpaper. There was a matching comforter. I was starting to get a headache, dull but insistent behind my eyes. "I doubt I will be seeing him that much." I hoped.

  "Right," Emily said, a strange edge to her voice. "Anyway. This is your room. Closet in here," she said, pulling the door open. "And bathroom through here," she said, flicking the light on in the next room. "The porch is accessible through a door in the hallway and there's a pamphlet on the nightstand with meal times and local attractions. I figured you would want to settle in today and we would get started tomorrow after breakfast."

  I nodded. Good. I needed some time to settle in. And completely re-imagine my plans. The cool grays I was planning on wouldn't accent the gorgeous floors I hadn't known about. There would need to be a couple of hours thumbing through paint and fabric swatches to get it right. "That sounds like a good plan."