Once Upon a Time

by Luna Doerr

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  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  About the Author

  Once Upon A Time

  A Billionaire Boss Office Romance

  Luna Doerr

  1

  Alaric

  I'm scrolling through emails on my phone—looking for some confirmation one way or the other that Annabeth is or is not going to show at tonight's book signing—when I become aware of a commotion at the front of the coffee shop. I look up to see a large man towering over a table by the front window. A woman's slight arm and shoulder are visible behind the man's unkempt and ill-dressed girth.

  "I said, Sweetheart, what's your number?" the man growls.

  Other patrons watch nervously, all conversations now ceased. If it weren't been for the insistent rhythm of the house music throbbing beneath the hiss of the espresso machines, you could have heard a pin drop. I watch, disbelieving, as the man leans in toward the woman and grips the sides of the table with his hands.

  "Cat got your tongue now, babe?"

  I hear a whispered "please." It reanimates my inner Neanderthal from its frozen, dormant state. I push my chair back, letting it scrape the wood floor noisily, and walk over to the man. I lay my hand firmly on the man's arm.

  "Hey buddy. I'm getting the impression she's not interested."

  The man turns his head to look at me. "Who are you? Her knight in shining armor?"

  "If you wish." God, he has an ugly mug. Someone needs to give the guy shaving lessons. No wonder he doesn't have any luck with the ladies.

  The man straightens up and glances down at himself. I follow his gaze, to where the man's long canvas jacket is now being held open to one side. The grip of a pistol sticks out of the man's waistband. Shit. I’d forgotten about Virginia's open carry laws.

  The damsel in distress gasps, and I look at her for the first time.

  Fuck me. It's Erica. Fuck fuck fuck fuck me!

  I’ve been desperately searching for Erica—my muse, the embodiment of the character in the book that is, as my agent is all too happy to remind me, due very very soon—and now here she is. Erica, threatened by this goon.

  I look the man right in the eye and sigh. "So shoot me already."

  The man's arm twitches and, for a split second, I think he’s reaching for the gun.

  Great. I find my new muse and then I get killed. Just my luck.

  But the man just shoves me aside and stalks out of the coffee shop, the glass in the door rattling as he leaves.

  I look down at the woman, who’s now a paler shade of white and trembling slightly.

  "Are you okay?"

  She shakes her head mutely. I take in her features. She is Erica. She is absolutely, exactly Erica. Clear porcelain skin, blonde hair that falls in loose waves about her shoulders and those deep, hooded green eyes. She looks like an angel just arisen from a leisurely afternoon of amour.

  "Do you need another coffee? Some water?"

  I need to hear her speak—and soon, before the rest of my brain short-circuits and I turn into a blubbering idiot.

  She flaps her hand in front of her chest, her eyes wide and wild.

  "You can't speak?" I touch my ear, as if to ask whether she’s deaf.

  "Please." It comes as a whisper again, soft and breathy. "I just need to ..."

  I can’t take my eyes off her lips. Her soft, rosy lips that probably match the color of her ….

  "Please," she whispers again, then casts her eyes down at the table.

  I retreat to my own table, shaken to the core. I need to talk to her. But how? She’s in no state for additional male company at the moment. I watch her, discreetly. She’s trying to compose herself. She closes her eyes. Her breasts lift as she draws in a long breath. Her shaking hand lifts her paper coffee cup to her lips. She takes barely a sip before setting it back down.

  I don’t normally fall in love with my characters. But I am head over heels for Erica and I’ve barely written a thousand words of the book. Now here she is, right before me and I’m powerless to do anything about it.

  Utterly impotent.

  The asshole half of my personality screams at me to just walk over, sit down and press my suit. But the latent gentleman in me sees that she’s completely unsettled by the idiot with the gun. I can’t blame her. I’d been a little unsettled myself for a moment, when I was certain I was about to take a bullet in the gut.

  I try not to stare at her, but I can’t help myself. If this is the only time I’m going to see her—to see my Erica—I want to drink my fill. I watch her for ten minutes until she stands up, drops her empty paper cup in the trash and walks out the door.

  And right out of my life.

  2

  Caterine

  “Ladies and gentlemen.” A bookstore employee makes her way through the crowd. “It looks as though Annabeth is unable to make it tonight.”

  A collective groan echoes off the stacks of the bookstore, followed by a chorus of loud complaints.

  “It’s freaking eight o’clock,” mutters the man standing behind me. “They couldn’t have told us this two hours ago?”

  I look up from my phone to see dozens of grumbling people streaming from the store. I have no idea who Annabeth is or what she has to do with Alaric White, the author signing books tonight. I’m just here for a friend.

  When Zoe learned that I had a last-minute job interview in Tysons Corner the day after Alaric White’s book signing, she practically begged me to get her book signed. Promised away her first-born child and all that. I could hardly say no, considering all that Zoe has done for my mother this past year.

  So here I am, in a large chain bookstore, being pushed forward by the fans who decided to stay, even sans Annabeth. Whoever the hell that is. I tuck away my phone and peer at the table up ahead.

  It’s the first glimpse I’ve been able to get of the man seated at it, a mountain of books stacked at his elbow. He signs a book, then looks out over what remains of the crowd, clearly perturbed. His eyes stop on me.


  He’s the man from the coffee shop that morning. Not the drunk who practically molested me, but the guy who had confronted him. I’d been so terrified—it was exactly what everyone told me would happen in the big city—that I didn’t have the presence of mind to thank my savior.

  Alaric White smiles warmly at me. Clearly he remembers. I give him a shy smile back, then watch as he patiently signs book after book, makes small talk with his fans, then adroitly dismisses each one to make way for the next. Every third or fourth person, he cranes his neck around the line to make eye contact with me again.

  “Don’t leave,” he mouths.

  Another woman would make more of this than there really is, I knew. But I’m not that kind of woman. Or rather, he was not that kind of man. Not the kind to be interested in me. I’m not confident and sexy and flirtatious. Case in point: I’ve never even had a real boyfriend. Several hookups in college but that was as far as I ever got.

  And Alaric White is gorgeous. I had registered that vaguely in the coffee shop. But now, with my head clear and my heart beating at a normal rate, I can see that he is, in fact, stupendously gorgeous. His hair is the color of espresso, dark and wavy, long enough for him to tuck one side behind an ear that sports a tiny sparkling diamond stud.

  I’m too far away to tell the color of his eyes—not that I have a preference—but not too far away to see that he is exceedingly well-built. A wrinkled black linen shirt drapes over his broad shoulders, unbuttoned enough to reveal a black cotton undershirt beneath. The sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms covered in elaborate tattoos.

  That must be why Zoe likes this guy. My best friend has a weakness for guys with ink. I unconsciously rub the back of my right hip. Two summers ago, Zoe and I went to Ocean City for a long weekend of sun and fun. The fun had included Zoe getting me drunk and talking me into a tattoo. Or so Zoe claims. I can’t remember agreeing to any such thing, although it was undeniable that I awoke the next morning with a hangover and a red rose on my hip.

  I take a discreet step to my left to see what Alaric White is wearing beneath the table. Zoe will want the full scoop. Pale grey linen pants, rolled up insouciantly at the cuffs. Bare feet next to a pair of brown leather flip flops.

  Sexy feet, I text to Zoe.

  Picture please! comes the reply.

  I tap on the camera app, then as casually as I can, snap a photo of Alaric White’s feet. I glance up, hoping I’ve gotten away with it. Nope. He’s looking right at me, his lips curved into a sly smile.

  “Busted,” he mouths.

  I feel my face and neck catch fire with one of my signature blushes as I text the photo to Zoe. Then I put the phone back into my purse, to avoid any further temptation.

  The line seems to speed up a bit until, finally, I’m standing in front of the table.

  His eyes are blue, I see. A deep, bottomless blue.

  “Hello there,” Alaric White says.

  I slide Zoe’s paperback across the table toward him. “I forgot to thank you. For this morning.”

  “No problem. I enjoy rescuing damsels in distress.” He spins the book around to face him and opens it to the title page. “Are you okay? I was afraid I might have escalated the situation there for awhile. I didn’t realize he was armed.”

  My heart had nearly stopped at the sight of the handgun in the guy’s waistband. “Who takes a gun with them to buy coffee?” I say quietly.

  “Men who are compensating for something, I believe.”

  I blush again at the innuendo.

  “I didn’t get your name this morning,” he says, his sleek black fountain pen poised over the book.

  I try to gather my wits about me. Alaric White is scattering them every which way, not to mention certain nerve endings in my body.

  “Oh, uh, this is for a friend. Please sign it to Zoe.”

  He arches an eyebrow. “Must be a pretty good friend for you to stand in line for two hours just to get a book signed.”

  “Best friend.”

  “Well, then.”

  I watch as he writes Zoe’s name, then pauses. “And what is the name of Zoe’s best friend, may I ask?”

  “Caterine. I’m … Caterine.”

  “To Zoe, the lovely Caterine’s best friend. Cherish her forever.” He signs his name with a flourish and looks up. Then he chuckles. “Do you blush like that all the time?”

  “Pretty much.” I pick up the book and tucked it under my arm. “Thank you.”

  “Wait. I’m not finished.” He pulls another paperback from the stack next to him and opens it to the title page.

  “Oh no no. I can’t …” I try to remember how much cash I have in my wallet. Ten bucks, if I’m lucky. Maybe eleven if I count all the change.

  He frowns.

  “I’m sorry. I’m … I’m on a tight budget. I’m looking for a job …” My words trail off.

  Just walk away. He doesn’t care that you’re unemployed and flat broke, that you spent every dime to your name caring for your mother these past six months.

  “It’s my gift,” he says quietly as he writes my name slowly and carefully on the page. “What kind of job are you looking for?”

  “A librarian. I, uh, studied library science.”

  “So you’re good at research?”

  I nod, dumbly.

  “I’m in need of a research assistant to help with my new book. Would you be interested?”

  I’m speechless, my mouth hanging open like an idiot’s as I watch him write a series of numbers below my name. A phone number. He’s writing a phone number.

  “Call me tomorrow if you are. It pays six figures. Room and board included. Some travel.” He carefully closes the book, his hand resting on it for a moment before handing it up to me. “I hope you’ll consider it, Caterine. I think you might be perfect for the job.”

  I walk away, more than a little stunned. I have Alaric White’s phone number. Zoe is going to kill me.

  3

  Caterine

  I flop onto the saggy $69-a-night motel bed, not caring if I wrinkle my suit.

  Well that was a waste of time. Not to mention gas money and new pantyhose. This sucks, pardon my French. I’d been certain—one hundred percent sure—that I was acing the interview for the private school librarian job. I didn’t stumble over any answers. The woman conducting the interview was relaxed and affable. Everything seemed to be falling into place.

  Then bam.

  “Well, Caterine, your credentials are certainly impressive. Good GPA, excellent internships. Your enthusiasm for the field is palpable. Unfortunately, we made an offer to another candidate yesterday morning. We’re waiting to hear back from them. If they do decide to decline the job, we’ll be sure to call you.” The woman stood and extended her hand to Caterine. Dismissed. “I’m sorry you had to drive all this way.”

  Sure you are. Not sorry enough to call and cancel to save me the trip.

  I roll my head over to peek at the hotel alarm clock. If it’s correct, it is almost noon. Right on cue, my stomach rumbles. I skipped breakfast to save money but I have to eat something before making the drive back to Pennsylvania.

  At least I have the signed book for Zoe. She’ll get a laugh out of Alaric White giving me his phone number. Guy must have been drunk. Gorgeous men don’t give their numbers to me. Zoe, sure.

  Me? Not a chance.

  I change into my sundress and sneakers, pack quickly, and check out of the hotel. I stash my weekend bag in the trunk of my mother’s car and then walk down the road a quarter mile to the coffee shop. I jump with a yelp as a car swerves in my direction.

  Shit. Just what I need. To get myself killed.

  Like my life doesn’t suck enough already. I try not to invite myself to many pity parties, but the past year has been rough. My mother suffered through agonizing months of ovarian cancer before finally succumbing two months ago. And because my mother was self-employed and had crappy insurance, I ended up spending what little money we had trying
to make her final months bearable. Zoe would come over to stay with her so I could go to class and take the final exams for my master’s degree.

  Tonight, I will drive home and pack up the rest of the house before the bank takes it. If I don’t find a job soon, I’ll have to move in with Zoe for awhile. Not that Zoe minds, but I mind. I have an education. I was raised well. I should be able to support myself by now. I’m twenty-four, for pete’s sake.

  I push open the door to the coffee shop, grateful for the blast of air conditioning that hits me full in the face. It’s wicked hot in Virginia in August, that’s for sure. But that’s where the jobs are. Beggars can’t be choosers and all that.

  I scan the seating area of the coffee shop, looking for that asshole from yesterday, and breathe a sigh of relief when I don’t see him.

  I order a small drip coffee, the cheapest drink they have, and a slice of pound cake. Not the most nutritious lunch but it will hold me over ‘til I get home.

  I snag a table near the back behind a display of travel mugs, just in case that guy shows up again, and sit down. I sip the coffee and wish I had something to read. I should have brought Alaric White’s book along. Zoe raves about the man’s writing but I haven’t read any of it. Between school and my mom, leisure time has been a little scarce.