Once Upon a Time

by Luna Doerr

  “Thought I might find you here.”

  A large cup of coffee and a plastic-wrapped sandwich appear on the table. I hear the scrape of a chair being dragged across the floor. I look up, knowing exactly whom I’m going to see. Alaric White. More casually dressed today than last night. Tight-fitting grey tee shirt, worn and faded jeans with an artful tear at one knee. Same flip flops, though.

  “You weren’t going to call me, were you?” He sits down, looks me straight in the eye.

  “I had a job interview this morning. Just got out of it.”

  He pointedly looks at my sundress.

  “I changed at the hotel before checking out.”

  “How did the interview go?”

  “They offered the job to someone else yesterday.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Caterine.” He takes a long sip of coffee. “Actually, I’m not. I still want you to consider my job.”

  “Ah, Mr. White. I haven’t even read your book. It’s my friend—”

  “Zoe, yes. You aren’t a reader?”

  “Normally, I am. But I’ve been finishing my master’s degree and my mother was sick.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, as well.”

  Alaric White does seem genuinely sorry. I’m not sure why that surprises me.

  “So I’m probably not the best person to be your assistant.”

  He unwraps his sandwich, looks over at my small slice of cake and offers me half. I politely decline.

  “Is that all you’ve had to eat today?”

  Apparently, my blush gives me away. He lays half the sandwich on my plate.

  “You need a job, Caterine. I need an assistant. Desperately need one, as a matter of fact. I’m behind on my next book. Do librarian jobs pay two-fifty?”

  “Two-fifty?” My hand hovers over the sandwich.

  “Two-hundred-fifty thousand. That’s the salary I’m offering. For roughly a year’s worth of work.”

  “No, librarian jobs don’t pay that,” I admit. Not in my wildest dreams. Not in anyone’s wildest dreams.

  He takes a bite of his sandwich, chews thoughtfully, and regards me. I take a small bite of the other half, keeping my eyes on the plate. This can’t be happening. This man, this apparently famous author, can’t be offering me a job that pays more money than I can even imagine making.

  Alaric White radiates sex and masculinity in a way I’ve never witnessed before. I didn’t grow up with men. I have no father, no brothers, no uncles. My sole experience with men was with friends and those handful of college hookups.

  Just sitting there eating a sandwich, Alaric White is making me more aware of my body. He makes absolutely no effort to hide the fact that he’s inspecting me, his gaze on every inch of my skin. When his eyes linger on my chest, my nipples pebble and push against the thin cotton of my sundress. His blue eyes darken to nearly black.

  I should be offended. But I’m not.

  He finishes his half of the sandwich before speaking again. “Have dinner with me tonight so I can tell you more about the job.” He looks around the strange little coffee shop. “It’s too noisy in here.”

  I look down at my dress. “I don’t have anything nice to wear, other than my suit.” I think of the way I shoved my suit into the suitcase. Plus, I’d already checked out of the motel so I have nowhere to iron it.

  “You’re fine the way you are. Dinner will be casual, I promise.”

  He reaches over and takes my hand in his. Heat sears down my spine and pools in my lower belly. “Where?” I ask.

  “I’m staying at the Ritz-Carlton. Do you know where it is?”

  I nod. I’d seen it from the highway. “What time?”

  He looks at his watch. “Six. Meet me for a drink in the bar.”

  I look down at my dress again. I am not dressed for the Ritz.

  “You would be lovely in a burlap sack, Caterine.” His thumb is tracing heated circles on my wrist. “Please don’t stand me up.”

  How am I going to kill five hours? I walk along the shoulder of the road back to the motel parking lot and my car. Maybe drive to the mall and window shop? Find a comfy chair in a public library and read? I can’t afford to hang out in a coffee shop all day and drink coffee.

  Wherever it is, it has to be air conditioned. My dress is already sticking uncomfortably to my spine and I’ve only been outside for two minutes. Even the surface of the road next to me shimmers in the heat.

  Suddenly a car cuts in front of me and brakes to a hard stop on the shoulder, sending gravel skittering all around. I stop, my arms crossing protectively in front of me. The car is a long sleek BMW sedan, black and high end. Not a baby beemer. The driver’s side door opens and Alaric White steps out.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  His long strides have him standing in front of me in seconds. His face is set in an angry expression. Very angry.

  “Walking to my car.”

  He waves a hand at the traffic zooming by on the hot road next to us.

  “There’s no sidewalk here, Caterine! It’s not safe to walk here.”

  “My car is just down there.” I point at the motel parking lot in the distance. “I didn’t want to waste gas driving a quarter mile.”

  He looks at me incredulously, like the idea of saving gas is some brand new concept to him. Maybe it is. Maybe he’s been wealthy for so long, it never occurs to him not to waste gas or money.

  “Get in.” He heads back to the car. When I don’t follow immediately, he turns back around and growls, “Get in before I put you in.”

  I get in, against my better judgment.

  The BMW sails right past the cheap motel where my mother’s Hyundai is parked.

  “Where are we going? My car is parked—” I look back toward the rapidly-receding motel.

  “To my hotel.”

  He keeps his eyes on the road. He hasn’t glanced in my direction once since we got in the car. From the way his hands white-knuckle the leather-wrapped steering wheel, I can tell he’s still angry with me. Why does he care?

  “But—”

  “No buts about it, Caterine. I have to get some work done this afternoon but I know where you can pass the time until dinner. Safely pass the time.”

  At the hotel, he leads me past the front desk and through a wood-paneled lobby straight to the spa. He speaks quietly to a well-dressed, fortyish woman who occasionally glances over at me, sizing me up. I smile nervously.

  After a few moments, Alaric turns back to me. “A few hours at the spa. My treat.”

  When I start to protest, he presses a finger to my lips. “Please don’t embarrass me by making a scene,” he says in a quiet but firm—very firm—voice. “You had a disappointing morning. The rest of the day can be much better, if you let it. I promise.”

  For a moment, I’m certain he’s about to lean in and kiss me. His lips are parted, his eyes gleaming with intent. Then the moment passes. He turns and walks away.

  4

  Alaric

  I unlock the door to my suite and head straight for the minibar. With shaking hands, I grab a mini bottle of whiskey and twist off the cap.

  What the hell was she thinking? I nearly had a heart attack when I saw my Erica walking along the side of the road, cars flying by at fifty miles an hour no more than a few feet away from her. I pour the entire mini bottle of whiskey down my throat in one burning slug, then collapse into the leather sofa, willing my nerves to calm.

  If she had been hit by a car … after all the time I’ve spent looking for her.

  I might have thrown myself into the path of an oncoming vehicle too. A tractor trailer for maximum impact.

  I rake my hand through my hair. Was this even going to work? Sim had nailed the problem on the head months ago when he helpfully pointed out that, as a character, Erica would never agree to my “assistant” arrangement. I have grave doubts that Caterine will either, once she learns what it entails. She’s definitely no Annabeth.

  Hell, she didn
’t even call me about the job. I had to go looking for her, hoping she’d go back to that coffee shop. If I hadn’t shanghaied her on the side of the road, would she have showed up for dinner tonight?

  Not bloody likely.

  Would she show up even now, after what I left for her to read this afternoon? I’ve never hired an assistant who hasn’t read any of my books before. They’ve all known what they were getting into—and were eager to get into it. Usually they have hopes of parlaying the notoriety into a modeling or acting career. Some of them have an exhibitionist streak a mile wide.

  Caterine clearly doesn’t. She’s different and it’s that difference—the quietness, the reticence—that I need for Erica.

  I open the minibar right as my cell phone rings. Please let it not be the spa calling to tell me she left. I can’t kidnap the woman, not that the idea hasn’t crossed my mind.

  “Hello,” I bark into the phone.

  “Hello to you, too. God, Alaric. Phone manners?” It’s Kristin, my twin sister.

  “Sorry. I’m on the road. You know how much I love that. How are you?”

  “You can always come join White Chocolate. If the writing thing doesn’t pan out.” I hear her snickering on the other end.

  White Chocolate is the family business, since 1875. I had declined to join it after college. Kristin is now the chief operating officer, soon to be the CEO. As soon as our ailing father dies.

  “So how is he? I assume you’re calling with an update.”

  “I don’t think he has much more time, Alaric. He’s asking for you.”

  “I can be there tomorrow afternoon. But not any sooner.”

  Weston Ashford White is on his deathbed in a hospital near Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. If it were up to me, I’d never see the bastard again but I don’t want to alienate Kristin more than I already have. She’s more of a forgive-and-forget sort of person. I’m not.

  For years, Weston White made our mother’s life a living hell. Affair after affair had devastated her and driven her deep into the bottle. And my father always thought he was a stand-up guy for supporting all the bastard children he had spawned.

  Meanwhile my sister and I had grown up with doppelgangers all over central Pennsylvania. I spent years playing lacrosse with a boy who could have been my twin.

  “You have to be,” my sister says. “How’s the book coming?”

  “Better, I think. I’m interviewing a potential assistant tonight.”

  “And by interviewing, you mean fucking her in your hotel room.” My sister is not a fan of my books, needless to say.

  “Actually, she’ll probably run screaming from the room when I describe the job to her.”

  “And how is that better?”

  I sigh. “If she doesn’t run screaming from the room, I’ve found the perfect embodiment of the character.”

  “And if she does?”

  “Then I’m back to square one.”

  I open the minibar and pull out the other bottle of whiskey, then think better of it. I put it back and grab the twelve dollar bottle of water instead.

  “Or you could write a book by yourself. There’s an idea. Instead of using these women as a crutch.”

  “Tell that to my editor. I’ll send you her number. Apparently, the whole muse thing is now a permanent part of my brand.”

  Though maybe Annabeth is doing me a favor by flaking out on me. If I can’t count on the muse to show up at signings, perhaps she would decrease in brand relevance. In addition to last night, she skipped out on both signings last week. Not that I mind for myself—by the time a book hits the shelves, I’m usually sick of the muse and happy enough to never lay eyes on her again.

  But readers expect to meet each book’s muse at signings. They want her autograph on the title page just as much as they want mine. There’s usually even a small contingent of men who come to signings just to meet the muse and press their phone numbers into her hand.

  It was a fictional character, idiots.

  It takes all my willpower not to say that to them.

  “All right then. See you tomorrow,” Kristin says. “Say hello to Sim for me.”

  Even my sister is not immune to Sim Toro’s charms.

  I drink down half the bottle of water, then dial Sim. Sim Toro was my Princeton roommate, best friend and a fellow writer. Sim writes dark shit, though. Really dark shit. It has yet to catch on with any publishers.

  He lives with me on my Maine estate. Room and board in exchange for working with the muses when I need it. It’s a rough job, but someone has to do it.

  “Hey.” Sim sounds sober, which is a good sign. “You at the airport?”

  “She didn’t show.”

  Sim says nothing for a minute. “Hey, I haven’t heard from her either. Haven’t exactly gone looking for her.”

  I’m not sure I believe that. Sim isn’t overly fond of Annabeth as a person, but he also isn’t known for turning down a piece of ass.

  “Well, if you hear from her can you remind her that she won’t get the bonus if she doesn’t do the book tour? That was part of the job, too, not just fucking you.”

  “Well fucking me is probably more fun than going on a book tour with you.”

  “I’m sure it is. Though I’ve never done the former so I can’t say with absolute certainty.”

  “You’re in a bad mood tonight.”

  “What the fuck, Sim? Half the people in the bookstore walked out when they announced that Annabeth wasn’t there. Only thing that made the evening not a complete waste of time is that I may have found Erica.”

  “Oh? So you’re bringing someone home with you?”

  I hate the interest I hear in Sim’s voice.

  “Maybe. If she takes the job. I’m offering it tonight.”

  “Blonde? Green eyes? Breasts like the buds of an angel?”

  “Yeah.” Sim had read the book’s synopsis. I sigh. “Keep your fingers crossed. It’s far from a done deal. Even if she agrees, she might be too much like Erica to want to stay.”

  “Well, Erica stays in the book. She doesn’t run away from the beast.”

  I can hear the leer in my friend’s voice.

  “Only because I employ my writerly authority to make her stay.”

  “Ah, anyone you find is going to disappoint you. You’re in love with Erica. No one will measure up entirely.”

  “I have to find someone who does. And cut them some slack.”

  “You’re going to have to cut me some slack, too.”

  “How so?’

  Sim laughs. “You really gotta’ ask? How much did it bother you to watch me and Annabeth together?”

  I say nothing.

  “You didn’t give a shit because you didn’t care about that character,” Sim continues. “But you do care about Erica. Unless you’re not going to use me for this book, you can’t lose your shit when I’m touching your gal.”

  It has crossed my mind more than once to not use Sim for this book, for that very reason. Women gravitate to Sim. Women throw themselves at Sim. Even my sister was all, “Say hello to Sim for me.” Would Caterine do that? Throw herself at Sim? Even if she doesn’t, could I stand to watch her—my Erica—with Sim?

  “Maybe the narrator would lose his shit watching it. It’ll deepen the writing.” My words sound false, grasping, even to me.

  And like the friend he was, Sim calls me out on it. He snorts. “I’ll buckle my seatbelt then. This is going to be a bumpy ride.”

  5

  Caterine

  After a massage, a hot stone therapy session, and a mani-pedi, I am so relaxed I can barely stand. My legs feel like rubber, my brain about five seconds from shutting down entirely. If this is how the other half lives, I could get used to it. Obviously, I was some pampered lady of the aristocracy in a past life.

  A spa assistant escorts me back to the dressing room where I left my clothes. Sitting on the padded bench are two white handled shopping bags. I peek inside one and find my sundress, sneakers and p
anties neatly folded. In the other bag are someone else’s things.

  I dress and take the second bag out to the spa desk.

  “Excuse me,” I say when the receptionist hangs up the phone. “This was left in my changing room by mistake.”

  “No mistake, dear. They’re from Mr. White. I have strict instructions not to let you leave unless you are wearing them.”

  “Oh.” Alaric White had bought me clothes? That was weird, and entirely unnecessary.

  I return to the dressing room and empty the other bag. Inside are a pale green strapless dress, silver heeled sandals and lacey white panties. My eyes widen when I peek at the tag on the underwear. The price has been discreetly removed but I recognize the brand. This tiny slip of underwear cost more than most of the clothing I own, shoes and coats included.

  He bought me underwear. Now that is definitely weird. I hope he paid a hotel employee, female preferably, to go shopping for him. I contemplate just not changing. Who the hell is he to tell me what to wear? What would the woman at the spa desk do? Physically restrain me? Call security?

  Excuse me, there’s a women refusing to change into the new underwear some rich dude bought for her.

  But Alaric White seems like a man used to getting his way in all things. Plus, there is the matter of the job. I really do need a job and at this point I am willing to settle for something not exactly in my field. A research assistant position? I could do that easily. I have a master’s in library science. I know my way around research. If a piece of information exists, I can find it.

  I strip out of my old dress and underwear, then slide the panties up my legs. I crane my neck to look at my backside. There’s almost no point in even wearing them, they cover so little.

  What kind of a job interview is this going to be? Do authors have casting couches, too?

  The thought should terrify me. But strangely it doesn’t. I will, of course, embarrass myself if things come to that. My experience is no match for a man like Alaric White. Zoe might be able to handle someone like that, but not me. Not in my wildest dreams.

  I pull the strapless dress on over my head, adjusting the fitted bodice over my chest, then slip on the sandals. I inspect myself in the mirror. His personal shopper—I pray it was a personal shopper—had managed to pick out a dress that is perfectly suited to my figure.