by Elise Noble
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1 - Imogen
Chapter 2 - Imogen
Chapter 3 - Imogen
Chapter 4 - Imogen
Chapter 5 - Imogen
Chapter 6 - Imogen
Chapter 7 - Imogen
Chapter 8 - Imogen
Chapter 9 - Imogen
Chapter 10 - Imogen
Chapter 11 - Malachi
Chapter 12 - Malachi
Chapter 13 - Malachi
Chapter 14 - Malachi
Chapter 15 - Emmy
Chapter 16 - Emmy
Chapter 17 - Emmy
Chapter 18 - Imogen
Chapter 19 - Imogen
Chapter 20 - Malachi
Chapter 21 - Imogen
Chapter 22 - Malachi
Chapter 23 - Imogen
Chapter 24 - Imogen
Epilogue - Imogen
What's next?
What's next?
What's next?
Want to stalk me?
End of book stuff
Other books by Elise Noble
LEAD
Elise Noble
Published by Undercover Publishing Limited
Copyright © 2019 Elise Noble
v5
ISBN: 978-1-910954-97-3
This book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.
Edited by Amanda Ann Larson
www.undercover-publishing.com
www.elise-noble.com
For Taura.
CHAPTER 1 - IMOGEN
“SO LET ME get this straight,” Stefanie said to me as I sank onto one of the white leather couches in her living room. “Jean-Luc invited you out for dinner and then expected you to entertain his girlfriend?”
“Well, technically it wasn’t dinner. It was a cooking contest, and we got to sample some of the dishes.”
Stef rolled her eyes. “Imogen, that’s not the point I was trying to make.”
I knew that. Of course I knew that. But trying to avoid the real issue—that Jean-Luc had invited me on what I thought was a date but which turned out to be definitely not a date made my disappointment easier to bear. Okay, it didn’t, but I had to try, right?
Probably I should start at the beginning, shouldn’t I? My name’s Imogen Blair, and I’m unlucky in love. And lust, and like, and anything else that might happen with a man. Take the last guy I dated, for instance. Three weeks in, he let slip that he had two kids back in Utah by his ex-girlfriend that he’d just...abandoned. Long-term prospects? Zero. Before that mistake, I’d gone out with a guy whose idea of showing a girl a good time was to take her to his mom’s house for a home-cooked dinner, nod approvingly as Mom interrogated her, then try for third base while they watched a Disney movie in the basement with Mom’s footsteps clomping overhead. Oh, and in a spectacular error of judgement a year ago, I’d gotten cheated on by a suspected drug dealer.
Bad enough, but not as awful as the two years I spent as a call girl. Life had led me down a dark path until that point, and when you’re desperate for money, and your life’s in the toilet, and you’ve watched Pretty Woman more times than was healthy, you’ll do some really, really stupid things. Eventually, I came to my senses and realised a wealthy businessman wasn’t going to buy me jewellery and take me to the opera, so I retired from that “career,” but it turned out that the assholes willing to hook up with a barista or a waitress or a nail technician weren’t any better.
By now, you’re most likely wondering why I bothered dating at all, and believe me, I’d asked myself the same question many times. I guess I just didn’t want to give up on my dream. Two of my friends had recently gotten engaged, and seeing how happy they were gave me hope. Hope that I’d find a man to share my life with. Hope that I could be one half of something special. Hope that I’d get the big white wedding I’d been daydreaming about since I was a little girl.
And then there was Jean-Luc Fortier, a pastry chef who worked at Rhodium, one of the restaurants part-owned by Stef’s fiancé, Oliver. I’d worked there for a while too until I started my own nail salon, and even now I still did the occasional evening shift when things were slow at the Nailed It, which had the added bonus of letting me spend time with Monsieur Fortier. The perfect man—soft brown eyes, long, elegant fingers, and a French accent that made me shiver. Kind, sexy, and generous with the free cakes and pastries. So what was the problem? Well, he’d friend-zoned me from the moment he first showed me around the restaurant, and I’d been trying to clamber out of that box ever since.
Setbacks such as Jean-Luc casually mentioning his latest girlfriend left me depressed, even if his girlfriends never seemed to last for long, and that was when I did dumb things like going speed-dating or hooking up with a bartender who expected me to bow down to his four-inch dick. Stupid, stupid Imogen. After this latest debacle, with my judgement so badly impaired, I’d have to be careful not to sleep with a serial killer like Stef accidentally did.
“Have you got any wine?” I asked. I couldn’t go out with an idiot if I was unconscious, could I?
Stef regarded me doubtfully. “Are you sure that’s the answer?”
“I’m not sure about anything anymore.”
Roxy glided across the room, so elegant and six inches taller than me. “No wine. You need to find a better man than Jean-Luc. One who doesn’t send mixed signals then invite you along as the third-wheel.”
“It was probably my fault for misunderstanding.”
“What exactly did he say?”
“That he was taking part in La Parade des Chefs and would I like to come and watch?”
“No mention of a girlfriend?”
“Nope.”
“Are you sure?” Stef asked.
“I think I’d remember.”
“That’s... That’s so…so rude.”
“Perhaps I should’ve asked? And besides, Jean-Luc doesn’t know how I feel.”
“Stop making excuses for him. From this moment on, it’s no more Jean-Luc. He’s not good for you, the way he keeps messing you around. We can get our cakes from somewhere else.”
“Claude’s patisserie has a good selection,” Roxy said. “That’s where Gideon always goes.”
Gideon was her ridiculously rich, obscenely hot fiancé, a man way out of my league but perfectly suited to Roxy, a girl who managed to be kind, generous, and beautiful all at the same time. And smart. Did I mention smart? Roxy was training as a neurosurgeon at Richmond General. But today, there was a flaw in her plan.
“I can’t avoid Jean-Luc. He qualified for the final in two weeks time, and I promised I’d go.”
“With the girlfriend?”
“What was I supposed to say? I’d have looked horrible if I’d refused.”
“Is she nice?”
“Marelaine? No, she’s the most self-centred woman I’ve ever met.” And she was a model, a Brazilian version of Roxy in terms of looks, but if Marelaine had any redeeming qualities, I’d yet to find them. She definitely wasn’t the right girl for Jean-Luc. He deserved better. “And her voice is like fingernails on a blackboard.”
“So cancel,” Roxy said. “You don’t need her in your life.”
“Jean-Luc asked me to do her nails tomorrow, and I accidentally agreed.”
&
nbsp; “Accidentally?”
“He smiled at me.”
“Is she paying you for the manicure?”
Of course not. I bit my lip, embarrassed because Stef and Roxy wouldn’t let themselves get walked all over like that.
“Apparently, she’s an influencer on Instagram, and she’ll share a post for the salon.”
“Share a post?” Stef shook her head and blew out a long breath, but then she giggled.
“What’s so funny?”
“This. Jean-Luc’s such an asshole sometimes. I mean, how can he not have noticed that you want to push him back on the counter and lick whipped cream off his naked body? You know what we should do? Find you a much hotter guy and then you can parade him in front of Jean-Luc and see how he likes it.”
“Reverse psychology?” Roxy said. “That might work. Make it clear to him what he’s losing. But is it fair on the guy? Using him to get revenge on Jean-Luc?”
“The main point of this exercise is that Imogen could meet a man who’s even better than Jean-Luc. That way, she’ll realise what she’s missing, and she’ll be so busy having fun with her new beau, she won’t even remember Jean-Luc’s name.”
Did I get any say in this? Stef’s plan had “disaster” written all over it, and I hadn’t even confessed the worst part yet, probably because I’d been in denial over my own stupidity. I buried my head in my hands.
“Uh...”
“What?” Stef asked. “What’s wrong?”
“The hot guy? I only have two weeks to find him.”
“Why? Imogen, what did you do?”
“When Jean-Luc invited me to the second challenge, I lost my mind and asked if I could bring my boyfriend along too.”
I just snapped, okay? After two years of pining over Jean-Luc, the green-eyed monster came out in full force. And unless I was mistaken, there’d been a vague expression of shock on his face when I mentioned bringing a significant other. A slight widening of his eyes followed by a sideways glance at Marelaine. She’d looked surprised too, although perhaps that was because she couldn’t imagine how a girl like me could possibly attract a man.
“And what did he say?” Stef asked.
“That he’d arrange another ticket.” Followed by a nonchalant shrug that I wanted to believe was him trying to deal with my revelation.
“Then we definitely need to find you a date. I wonder if Oliver’s got any hot attorney friends.”
Yes, Stef had landed an attorney. A superstar attorney with an unrivalled record for winning and actual groupies who followed him to court and tossed underwear at him whenever he gave a press conference. I also knew from Stef’s tipsy confessions that Oliver had a filthy streak as wide as the Atlantic, but the best part was that he was an excellent dad to their daughter, Abigail.
When it came to men, Roxy had gotten platinum, Stef scored gold, and I ended up with lead—dull, cheap, and poisonous if you got too close. With my biological clock ticking away, I’d have happily settled for silver or bronze, but even those seemed way out of my reach.
“Can you ask him?”
“As soon as he gets home. How about a paralegal? Would you consider a paralegal?”
“I’d settle for the janitor if he looked good in jeans and knew how to string a sentence together.”
“Gideon might know someone,” Roxy offered. “Although he usually hangs out with politicians.”
I considered that for a second, but only for a second. I drew the line at politicians. In my days at the escort agency, Rubies are a Man’s Best Friend, they were the worst kind of client—arrogant, entitled, and stingy. They never wanted to pay the full price, and they’d quibble over the extras. Like we were supposed to throw in a free blow job just because they’d managed to tell lies convincingly enough to get elected to public office.
“Can we skip the politicians? And the property developers too.” One of those had almost been Stef’s downfall. “Call me overcautious, but I’d rather avoid anyone with ready-made holes for burying my body should a date go fatally wrong.”
“Statistically speaking—” Roxy started.
“I don’t want to be a statistic. I’ve spent enough time hanging out around you guys and Blackwood that I just want a nice, normal guy who doesn’t want to save the world or destroy it either.”
By Blackwood, I meant Blackwood Security, a security and investigation firm based in Richmond and Oliver’s main client. The whole firm seemed to be staffed by the love children of Wonder Woman and Superman, with the offspring of Thor and Charlie’s Angels thrown in for good measure. Once, I’d have gone for the superhero, but I’d heard enough tales from Stef and Roxy about brushes with death and the havoc wreaked by bad guys that I’d changed my mind. If I finally ended up with the right man, I didn’t want to sit at home alone in the evenings wondering whether he’d return on foot or in a body bag. Which was another reason Jean-Luc was perfect. How much harm could he come to in a kitchen? Sure, he nicked his fingers with a knife occasionally, but that wasn’t life-threatening. I just needed to get him to see me as girlfriend material. That was my biggest hurdle.
Which reminded me—I needed to get my hair highlighted again. Jean-Luc had complimented me last time I had it done. He always noticed little things like that.
“So no politicians, no real estate developers, no Blackwood men,” Roxy said. “How about cops? Men in uniform?”
“No cops and no military.” They were just Blackwood lite.
“A fireman?” Stef asked. “A doctor?”
“I guess those would be okay. Bad guys don’t usually shoot at firemen and doctors.”
I’d been out with a doctor a couple of times, one I’d met when Stef got hit by a car and ended up in the hospital. He’d been nice, but I’d had my doubts over whether he was the one, and then he got a new job in Pennsylvania and that was the end of that. He’d refused to stay in Virginia—I wasn’t the kind of girl a man rearranged his life for—and although he suggested I go with him, there was no way I’d ever move to Pittsburgh. Pittsburgh was too close to Cleveland for comfort.
“Roxy?” Stef said. “You work in a hospital. Who’s available?”
“It’s tricky—most of the good ones are married. A new intern just started, but I’m ninety percent sure he’s gay. I’ll check. Someone’ll know for definite.”
Stef bit the corner of her lip, thinking. “Even if he’s gay, couldn’t he just pretend for a day? You know, until the cooking competition’s over?”
“We’re supposed to be finding Imogen a life partner here.”
“What if that’s Jean-Luc?” I asked.
“What if it isn’t?”
Stef sided with Roxy. “I’ll call Oliver and get a list of the single men at Rhodes, Holden and Maxwell.” She patted me on the shoulder. “Don’t worry; we’ll find somebody in time.”
This was what my love life had been reduced to—my two best friends calling around in search of a man who wasn’t either married or gay. If reincarnation existed, next time I’d come back as a nun.
CHAPTER 2 - IMOGEN
“HOW ABOUT THIS one?” I suggested to Marelaine, holding up a bottle of Laguna Dreams nail polish. “The blue would match your eyes.”
Although I swore they glowed red occasionally as the fires of hell glimmered through. So far, she’d insulted the decor in Nailed It (“Did you get the furniture from a discount store?”), my outfit (“The top doesn’t do much for you, chica. You need a good support bra.”), and my accent (“Where did you grow up? Detroit? Did you get shot at often?”), plus she’d rejected every single shade of polish I’d shown her. If she wasn’t careful, she’d be wearing a bottle of Rainbow Shimmer Top Coat as a butt plug.
“I always think blue’s so juvenile, don’t you?”
Can you guess what colour my nails were?
If the salon had been empty, I’d have been tempted to give her a few choice words and kick her scrawny behind out the door, but my two assistants, Lisa and Charlene, both had clients, and
my next appointment was waiting on the pale-grey leather couch by the door. No, diplomacy would have to win today, even if I cracked a tooth keeping my mouth shut.
What the hell did Jean-Luc see in this bitch? She might have been pretty on the outside, but she had an ugly soul. Unfortunately, he did have a tendency to get blinded by aesthetics—every man had a flaw or two, and that was Jean-Luc’s biggest.
“Then how about a French manicure? That’ll emphasise your natural beauty.”
She nodded and huffed as if she was the one doing me the favour by allowing me to touch her talons. I’d wanted to file them shorter—better to stir her cauldron with—but she insisted on keeping them far too long to be practical. The logistics puzzled me. I mean, how did she wipe her ass with those claws?
I worked in blessed silence, willing myself not to smudge anything because that would undoubtedly lead to grumbling and she’d probably report my incompetence back to Jean-Luc too. Why did I let people like her make me feel so inferior? Just because she glided through life on five-inch pumps, looking down on the rest of us, didn’t mean I was any less of a person.
As a teenager, I’d been first runner-up in the Junior Miss Cleveland pageant, but my former job and endless dating disasters had chipped away at my self-confidence until I second-guessed myself on everything. I’d read enough self-help books to know I did it, but changing my ways was a whole other problem.
We always have at least one reason to smile.
The framed quote above Marelaine’s head had been hung there by Bradley, the interior designer Stef had co-opted to fit out the place, and most days, I could think of plenty of reasons to be happy. I loved my job. Opening a nail salon had been my dream for years, and I finally had the freedom of being my own boss.
Cheer up, Imogen.
I pictured Marelaine tripping over on the runway. There, now I felt better.
“All done. Just be careful not to touch them until the polish is completely dry. You’re welcome to wait in the reception area if you want.”