Vote Then Read: Volume II

by Lauren Blakely

  Or really, it’s more like a plummet with a follow-up face-plant on my desk. “Seriously?” I moan.

  Lola nods and pats my hand. “Sorry, sweetie. I just heard.”

  I pout. “Ugh. I’m glad you hear everything, but just . . . ugh. I tried so hard.”

  “You did. And I bet you were amazing.”

  Amazing.

  There’s a word that gets tossed around a lot.

  You look amazing.

  Lunch was amazing.

  This weather was amazing.

  It loses its punch. Its oomph.

  But when Lola says “amazing,” it feels like the dictionary definition. I did feel amazing in there. I marched into the conference room in black stilettos and a cape, and I delivered a pitch for the ages.

  So, I lift my face, meet my friend’s gaze, and erase the glum in my voice, speaking from my vulnerable heart. “I’m disappointed, but I’m not going to stop going after what I want. If the only thing to come of this is that I’ve become better at selling myself, then it was worth it.”

  Her smile is magnetic. “It was worth it. Now take your medicine, and we will go out tonight and develop a new plan. That also means don’t be ditching me for a boy.”

  “I’m all yours tonight, you cocksucker.”

  She points at me. “You’re the cocksucker these days.”

  “And I love it.”

  I take a sip of my vanilla latte and lean back in my chair, wishing things were different. But I’m also happy that some things are exactly as they were when I woke up this morning.

  Wait. Make that better.

  Because being in love trumps everything else.

  Lola leaves, and I return to my workload, powering through manuscripts as I’ve always done, taking notes, looking for the next big thing.

  Until my phone rings.

  It’s Tiffany Chilton asking if I can come to her office.

  This day, I swear.

  Amy

  Here I go again.

  Another chair. Another impromptu meeting. Another boss type.

  But this boss type is my favorite, I’ve learned in the last week. She’s warm and supportive and sharp.

  Tiffany ushers me into her office, telling me to sit, sit, sit.

  The woman looks like she’s about to burst.

  I do as she instructs, parking my butt in the chair where she points.

  She sits next to me, takes a deep breath, and blurts out, “I’m so excited for this.” She flaps her hands in front of her face. “I had to go work out at lunch to burn off my nerves, but I’m so flipping excited.”

  Color me flummoxed. “About hiring Madison? She’s great. I’d be excited too. She’s a true talent.” And I mean it completely.

  Tiffany grins knowingly. “She is, and we’re thrilled to bring her on board. But I would never call you to my office to gloat about someone else.”

  “Then what am I here for?” I ask carefully.

  “Because I’m going to gloat about you.”

  “You are?” I ask, still unsure where this is going.

  Her delight stitches her smile. “Amy, do you remember when we talked last week?”

  “Of course.” How could I forget? It was only a few days ago.

  “And at the party too? Where you joked about your book ideas?”

  “Sure.”

  “But they aren’t jokes,” she says, dead serious. “They’re brilliant.”

  The hair on my arms stands on end. “They are?”

  “Your ideas are fantastic. Cats Who Think They’re Dogs, Better Than a Vanilla Latte, and, of course, Sex and Other Shiny Objects.”

  “You like them?” This is quite a fork in the road.

  “I love them,” she clarifies. “I don’t know if the finished books will be like your pitches exactly, because books tend to take on lives of their own as authors craft them. But we want to start pursuing those ideas, and we’d like you to oversee them as an editor.”

  Is the sky raining gold coins?

  Is this office made of rainbows?

  Because holy dreams-I-didn’t-even-admit-I-had coming true. “You do?”

  “Yes. I know that’s a lot to take on and you’ve been a junior editor, but we believe in your talent, and we’d like to move you into a newly created position as editor-at-large. You’ll still work on your existing projects, but you’ll also work closely with me on this line of books, finding authors for them, editing them, helping to develop the ideas. There will be a raise of course. Together, we’d shepherd them into the marketplace. That’s why I’m so excited. I’d love to work directly with you.”

  “I’d love to work with you too, Tiffany,” I say, bursting with excitement. “You’re fantastic. A true cape-power woman.”

  “I don’t know what that is, but it sounds like a compliment.”

  “One of the highest order.”

  “And you’d work with me, not Linc. There won’t be a need for a senior editor on this line, since it’s so new. But I think Madison would be a great person when we need an additional point of view.”

  “Madison is fantastic,” I say.

  “Perfect. Then we’ll start developing the concepts on later this week. Assuming you accept?”

  She’s nervous.

  And I realize something even more wonderful—I’m not the only one who believes in me.

  This woman I admire does too, and has for some time. Knowing that is indeed amazing.

  “I’d love to.”

  That night, I go out with my friends, and we celebrate at Gin Joint. We toast to work and dreams and love and friendship.

  As she knocks back a Hush Money cocktail, Peyton laughs, then she gasps with excitement. “I just remembered. I have to tell you this crazy story. I stopped at Tristan’s before I came here, and he told me about this couple who had been in, and they spent the entire meal at the bar working on their list of kinky things they want to try in the bedroom.” She flicks some strands of red hair then absently shakes her mane the slightest bit.

  I shoot Lola a knowing look.

  She nods equally knowingly back at me.

  “What? What was that look for?” Peyton asks, narrowing her eyes.

  Lola and I smile, then I say, “Shampoo commercial.”

  “What does that mean?” Peyton asks.

  “Look at yourself. You’re back in shampoo-commercial mode.” I gesture to her getup: short skirt, fabulous Ferragamos, long dangling earrings. “The heels, the lush hair, the mascara. I bet you’re wearing La Perla too.”

  She tsks. “I always wear La Perla.”

  “But you don’t always wear heels. You don’t always have that just-stepped-out-of-a-salon hair. So, is something going on with Tristan?” Lola inquires, never one to beat around the bush.

  Peyton gives us a look. The look that says we’re crazy. “Guys. C’mon. He’s just a good friend.”

  Lola draws a circle with her finger in Peyton’s direction. “Is he the reason you’re starting to look like your stylish and sassy self again?”

  She crosses her arms, daring us to throw down. “What are you trying to say?”

  Lola looks to me, and I shrug mischievously, then say, “I think what we’re saying is you’re ready.” I take a beat. “Are you ready?”

  Peyton takes a deep breath then nods. “I think I am ready to get back out there. And yes, fine, maybe I have put back on my ‘I’m ready’ uniform of heels and long hair. But, for the record, nothing is going on with Tristan whatsoever. He’s only a friend.”

  “And he’s a good guy,” I add. “I’m glad you have a good guy friend.”

  “I kind of missed being able to talk to him like this when I was with Gage. I mean, don’t get me wrong—I wasn’t longing for him while I was with someone else, and I’m definitely not longing for him now. But I do love the freedom to chat with him whenever I want. It’s been . . .” She looks away as if searching for the right way to phrase it. “Enjoyable.”

  “Enjoyable—sounds
like someone is hedging her bets,” Lola teases.

  Peyton rolls her eyes and smacks Lola’s knee. “If you would just let me finish the story about the restaurant. So the couple at the bar had their whole list of kinky things they wanted to try: blindfolding, handcuffing, candle wax dripping, flogging. They wrote it all down as they were waiting for their food. Marked the ones they liked, crossed off the ones they didn’t. And in the end, they picked a safe word too. They picked it when Tristan was flipping a burger. Guess what the safe word was?”

  “Burger?” I ask, hoping that’s not anyone’s safe word.

  Peyton smiles like she’s holding back, then bursts out with “Spatula!”

  We all crack up. “Spatula is the worst safe word ever,” I say. “But have you considered that maybe the guy was going to spank the gal with a spatula?”

  “Ouch!” Lola says, wincing.

  “Is that from experience?”

  “Girl, spatulas hurt, and I don’t mean hurt so good.”

  Peyton clinks glasses with Lola, then me. “Let’s drink to spatulas used for burgers and not for safe words or spanking.”

  “Amen,” I say.

  We drink, and Peyton sighs happily. “I feel so much better than I did the last time we were here.”

  “That calls for another round,” I say.

  After we order, Peyton picks up her phone and mutters that she needs to answer a text from Tristan.

  While she types, I whisper to Lola, “It’s so obvious.”

  “Like lipstick on a collar,” she whispers back.

  Something is brewing between Peyton and her best guy friend, and I can’t wait till she figures it out.

  For now, I don’t ask again if she’s into him. I can tell she’s still not ready to share that or, frankly, to face it.

  She’ll only be ready in her own due time—for spatulas and safe words and friendship that might become more.

  When we’re heading out, Truly calls me over to the bar. “How’s it going, being queen of your domain?”

  “I’m getting a tiara. I channeled you, and I got a new job,” I say, still beaming from today as I give her the highlights.

  “Rock star,” she says. “Take a curtsy, please.”

  “If you insist,” I say, then do as instructed.

  “And I also insist on you coming to a costume party I’m hosting here in a few weeks. It’s a fundraiser for some animal rescues in the city.”

  “I’m RSVPing right now, and I already know who I want to be,” I say, then I head home to see my dog.

  And my guy.

  Because on the way, I call Linc.

  “Hey, Clark Kent. You better get your butt to my place or else.”

  “Or else what?”

  “Just ‘or else.’”

  “Hmm. Is this a good ‘or else’ or a bad ‘or else’?”

  “It’s a naked ‘or else,’” I say.

  Fifteen minutes later, he’s waiting on the stoop when I reach my block.

  He meets my gaze, looking as cool and sexy as a hero in a book when he says, “Hey, Betty Boop. What’s entailed in a naked ‘or else’?”

  I sidle up to him, setting a hand on his firm chest. “Or else I was going to come to you, strip you naked, and reward you for being so hot and sexy by getting on my knees.”

  “That doesn’t feel like a traditional ‘or else.’ Feels like either way, I’m winning.”

  “That’s why I knew you’d like my naked ‘or else’ demands.”

  When we’re inside my place, I strip him to nothing and drag my fingers down his body, savoring his muscles, his strength. Taking him in my mouth, I give him his reward.

  It feels like mine too, because I love giving him pleasure.

  He’s given me so much.

  And he rewards me tonight too, flopping to his back, pulling me onto his face, and devouring me until I’m lost in the sensations that wash over me.

  Afterward, we curl up, arms and legs tangled together.

  “Have you ever wanted to try dripping candle wax on me?” I ask.

  He laughs. “No, but if you want to, I’m game.”

  Laughing, I shake my head. “Nah, I’m good with the hair pulling and the occasional spanking.”

  “Occasional Spanking,” he muses. “Is that going to be a title in your new line of books?”

  I drag my nails down his chest. “No, but that would be a good chapter heading.”

  He wraps an arm around me. “You and your crazy ideas. So many of them are really good.”

  I prop my chin in my hand and regard the man next to me. “You’re a good idea. Like banana bread.”

  “You’re a great idea, Amy,” he says, brushing his soft lips over mine and kissing me tenderly, lovingly.

  I murmur as he bestows gentle, open-mouthed kisses across my neck, my shoulders, and up to my earlobe. Shivers dance across my body as he maps my skin.

  This man gets me.

  In every way.

  When he stops, I frown. “Don’t stop kissing me. Don’t you know I’m an attention monster?”

  As if on cue, Inspector Poirot leaps onto the bed, tail wagging, tongue lolling as he burrows between us, flips to his back, and offers a belly for petting.

  “Fine, he’s the real attention monster,” I say.

  “He takes after you.”

  “And I take that as a compliment.”

  Linc draws me closer in his arms, his free hand petting my dog.

  I regard the two men in my bed. Could this have worked out any better? My guy and my pup. I run my hand down Linc’s chest. “Question for you.”

  “Hit me.”

  “Is it possible to get the guy and the gig and the friends and the dog and this awesome life? I’m not asking for a friend.”

  He grins and drops a kiss to my lips. “You know the answer.”

  The answer is yes.

  I’m living it, and I’m glad I asked for me.

  Epilogue

  Linc

  I don’t normally wear contacts, but when I do, I rock them.

  Especially when I add a leather jacket, black jeans, a bunch of rings, and a pocket chain thingy, which Baldwin insisted was the height of costume fashion.

  The man knows what he’s talking about.

  I drag my hands through my hair, making it puffy, as Amy likes to say.

  Because tonight, I’m Dax Powers.

  As I regard myself in the mirror, I can see the resemblance. Maybe I even owe my cartoon doppelgänger my thanks, because if it wasn’t for him, I’m not sure I would have found my way to Amy Summers.

  But then, it seems impossible that I wouldn’t have.

  Amy enchanted me from the get-go, and everything about us feels inevitable. Especially when I pick her up for the costume party and nearly stumble against the wall when I see her.

  I’m gobsmacked.

  She’s full-on Betty Boop, if Betty Boop were a strapless-leather-dress-wearing vixen. With pink thigh-high boots.

  She holds a slice of cake. “How’s the resemblance?”

  “Uncanny, and it’s turning me on so much that I think I do have to address my cartoon sexual reawakening issues,” I say.

  “We can do that after the party. Also, have I ever told you how glad I am that you’re Dax Powers?”

  I smile. “Only nearly every day.”

  She pouts.

  I slide a hand around her waist and kiss her. “And it never gets old hearing it, Betty Boop.”

  At the costume party, we mingle with her friends and mine and ours.

  Baldwin is dressed in flannel as a lumberjack, complete with a few days’ growth of beard across his jaw. He drapes an arm around me and another around Amy. “And tonight, I do believe I’ve met my Prince Charming,” he says, gesturing with his eyes across the bar to some guy who looks like . . . hell if I know.

  But Amy does. She bounces in her pink boots. “That’s Flynn Rider. He’s perfect for you, Baldwin.”

  My friend stares at the man
as if hypnotized. “I know. Believe you me, I know. I’ve had a crush on Flynn Rider forever, and I’m going to take him home tonight.”

  He leaves us and makes his way to the man across the room.

  “I can’t wait for the Flynn Rider report,” she says, then brings me to the bar to meet her brother and his fiancée. We chat for a bit about movies and books, and then Amy introduces me to Quinn when she arrives.

  She’s dressed in silver, with her belly a sparkly disco ball. “I’m getting rounder by the hour, it seems,” she says, rubbing her glittery center of gravity.

  Her husband, Vaughn, is decked out in seventies Saturday Night Fever garb. “The countdown is on. The hospital bag is packed. We’re ready for when the baby says go.”

  “Because my sister packed the bag seven months ago?” Amy asks.

  Vaughn shoots her you can’t be serious look. “Don’t you know your sister? She prepped an overnight bag a few hours after the positive test.”

  Quinn rolls her eyes. “Did not. A few hours after the test, I was tracking you down and delivering news you never expected.”

  He smiles at her like he’s the happiest guy. “The best news ever.”

  Amy pokes Vaughn’s arm. “You better call me the second the baby is born. Promise me you will. I need to come to the hospital right away and start spoiling my niece or nephew.”

  “That’s a promise. I know it’ll mean the world to Quinn,” Vaughn says to Amy, then kisses his wife’s cheek.

  When the party ends, Amy and I walk through the streets of Manhattan, talking about the best costumes of the night and what we’d want to wear next time.

  Because there will be a next time.

  And another.

  And another.

  That’s the best part of us. Every night with her feels like a new chapter in a fantastic book.

  But every night also feels like another stop on the train ride we’ve been on from the start.

  Only, I have a feeling it’s going to speed up and make its way to a brand-new destination very soon.

  I make a note to go shopping.

  And to go shopping soon.

  Another Epilogue

  Baldwin