by Marina Adair
Her parents were amazing, even taking her to Heritage Camp when Mila started having questions about her Vietnamese heritage. Camp was where Mila met other kids just like her, Asian born and American raised by white parents. Ronald and Joyce went above and beyond to make sure Mila felt understood, accepted, and from-the-heart cherished.
Now it was her turn. Because, while most of her friends’ parents were in their forties, Ronald and Joyce were in their seventies. Too sharp and active to go into assisted living, but too old to take care of a two-story house on an acre lot, which they weren’t quite ready to let go of.
They’d asked for one more Christmas in the house and Mila would do anything in her power to make that happen. Even if it meant moving back to her small hometown.
But with the holiday season officially here, Mila’s heart began to ache. Some of her best memories were tied to that house. The thought of someone else living there, painting over the height charts penciled on the kitchen doorjamb, tearing down walls, updating, renovating—all the things that came with the invention of DIY television. It made her sick.
What would happen to the original 1930 enamel-blue cast-iron stove her grandmother had received as a wedding present? Mila understood that sometimes to move forward, one had to let go. Didn’t mean she had to like it.
As an adoptee, Mila took comfort in predictability. As an artist, repetition drove her batty. Which brought her to the next step. The biggest, scariest step. And that made her nervous. Very nervous.
Ford James.
Even after all these years, his name made her heart flutter. Stupid heart.
She glanced around the bar, noticing that Step Three was thankfully absent. After sustaining a permanent kink in her neck from craning to watch the front door, she’d decided to bribe the bouncer, Butch Burns, with one of Nan’s famous pumpkin pies from the Corner Café if he signaled her when Ford showed.
If he showed.
He would. This was his kind of event—right down to the former football team playing darts and the sheer number of sexy, single, scantily-clad females.
This is a bad idea, Mila thought, and grabbed her purse to leave. “It’s getting late. My sweats and a bowl full of Halloween candy are calling my name.”
“Oh no you don’t. It’s almost midnight and this is your do-over. Your last chance to change your destiny. Take life by the horns,” Kira said.
“Did that once,” Mila said. “And seven years later, I’m still living in my childhood bedroom and drawing on walls.”
Okay, so she’d moved up from walls to windows. In fact, she’d created the Halloween-inspired mural on the windows that spanned the tavern’s front. It had taken her a solid week to complete, landed her two new customers, and she was proud of the end result. But she wasn’t exactly living the dream.
Mila was still paying off student loans from one of the top art schools in the country, yet she painted storefronts for a living. When she’d opened her mural-for-hire company, First Impressions, it was a short-term solution to a challenging problem. A Band-Aid really, to hold her over until she felt comfortable getting back to her dream of being a set designer.
Not that she didn’t enjoy creating seasonal storefront art for the shops and restaurants downtown, but her life wasn’t where she’d imagined it would be at twenty-five. It was as if, at some point, she’d mistakenly turned right instead of left and ended up back where she’d started.
“Aw,” Kira sighed. “It’s your golden anniversary. Seven years after your Seven Minutes in Heaven.”
“I think that only works for birthdays,” Mila pointed out. “And what do you want me to do? Next time I see him, drag him into the nearest closet for a replay?”
“Guys dig chicks who make a bold first move,” the boldest musketeer said. Dakota was fearless, badass, and made bold look sexy. Her cocky, take-charge attitude was equal parts impressive and intimidating.
Mila didn’t even know what badass and bold looked like on her, let alone know how to pull it off without appearing desperate. She wouldn’t go so far as to say she had zero plays in the pickup game, but putting herself out there had never been easy. Especially when it came to someone who acted as if that kiss had never happened.
“Being bold didn’t really work out for me last time.” Not in the long run anyway.
“That’s because you were a non-believer when you said the words. You tempted fate.” Kira whispered the last part, as if “the curse” was contagious and would somehow infect her if spoken aloud.
“Or you did it wrong,” Dakota said.
“Why is it always the woman’s fault?” Because Mila had been a believer. Past tense.
She’d bought the town legend, hook, line and sinker. Listened to her family’s stories about destiny and true love. Now she was older, wiser, and ignored her romantic side, even when it was the hard thing to do. Because her sensible side had never let her down.
“Well, there were two of you in that closet, and Ford James doesn’t seem to have a string of bad kisses on his record,” Kira said. “In fact, according to Instagram, he holds the title for best kisser in town. It’s said his lips are like pillows. The expensive kind.”
Didn’t Mila know it. Sometimes, late at night, her body still tingled from those seven lip-cocked minutes in heaven. Too bad they’d been followed by nearly a decade of hellishly bad kisses.
Every relationship since had been plagued by one bad kisser after another. The tonsil licker, the teeth bumper, the face grabber, even the cobra. Kissing had ruined every relationship she’d ever had—including with her most recent ex.
She’d dated Leo, been in love with Leo, then sadly ended it with Leo when it became apparent that he was always going to be a consent seeker.
Mila was all for clarifying boundaries, even thought it romantic. At first. But asking for consent to kiss her while she was in the throes of an orgasm was the last straw. She’d settled in her career, but she wasn’t going to settle in love.
Leo consented to an amicable breakup; Mila moved out and came up with her multi-tiered plan to break the curse. Kiss Ford again, then move on.
That had been two years and a bazillion missed opportunities ago. Either Ford was dating someone or Mila would lose her courage.
Ridiculous. Surely, she’d embellished the power of that teenage kiss.
“I’ve seen better,” she lied.
“I’m with M, on this,” Dakota said. “I don’t think Ford’s all that. Now his twin? Yummy. I’ve always had a thing for bad boys. Tall, dark, dangerous, rough around the edges, and a troublemaker. Hudson fits the bill.”
“I didn’t say I preferred his twin!”
Hell no! Hudson James was the exact opposite of what Mila was looking for. He always made her nervous, the kind of nervous that had her stomach drop and her palms sweat whenever he was around. And since her dad used to hire him to do odd jobs, he was around a lot while she was growing up. Mowing the lawn, trimming the trees, helping decorate the house during the holidays.
And with Joyce Cramer, decorating was a world-class event. She should have been a set designer for Hollywood. Her creations were legendary, keeping the power company in business and drawing spectators from three counties over.
“I’m not into alphas,” Mila said. She’d dated enough to know that the fantasy was much nicer than the reality.
Kira sighed. “He’s a war hero.”
Great, he was probably even more dangerous and brooding now. “I’m into softer, sweeter guys.”
“Guys like Ford?”
Guys like her dad, who were gentle natured, emotionally mature, and had a steady nine-to-five. Guys who read more than Hot Rod magazine, preferred a lighthearted comedy to an action flick, and possessed a wardrobe that extended beyond faded rock T-shirts and leather jackets.
A guy whose kiss was magical enough to break the curse.
When a dreamy sigh slipped out, Dakota lifted a brow. “I thought you were over Ford. Moved on.”
“I have. He’s a means to an end. Nothing more.”
“Then why do you wake up at five AM so you can get your coffee at the exact time he gets to work every day?”
“The Corner Café has the best coffee in town.” That didn’t mean she didn’t admire his butt every time he walked into the courthouse. “And I’m most creative in the morning.”
“Bullshit,” Dakota coughed. “You’re a night owl who’s broken three alarm clocks in the past year alone. Admit it—you’re still mooning over a guy you haven’t said more than ‘boo’ to in the past decade.”
“We’ve talked.” It was a year ago and she literally said, “Good work. Keep it up.”
He’d smiled awkwardly, as if he still wasn’t sure how they knew each other.
“And I was just pointing out the right kind of man for me.” Who was not, not, some guy who’d kissed her one minute, then went bobbing for Abigail Anderson’s apples the next. “Plus, he’s dating the file clerk at City Hall.”
“The redhead?” Kira shook her head. “They broke up. He’s s-i-n-g-l-e.”
“He is?” Dammit, she must have sounded too eager, because her friends exchanged a look. “Not that it matters. Means to an end,” she repeated. “And he’s dated nearly every single woman in town, which is in direct violation of article F on my list.”
“She’s talking about her Mr. Perfect list again.” Dakota rolled her eyes.
“Not Perfect, Right.” Mila didn’t believe in the concept of perfect, but when it came to finding a partner she wanted to do it right. Hence, the list. She flipped to the correct page and read aloud, “ ‘Decisiveness. A trait that separates a man from a boy. A boy flounders, directionless. A man knows what he wants and goes after it.’ ”
Dakota laughed. “That man does not exist.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. But it’s important to put out to the universe what you want and then visualize it.”
Kira threw her hands in the air. “That’s exactly what the legend says.”
The legend relied on romantic concepts like destiny and fate. Mila’s plan was all about preparation and execution. Actionable milestones.
Painting outside the lines was great when it came to art, but in real life she wanted the safe bet, so she’d come up with a Mr. Right list. A detailed guide that outlined the traits and qualities of her perfect fit. It was solid, logical, something quantifiable and tangible.
An approach that wouldn’t shatter her heart.
It listed seven traits that were crucial in a partner. Which brought her to the next step in her plan:
KISS FORD AND BREAK THE CURSE.
As soon as she got this kiss over with, the curse would be lifted and maybe, just maybe, she could get on with her life.
“We’re twenty-five. Aren’t we too old to believe in fairy tales and legends?”
“What? Curses don’t count?” Dakota asked. It was a question Mila refused to answer, so she took a big sip of her Poison Appletini. Dakota laughed. “That’s what I thought.”
“We’re never too old for fairy tales, but we are all too old to still be single. Plus, I have a good feeling about it this time.” Kira tapped the middle of her forehead. “Third eye.”
“Just because you’re dressed like a fortune-teller doesn’t mean you have the Sight,” Dakota pointed out.
“I come from a long line of fortune-tellers. Plus, my aunt Rose has the Sight and said if I could just focus, I’d have it too.” Kira put her hand on Mila’s arm, closed her eyes, and began humming.
“Just say the stupid spell so she’ll shut up.”
“Fine,” Mila said. “Not that I put any stock in it.” However, there was still a part of her, the naïve, shy teenager, who wanted to believe that love could really be as easy as chanting a few lines.
It had worked for her parents—forty-nine years of marriage. And all those rom-com movies couldn’t be wrong. Nora Ephron wouldn’t lie about something as important as love.
With a defeated sigh, Mila looked at the mirror behind the bar and admired her mural one last time. In just a few days it would be erased—just like her dignity.
“If you’re going to do it, you might want to do it fast,” Kira said. “You only have a minute or so before midnight and then you’ll miss your window and have to wait another whole year.”
Mila wasn’t about to put her life on hold any longer. So when the pumpkin started its descent and the crowd began the countdown, Mila squeezed her eyes shut, so tight little white orbs appeared. In a low voice that only she could hear, she said, “Mirror, mirror on Halloween, will my future spouse be seen?”
And just like seven years ago, she felt a warm glow fill her chest. She held on to the feeling for a moment, relished what it was like to still believe in such things, then opened her eyes right as the countdown hit one.
She stared into the mirror. Waiting. Searching. For what, she wasn’t sure. But suddenly it felt as if her life was about to change. As if the planets were aligning and Fate herself had come down to give Mila a big high five.
Only the longer she stared, the harder it was to see anything. The cheers and clapping around her faded, the warm glow grew stronger, and, for a moment, she had to admit that she wanted to be a believer again. But as the seconds passed and the glow faded, she realized that, once again, she’d been a fool.
“Told you. No truth to it. Just stupid folklore.”
“What about before, when you saw Ford’s face in your compact?” Kira asked, a flicker of romantic hopefulness in her eyes.
“I was a kid, with a huge crush, who saw what I wanted to see,” she said, surprised at the disappointment knotting her belly. “Now, can I go home and put on my sweats? If I wait too long, my dad will polish off all the good stuff and I’ll be left with Whoppers and raisins.”
“Oh my God,” Kira whispered, smacking Mila on the arm. “Butch Burns is signaling you.”
“He is not. He’s probably—” Mila turned and—oh, holy Saints, each and every ghoulish one! In the reflection of her Poison Appletini glass a flicker of a figure appeared.
Mila squinted, leaned closer, and—her heart fluttered to a stop. Because right there, as clear as a bottle of vodka, was a chiseled jaw, crooked smile, and pair of piercing blue eyes staring back at her through a black mask.
“Guys,” she whispered, afraid if she spoke too loud, the apparition would disappear. “Look at this.”
Only before they turned the mirage vanished, leaving nothing but the green-apple garnish.
“No, Mila. You need to look at this,” Kira said. “Your Westley just walked in, and he’s headed this way.”
Chapter 2
Mila’s heart kicked hard, and she began sweating in uncomfortable places. Westley wasn’t just headed their way. He was headed her way.
The black Dread Pirate Roberts mask concealed his expression, but Mila would recognize those piercing blues anywhere. And that grin, whoa, baby, she didn’t remember it being quite so mesmerizing. Or him being quite so big.
Everywhere, she thought, giving him a once-over—three times.
Even though his costume covered him from head to toe, the shirt hugged his broad shoulders and chest to perfection and the leather belt cinched in his waist, hinting at the washboard abs beneath. Don’t even get her started on how well he filled out those pants.
Breathe. Remember to breathe.
His long legs ate up the space between them faster than she could formulate her opening line. Or any line for that matter.
“Buttercup,” he said, and she had to take a moment. That too-husky-to-be-anyone-but-a-James voice always left her tongue-tied. Staring up at six feet and four inches of pure testosterone and unadulterated male made it worse.
“Buttercup?” he said again, and she realized she was staring at his lips. Busted.
“Can I help you?” she asked and, wow, she hadn’t meant to sound so irritated. After all, he was the reason she’d come. But there was an edge to him tonight that rubbed her wrong. Or ma
ybe it rubbed her all too right—and wasn’t that problematic?
“Depends on what you’re offering,” he said, not looking irritated in the least. “I imagine it’s something good, since Butch said you’ve been waiting for me all night.”
She craned her neck to peer over Ford’s shoulder and saw the bouncer, waving his hands as if to get her attention. “He’s here,” Butch hollered over the crowd, then pointed at Ford before giving a double thumbs-up.
Mila thumbs-upped back, but the gesture lacked Butch’s enthusiasm. Ford’s grin, on the other hand, was equal parts amusement and smugness.
Mila hopped off the barstool, a mistake, since it was hard to appear tough and in charge when forced to look all the way up at someone. Especially when that someone made her feel like an awkward teenager again. One grin and her heart raced, her lips tingled, and her chest gave this annoying little flutter.
Treacherous chest. It had missed the “means to an end” memo. She wasn’t looking for tingles or flutters or happily ever afters. At least not courtesy of him.
“You.” She glared and poked his pec—her finger bounced back. “Me. Coat closet. Now.”
“As you wish,” he said, his lips quirking.
Without another word, he calmly started across the tavern, leaving her to follow, his cape billowing behind him. He moved like a matador, confident, graceful—deadly.
She had to sprint to catch up, barely passing him by as they reached the closet. She wasn’t about to kowtow, to him or any man. But especially him, not after he’d barely acknowledged her for all these years.
To change her destiny, she needed to be bold, badass, a real take-charge-and-mean-it kind of woman.
Shoulders back, she grabbed for the door handle before he could and yanked it open. He chuckled behind her, which she ignored, as badasses do, and she ushered him inside.
If she’d thought he was big before, he seemed larger than life now. He had to dip his head to make it under the doorframe. Once inside, his body seemed to expand to take up all the space. Mila had to suck in just to avoid pressing up against him when she closed the door.