Kiss Me, Stupid
Notting Hill Diaries – Book 4
Shéa R. MacLeod
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Kiss Me, Stupid
Notting Hill Diaries – Book 4
Text copyright © 2015 Shéa MacLeod
Text copyright © 2020 Shéa R. MacLeod
All rights reserved.
Printed in the United States of America.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Cover Art by Tugboat Designs
Editing by Theo Fenraven
Also by Shéa R. MacLeod
Dragon Wars
Dragon Warrior
Dragon Lord
Dragon Goddess
Green Witch
Dragon Corps
Dragon Mage
Dragon's Angel
Notting Hill Diaries
The Art of Kissing Frogs
To Kiss A Prince
Kiss Me, Chloe (Coming Soon)
Kiss Me, Stupid (Coming Soon)
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
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
Epilogue | Six Months Later
About Shéa MacLeod
Other books by Shéa MacLeod/Shéa R. MacLeod
Dedication
This one’s for Dawn.
Chapter 1
“HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DEB!”
Glasses clinked as my friends, already half drunk on Prosecco, giggled their way through their toasts. Please don’t let them mention my age.
“Here’s to another fabulous forty years!”
My cheeks burned. It wasn’t that I didn’t look great for forty. Most people still thought I was about thirty-two. Chalk it up to good genetics and an obsession with skin care. And covering the grays that insisted on popping up in my blonde hair. But did they really need to announce it to the world at large?
“Thanks, ladies,” I said, plastering on a fake smile and an outward calm I didn’t feel.
“Uh-oh,” Kate Wentworth, my former work colleague and good friend said. “I don’t think she likes us mentioning her age.”
Sarah Hastings, my best friend since I moved to London from Brighton twenty years ago, rolled her eyes. We were nearly the same age. She’d recently turned thirty-eight. “Oh, please. You should embrace it, Deb. You look amazing. You have life experience. Own it.”
By “life experience” I was pretty sure she meant sexual experience. Especially with the way she was waggling her eyebrows. It was true, I guess. I had been married, after all. Years ago when I was young and stupid and believed in the whole knight-in-shining-armor thing. He’d been a good man, but that hadn’t been enough for me. Sitting at home with slippers and the paper at the age of twenty-two hadn’t been my idea of fun. Now it was pretty much my life.
“It’s just... I feel old all of a sudden,” I admitted. “I didn’t imagine my life this way.”
“What way?” Kate asked eagerly. “You have a good job. Good friends, if we say so ourselves.” She and Sarah giggled again. “What’s wrong with that?”
I shook my head. “Nothing, I guess. I just wanted... more, you know?”
“Sure,” Sarah said, downing the rest of her Prosecco. “We all wanted more when we were younger, and we all had to come to grips with reality. So what? Cheer up and have another drinkie.” She poured more wine into my glass. I watched the bubbles fizz and dance, a mockery of my mundane life.
“Bull.” Kate reached over and grabbed my hand. “That’s total BS. You want to make your life different. Go for it. Don’t let anyone tell you that you can’t have what you want. You can. Believe me, I know.” She winked at me.
She did know. Kate had recently married the love of her life, Adam Wentworth. Yes. That Adam Wentworth. The famous movie star. Nobody had been more surprised than Kate when Adam had shown interest in her. I got it. Kate was extraordinary, and I was glad she was finally seeing herself the way the rest of us saw her. But there was an extreme shortage of hot movie stars in my life.
“Honestly, I wouldn’t know where to start,” I admitted. “I like the security of my job. I don’t think I could change that.”
“What about hobbies?” Sarah slurred a bit. “You should do that. Get some hobbies.”
“I like photography.”
“Oh my gosh,” Kate gushed. “The pictures you took of my wedding reception were amazing. Sarah, have you seen them?” She pulled out her cell phone and started scrolling through. Two heads, one brown and one red, bent over the phone, oohing and ahhing over the photos I’d taken. I had to admit, they weren’t bad. I’d been pretty proud of the way they’d turned out.
“Oh my gawd, who is that?” Laughing, Sarah pointed to a picture. “She looks like a riot.”
“That’s Mrs. Banjeree, my former downstairs neighbor,” Kate said, holding up the phone so I could see the photo. It showed a pic of round little Mrs. Banjeree mid-dance, her fuchsia and purple sari swirling around her, mouth open as she sang along to the music. It was a great picture.
I watched them as they giggled over the pictures, Kate giving a running commentary on the celebration. A thought hit me. Kate had changed her life. Why couldn’t I?
I WAS STILL ZINGING from the wine buzz when the cab dropped me off at my front door. It had been a good birthday, even if I didn’t want to face the big four-O. I let myself in the small flat and dropped onto the couch. The clock read two in the morning, but I wasn’t quite ready for bed. My mind was still humming with thoughts, ideas, and possibilities.
I wanted more adventure in my life. More excitement. Something totally different. I was tired of the same old routine. How did I figure out what I wanted?
A list. I needed to make a list.
Kicking off my heels, I strolled into the kitchen and rooted around in my junk drawer for a pen and a pad of paper. I grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and curled up again on the couch.
Okay, list. What sort of list?
I tapped the pen against my lower lip. Why not a list of things I loved? My passions. Yes, that was a good start. Question was, what was I passionate about?
Photography, of course. I’d always loved playing around with photos. That went on the list. Travel, naturally. Although I hadn’t travelled nearly as much as I wanted to, I’d always enjoyed the adventure of exploring other cultures and countries. Dancing. I’d always wanted to take dance classes, but I’d never gotten around to it.
On the list went, getting longer and longer. My vision started to blur as the numerous glasses of Prosecco took their toll. The clock read three. With a sigh, I set down the pen and paper and went to get ready for bed. Tomorrow was soon enough to change my life.
Chapter 2
I SQUINTED AGAINST the bright sun that insisted on stabbing at my eyeballs and sending a vicious headache throbbing through my brain. How much wine had I drunk last night? And why had I thought staying up until three was a good idea? I’d managed a whopping four hours of sleep, and there wasn’t enough tea in the world to combat the lagging energy that resulted. I was
getting way too old for this nonsense. Still, it wasn’t every day a person turned forty.
I plopped into my chair at work, eyeing the empty seat that used to be Kate’s. They still hadn’t bothered replacing her, instead heaping her work on top my own. Since we’d both already been doing the work of two or three people, the resulting workload was unbearable. I groaned aloud as I tossed my handbag into my desk drawer. Could this day just end now?
“You’re late.” My boss, Nancy, popped her head into the office.
I squinted at the time on my computer monitor. Five minutes. Well, four, really, since I’d been sitting here for at least a full minute.
“Sorry,” I mumbled, resentment burning a hole in my stomach. The woman was a royal pain in the backside. Her light brown hair was pulled back so severely, it made her look like she’d had a bad face-lift. As usual, she was dressed all in black from her five-inch stilettoes to the dainty Tahitian pearls in her earlobes. I didn’t bother giving her an excuse. She wouldn’t have accepted it anyway. “What do you need, Nancy?”
“Well, if you can manage to pull yourself together,” she said, her tone scathing, “I need a table for five at Vincenzo’s.”
Only the most popular restaurant in the city at the moment. Crazy expensive and not the sort of place I could afford on my salary. Granted, the company would pick up the tab for Nancy. She’d claim it was a business expense, although more than likely she would be out with her girlfriends.
“For when?” I asked, making notes on my schedule.
“Tonight at eight.”
I stared at her. I wanted to ask if she’d lost her mind. “Vincenzo’s requires booking weeks in advance. There’s no way I can get you a table tonight.”
“Just do it,” she snapped. “I know you’re completely incompetent, but try and get yourself together for once.” She whirled around and stormed toward her office. I gritted my teeth and bit back the nasty retort that tingled on my tongue. I looked up the number for Vincenzo’s and dialed.
Naturally they were sorry, but the soonest they could get me in was two months from now. They were sorry, but even doubling the bill or adding a massive percentage tip would not sway them. No, they did not care that our company was one of the top energy firms in the country. No, they didn’t care that Nancy fancied herself an important bigwig. I couldn’t say I blamed them. After all, they were used to serving everyone from movie stars to royalty. In their world, Nancy was a small fish, something she wouldn’t like hearing.
Hanging up, I stared at my phone with dread. My stomach felt queasy, and it wasn’t from the Prosecco. Nancy was going to have a fit. I could hear it already in my head. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and braced myself for a hurricane. Then I walked as calmly as possible down the hall and rapped on Nancy’s office door.
“You could have emailed the confirmation,” she said snarkily, not even looking up from her computer.
“Sorry, Nancy. There were no openings tonight. The earliest they could get you in is two months from now.”
She did glance up then, her face twisted with ugly rage. “You incompetent little twit. Do I have to do everything myself?” She continued ranting and screaming for a good five minutes. Standing in her doorway, I could see heads turning in the outer office. They were used to Nancy’s tirades, but this one was out of control. Her face was nearly purple with rage over a stupid restaurant reservation. Suddenly it all caved in on me: the years of verbal abuse, overwork, underpay, Nancy taking the glory, placing blame. I erupted.
“You know what, Nancy?” I interrupted her screaming. “You’re out of control. I think you need to seek help for some serious anger management issues.”
“Why you little c—”
“I quit.” And without waiting for her reply, I strode back to my desk. My hands were shaking as I gathered my things. Had I actually just done that? On the way out, I popped into the human resources office. “Hey, Madge. I just quit. Make sure I get my last check, okay?”
Madge looked at me with wide eyes. “Of course, Deb. And good for you. I hope you gave the Wicked Witch of the West a piece of your mind.”
“Oh, I did.” I still couldn’t believe I’d actually done it.
Out on the street, I leaned against the side of the building and heaved a shaky sigh. Around me, the streets of Mayfair bustled with locals and tourists alike, going about their business.
What the hell had I just done? Holy crap. No job. I must have lost my mind.
“YOU DID WHAT?” SARAH stared at me, aghast, her martini hovering in midair. “Have you lost your mind?”
Kate snorted. “It’s about time. That woman is a menace.” By “that woman,” she meant Nancy. Having worked for her in the past, Kate was well aware of “that woman’s” sheer crazy.
“But money,” Sarah argued, ever practical. “How are you going to make money? I mean, Nancy isn’t going to give you a good reference.”
“No, but Marge, the HR manager, will. I’ll be fine.” At least I hoped so. “I’ve got some savings. And I’m thinking about selling my house and moving to something smaller, closer in. Maybe Notting Hill.” Kate had lived in Notting Hill until she met her husband, Adam. Now they lived a short walk away on the other side of Hyde Park.
“Makes sense,” Kate said. “That house is way too big for you, and you’ll have a much better social life if you move into London.”
The house I’d bought with my ex-husband was a modest three-bedroom a twenty-minute ride from Central London on the fast train, an hour if you took the milk train. I’d gotten it during the divorce and had done some improvements, building equity in the place. Plus the village was now a hotspot for yummy mummies and young couples who couldn’t afford London prices. House prices had skyrocketed in the last few years. Kate was right; it was much bigger than I needed and way too far out for my taste, but I’d clung to it for the last ten years. It had given me a sense of security. Now it was going to come in handy.
“I’ll get a one-bedroom. Or even a studio, if I have to.” I cringed at the massive downsizing that would take. “Somewhere fun and vibrant. Between what I’ll make on the house and what I have in savings, I’ll be able to manage for a while.”
“I don’t know.” Sarah frowned. “It still sounds risky.”
I swallowed. She was right. It was risky. My practical heart quailed at the sudden burst of impulsiveness that had thrust me from my safe haven onto a rather precarious ledge. What had I been thinking?
“Oh, please,” Kate scoffed, dumping more red wine into my glass. “This is perfect. You can finally do all those things you’ve wanted to do. Find a new dream. It’ll be great. You’ll see.”
I straightened my shoulders. “You’re right. I hate working in an office. I’m going to find a way to make a living that doesn’t require having a horror of a boss like Nancy or working nine to five in a stuffy cubicle.”
“Hear, hear!” Kate clinked her glass against mine, her blue eyes shining with excitement.
Sarah groaned but joined in. “All right, but when you’re broke six months from now, you know what I’m going to say.”
“I told you so!” Kate and I chimed in unison.
Kate giggled. “I think this is going to be an amazing adventure. You’ll see.”
Chapter 3
THE NEXT DAY DAWNED bright and sunny, a rarity in London during spring. I stretched lazily and glanced at the alarm clock. Nine o’clock.
“Oh, crap! I’m late!” I jumped out of bed and ran for the bathroom only to realize I wasn’t late at all. I had nowhere to be, nothing to do. I’d quit my job.
“Oh, no.” I plopped onto the couch and stared blankly at the dark screen of my television. I must have been mad. Maybe I could call and beg Nancy to take me back.
No way. Absolutely no way. I was never going back there. I was going to have to figure out something else.
Panic spiked. I thought about going online and looking for a new job. I even turned on my laptop and opened the bro
wser. Then I stopped. The plan was to change my life. Hunting for a job exactly like the one I’d just quit was not going to do that.
The list I’d made on my birthday lay on the dining table next to my laptop, the words beckoning like a siren’s song. I picked up the notepad, and one word jumped up at me: salsa.
All right. I could do this. I would try things on my list. Maybe as I worked through it, something would grab me, point me in a new direction. And in the meantime, I would have fun. Talk about a foreign concept.
I opened my laptop and typed “salsa” into the search engine. Everything from recipes to YouTube videos popped up. Okay, too general. Salsa classes. Pages upon pages of classes appeared. How was I supposed to know which ones were good?
I recalled Kate talking about a website called Groupmeet, which she’d used to locate events and classes. It was easy enough to find. I looked for salsa classes. There were half a dozen sprinkled across the city on various days and times. I selected one not far from my house, then decided if I was going to move into Central, I’d better find a class in Central. Besides, it would get me out of my comfort zone, and wasn’t that the whole point?
I kept scrolling until I found a group that met in Notting Hill. I asked to join and was promptly accepted. The next beginners’ class was that very night. I dithered a bit, afraid to commit. Then, bracing myself, I clicked the red button that said Attending. And then promptly had a meltdown.
What was I thinking? I didn’t know how to salsa. I would look like a fool.
“That’s what a class is for, you idiot,” I mumbled. It was a done deal. I said I’d go, and go I would. But what on earth should I wear?
Under the FAQs for the group was a suggestion for footwear and clothing. I read it carefully, then rushed to my closet. I pulled out every pair of shoes I owned, which was a surprisingly large number, and found one with a slight wedge heel. They were comfortable and worn in, so I knew they wouldn’t give me blisters. It was headed toward cooler weather, so I chose a pair of thick tights and a slate-blue knit dress that made me look a little curvier than I actually was and made my blue eyes pop. Yes, that would do nicely.
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