40. Chapter One

Chapter One

Lucy

My precious and well-intentioned friend Karoline gifted me a beautiful purple orchid three days ago, and she emphatically told me that the man I was destined to be with would find me when it bloomed come early spring.

Frannie, my devil cat, ate it for breakfast this morning.

I’m doomed. Utterly doomed to a life of failed relationships.

Why can’t I become a jaded cynic like my sister was prior to meeting and falling for a literal prince who is now training to become the next king of Korsa? Why do I still hold out hope for a true love and a lifetime of swoony kisses, soulful conversations, playful antics, constant pursuit, and the consistent giving of one another when I’ve been shut down time after time by different men?

Is it too much to ask for? Does God even hear my prayers? Does He have any inclination to honor my deep-seated desires to be a wife and a mom?

Why can’t I do what everyone tells me to do and “stop looking?” Don’t they understand that it’s IMPOSSIBLE for a woman who has grown up with romance at the center of her world, so much so that, as an adult, she aspires to write romance novels for a living, to simply stop looking for her very own happily ever after?

So many questions with no answers in sight… Just me sitting here crying to Taylor Swift while I wait until the last possible second to leave the comfort of my car and start another chaotic day.

At least it’s Friday-eve. Though my weekend plans don’t look too promising at this point. Just me, Frannie, and my new WIP, or, work in progress. It’s the second book to my soon-to-be published merman x female pirate urban fantasy romance. This one follows a vampire boss and event planner in Alaska. I haven’t quite figured out the tropes, though I think I want to ship the two off on a fake date. Now, what reason does a male vampire need to fake date a human woman…?

As I contemplate the question at hand and Taylor sings about champagne problems, I flip the visor down and swipe the mirror cover to the left. Staring back at me is a puffy, red-faced raccoon.

There’s another question: What’s the point of dolling myself up every day when I end up crying because of the loneliness stalking me around every corner?

Snagging a tissue from my center console, I blot my eyes then grab the powder from my purse. As I press the powder pad to my face with gentle precision, I think about my life at twenty-six—single with no prospects, living alone in an apartment that’s meant for two while my sister still continues to pay half her rent because I can't afford the entire payment on my own, and working pretty much full-time now at job that I know is going nowhere for me. And then I start bawling again.

Because all I want to do is write romance books and be able to provide for myself on that income while awaiting my knight in shining armor.

He doesn’t even have to wear armor. He can wear old jeans and flannel. He can wear a suit. He can wear a cooking apron. He can wear scrubs. He can wear sweatpants and a t-shirt. Heck, he can be a shifter or a vampire or fae for all I care…

I just want a man who adores and loves me in the same way that I will adore and love him, who works hard, and who loves the Lord.

I mean, really God? Why are You withholding this from me and giving it to everyone else in my circle? It’s because I’ve sinned, isn’t it? It’s because I’ve sinned in a sexual manner at that. You’re withholding love from me because I’m tainted. A big ‘ole sinner…

No. I send the train of thought away, determined not to believe that about God. I can question and ask for a man, but I can’t hitch a ride on the Devil’s train by believing that my Good God would withhold lifetime communion with a man after His own heart simply because I have failed to live in purity.

Glancing at the clock, I realize I have five minutes left to get inside Juniper Grove Community Center to start my work day. I blow my nose using the napkin I had dried my eyes with, then I flip my visor, turn my car off, and take a steadying breath before exiting my powder blue 70s Mercedes-Benz (an older vehicle that Grandma Netty gifted me a years ago) and walking to stand in front of the automated double doors that will welcome me to another day of work.

Another day of being bossed around the World’s Most Notorious Playboy.

You’ve got this, Lucy. You will make it through today.

Smoothing my pink plaid skirt down and double-checking that my white blouse is tucked in with the neck bow front-facing, I walk with soft heel clicks into my workplace with my chin tucked to my chest as I fiddle with my silver ring on my left index finger.

Powder does wonders to soothe the redness, but the puffy eyes are still fully intact. No need to elicit questions that I don’t want to answer from my coworkers.

Especially my boss, Stone Harper, said Notorious Playboy. I swear, that man has a new girl every month.

No.

Every week.

“There you are, Lucy May.” Speak of the devil…

Without looking up, only briefly acknowledging him with a head nod as I continue to make my way through the back offices of the community center, I state, “How many times do I have to tell you not to use my middle name?”

You might be thinking that I shouldn’t talk to my boss like that. Well, you’re wrong. Stone Harper deserves my stern coldness because he constantly teases me and uses my middle name when addressing me even though I've told him not to. The man is a natural flirt and can’t seem to control himself, even as a director in charge of various employees. Except… I’m the only woman here that’s even within his age range. The other ladies are much older and some married, and well, they enjoy the lavish attention Stone gives them.

One would ask, is it a red flag that he disregards what I ask? Probably. But ultimately, he’s not stepping on my boundaries, and I most certainly will not file a workplace harassment report. I’m kind of a covert fan of the way he innocently teases me and flirts with me and uses my middle name, which happens to be a part of my pen name, Lucy May. I relish in his unwarranted attention. I could put a stop to him using my pen name if I really wanted to.

He, however, does not need to know that. I can only imagine how insufferable he would become. How much bigger that handsome head of his would get…

So why shouldn’t I date my boss since he’s all Flirty McFlirter Pants with me? I’ll say it again: Notorious Playboy. Don’t forget that, friends.

I mean, sure. I technically could date him if I wanted to. He would fit the jeans and flannel, suit, and sweatpants and t-shirt categories. (I’ve seen him in all varieties of clothes, and the man can pull off just about anything). But… I know better. I know better than to try and date a player at this juncture in life. Like I’ve said, I’ve dated many different types of men, and I’ve had my heart broken by believing I could change one.

Some special kind of woman will catch and hold his attention one day, effectively tying him down, but it’s not going to be me. I will not fall in love with my playboy boss. I won’t allow myself the opportunity to even flirt with the idea.

As if you haven’t been doing that all morning. Jeez, Lucy. Are you that desperate and starved for a man?

Yes, unfortunately. But I don’t want to be. It’s a battle. Every. Single. Day. Stupid romantic heart…

Reaching my office, I open the door and walk into the plain room. There’s a simple metal desk with a black mesh rolling office chair. My computer and monitor sit on a riser so that I’m able to stand and work when I need to. However, the bare white walls make this room feel like an asylum. I’ve contemplated decorating, but what’s the use? I don’t plan to be here forever. I do have a hanging English Ivy in the corner by the window, courtesy of my sister, but that’s it as far as personal things go. The rest of my desk is cluttered with paperwork I need to sift through and organize, a random collection of pens I should probably get a holder for (don’t worry, my writer pens are residing inside of a comfortable bookish bag), sticky note reminders galore, and a simple pink coffee mug for the much-needed post-lunch coffee break.

After setting my purse down inside the bottom drawer of the five-tiered metal filing cabinet that’s on the wall side of my desk, I plop into my chair and turn on my computer for the day.

It flashes on, and I drum my fingers on the keys while laying my head on my other hand as I wait for it to load. I lose myself in mentally curating Midnight Sun Enterprises, the fictional event planning company of my new novel.

“Having a morning, are we?”

I startle, noticing Stone standing in the doorframe. He’s leaning against it with his arms and legs crossed, the baby pink button down dress shirt stretches across his chest and biceps, but I don’t notice it.

Nope. I’m immune to his golden, shaggy hair and his light blue eyes and his tanned skin and well-trained muscles. Good gracious, that man can rock khaki pants like nobody’s business…

Okay, I’m not immune. I’m not even unimpressed.

But I am smart.

Ish.

Ugh, fine. My playboy boss is hotter than the sand on the Mississippi coast in mid-July.

He’s also a little over two years younger than me at my ripe old age of twenty-six. I can’t fall for a man younger than me… that’s just not how things are supposed to work. I need a manly man, and manly men must be older than their women.

Says who? my brain taunts. But then Stone clears his throat, and I realize I’ve been ogling my boss for probably the past thirty seconds.

“Uh, what?” I ask in a bit of a daze. I twirl the silver ring on my left index finger. Why is he in my doorway, again?

Get it together, Lucy May…

Great. Now I’m using my first and middle name.

He motions to his face. “Your face. It’s all red and splotchy. Have you been crying?”

Curse it all. I’m ordering new concealing powder when I get off work. ”No,” I lie and shift my attention to the computer to log in.

Stone appears beside my desk, and he crouches down, resting one arm on the side. “If something’s bothering you, you can talk to me. I know I’m your boss, but I do care about the mental health of my employees.”

I glance at him with suspicion out of the corner of my eye, and he tacts on, “Even you, Lucy May.”

There it is.

“Ha!” I snort in the most attractive way. But it’s Stone, so I don’t have to care. Because I will not date him. Are we clear? “You’d run screaming for the hills if you spent five seconds within my brain listening to my thoughts.”

He stands up and sits on the corner of my desk, the one clean area. “Oh, you think I can’t handle a little bit of insanity?”

“I know you can’t handle the likes of me.” The words slip out unbidden, and I find myself leaning into his sphere, close enough that I can smell a spicy scent mingled with something that demands my pheromones recognize it at an animalist level. Get it together, Lucy. Just because a man gives you attention does not mean you pursue it.

Stone chuckles and shakes his head. “Try me. Say yes to dinner with me tonight at the Flats.”

Did I mention Stone is becoming quite relentless in attempting to get me to go out to dinner with him? This all started four months ago in February after the Valentine’s Day West Coast Swing dance we hosted.

A shudder runs down my spine at the memory of his hands on the small of my back, sliding down my arms, my waist, gripping my hands as he guided me in an admittedly sultry dance to “Put Me in My Place” by Muscadine Bloodline. Four months of increasing invites to dinners, movies, and other various activities.

“Is it a team dinner?”

“You know it’s not, Lucy May. Say yes.”

I make the mistake of making eye contact, and my breath hitches at the sparkling blue color, emphasized by his dark, long lashes. He truly is a gorgeous man. One that is smirking to high heaven right now because he knows exactly what he’s doing to me, but still breathtaking.

“I, uh,” I stammer, then collect myself and tear my gaze away from him and back to my computer. He’s just toying with me, and I’m not in the mindset to play. “No. You’re my boss. I can’t go get dinner with you.”

He hops off the corner of my desk. “Suit yourself.”

I ogle freely as he walks away, admiring the way he fills those khaki pants out. As he opens my office door to leave, he turns around and says, “Whoever you were crying over this morning, he isn’t worth it.”

Flabbergasted, I state, “How come you assume I was crying over a man?”

He shrugs with one hand on the door. “You date a lot. I date a lot. Both of us don’t last very long. We might be more alike in our heads than you think, Lucy May.”

Slack-jawed and processing, I mull over his words to the click of the door shutting.

“It wasn’t over a man!” I shout, standing to my feet and splaying my arms out on my desk, the sudden and overpowering need to correct him taking over.

I hear the echo of his laughter on the other side of the door. Then he cracks it open, peeks his head through, and says, “Ah, then it’s the lack of a man. I see.” He shuts the door again after a playful wink.

Fury burns and rages, and I finally know what seeing red feels like. How dare he? Where did he find the audacity? Just who does he think he is to call me out like that?

But, Lucy May… He was right. Stone Harper, the Notorious Playboy Boss, just saw right through you like you were Casper the ghost.

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