3. Chapter 1
Chapter 1
Lucy
M y precious and well-intentioned friend, Karoline, gifted me a beautiful purple orchid three days ago while she was visiting from Nashville, and she emphatically told me that the man I was destined to be with would find me when it bloomed come early spring. I was content with the long wait since it’s only June, but…
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 priming to become the next king of Korsa? Why do I still hold out hope for 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 to stop looking? I write romantic comedies for crying out loud, and I want to do it full-time. Romance is my Roman Empire. How do I simply stop looking?
So many questions with no answers in sight… Just me sitting here bawling to Taylor Swift while I wait until the last possible second to leave the comfort of my car and start another day that I desperately wish didn’t exist.
Hadley, my best friend, gathered me, my twin who is across the world, and our friend Karoline, who resides in Nashville, on a group video call yesterday to announce that she was pregnant. And while she expressed her fears of becoming a mother (her mom was once a narcissistic raging alcohol and drug abuser), I quietly judged her for not thinking that motherhood wasn’t the greatest gift in the world. I silently thought that I would give anything to be a wife and mom, and there she was, upset and scared over getting pregnant.
I’m sometimes an awful friend in the dark recesses of my brain. It’s hard to balance feeling envious of those you love and would move mountains for and feeling utmost joy for their wins.
Even if they don’t see their wins as wins.
At least it’s Friday-eve. Though, to be honest, my weekend plans don’t look too promising at this point. Just me, Frannie, and my new work in progress. It’s the second book in my urban fantasy romance collection. I want to write them all before I begin publishing them. This book 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…?
I contemplate the question at hand as Taylor Swift sings about the pain of living alone (#relatable) and shoving her friends away because her brain is on dark-mode (#superrelatable). 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 loneliness stalking me viciously around every corner?
Snagging a tissue from my center console, I blot my eyes, then grab the translucent powder from my purse. As I press the pad to my face with gentle precision, I contemplate 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 full-time now at a job I know is going nowhere for me. And then the deluge resumes from my eyes.
Because all I want to do is write romance books and 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. He can wear noth— Don’t go there, Lucy girl.
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. A man who works hard and loves the Lord. One who strengthens my relationship with Him instead of pulling me further away…
I’ve done a good enough job of that on my own.
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 had sex outside of marriage. A lot. And now You’re withholding love from me because I’m tainted. A big ole sinner…
No. I attempt to 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 on the premise that I have failed to live in purity.
That doesn’t mean the thought goes away, though. No matter how much I wish it would. Some thoughts are stationed for lingering moments due to a lifetime of believing them. Toxic church culture has a way of doing that to you.
My church is great, don’t get me wrong, but they still don’t make room for women like me. I have to hide my sins behind a stained glass mask because my type of sinning isn’t the acceptable kind. It’s not the kind people want to talk about.
It’s the kind people say to “just try harder” to overcome.
I fully recognize God's design for marriage is perfect. There are so many positives of Godly marriage that I yearn for—the lifetime connection with a man who I know loves and trusts me, the spiritual leadership I'm desperately searching for, though I admit, that one desire is waning with every "Christian" man I meet who turns out to be more toxic than my non-Christian pursuits. Regardless, in my soul, I know that a man who is truly in communion with the Lord will love and cherish me. And then I could finally thrive. No more using sex as a means to keep a man interested in me, no more lonely nights, no more doubting God.
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 ‘74 Mercedes-Benz (that Grandma Netty gave me years ago when she decided she’d no longer drive) 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 by 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 head down as I fiddle with my silver ring on my left thumb.
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 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 who’s within his age range. The other ladies are much older and married or widowed. 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 and flirts with me by using my middle name, which happens to be a part of my pen name, Lucy May. I secretly 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 to date a player at this juncture in life. Like I 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 Stone’s 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…
I’m tired of my brain mindlessly chasing and imagining “what if” scenarios over every encounter with a handsome man. It’s only gotten worse since everyone in my life has abandoned me to their own romantic pursuits.
Okay, not really. But it feels that way sometimes.
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 deliberated decorating, but what’s the use? I don’t plan to be here forever. I do have a hanging now half-dead 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 a comfortable bookish bag), sticky note reminders galore, and a 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, 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 urban fantasy 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, light blue eyes, tanned skin, and well-trained muscles. Good gracious, that man could model khaki pants for Hollister and my former teenage heart would burst…
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. Playing with him would leave blistering, bubbling burns.
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 younger, very manly boss for probably the past thirty seconds.
“Uh, what?” I ask in a bit of a daze. I turn the ring on my thumb, attempting to ground myself. 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 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 tacks 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.” Because, buddy, Dark Mode has been activated. It’s my only coping mechanism since everyone’s left me.
He stands up and sits on the corner of my desk, also known as 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 peppery bergamot 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 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. At least, I wasn’t until my sister left me all alone. “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, truly admiring the way he fills out those khaki pants. 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.