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Work of Art
Work of Art
Work of Art
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Work of Art

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Ten years ago, Harper Connelly was unceremoniously dumped by her high school boyfriend during the same week her mom kicked her out of her house. So she moved across the country and started over. It was all she could do. Now she's one of the most sought after female tattoo artists in the country, she has a successful business, and she has great friends. But she hasn't had great luck in love, and she doesn't exactly let people in. Then on a cross-country flight, she meets Brandon Cooper, a guy who's been through the love ringer a few times himself and is just looking to have some fun. And for some reason, Harper and Brandon click. He tells her all about his friend he's visiting in San Francisco, a guy who is about to marry the wrong girl, who Brandon is determined to corrupt during his visit. And part of that corruption is getting his friend a tattoo from the hot girl he met on the plane. But neither Harper nor Brandon realize that she actually knows his friend. And when he walks into her tattoo parlor, for the first time in ten years, Harper comes face-to-face with Ryan Carson, the guy who stole her heart ten years earlier and then broke it into pieces.

In "Just Watch the Fireworks", Ryan Carson was on the losing end of a love triangle. And in response to being dumped, he dove headfirst into work, a new relationship with a girl his mother set him up with and a new life in San Francisco. On paper, his life is perfect, but in reality it's anything but – and he's getting married in four weeks. Then one weekend everything changes when he runs into Harper Connelly, the girl he lost ten years earlier.

Old secrets still haunt them and old feelings dominate their interactions with each other, but Ryan and Harper are drawn to each other in ways even they can't explain. And when the ultimate secret is revealed, Ryan starts to think long and hard about his life and the people he thought he could trust, but one thing is clear – he still loves Harper. But when it comes down to it, can Harper get past everything that happened between them and give him a second chance?

Work of Art is a spin-off novel from Just Watch the Fireworks, but it is also a stand-alone novel.

*Recommended for mature audiences only.

LanguageEnglish
Release dateMar 16, 2013
ISBN9781301857302
Work of Art
Author

Monica Alexander

Monica Alexander is a writer of contemporary, new adult, and young adult fiction. In 2011, she turned her lifelong love of reading and books into a career when she published her first novel, "Just Watch the Fireworks". When she's not reading and writing, you can find her at the beach, in the mountains, or hiking through a city, soaking all the beauty of the world around her and turning her experiences into inspiration for her next book.

Read more from Monica Alexander

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  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    I really enjoyed this story. It was so heartbreaking and a great love conquers all tale. I can't imagine the feeling of betrayal from your own family they both had experienced. I admit this did bring some tears to my eyes. I could connect with the loss and pain in these two characters. I have to say it was well written.

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Book preview

Work of Art - Monica Alexander

Chapter One

Harper

Excuse me, I said impatiently to the dark-haired guy sitting in the aisle seat engrossed in a book with a pensive looking guy’s face on the cover.

It looked like a self-help book. And this guy definitely looked like he read self-help, but only the kind that was inspiring and therapeutic and enlightening. I had a feeling he was the kind of guy who no doubt started his sentences with ‘According to *insert name of self-appointed enlightenment guru here*, blah, blah, blah. I hated to judge, but I already didn’t like him.

Of course I had just spent the past few minutes struggling to fit my carry-on bag into the overhead compartment, and he hadn’t so much as glanced up, so I had a solid reason not to like him. But if he started spouting out one-liners about finding inner peace and learning life lessons and how to find hope in the face of defeat, I’d consider that crossing a line and might be inclined smack him.

It was going to be a headphones-on flight, no doubt.

Excuse me, I said again, a little louder, and with just that much more annoyance in my voice.

The pointy-faced, overly gelled guy looked up at me and raised his tweezed eyebrows in question, as if there was some mystery as to why I was standing there staring at him. The line of people impatiently waiting behind me couldn’t have been an indicator.

I watched his eyes dart from my nose to my exposed right ear to my neck, and his lips curled into a distasteful sneer as he took in the small hoops and ink decorating them. I had a feeling I was just the kind of person guys like him hated. I watched the judgment build in his eyes, and I wanted to laugh, because I’d dealt with small people like him my whole life. If he thought he could make me feel bad with one look, he was sorely mistaken.

That’s my seat, I said, pointing unceremoniously to the empty spot next to him.

Self-help Guy didn’t say anything. He just acted like moving was the biggest inconvenience of his life and finally stood, stepping out into the aisle, so I could squeeze past him.

You know, self-mutilation is usually a sign of a mental illness.

I looked up from where I was shoving my messenger bag and my jacket under the seat in front of me and fixed my gaze on him, trying not to let my eyes go wide. Who the hell did he think he was?

"Well, I’m sure you know, since it’s bound to have happened to you from time to time, that making rude, judgmental comments to strangers is a surefire way to get you punched in the nose," I fired back at him.

He laughed. Your generation is abominable.

I raised an eyebrow at him, not sure our generations were that far apart. After a few seconds I decided he wasn’t worth my time.

Right before shoving my earbuds into my apparently mutilated ears, I said to him, Thank you so much for your unsolicited input. My abominable generation applauds you for being a dick.

Then I leaned my head back and closed my eyes. Just before I turned my music on, I heard someone laughing a loud, raucous laugh and looked up to see a broad-shouldered guy with almost black hair, wearing a suit and clutching his iPhone in one hand. He was stopped in the aisle next to our row. Arrogant Guy and I turned to look at him at the same time, and I pulled one earbud out to better hear what he was about to say, figuring he was going to chastise my seatmate for being a giant ass.

That’s my seat, buddy, he said instead, pointing to the one next to me that was filled by my new best friend.

No, it’s my seat. I’m in 9B.

Then you’re in the wrong seat, the guy in the aisle told him. This is 8B.

Well, I’m already here, so why don’t you just sit in my seat, and I’ll stay here, Arrogant Guy said, settling further into his seat.

Please change seats. Please change seats, I silently begged him.

Sorry man, but that’s my girlfriend, and we want to sit together.

Arrogant Guy looked over at me in flat-out disdain, no doubt wondering how a freak like me could ever date such a normal looking guy.

I just grinned at him and then looked up at the guy standing patiently in the aisle. Thanks, baby, I told him sweetly, as Arrogant Guy let out the loudest sigh I’d ever heard and made a big production of gathering up his stuff so he could move one row back.

Good riddance.

I started to stick my earbud back in my ear as my new seat buddy sat down.

Nice ink, he said, his eyes lighting up as they followed the trail of butterflies flowing down my right arm.

Thanks, I said, knowing it sounded crisp, but I really wasn’t in the mood to talk to anyone, and he looked chatty.

Aside from my encounter with the asshole now seated behind me, I was already in a bad mood after having to endure a shitty couple of days with my mother’s friends who all looked at me as if I was a freak, none of them apparently having ever gotten the message that it was impolite to stare and diversity was a good thing.

I felt like telling them, ‘Hey, sorry for spoiling your day by showing up at my mother’s funeral and reminding you all that I exist, but I do, and you can get over it while I take the time to say goodbye to the woman who always acted like my jealous friend and never like the mother figure I probably needed. Hey, that’s probably why she overdosed on prescription meds at age forty-six like you all most likely will. Rock on.’

I’m Brandon, the guy next to me said, sticking his hand out for me to shake.

I took it cautiously. The way he was lustfully gazing at me told me that although he seemed charming, he was probably also a preppy jerk who wanted to see if he could go slumming for a few hours.

Been there, done that – too many times to count. I’d always had a penchant for preppy guys, but I’d gotten burned pretty badly by one when I was younger, so now I tried to steer clear of them altogether. Although I still gave in to moments of weakness from time to time. That was not going to happen in this case.

I’m Harper, I said, as I reached behind my head and pulled out the pin holding my hair back in a twist.

Wow, you’re like unraveling a really hot present, the guy blurted out as my long hair tumbled over my shoulders.

Screw you, I told him and unceremoniously turned toward the window.

I’d dyed the ends of my brown hair hot pink the week before, not knowing I’d be returning to the stuffy, pretentious town in the suburbs of Boston where I grew up and where tattoos, piercings, and unnatural hair colors were definitely frowned upon. Well, I had all three, so for the two days I’d been there, just to lessen the staring, I’d hidden the color in up-dos and wore long sleeves, even though it was the end of June and brutally hot most of the time. My mother’s friends weren’t shy about voicing their opinions, so I figured the less they had to judge me for, the better.

I’d even taken out the multiple piercings in my ears and my nose ring, but I couldn’t hide the tattoo of stars that started behind my right ear and trailed down the side of my neck – and that caused enough waves in and of itself. If only I’d let them see the artwork decorating my arms, stomach, and back. It would have been scandal city – bigger than the one I’d caused in high school which prompted me to move across the country and never look back in the first place.

Now, the last thing I needed was some guy hitting on me during a five hour flight.

No, seriously. I like your look, he said, putting his hand on my shoulder.

I shrugged him off. I wasn’t a big fan of people touching me.

I know your type. Don’t go there, I said dryly.

And what type is that?

I rolled my eyes. The type I don’t waste my time on.

Look, I know you can’t tell from looking at me now since I just got off work, but we’re not so different, he said, lifting up his pant leg to reveal a large blue and red tattoo that was half demon, half angel and had red and blue flames surrounding it. It was pretty bad-ass.

I gave him the briefest of smiles. Great. We have something in common. You got at tattoo during Spring Break too.

Don’t be a bitch, he said good-naturedly, and I had to give him credit for being so brazen. Most people didn’t talk to me that way when I was giving them the cold shoulder. It was sort of refreshing. My whole back is done too, as well as some other strategic locations. I work in banking, so I need to keep up appearances.

So you want to join a club together or something?

Just because we had tattoos didn’t link us together in some way. I hated when guys tried that shit with me. It didn’t work – and they always tried it. I decided to not wait for his response and stuck my earbuds back in. Maybe he’d get the hint that I wasn’t in the mood to make friends.

Attention ladies and gentlemen, we are preparing to take-off, so please ensure that all personal items are stowed, tray tables and seat backs are in their upright and locked position and all electronic items are turned off and stowed at this time. Thank you.

The overly zealous flight attendant who’d made that announcement started to make her way back through the cabin.

Fu-uck.

I yanked out my earbuds just as the guy next to me said, So, Harper, what brings you to San Francisco?

I sighed, wishing I hadn’t left my copy of Hit! magazine in the terminal. I had nothing else to distract me.

I live there.

Oh, that’s great. I love San Fran.

And I hate it when people call it San Fran.

Great, I said, trying to pretend like I was actually enthralled with the flight attendant’s demonstration of what to do if the cabin unexpectedly lost pressure.

No, really, he continued. I’ve been out there a few times, but my buddy’s getting married in a month, so I’m going out there for his bachelor party. Do you have any recommendations of where to go for fun?

I looked over at him, wondering why he was still talking to me when I obviously wasn’t interested in engaging him in conversation.

Nope.

Well, what do you do when you want to blow off steam?

Drink tequila shots on my couch with my gay best friend/hair dresser.

I sighed again, louder this time. What do you want from me? I demanded.

A blow job, he said seriously, and my eyebrows rose in surprise.

I was used to crass, hell it was usually me being crass, but that threw me.

I watched his mouth curve into a grin. You asked.

That was all it took to soften me. After that I decided to give the guy a chance. Hell, now I sort of liked him, and maybe the five hour flight would be less mundane with someone interesting to talk to.

I turned in my seat and appraised him. So, uh, . . .

Brandon, he supplied cheerfully. Brandon Cooper.

Brandon, I repeated. What’s your story?

He cocked his head in amusement. That’s a heavy question, but since you’re actually talking to me instead of pretending to listen to a safety message you’ve probably heard a thousand times, I’ll answer it. I’m divorced – married my college girlfriend – big fucking mistake there. I don’t have any kids, I’ve worked in banking since I graduated from Harvard, and I absolutely hate my job. I often think of ways to poison my boss so I’ll no longer have to look at him every day, but then I think back to all those episodes of CSI I’ve watched over the years, and I just know I’ll get caught, and I’m way to pretty for jail, so I haven’t killed him yet.

I laughed. "You are way too pretty for jail. You’d become some guy’s bitch in about three seconds."

Don’t I know it, he said pointedly. But it might be worth it. My boss really is a dick.

I laughed again. Then why do you work for him if you hate him so much?

"Because my company pays me a lot of money to do it," he said honestly.

I bit my lip. Interesting.

I’m thinking of quitting soon.

I raised an eyebrow at him. Really? You’re not going to kill your boss before you do, are you?

He laughed. Tempting, but no. I think I’ll just give him two middle fingers as I walk backward out of his office. He shrugged. Basically, I’ve been doing this job for ten years. I’m burned out, and see this, he said, leaning toward me and pointing to his eyes. I squinted to see what he was referring to. It’s giving me crow’s feet. He shook his head. I need to get out before I’m no longer desirable to the opposite sex.

I laughed out loud. "That’s your reason for quitting your job?"

He looked at me like I was crazy. Dude, I do not want to end up like the unhappy fucker who’s made my life a living hell for the past decade. He’s been in the business for twenty-five years, and he’s fucking miserable – divorced, works ninety hours a week, looks like shit most of the time, and I guarantee he hasn’t gotten laid in at least five years.

Okay, so I guess those are valid reasons.

Fuck yeah, they are.

So what will you do if you quit? I inquired.

He grinned. I bought a winery.

I almost choked on the sip of water I’d taken. Excuse me.

I bought a winery. Well, I haven’t bought it yet, but I’m going to look at it this weekend, and I’m seriously leaning toward purchasing.

I nodded appreciatively. Where is it?

Sonoma. It’s a smaller winery, about 28 acres, but it’s on a sweet piece of land, and the winemaker who’s been there for five years is staying on, so it would be a cool investment.

I was impressed. This guy had some serious cash if he was flat out purchasing a winery.

I think that sounds pretty amazing. Would you move out to the West Coast?

Yeah, I would. I’m originally from Portland, so I’m a West Coast boy at heart. I’ve always wanted to get back there. But enough about me. What about you, Harper? What’s your story? What do you do for a living? Something you love?

Yes, actually I do, I said, aiming for vague. He’d asked a ton of loaded questions, and I wasn’t exactly in the habit of openly sharing pieces of my life with strangers.

Brandon eyed me speculatively as if he might not believe me while he waited for me to elaborate. And that job is?

I’m an artist.

He nodded his head in appreciation a few times. And what is your medium?

I glanced down at my colorful arm and back up at him. The truth was I had a few mediums, but he didn’t need to know all of that.

No shit, he said, looking the same way most guys did whenever I told them what I did for a living.

I shrugged. No shit.

How many of yours did you design?

Most of them, but some I got before I started tattooing.

That is so cool. Do you do piercings too?

Yes.

Ever pierce anyone’s dick?

I raised an eyebrow at him. Why, are you looking to have yours done?

He raised his eyebrow right back. How do you know I don’t already have it done?

I shook my head. His twinkling brown eyes actually gave him away pretty easily. Because, if you did you wouldn’t have gotten that gleam in your eye when you asked me if I’d ever done one, you pervert.

He grinned, a full-watt, bright, white-toothed grin. Ahh, you got me there. I thought about it, but I actually stopped after getting these bad boys done, he said, pointing to his nipples with this thumbs. I cried like a bitch and decided I was just sticking to ink after that.

I laughed. It is pretty painful.

His eyes got wide. Are yours done?!

He looked like a kid at Christmas as he waited for me to answer.

I smiled and shook my head. Just my nose and my ears. I like ink better too, but I’ve pierced enough people to know that nipples are a really sensitive part of the body.

That is so fucking hot, he said, shaking his head in awe.

I rolled my eyes at him, and he elbowed me playfully.

* * *

Three hours and three Bloody Marys’ later, I was laughing my ass off as Brandon regaled me with stories of every variety. He was highly entertaining.

Okay, so get this shit, he said, pointing at me with his drink. He was yelling, and I was afraid the flight attendant was going to cut us off at any moment.

Shh, I urged him, giggling as I said it.

Okay, I’ll be quiet, he said in a stage whisper. So get this shit – and I’m only telling you this because I’ve been drinking, and I kind of turn into a dick when I drink.

Only when you drink? I asked in mock-teasing.

Only when I drink. And this story is so fucked up, I can’t not share it. So, like a year ago, my buddy who I’m going to see this weekend, he’s all in love and shit, and he asks his girl to marry him, and she says yes, right?

I nodded, leaning my elbow on the armrest between us and angling toward him to better listen.

Yeah, so they’re all engaged and happy and shit, and this is when I was going through my fucking messy-ass divorce with fucking Heather, so I kind of hated his ass for being all in love and shit.

Fuck Heather! I cheered, and he clinked his glass to mine.

Brandon had told me countless stories about his gold digging ex-wife, and I was now riding aboard the Heather Sucks Train and proudly waving a Team Brandon flag.

Fuck Heather, he echoed loudly, raising his glass in the air and promptly earning a glare from the passing flight attendant. He ignored her and turned back to me. "That’s what I always say. So anyway, my buddy’s all happy and shit, and every day at work he’s practically throwing it in my face. And then he gets assigned to this project team out in San Fran, and he has to leave for the summer. He thinks, hey, no big deal, I’ll be back at the end of the summer, and everything will be cool, but then he finds out his fiancée spent the summer sleeping with her ex-boyfriend, and all hell breaks loose, right?"

I nodded again, narrowing my eyes in an attempt to focus and try to follow his train of thought. What happened? I hiss-whispered when he didn’t continue. I was sort of riveted, and he’d stopped telling the story.

Oh, right, well they break up, and she gets together with the other dude, and my buddy’s a fucking mess. So he up and decides to date this girl his mom’s been trying to get him to date for years, because she didn’t like his fiancée. So he dates this girl, and she’s all prim and proper, and looks really good on his arm, but that’s about it. The sex is bo-ring, she doesn’t really drink, and she doesn’t like it when he goes out unless it’s to their stupid, fucking country club. I tell you, I hate rich people.

Amen to that.

I mean, I’m rich, but I’m not like those fuckers who have money growing out of their asses and shit. I’m real. But my buddy comes of old money and was born with a silver spoon up his white ass. But he’s a cool guy, so we’re friends. It’s good. Anyway–

You just insulted me, Brandon. I’m hurt.

He cocked his head to the side in confusion. I did?

I smirked at him. Came out with a silver spoon myself.

No fucking way! You’re cool as shit.

I shrugged. I got out early – couldn’t handle the bullshit that came with it all, so I bolted.

Actually, my mother had kicked me out, but he didn’t need to know that.

Good woman.

I winked at him. Continue with your story.

Right, so my boy tells me at Christmas that he’s getting married – again! He asked this stuffy, rail thin chick of his to marry him and gave her a big ass diamond, moved her out to San Fran with him, and now they’re getting married in a month! Can you believe it?!

I shook my head, but I was only humoring him, since I didn't think it was that big of a deal. People got married all the time. And had no idea who this friend of his was. I mean, shit, the guy could be happy and in love. Why slight him for it?

I know, right, so I’m going out there for his bachelor party, because his girl’s away at a spa this weekend, and I think I’m going to get my boy laid.

I raised an eyebrow at him. That’s not very friendly of you.

He rolled his eyes. My boy hasn’t had anything but vanilla sex in almost a year. He needs some variety before he chains himself to this girl for the rest of his life! She’s so bo-ring!

I was starting to think that Brandon had sort of a warped mindset about life, but in truth, a part of me kind of like his style. It was refreshing. Of course I might not be inclined to say the same thing if he was friends with my fiancée and was planning to talk him into having sex with another woman a month before our wedding. I had a feeling I’d take issue with that.

Didn’t you say that his ex-fiancée cheated on him? I questioned.

Yeah.

So, wouldn’t it stand to reason that he’s probably not a big fan of cheating on someone he’s with?

Oh, Brandon said, his face falling when he realized his big plans weren’t so rock solid. Shit, that sucks. Oh well. Maybe I’ll get laid instead.

I laughed, figuring that was something he frequently fell back on. He seemed like the kind of guy who got laid a lot – and why shouldn’t he? He was good looking, rich, and not at all pretentious. He was sort of a catch – if I was looking for a great weekend in bed, which I wasn’t. I was swearing off guys after my last break-up three months earlier.

Or was I?

When I looked over at Brandon, he was grinning at me. Damn, I was a sucker for adorable men. I bit my thumb between my teeth, contemplating if I wanted to invite him back to my apartment. It had been a while since I’d gotten any, and maybe that was part of my problem. My best friend Julian always told me I was too uptight for my own good. He told me I needed to be more laid back, as in laid back with a really hot guy on top of me. But I rarely took his advice.

And I wasn’t going to sleep with Brandon. That was my final answer.

Damn, you’re like a hot librarian in that outfit, Brandon said, eyeing the black sleeveless dress and plain black heels I’d worn to bury my mother.

I didn’t normally wear such conservative things and had only bought the dress for the funeral, but he didn’t need to know that.

Maybe I am, I said aloofly, combing my fingers through my hair, letting it spill over my shoulders.

I was completely flirting, and I really needed to stop. Encouraging him was probably the worst thing I could do. I blamed the alcohol.

You have to give me your number, he insisted.

Why? You live in Boston, I said, trying to reel things back in. Flirting had definitely been a bad idea.

Yeah, so. Maybe we can hook up for drinks while I’m in town. And then if I buy this winery and move to San Fran, you can be my friend, because shit knows my buddy’ll be chained down once he ties the knot. Come on. I promise I won’t try to sleep with you.

I laughed out loud. Yeah, I really don’t believe you.

Brandon chuckled. Nah, you’re cool as shit, and you’re hot, I wouldn’t do that to you.

Why? Do you suck in bed?

He laughed as only someone who knows how good they are in bed can do, and I was really, really tempted to test my theory.

Only if asked, he said, as his tongue slowly touched his top lip, and I felt a pull in my belly that I hadn’t felt in a long time.

Brandon, I’d never sleep with you, I said, pushing down the very primal urges I was suddenly feeling. You say San Fran instead of San Francisco, and I hate when people cutsie things up.

He laughed a big raucous laugh. "Touché. But no really, I won’t try to sleep with you because I don’t hang out with women after I sleep with them, and I’d sort of like to hang out with you again. You’ve made this flight rather enjoyable, Harper."

And I’m happy to indulge you Brandon, as you are not the douchebag I feared you might be when you first sat down, but you are a dirtbag, and for that I applaud you.

Ah, thank you for noticing. It’s one of my most redeeming qualities. So, can I get your number?

Seriously? Why?

He over-exaggerated rolling his eyes. So we can hang out and not have sex. Geez, weren’t you listening?

Fine, I grumbled, as I reached into my messenger bag and pulled out one of my business cards. I handed it to him unceremoniously.

He looked at it for a few seconds, and then his eyes flew back to me. "Holy shit! You’re Harper Connelly?!"

The one and only.

Why didn’t you say anything sooner?!

Because I knew you’d react like this.

About a year earlier, Hit! had done a spread on the top fifteen up and coming tattoo artists in the country, and I’d been featured. It seemed that ever since Kat Von D had made a name for herself, everyone thought female artists were the complete shit. But I hadn’t been complaining. My shop, Art Studio, had gained a ton of notoriety and business after the article came out.

Shit. You’re like the hottest tattoo artist in San Francisco!

I laughed. I definitely wouldn’t go that far, but I can hold my own.

"Holy shit. You’ve gotta ink me while I’m out there. You have to."

What do you want done?

Shit, I don’t know. Design something for me. Anything.

I rolled my eyes. Typical frat boy.

Hey now. I was not in a frat.

No, but you act just like a frat boy. ‘Give me anything you want.’ The last guy who told me that ended up with a penis on his forearm.

No shit, Brandon said in awe.

Nah, I wouldn’t do that, but I was sure as hell tempted.

He laughed. That’s fucking genius.

Chapter Two

Harper

I opened the door to my apartment and nearly stopped breathing.

Jesus, Julian, I said, my hand landing over my rapidly beating heart. What the hell are you doing here?

Cupcake! Julian cheered, getting up from my couch and crossing the room. He wrapped his muscular arms around me and picked me up off the ground. I didn’t know you’d be home so early. Baby girl, I missed you.

I caught an earlier flight, I said, hugging him back. I’d missed his familiar comfort while I’d been away.

Couldn’t stand the Beantown Bitches anymore?

Not for one more minute. Now please put me down.

Fine, he said, unceremoniously setting me on my feet.

I crossed my arms and shook my head, noticing he was dressed in a fitted black t-shirt and black pants. He looked like he’d been on a date.

Now why are you in my apartment?

He smiled broadly, his white teeth a brilliant contrast to the chocolate color of his smooth skin. I had a date, and since he’s famous and not out and proud, I brought him here for the afternoon.

My mouth dropped open in irritation or offense or something possibly akin to jealousy. Tell me you didn’t sleep with him in my bed, I said, glaring at him as I walked into the kitchen to grab a bottle of water.

No, I did not, Julian said firmly as he followed close behind me. He was obviously offended by my accusation, but he had to know I’d ask. I handed him a bottle of water. You know I don’t have sex until the third date, and that’s only if there’s long-term potential. Besides, I would never do that in your bed. I just came here because my cleaning lady doesn’t come until tomorrow, and my place is a mess.

And you assumed I’d be gone until late tonight, didn’t you?

He grinned sheepishly. Yeah, and that. Are you mad?

I shook my head as I took a sip of water. No, I’m not mad. I’m a little jealous, but that’s it.

He shook his head endearingly. You have had a bit of a dry spell, haven’t you?

I shrugged. I met a guy on the plane, actually.

His eyebrows rose, and I could see the excitement lighting his eyes. Is there potential?

I shook my head. No, he’s not my type, but he was fun to talk to.

Julian smiled. I think you should call him, he suggested, conspiratorially. He was always trying to set me up.

I returned his grin. Not a chance. I’m swearing off men for a while. You know that. So tell me about today’s guy. You said he’s famous?

I knew a subject change

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