Dreams of Her Own

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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Published in the United States of America by

Soul Mate Publishing

P.O. Box 24

Macedon, New York, 14502

ISBN: 978-1-68291-025-2

www.SoulMatePublishing.com

The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

For my readers.

Acknowledgements

Once again, I’d like to thank my ensemble of beta readers: Lynda, Yvonne, Paul, and of course, my hubby, Ron. Your feedback is invaluable.

I also owe a debt of gratitude to Linda Lombardino for her insight into dyslexia and all its facets. Any mistakes in my portrayal of the disorder are purely my own.

Finally, to my editor, Debby, I continue to grow as a writer because of you. Thank you.

It’s better to be absolutely ridiculous than absolutely boring.

~ Marilyn Monroe

Chapter 1

If the
Guinness Book of World Records
had a category for the world’s most boring life, Millie Stephens knew she would hold the record.

Bundled up in her brown wool coat against the chill of a New York fall, she hurried down the Brooklyn sidewalk to the pharmacy to pick up a prescription for her boss.

As personal assistant for best-selling romance author Darcy Butler-Ryan, Millie kept her calendar, edited her manuscripts, handled her social media, and through her agent, Gloria Madison, scheduled her public appearances, among other duties. Since Darcy had become pregnant, Millie had also taken it upon herself to run errands and generally oversee Darcy’s health and well-being.

Thus, the trip to the pharmacy for Darcy’s anti-nausea medication.

Millie consulted the day’s to-do list to see what other errands were on it. Lists were her life. They provided organization, structure, and a sense of accomplishment. She loved ticking things off her list so much that if she accomplished something that wasn’t on the list, she’d write it down just so she could have the pleasure of marking it off.

She had a list for everything. Errands. Tasks. Books to be read. Special dates to remember. If something needed doing, she had a list for it, all appropriately categorized, of course. Shoving her errand list into her coat pocket, she stopped at the corner and waited for the pedestrian signal. As soon as the light changed, she stepped out into the pedestrian crosswalk, anxious to get to the pharmacy and out of the cold. She glanced to her left and froze. A delivery truck barreled down the street as if the red light meant nothing. And as if she truly were invisible.

Fear stole her ability to move and she scrunched her eyes closed hoping death would at least be quick.

Next thing she knew she was yanked from behind and hauled up against a hard object, bands of steel around her waist, her feet dangling in the air.

“Are you okay?” a gruff male voice asked, his breath warm in her ear.

She nodded, unsure if she could do any more than that.

“I’m going to set you back on your feet. Do you think you can stand?”

Nodding again, she realized the hard object at her back was a man’s chest, and the steel bands were his arms. She slid down his body and felt the sidewalk beneath her feet. A wave of dizziness washed over her.

“Breathe.” Her rescuer turned her to face him, his hands on her shoulders, and she gazed up and into eyes the color of a winter-gray sky, earnest with concern. His already-tousled brown hair ruffled in the wind whipping around the corner, and his chin bore the stubble so many women were fond of.

Millie inhaled deeply, drawing in the scent of something spicy and leathery.

“Better?”

She nodded, still speechless.

“You should always wait after the signal changes before you cross a street. I’ve got an appointment. You’re sure you’re okay?”

She nodded.

“Be more careful next time,” the stranger in the leather jacket said before he turned to walk away.

Millie managed to put one foot in front of the other for another block before coming to a bus stop and collapsing onto the bench. Her legs shook, her hands quivered, and she struggled to take in a deep breath. All she could think about was how your life was supposed to flash before your eyes when confronted with a near-death experience, and hers . . . didn’t. Instead it was like a film projector that had run out of film—a blank screen.

What did that mean?

It means, Millicent Grace Stephens, that your life has been so boring that the highlight reel is nonexistent.
Her thirtieth birthday was right around the corner, and what had she accomplished with her life?

Not much,
that’s
what.

Sure, she had a bachelor’s in literature, summa cum laude, with a focus on the Middle Ages from Sarah Lawrence College. She had a job she loved. And she could support herself. Other than that, she might as well have become a nun for all the excitement her life held.

She recalled the hard strength of her rescuer’s chest against her back. The rough and tumble look of him. She’d bet her first edition autographed copy of Edith Wharton’s
Age of Innocence
that
his
life wasn’t boring. That if he had a near-death experience he’d have a highlight reel worthy of an action movie.

Rising on still-wobbly legs, she drew in a long, slow breath then resumed her errand in an I-almost-died daze.

The sun warmed Ian’s
back through his leather jacket as he weaved his motorcycle through the Manhattan traffic. The cold start to the day had given way to brilliant blue skies and crisp fall air with a hint of warmth to come later in the day. But for now, the brisk temperatures called for jacket and gloves.

He’d spent most of the morning out in Westchester, meeting with electricians and plumbers about the mansion he was remodeling. Then out to an architectural salvage company to check out a set of exterior doors for the mansion before looking at a job in Brooklyn, where his day had taken an unexpected turn—that of rescuing a distracted woman from certain death.

Funny, when he’d spotted her standing, petrified, watching the oncoming delivery truck, he’d thought she was an elderly woman in her frumpy clothes and sensible shoes, but when he’d seen her face, he’d been shocked to see a young woman. Pretty face, despite the brown glasses and brown knit hat.

She’d scared ten years off his life. Idiot driver didn’t even slow down for the red light. Just barreled right through the intersection almost taking out the poor woman. He sure hoped she was okay, that she wasn’t in shock or anything.

Now he was meeting his best friend, Caleb Montgomery, an electrician by trade, who owned an up-and-coming commercial and residential electrical contracting company. Caleb had a potential new client he wanted Ian to meet.

To that end, Ian pulled up at a quaint four-story wood building, squeezed between two multi-story brick buildings. According to Caleb, the Upper East Side house, built in 1866, was one of five remaining wood buildings in the neighborhood. A real historical gem.

Caleb paced along the sidewalk, smartphone to his ear, gesturing with his free hand. Tall and rangy, he seemed more at home in jeans, boots, and flannel shirts. Seeing him in wool slacks, a sweater, and a tweed jacket made Ian itch.

He and Caleb met on a construction job years ago, not long after Ian had acquired his general contractor’s license, and his business plan as an historical preservation and renovation contractor had just been a longshot. Caleb too had plans to start his own business, and he’d encouraged Ian to do the same. They’d had each other’s backs ever since.

Waiting for his friend to end his call, he checked his voice messages and emails. While not exactly a techie, he appreciated the convenience of smartphones and grudgingly admitted they made his job a lot easier by allowing him to handle problems on the fly. And the text to voice feature was a godsend for him. With no major fires to douse, he locked his phone just as Caleb approached him.

“What’s up, man?” Caleb asked.

Ian snorted. “I should ask you that. What’s with the get up? You look like a metrosexual.”

“Had a meeting with a big client today. Jillie suggested I take it up a notch.”

Jillie was Caleb’s wife and business manager.

Ian snorted. “Next thing you know you’ll be getting a manicure and manscaping.”

“Funny. Question is, when are you going to start dressing the part, hotshot?”

“Oh, no. You’re not turning me into a metrosexual. I like my jeans, T-shirts, and leather jacket just fine.”

Caleb shook his head in mock disappointment before walking with Ian to the front door. “The McKenzies bought the house last month. Just a warning, the previous owner stripped the interior of all its historic features.” At Ian’s expression, Caleb continued. “I know. Breaks your heart to hear. But the good news is the McKenzies want to restore it to its former glory, which means a new project for you.”

“All right. Let’s see her.”

The next day, Millie set aside the manusc
ript she was editing to gaze out the window at Darcy’s tidy backyard. The elm tree stood naked and leafless in the late-November cold.

As workplaces went, working out of Darcy’s Park Slope brownstone provided lots of perks, like a cozy office, a garden view, a full kitchen, and all the hot tea she could drink. Picking up the mug at her elbow, she took a sip of Earl Grey and her thoughts turned to her close encounter with death yesterday.

She’d been weighing her options and considering her next steps. Because, really, she needed to get a life.

“I’m ready,” she said to the empty room. Ready to step out of the shadows where she’d spent most of her adolescence and all of her adult life. Ready to stop hiding from the world. And from herself.

A change was in order. To that end, she’d created a new list: Millie’s Get a Life List or GALL for short. The list had two categories: Goals and Dreams. The categories were separate because to her mind, goals and dreams were two entirely different animals. Goals were realistic and personally achievable, while dreams, well, they were the polar opposite. Just pie-in-the-sky notions she had no hope of ever fulfilling. Like becoming a sex symbol. Not in the cards for her. Ever.

She’d started with the category of Goals.

Reaching into her pocket, she took out the list-in-progress. She considered this list to be a living document, one to be expanded as new opportunities presented themselves. First, finish the historical romance novel she’d been secretly writing off and on for years now.

She frowned. Writing a romance novel somehow felt disloyal to Darcy, even though Darcy wrote contemporary romance. She’d better work through that, otherwise what was the point of writing the novel if she wasn’t going to seek its publication.

Number Two in the Goals category: sex. This one made her squirm just looking at it. She had no idea how to go about accomplishing that item, making the possibility so remote she thought about moving it to the Dreams category. Chewing on her lower lip, she wondered if maybe she shouldn’t reverse those two. Sex, then completing the romance novel.

She snorted. If she did that, she might never finish the novel. Besides, having sex was key to writing authentic scenes in her novel.

Deciding to leave the order as is—she didn’t have to accomplish the items in order, after all—she moved on to the next item. Get drunk. Okay, not a laudable goal, but something she’d never experienced.

As for the Dreams category, it held only two items: find love and find happiness and not necessarily in that order. Reconsidering, she took her pencil and drew a line through ‘happiness,’ writing ‘contentment’ instead. In her experience, happiness was an unattainable elevated emotion, especially for her. But she could settle for contentment.

She stared at the two dreams. They were too vague.

As a consummate list maker, she knew the more specific the item or goal, the greater the chance of accomplishing it. Tapping the pencil against her lips, she pondered that issue a moment. She didn’t know what would make her content, so how was she supposed to quantify that on the list?

And as for love, well, she didn’t think love was meant for people like her. People who often preferred the company of a good book to that of other people. And who would ever be interested in the likes of her? Making Number Two close to impossible, she realized. Maybe she should change ‘love’ to ‘strong like.’ Or, at the very least, ‘respect.’

The grandfather clock in the foyer chimed eleven o’clock. “Stop daydreaming and get back to work,” she muttered. Stuffing the paper back into her pocket, she’d ponder contentment and love later. Right now, she had some tweets to schedule.

Contemplating the mountain of paperwork on his desk, Ian decided in fav
or of proactive procrastination. Picking up the slip of paper with Darcy Ryan’s number on it, he tapped it into his phone.

Gloria had asked him to call Darcy ASAP about a remodeling job, and since he owed Gloria more than he could ever repay, this much he could do. He’d just have to figure out how to juggle it with the other jobs he currently had going.

“Hello?”

“Hi, this is Ian Brand, Gloria said you’d be expecting my call to set up an appointment about a room remodel.”

“Yes, Mr. Brand. Let me check the calendar.”

Whoa!
He held the phone away from his ear as if he could actually see who was speaking. The voice on the other end of the call could have been that of a phone sex operator, all husky and full of promise.

“I know it’s short notice, but would one o’clock today work?” the Voice asked.

“Sure.” He’d squeeze it in, if no other reason than to meet the owner of that voice.

“Do you need the address?”

“No. I have it.”

“Fine. See you at one, then.”

He ended the call, wondering if The Voice belonged to Darcy. And if her appearance matched her fuck-me voice.