Fair Play (14 page)

Epilogue

Eight weeks later…

Ashlyn

Sitting on the sun porch at Noah’s house, I hit the end button on my phone and laid it down on the pillow beside me. A tingly feeling zipped through my extremities.

I’d sold my script.

Only,
Midnight in Summer
wasn’t going to be a Broadway smash. Even after Noah’s heart-felt marriage proposal, or probably because of it, the Marshall Theater Players had taken runner-up in the Phair Theater Festival. But that didn’t dampen interest in my script. Instead, it had gone to a major movie studio for a cool seven figures—which was good, considering my father’s lawyers had followed through with the paperwork and legally divested me of my inheritance. That money was now fattening The Marshall Theater bank account. I’d come out of my time writing plays for Lucas dead broke, with only a run-down loveseat and a borrowed beanbag to my name.

But I had Noah.

Still wearing his shirt and loose-fitting tie he’d worn to the Cambridge Hotels ground-breaking ceremony earlier in the morning, Noah entered carrying a bottle of champagne and two glasses.

“Is it celebration time?” he asked.

I grinned. “I’ll get the contract to sign in a few days.”

“Congratulations, Wheels.” His face split into a grin and he enfolded me in his arms, champagne bottle and glasses clinking together behind my back. “What happens now? Do we go to LA?”

“What if I told you LA is coming to us in twelve weeks?”

“I’d say that’s great timing. With the theater closed for renovation, maybe some of the actors will find replacement work.”

“But here’s the thing, Noah. Now that I’m a professional writer, I really need to consider my image. The Training Wheels thing
has
to go.”

He held out the bottle of champagne. “Tell you what. If you can drink this whole bottle without getting drunk, I’ll stop calling you Wheels.”

“Find me anyone who can drink a bottle of champagne and not get drunk.”

“That’s the deal. Take it or leave it.”

If he wasn’t going to play fair, neither would I. A third of the bottle spilled to the floor when the cork popped. When I raised my arms, Noah pulled my shirt up and tossed it aside. He licked the bubbly from between my breasts when I poured, lapped it from my navel. Already we were half a bottle down.

“That’s cheating,” he said, removing his shirt and tie. But when I rose up again and poured the drink on his chest, then ran my tongue over his body, he lost all interest in complaining.

And then his lips were on mine. His fingers entwined through my hair.

“How about we make a deal,” Noah said. “I’ll stop calling you Training Wheels if you run away with me next weekend.”

“And if I do, what will you call me then?”

“Mrs. Blake.”

I grinned, my heart soaring as high as the blue Texas sky. “Well played, Mr. Blake. You’ve got yourself a deal.”

About the Author

When she’s not writing, Tracy is a chauffeur, a maid, a short-order cook, a coach, a psychic/intuitive who always finds what her husband loses, a yoga nut, a mango margarita connoisseur, and a really bad dancer. She currently writes for Entangled Publishing’s Indulgence imprint.

Acknowledgments

Though there may be only one name in the byline of this book, no author makes it to publication alone. I owe these people more gratitude than any words can express.

To my amazing editors, thanks goes to Alethea Spiridon-Hopson for taking a chance on a first-person category novel. To Rochelle French for your patience, guidance, and vision.

To the Lit Girls for always being in my corner—Marty Tidwell, Jessica Davidson, Beatriz Terrazas, Rebecca Reed, Kym Matthews, Misa Ramirez, Jill Wilson, Kim Quinton, Mary Duncanson, and Wendy Watson. I am humbled to be among such a fantastic group of writers. Special thanks goes to Misa Ramirez and Kym Matthews. If it weren’t for the insurmountable peer pressure and the plotting session the two of you forced on me, this book would not have been thought up much less contracted and written. I will forever be grateful.

To all the writers of NT-RWA and DFW Writers Workshop: your feedback and your fellowship over the years made learning the craft and the business slightly less daunting and far less lonely.

To my dear friend Daryle McGinnis: thank you for your smart-ass critiques, your careful attention to logic, and for telling me long ago the word “crotch” should never ever be used in a sexy scene. Also, I left “had” in just for you.

Thanks to my good friend, Sally Miller. Your proofreading skills are epic and I wouldn’t have made my deadline without you.

Want more? Turn the page for a sneak peak at another Indulgence released this month!

Bachelor’s Special
by Christine Warner

Prologue

Jill pulled the whisk from the bowl of frosting and licked the tip.
Perfect!

She checked the time, then slid the chocolate marble cake toward her and applied the finishing touches. She’d only been with Creations for fifteen months, and it was a huge compliment that the head chef had asked her to take the lead on these two big parties.

Everything needed to be perfect. Jill had worked too hard to earn her position as sous-chef at the age of twenty-five.

“Sam, do you have the ice cream cart ready to go?” Jill eyed the nervous apprentice that she’d entrusted to help her with the final course for the Renwick birthday celebration. She’d had him organize an old-fashioned ice-cream cart on wheels, with an assortment of flavors. A wave of excitement fluttered her stomach. This would be the crowning glory to the eightieth birthday party celebration in the main dining room.

“All set, Chef.”

“Wonderful. Thanks.”

Jill’s shoulders tensed as footsteps approached from behind. She put her smile in place and turned, expecting to greet the executive chef. But the man who approached looked far out of place in the kitchen—hell, he appeared to have stepped from the pages of
GQ Magazine
. Dressed to perfection in a black suit—his tie slightly askew—this man’s penetrating dark eyes would melt ice cream stored in a deep freeze. A flush burned across her flesh as his attention focused on her.

Tiny dots of sweat spread along the back of her neck. She dusted one hand down the side seam of her immaculate white chef coat, then rolled her shoulders in an attempt to put herself at ease, even though she was far from calm.

A twinge of regret that she wasn’t dressed in something more flattering flitted across her mind. Free of make-up and wearing a chef coat with her hair piled beneath a flat chef cap wasn’t the best way to make an impression.

You’re not here to attract men,
Jill chastised herself. From the day she’d graduated culinary school, she’d promised herself she’d never let her dreams of romance interfere with her work. She wouldn’t start now by allowing a man obviously out of her league to distract her from her duties.

Something about the man seemed oddly familiar. But if she’d met him before she’d remember. Of that she was certain. She swallowed, holding her smile in place, hoping he hadn’t come back to complain on behalf of one of the parties.

“Can I help you, sir?”

“Are you the chef?”

“I’m the one in charge tonight. Is there a problem?” Jill licked her lips, fear grinding through her. But no. She didn’t have to be afraid. Each dinner party had been prepared and cooked to perfection. She wouldn’t let doubt eat her layer of confidence away. Not tonight. She stood tall, ignoring the quiver riding the length of her legs.

The dark-haired man didn’t answer right away, instead he studied her face, and the harsh lines around his mouth disappeared. He’d come in looking all business, but the seriousness that shrouded him upon entering the kitchen eased and Jill relaxed. His eyes softened and his mouth curved into a small smile. A smile that turned her bones to gelato.

“Everything was perfect. I wanted to meet the chef who managed to not only have everyone in our party cleaning their plates but knocked my grandmother speechless—at her birthday celebration no less.” He laughed and the sound tickled her senses and sent a flare of goose bumps across her flesh.

“Thank you.” Relief squared her shoulders.

“My grandmother wants to meet you. Would you mind?”

“I’d love to.”

“Wonderful.”

“How about I arrange the candles on your grandmother’s cake and carry it out personally?”

“You’d make her day.”

She grabbed the decorative candles from their boxes and placed them in the center of the cake with shaky hands, all too conscious of the man beside her. Even with delicious aromas filling the kitchen, she couldn’t help but drown in his sandalwood scent. Her tummy somersaulted as she picked up the cake and turned toward him.

She didn’t miss the appreciation filling his eyes as their gazes locked in what she could only term as eye-sex. Never had she felt so attracted to a man. Her skin flushed and burned under his stare. If she had a free hand, she’d have swiped the heat from her forehead. Jill’s hands shook and the cake platter shifted several degrees to the left.

“Oh!”

As they each tried to catch the slipping cake, Jill knocked the dessert into the crisp cotton of his white shirt peeking through the V of his finely tailored jacket.

“Oh my God…”

Then the rest of the cake that wasn’t attached to his clothes hit the floor with a thump of finality. Her heart sank and a loud buzz filled her ears. Her attention moved from the heap of mashed cake at their feet to the man’s face.

“What have I done?” Jill cried. “I’m so sorry.”

He delivered a lopsided smile, telling her it wasn’t a big deal. As if a cake smashing into his chest was an everyday occurrence. But Jill couldn’t match his smile as the fear she’d pushed aside moments ago fisted her throat. She’d lose her job for sure. Dropping a guest’s cake, on a guest no less—

Maybe she could do some damage control. In a trance-like stupor, she pulled out the bar towel tucked into her pocket and dabbed at the frosting covering the front of his immaculate suit. A frosted flower clung precariously from one of his buttons and she plucked it between the folds of her towel before continuing to swipe at his shirt. But instead of clearing away the dark frosting, she only ended up smearing it across more of his chest.

Tears burned the back of her eyes and filled her throat, strangling her ability to apologize. The night that started out with such promise had just disintegrated into a pile of mangled cake and plops of frosting at her feet. She would be in so much trouble when the head chef found out about this—and for sure he would. She swallowed the lump lodged in her throat just as the man whose suit she ruined lifted her chin with his thumb.

“It’s only cake.” His gaze still burned—in fact the heat surrounded her and snapped in the air between them.

“B-but your suit. The cake…” A single tear rolled down her cheek, quickly followed by another.

A brief gasp escaped her lips as the man gripped her shoulders between his strong hands and dragged her against his solid length.

The warmth of his mouth touched hers lightly, and she anchored her hands in a tight grip around his lapels before he pulled her in tight, swooshing the air from her lungs.

All reason fled, and her vision tunneled. She closed her eyes as his mouth crushed into hers. Any tears remaining dried on her cheek. His tongue ran the seam of her lips until they parted, and then he thrust his warmth inside.

With the cake forgotten at her feet, a strange, unexplainable recklessness possessed her. She ran her palms the length of his chest, pausing over the erratic beat of his heart. A surge of adrenaline overpowered her, and she curled her fists into his jacket. She didn’t know this man, but she thrilled at the passion between them, enjoying the effect she had on him as much as the effect he had on her.

His hands slid from her shoulders to glide down her arms and smooth around her side to melt against the small of her back. He sighed against her lips…or was that her sigh?
Who cares?
She’d never been so lost in a kiss before.

What the hell are you doing?

She shoved her nagging inner voice aside, then slipped her hands beneath his jacket. His muscles rippled against the expensive fabric. They stumbled backward into the wall, or maybe she pushed him? Nothing mattered as she melded into his solid strength. Jill could neither make sense of nor stop what was happening. She accepted the craziness of it all and sank further into his warm arms, moving her hands up to his shoulders and digging her nails in as he pulled her even tighter, nearly lifting her off the floor.

She’d never been kissed so thoroughly in her life.