Love Knows No Bounds

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Boone Brux

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

Copyright © 2012 by Boone Brux. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

Entangled Publishing, LLC

2614 South Timberline Road

Suite 109

Fort Collins, CO 80525

Visit our website at www.entangledpublishing.com.

Edited by Libby Murphy

Cover design by Heather Howland

Manufactured in the United States of America

First Edition April 2012

The author acknowledges the copyrighted or trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction: Harry Potter, United States Postal Service, America’s Top Model, Twitter, X-box, Who’s the Boss?, Disney World, Krispy Kreme, iPad, Scooby-Doo, Star Wars.

To Jack and Kacey.

Thanks for all the laughs and love.

Our lives wouldn’t be the same without you.

Chapter One

Friday Evening

Faye Albert jangled her wad of adorable bling, trying unsuccessfully to coax her door key out from hiding. The mass coalesced into a tighter ball.

“Damn it.”

A drab green grocery bag tottered precariously on top of the stack of files, but she was determined to win this battle. She shook her keys again and was rewarded with a whack on the knuckles from the heavy plastic peace sign.

“Ouch.”

A beaded angel wing wrapped itself tightly around her house key and held it prisoner. Not to be outmaneuvered, she lifted the metal blob to her mouth and bit the wing, giving it an extra yank.
POP!
The string snapped, sending a spray of tiny pearls into her mouth and eyes.

Faye gasped, inhaling several airborne beads. They coated her newly applied lip gloss like lint balls on a static-filled sweater. She raspberried her lips, but was only successful in spewing saliva against the door. She spit again, rolling her lips, but the beads refused to be unseated.

“Well, crap.” The
plink
of pearls bouncing down the wooden, spiral stairwell ricocheted behind her. “Double crap.”

She turned her attention back to the door and rattled the metal glob again. Before she could free the key, the door jerked open. Whitney, the super-model roommate from hell, filled the doorway.

“Oh, it’s only you,” said the blonde. With a flip of her ponytail, she turned and disappeared into their apartment.

“Who else would it be?” Faye mumbled, following her inside.

They had been roommates since college. After Whitney rocketed to model stardom, Faye had expected her to get her own place. They’d never been that close, simply convenient roommates. But as time went on and Whitney didn’t budge, Faye realized that she was being used. Born with beauty—and enough brains to know that she didn’t have any—Whitney had kept Faye close. Why not? Where Whitney was scattered and vain, Faye was organized, dependable, and a plain Jane. All in all, the perfect companion for an attention whore.

She slid her load onto the kitchen island and tore off a paper towel, swiped it across her mouth, and tossed it in the wastebasket.

A high-pitched yelp greeted her.

“Flash!” Faye squatted and retrieved the dog from under the counter. “What are you doing here?

“The old hag dropped him off.” Whitney didn’t look up from her fashion magazine. “Said you’d agreed to watch him.”

“Huh.” Faye scratched his head. “I don’t remember that.”

Flash had the coloring and markings of a Rottweiler, but his body was all Welsh Corgi. He reminded her of a footstool on toothpicks. She watched him for Mrs. P, their nosy neighbor. Sometimes his visits were planned, but most, like tonight, were drop-ins. Sadly, she never had a date to interfere with dog watching. She figured Mrs. Perkins sensed this and capitalized on that weakness.

Whitney gave a disapproving grunt. Great, she was in another bad mood. What was it this time—a fight with a photographer, or bad lighting? Whitney’s perfect body stretched across the pages of the magazine she was reading. If Faye ignored the spread, she might be saved from a night of scrutinizing every detail of her roommate’s photo shoot.

Faye set Flash on the floor and grabbed her quart of milk, turning toward the refrigerator. The slap of a second magazine hitting the island startled her. This was not good—so not good. She focused on shoving her milk into the nearly empty refrigerator and willed herself not to turn around. Like a flock of crazed chickadees, the pages flipped frantically behind her. She knew this routine. Whitney was deep in the throes of what Faye referred to as
The Five Stages of Validation
. By the sound of it, Whitney still hovered on step one:
Denial
. Faye silently groaned and stared at a moldy block of white cheese. Her evening was toast.

Dear Lord, please let her jump directly to step five, the “I’ll show you” phase. Amen.

“I can’t believe they used this photo of me. I look huge.”

Faye wondered how long she could stare into the refrigerator before looking like a moron. She yanked open the freezer door and stepped closer. Maybe she could feign hypothermia. Surely if she passed out on the floor, Whitney would stop her ranting long enough to call 911.

“I mean, look at this,” Whitney whined.

Faye made a note to fill out one of those
Do Not Resuscitate
forms.

“They may as well have stuck me in a pig costume.”

Maybe scooting the condiments around would buy her a few minutes. She shuffled the ketchup to a lower shelf.

“Faye,” Whitney barked. “Look at this. Tell me if I’m wrong.”

Faye sighed and shut the doors. Just because her life wasn’t as exciting as Whitney’s didn’t mean she wanted to live vicariously through her. She pasted on a smile and turned.

“I’m sure this is a breach of contract,” Whitney said.

Good. Step two:
Blame
.

A magazine whizzed across the counter and rebounded off Faye’s stomach. She slapped a hand onto the glossy pages, pinning the magazine against the granite before it slid off. Perfect teeth, flawless skin, and sculpted muscles Faye was sure didn’t exist in nature stared back at her.

“I think you look beautiful.”

Whitney rolled her eyes and reached across the island to snatch the magazine back. “Beautiful? Are you blind?”

“No.”
But being deaf would have distinct benefits right now.
Time for ego damage control.
“As a matter of fact, I don’t think I’ve seen you look more beautiful.”

Whitney harrumphed. “Not my most beautiful, but even with this amateurish lighting I still look better than Candy Jenkins.” She crammed her finger between two pages and flipped open the magazine. “The girl has got some thighs on her.”

Excellent. Step three:
Comparison
. At this rate, Whitney would complete her trauma ritual within the next five minutes and move onto the treadmill and begin the
Top Model
marathon that always followed her episodes. Faye attempted the diversionary tactic of changing the subject.

“So…” In one smooth motion, she scooped up her purse and the files and headed to her bedroom. “What do you have planned for tonight?”

The click of doggy nails and the squeak of the chair being pushed away from the counter heralded Flash and Whitney’s pursuit.

“There’s a new restaurant in midtown we’re trying, some kind of Brazilian steakhouse. My friend said the waiters come to the table with big hunks of meat on skewers and serve you. I guess they have like a hundred different types of meat. It’s perfect for this low-carb diet I’m on.”

“Meat on a stick. Now that’s sure to be a hit.”

“I know, right?” Whitney pointed at her. “You should come with us.”

Faye set the pile of folders on her desk and plopped down in her desk chair. With a
Wingardium Leviosa
wave of her hand, she pushed the computer’s
on
button and sank into the big, leather desk chair. The machine hummed to life. “Sorry, I have tons of work to do.”

“Come on,” Whitney cajoled. “What’s more fun—having an adult evening out or babysitting a dog?”

Flash jumped onto Faye’s bed, did two circles, and settled next to the pillow.
Definitely dog-sitting.
She’d rather pluck herself bare with dull tweezers than experience another Friday night with Whitney and her friends. The last time she’d gone, she’d spent the entire evening as Whitney’s
official holder,
holding her purse, her coat, their places in line, and the table while Whitney danced with everybody in the club.

“I really can’t.” Her Twitter page glowed like a beacon, calling to her. She hit the refresh button. “I promised Mrs. P.”

“That old lady plays you like an X-box. She never asked you to watch her mutt.”

Flash growled and Whitney growled back.

“It might have slipped my mind.” Faye clicked the
connect
tab. A message from @HopelessRomantic popped onto the screen. Her smile widened.

“You’re the most efficient person I know. You don’t remember because the old battle-axe didn’t ask.”

“I don’t mind.” Faye leaned into her screen to read.

@CrispyCream What are you doing tonight?

Though she’d chosen @CrispyCream in honor of her favorite doughnut franchise, in hindsight, spelling it differently might have made her sound like a stripper.

“You know, there’s more to life than dog-sitting and Twitter.”

Faye glanced away from Hopeless’s message and looked at Whitney. “What?”

“Twitter.” She pointed to the computer. “You’re obsessed.”

“Am not.” Faye hated when Whitney started on her about being a recluse. “I just enjoy it, that’s all.”

“Uh-huh.” Whitney crossed her arms over her ample bosom and leaned against the doorframe. “Why not do something daring for once? Blow off work and live a little?”

“Because.” She exaggerated every vowel. “I work for Pierre Shogun, the biggest, most neurotic interior designer in the city. If I don’t do my work, I don’t get paid. If I don’t get paid, all this opulence disappears.”

Whitney waved her hand absently. “I’ve got money.”

Faye raised her eyebrows. “Speaking of which, you’re two months behind in rent.”

“Fine,” Whitney continued, ignoring the reference to money. “But when you’re old and alone, still living in this apartment, I’m going to say I told you so.”

Images of Faye’s cardigan-clad skeleton clutching a taxidermied Flash flittered through her mind. Nobody would find her until the smell of her rotting corpse drove one of her neighbors to complain. She shuddered. Sadly, the prospect wasn’t all that unbelievable.

“Hey,” Faye said. “When’s your reservation?”

“Nine o’clock.”

“Wow.” She tapped the face of her watch. “You only have three hours. Better get ready.”

Horrification spread across Whitney’s face. “I haven’t even picked out what I’m going to wear yet.” She pivoted and disappeared out the door.

Faye turned her attention back to the computer and flexed her fingers.

@HopelessRomantic, Tweeting, eating, & meeting new friends. You?

She cringed at her pitiful rhyming attempt. “Was that corny?”

Flash gave a sleepy grunt of approval.

A reply popped onto the screen.

@CrispyCream, Waiting for you.

Her heart beat a little faster. Several times a day she’d catch herself fantasizing about Hopeless, imagining what he would act and look like. She wasn’t even certain he
was
a man. When the only communication you had was tweeting, it was tough to tell.

If she were pretty, maybe she’d chance socializing. At least with looks she’d be able to
get
a date and enjoy a free meal before the guy dumped her. Plain wasn’t a suitable description for her. Invisible, unremarkable, and forgettable, were more like it. Oftentimes, people at work actually forgot she was in the room. Most couldn’t remember her name. Faye—was that so hard? But no. They’d called her Faith, Feona, Kaye, even Fanny. Really? Fanny? No, she was safer sticking to her cyber world.

@HopelessRomantic Well I’m here.

She prayed her tweet sounded cool, maybe even a little sexy. The desk chair creaked as she rocked, waiting for his reply. It didn’t take long.

@CrispyCream And here I am. What do you say we spend the night together?

Faye pulled at the neck of her sweatshirt. Whew, the guy knew how to tweet.

@HopelessRomantic I’m all yours.

She clicked the Tweet button and sat back. Dang, when had she turned into such a tart? The conversations between her and HR had heated up over the last month, shifting from “Hey there.” To “Wish I was there.” At times, it was all she could do to get home and see if he’d left her a message.

She’d briefly contemplated a real life meeting, but nausea and the cold sweats would set in, reminding her she was a social ignoramus. With her luck, he’d be married, gay, or a serial killing rodeo clown.

The manufacturer’s generic ringtone erupted inside her purse, shocking her from her
what if
musings.
Private Caller
flashed on the phone screen. Nobody but Pierre Shogun or clients called her, and that was only on the cell phone Pierre had given her so he could reach her anytime. This was her private cell ringing.

“Hello?”

“Faye?” a velvety masculine voice said on the other end.

“Yes.” Her mind raced, trying to put a face to the familiar voice. “This is Faye.”

“Hi, this is Christopher White.”

“Uhhh—” Her thoughts raced around her head, searching for a Christopher White other than the gorgeous photographer at work. “Christopher…”

“From work.”

“Right—right.” Her head bobbed up and down. “Christopher from work—riiight.” She continued to nod like a bobblehead dog that had no intention of stopping. “How did you get my number?”

Damn!
The question had come out much more suspicious than she’d wanted. Christopher White was the one flesh and blood man she daydreamed about. He was a photographer at Shogun Designs. Though they rarely worked together directly, what interaction she’d had with him had always been pleasant. That fact that he was hot to the nth degree didn’t hurt.

“I hope you don’t mind,” he continued. “I sweet-talked Tiffany in human resources into giving me your number.”

Faye’s stomach did a little flip. “Wow, you really must have wanted to talk to me. Getting information out of Tiffany is harder than wrestling a greased pig.”

A deep chuckle resonated through the phone. “Yeah, it wasn’t easy, but I’ll have to take your word about wrestling pigs.”

She pinched the bridge of her nose. God, she sounded like such an idiot. This was why she didn’t date. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“Well, Pierre mentioned that you were headed out to the chapel site on the Bandicott Estate tomorrow.”

“Yes, tomorrow morning.” Her heart sunk a bit. Of course this was business. Why would somebody like Christopher White be calling to ask her out? That kind of thing never happened. “I need to make sure the construction crew knows what to take.”