Winning Appeal (12 page)

Beth

June

Mark stood with his arm around my waist, out by the pool at my parents’ place. We were laughing at something funny that Adam had just said while watching Braden BBQing up our dinner. Mark and I had been dating for over a month now, and we were very happy together. Braden had gotten comfortable with it, and so had my younger brother, Drew, who had finally graduated from law school and would be joining the Justice Project after taking the summer off to study for the bar exam.

My parents were absolutely thrilled to find out we were a couple, and my father seemed very interested in talking Mark into a political career someday, since at the moment at least, neither one of his sons seemed interested. There was other good news too, Cameron had finally popped the question, and he and Jess would be getting married that fall. Adam and Lily were considering starting a family soon, and I had a feeling that Braden and Gabrielle wouldn’t be far behind. Perhaps the most unexpected news was that Caitlin would be joining our staff soon as a legal secretary. Liz was training her diligently and Liz was a miracle worker. So it seemed that Caitlin would finally have some friends. She also had her painting back, and would be lending it to the art museum.

The paparazzo art thief was facing trial on a number of charges, and while there was a bit of scandal surrounding Gerard’s untimely passing, he had left his estate to charity, so he was largely forgiven.

“Hey man, did you have fun last night?” Mark asked Drew, who had come over.

“Oh yeah, I had a hook-up that I will
never
forget,” he answered with a laugh.

“And on that note…” I said giving Mark a final squeeze and moved on to go chat with the girls. As it turned out, Drew was right by the way…

The End

N.M. Silber on Amazon

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About the Author

N.M. Silber is an attorney, turned full-time author, who survived the Philadelphia criminal court system, largely by having a sarcastic sense of humor. She used her experiences there as a starting place to build her humorous cast of characters and sexy story lines, and she uses her knowledge of legal practice, courtroom procedure, and how lawyers really think, in every one of her novels. She has been a
USA Today
Bestselling author and a #1 Bestselling author in Romantic Comedy on Amazon. She was voted an Amazon Reader’s Choice Best New Author for 2013, and has been ranked as a Top 100 author there overall. She has stated that her goal is to write books that make readers laugh, blush, swoon and genuinely feel good.

N.M. Silber’s Writing Manifesto:

1) My characters don’t cheat. 2) My characters treat people with dignity.3) My male characters do not refer to women as “whores,” “sluts,” or “bitches.” 4) My female characters are strong, intelligent and unwilling to be involved with men who act like they are A) fifteen B) emotionally disturbed C) asshats.5) My couples communicate rather than react.6) My couples have fun, healthy, hot, and sexy sex. Nobody gets hurt - physically or emotionally. 7) My goal is to make you laugh, swoon, blush and hide in the bathroom to read. My goal is NOT to make you to go through a box of tissues or throw your Kindle. 8) There will be no amnesia, secret babies, dead parents, break ups over misunderstandings, book covers with Fabio on them or use of the words “throbbing manhood.“9) Despite all of the above ^^ I will still provide PLENTY of conflict and tension and sizzling chemistry between my characters.

Allow me to introduce you…

I’m lucky enough to be friends with three very intelligent and fabulously witty authors, Daisy Prescott, Zack Love and Penny Reid. They are all extremely talented individuals who have written books that I include among my personal favorites. I’m very honored to say that they each leant me an excerpt from their books to share with you. If you like smart, funny, unforgettable stories, I highly encourage you to keep reading and check them out.

Nadine

By Daisy Prescott

Synopsis

Sex? Absolutely.

Love? Not my thing.

I didn’t do love or butterflies, but I loved him.

I was screwed, and not in a good way.

Selah Elmore is a confident, curvy woman who knows exactly who she is and what she wants. She loves her life being a professor and popular pirate erotica author. However, when she leaves the Pacific Northwest to spend six months studying sculpture in West Africa, she learns she doesn’t know a thing about love.

Cocky, suit-wearing Gerhard charms her during a stopover in Amsterdam, but dashing, adventurous Kai sweeps her off her feet in Ghana.

Sparks fly on three continents when perpetually single Selah discovers there’s more to love and life than she ever imagined.

“You should meet my brother.”

I had been picked up many times in airport bars, but a brother set up was a first. Not that I expected the woman sitting next to me with her glass of Pinot Grigio to be the type to hit on strange women, but this was JFK. A crossroads of world travelers meant anything was possible. We’d been sitting silently next to each other at a sushi bar, poking away at our phones when our identical orders of spicy tuna hand-rolls were placed in front of us. She instigated a conversation and we fell into an animated discussion about the delicious merits of quality sushi.

Married? Never. Her? Divorced

Kids? No way. Her? A thirteen-year-old daughter.

From? Portland. Her? Chicago. Her accent told me she wasn’t born there. I guessed someplace like Scandinavia where they bred super models.

The typical questions of where we were headed and sharing our woes of travel followed. I liked her.

“Is your brother in Dubai?” I asked. Anita had shared her excitement over her upcoming week there. I admitted it sounded glamorous and far more luxe than my travel plans.

“No, Dubai is for business and a little fun. My brother’s in Amsterdam, where I’m from. You did say you’re going to Amsterdam, didn’t you?”

Dutch. I was close. Must be all the cheese. Or chocolate.

“Oh, right. I’ll be there for a week before my work takes me to Ghana.”

“Are you a missionary?” the athletic blonde asked me.

“A missionary in Amsterdam? Is anyone that much of a masochist? I’m not even a fan of the missionary position.”

She spit out her wine. Wiping her chin with a napkin, she gathered her composure. “I thought perhaps you planned to visit Amsterdam to sin a little before doing the good work in Africa. Isn’t that what most Americans do there? Meddle with the best intentions in the name of a church?”

I blinked at my bar mate. “Not a fan of religion?”

“I grew up in The Netherlands. Churches are for tourists in most towns.”

I laughed. “I think I’ll fit right in there. To answer your question, I’m a professor. My sabbatical is taking me to Amsterdam and then on to Accra to study the female form in Ashanti sculptures.”

“You study naked women?”

“Not only women. I’m an equal opportunity nudist. I mean I study the human form across cultures. Nothing against the penis, but it’s hard to represent one in all it’s glory without it seeming silly or grotesque.” I giggled. Anita chuckled, too. “I prefer female bodies in art with all the beautiful variation.”

She blatantly swept her gaze over my body, from my messy, dark bob down to my overnight flight outfit of an open cardigan over exposed, but tasteful, cleavage, down to my yoga pants and comfortable but not fashionable flats. Maybe she was hitting on me. I straightened the scarf around my neck.

“You really should look up my brother.” She tapped her phone, bringing it to life. “I’ll give you his information. Text him. He’ll be perfect company while you’re in Amsterdam.” Out of her designer bag she pulled a business card and an expensive looking pen, which she used to scrawl a name and number on the back of her card.

“Your brother’s name is Gerhard?” I failed to fully stifle my snort. Get hard. Gerrharrd. Gerhard would make the perfect name for a scoundrel pirate. I’d have to remember the name for my next pirotica novel.

“I know. Isn’t it the most uptight name? I wish I could say it doesn’t suit him, but he can be a complete prat sometimes.”

The garbled voice of a boarding announcement broke over the speakers. She glanced down at her watch.

“Oh, my flight’s boarding. Call Gerhard. I think you’d have fun with him.”

“Didn’t you just say he was a prat?”

“Sometimes, but women seem to love the bad boys, don’t they?” She gathered her things and left a sizable tip on the bar. “Great to meet you, Selah. Best of luck with your sabbatical.”

I smiled at my new super model friend. If her brother shared her genes, maybe I would look him up when I arrived. “Bye, Anita.”

“Say hi to Gerhard for me.” With a sparkling white smile and a wave, she disappeared into the crowd of travelers.

What an odd, but friendly woman.

I spun her card on the bar. Anita Hendriks, management consultant. She had the same last name; the brother part could be legit. Gerhard, though. Get harder. I giggled and finished the last of my saketini. Scrolling through my mental file of lovers, aka The United Nations of Peen, I realized I’d never slept with a Dutchman. Maybe Gerhard could check off an item on my fuck-it-list.

Being a professor might sound glamorous and interesting to some, but for me it meant having to fly coach on international flights. A window seat earned me a place in a slightly higher level of hell than a middle seat or the row right next to the bathrooms where the seats didn’t recline. Still, it was hell nonetheless.

The crush of summer tourists filled the flight to capacity. College backpackers, stoners and shifty-eyed men populated the plane. I doubted they would be seeing any Van Goghs or Rembrandts.

I wanted a cigarette. Damn quitting. Stupid aging and health. I reached into my bag for a piece of nicotine gum. Over the past three months, I’d managed to ween myself off cigarettes, deliciously comforting, soothing, invigorating, cancer causing cigarettes. After smoking for decades, I missed the habit of it. At least flights were smoke-free these days. I might have been tempted to stand in the smoking section and acquire a contact nicotine hit.

Groggy after a sleep-aid induced nap, a gray sky greeted me when the plane landed at Schiphol Airport. Even in summer, Amsterdam had more rain than my beloved Portland. And cooler temperatures. I wrapped my scarf tighter around my neck. The variation in climates meant I had packed for three seasons for two countries. Ghana promised to be hot, humid, rainy and dry, but never cool.

At immigration, Anita’s business card fell to the floor when I reached for my passport. The man who picked it up and handed it to me looked half my age, which meant he was young enough to be one of my students. This reality didn’t stop him from brushing against my side and flirting with me while we waited in line. With his guidebook opened to “cafes” I knew the type of adventure he wanted. Been there, smoked that. Before he could continue his attempt to flirt or ask to share a cab into the city, I brusquely thanked him and moved forward to the immigration agent.

Sitting in the back of a cab slowly making its way through morning rush hour into the heart of Amsterdam, I pulled out Anita’s card with Gerhard’s name on it. I admitted I was more than curious. After the attentions of the much younger man in line, I wondered how old Anita’s brother was. It would be crazy to call him. Anita was gorgeous, and if her brother swam in the same gene pool, chances were he was as tall, blond, and athletic. Everything I didn’t typically find attractive. Although I shut down Backpack Romeo in the airport, these days my type meant anyone with a pulse, single, and not looking for a housekeeper. Viagra optional. I took pills to sleep and had a wee nicotine addiction. Who was I to judge the need for a little blue pill?

My fingers flicked the card to the beat of a techno song on the radio.

Anita wasn’t a friend or even a friend of a friend. What would I say?
Hi, I thought your sister tried to pick me up at a sushi bar at JFK, but turns out she wanted to set me up with you.

No, that wouldn’t work.

Hi, your sister gave me your number. I’ve never had sex with a Dutchman, so I’m calling you. Are you up for some Flying Dutchman action?

No. Wasn’t the Flying Dutchman some haunted ship doomed to roam the oceans forever? Maybe I could ask Gerhard.

Jet lag forced a yawn from me. After stretching my arms and rolling my neck, I tucked the card back into my purse. No need to rush things.

First things first. Coffee and something made of ninety-percent butter. Maybe some cheese. Followed by chocolate.

Maybe some
bitterballen
.

I snorted. I might have been too old for college backpackers, but my sense of humor still lingered around fourteen-year-old-boy.

Amsterdam, I’m coming for you.

You too, Gerhard.