Kyle has helped Lily work through her grief, and he has mended her broken heart. She has learned to move on from her tragic loss without feelings of guilt. As she falls in love with Kyle, all Lily dreams of is finally having her happily ever after. But as time goes on, Lily can no longer ignore the desire to know more about Kyle’s past. She recognizes the hurt in his eyes as it reflects the same pain Kyle saved her from. Will Kyle be able to share his secrets? Will Lily have the strength to heal Kyle’s heartache? Is their love enough to make their dreams come true? *This book contains mature content*
If I had known then that Lilly Amsel would set such a
fierce blaze in my life, I would have taken the next elevator.
All I wanted that morning was to get a
hard run on the treadmill and go to my office to put in some weekend overtime.
I arrived at The Equity, the most prestigious gym not only in New York
City but in the country, and was checking my work-issued Blackberry as
usual. I tended to avoid such pretentious settings, but membership was one of
the many perks of my employment at Wotherspoon and Associates. As a law student
at Aldensburg University, I had interned at the corporate law firm
and had been offered a position after I’d passed the bar five
years ago. Aldensburg was not as premier a college when compared to the Ivies;
in fact most people have never heard of it. But, like me, it got
the job done. And professionally the job I was trying to get done now was
making partner. I know it was an ambitious goal, but I had nothing but faith in
my skills to make it happen.
For the moment I was there at The Equity in
my sagging basketball shorts and stretched-out T-shirt, standing
amid chichi air kissers. I was not there to hobnob; I actually had a
serious goal. I worked out not only to maintain my body but
to keep my mind sharp, focused, and ready at all times. That was what
separated me from those people. I was a shark among peacocks.
The cheerless receptionist with the
sucked-in cheeks eyed me as I stepped through the door. I could see her hostile
nostrils widen like a bull’s as she feigned a barely polite smile. She knew who
I was but played this ridiculous game with me every day. Always pretending
not to know me.
“I’m sorry, sir. You must be looking for the gym down
the street.”
That was her way of telling
me that my choice of clothing was not up to par, and I might consider
some more appropriate attire. I had known plenty of people like her growing up
and knew that the best way to handle her was to be in her face every chance I
got, to be the proverbial pebble in her shoe. I swiped my security
pass card and told her, “See you tomorrow.”
The Equity was an “it” destination for
celebrities and all manner of the rich and powerful. The entry level
consisted of a wide, stark-white hallway with electric-blue tube lights lining
the walls and ceiling, and filled with the ethereal melody of a
string orchestra. This main hallway connected with several more, with the
last one ending a spacious, low-lit lounge area. Scattered about were
suede couches and glass tables; black-and-white photos of perfectly
sculpted body parts hung on the walls. This was where those who
came to be seen strategically posed themselves just in case an undercover
paparazzo managed to sneak in. The lounge was usually empty in
the morning because its denizens could not manage to roll out of bed until
well into the afternoon.
I made my way across the rugs to yet another hall that
led to a bank of elevators. I pushed the “up” button, eager to start
my workout. Then I heard the quick click clack of feminine footsteps come up
behind me. I sighed because I knew those shoes—probably high heels—were not
made for running. This was just another pampered pest whose idea
of working out was getting a massage. I did not even have to turn around to
figure this chick out.
Her heavy perfume was layered with the fresh smell of
soap and shampoo. Typical of someone who saw the gym as a social
occasion rather than a place to exercise. I never had patience with
lackadaisical people who were not willing to put in the effort to
achieve anything. I wanted so badly to turn around and say, “Why are you even
here? Shouldn’t you be having Sunday brunch over at Peacock Alley?”
However, I was not there to judge. I was there to
work out. But I was curious as to who was standing behind me. I looked
into the stainless-steel door of the elevator to see if I could make out the
reflection. The dull surface only revealed that the grayish silhouette behind
me was tall and lanky. Not as tall as me at six foot three, but tall
nonetheless.
Then a hoard of more click-clacking footsteps
arrived, accompanied by raucously shrill voices greeting the first woman.
I thought, Oh god. Jersey girls.
“Lilly!” they all screamed in unison.
The first woman, Lilly, chirped back.
“Sweetie pies, how are you?”
One nasally voice responded, “Fine if you like your
nipples turning into Popsicles. It’s cold as hell out there. What’s on
your agenda today? ”
“Pilates with Jean-Paul. Thirty minutes.”
“What is he? A slave driver?” another
woman said seriously with a croaky smoker’s voice.
“I know, right?” Lilly agreed. All I could do was roll
my eyes at that nonsense.
Lilly had an odd way of speaking that only a discerning
ear could pick up. She was trying her best to affect a newscaster accent, that
plain Midwestern way of speaking. However, she would occasionally
slip into an upward inflection that made every
sentence sound like a question. She was definitely a So-Cal transplant. It was
beyond me why, in the midst of shudder-inducing Jersey accents, Lilly
hid her natural one.
As the elevator numbers slowly ticked down, I
noticed in my peripheral vision the number of men passing. They were
all doing double takes at Lilly. Either she was gorgeous or
hideous beyond measure. Either way, it did not matter to me. I had seen plenty
of both and was not swayed by the slop or gloss of anything. An ethics
professor a long way back even accused me of being jaded. What he could not
understand was that when your life has been a trial by fire, you
see things differently from most. The world and
all the people in it are just opportunities for you to get what you
need. You can’t depend on anyone but yourself. When you have lived in a
cushioned bubble like the professor, you just don’t get that. Needless to
say I barely passed that class.
The elevator finally arrived, and the herd of
new-money cows stampeded past me to get in. I turned back, and Lilly was
waiting for me to usher her out like I was the doorman. Sure
enough she was decked out in black from head to toe—leggings, turtleneck,
and those clacking ankle boots. She had a leather bag brimming with Voss
water and vitamin blister packs. She appeared to be in
her early twenties, so I was perplexed as to why she needed so many
pills.
Still, I must admit that I was taken aback by
how beautiful she was. Her hair, pushed back and glossed into a
tight bun, reminded me of dark honey, and her graceful, lithe body
looked like that of a ballet dancer. And those eyes—they were
extraordinarily large orbs of malachite rimmed in chestnut. However, no
matter how pouty her dewy lips were, Lilly still acted like an entitled
elitist, so pampered that she probably considered Park Slope to be the ghetto.
I watched her standing there looking at me.
This woman was used to people fawning all over her, and I was not one to
do that. I did not grovel or bow down to anybody. But no matter what
I felt about her at the moment, I decided to do the gentlemanly thing.
“Ladies first,” I said.
Lilly sashayed past me and joined her
tacky and deeply moneyed crew. As she crossed the threshold of the
elevator, she gave me a “thanks” that was nowhere near sincere. I
spent the elevator ride to the third floor listening
to her companions’ boisterous gossip about other women at the club.
Yet I did not hear Lilly utter any comment. I just felt her eyes laser
beaming my back. Apparently she was still shocked and pissed that I didn’t
think she was the shit.
* * *
“Lilly, you forgot your water,” Jean-Paul yelled out to
me. He had been my Pilates instructor for the past six years—my
entire time in New York. After I finished my thirty-minute workout with him, I
got some fresh acrylics in the spa. I was preparing for an interview with Paramour
Life, fashion’s most prominent magazine, later that afternoon. Though I was
modeling, the interview was not about me. It was really about my boyfriend of
two years, Sig Krok. Sig had come from Sweden twenty years ago and started
his own fashion house, Klå. Klå. It quickly became one of the best-selling
clothing lines in the world.
This article would be a tribute to Sig.
The magazine just wanted my perspective of him and a little
insider knowledge of our highly visible yet terribly private
relationship.
With discreet sleight of hand, Jean-Paul
handed me my property, and it was not really water. It was
my bottle of Klonopin.
“I know how important water is,” he said then quickly
dismissed himself to his next scheduled client. I watched him for a moment. I
was in awe and bewilderment over how he mastered the art of prancing and
swaying like a seasoned burlesque dancer. He really had to teach me that
sometime.
Realizing I was running out of time before the
interview and still had to get my makeup done, I abruptly turned around to
leave. And I turned right into Mr. Scowl—the guy at the elevator this
morning. Aw, just great, I thought.
“Excuse me,” I said as I started walking away.
By then he had put on some more weather-appropriate clothing—jeans
and a cable-knit sweater with a white T-shirt underneath. And the creep
did not even respond to me, smirking his arrogant mouth instead. Even though he
was pompous, he was kind of cute. Though it was the middle of winter, his skin
looked sun kissed. He was a giant of a man, well over six feet tall. His
luminous, copper eyes seemed like they were always narrowed, like he was
annoyed with people because they were merely human and could not withstand his
survey.
I headed toward the
elevator, and he did the same. When we got
there, I started pushing buttons in hopes it would make the elevator
come faster. The bell dinged, and he let me on first. I could tell he
didn’t want to but was trying to be The Man.
We stood in opposite corners.
By then most men would have engaged me in conversation.
He hadn’t. Was he gay? No, I had a fairly accurate gaydar. What was wrong
with him then? I was becoming increasingly irritated by this man’s presence. I
glanced over at him. He was wiping his sweaty
brow, and his hand pushed up his cap a bit, exposing his inky
hair cut with perfect precision around the edges. The cap was thready
and had a large A on the front. He probably had gotten it
from some college a while back. I also noticed that on the underside of the
cap’s bill, he had written his name in permanent
marker: Cam.
Even though he grated on me, I could not help
but be distracted by his body. He had Adonis-like shoulders, broad and
protective. His thick thighs were agape, his wide stance taking up a
good deal of space. This square-jawed man was definitely broody, but even
without a smile, I could make out the dimple in his cheek. And I did
not even want to get started on the size of his hands and feet.
They were enormous.
The air vent was blowing a light, steady stream of air
across Cam. I inhaled the heady scent of his newly
sweaty body intermingled with a woodsy
deodorant. I leaned in his direction. One of my eyes went
on autopilot and fluttered—that thing that happens when something is real
good. I took another breath and leaned in some more.
Wait! What…the fuck…am I doing? I
caught myself right before my nose landed on Cam’s arm. And
there he was with the same “what the fuck?” look. He was staring
at me going for his pit with my crazy eye. He obviously thought I was about to
rape him.
Quick, deflect.
I pointed at my ear. “I thought you said something.” I regained my
composure and returned my gaze forward.
But he sure did smell
good. And boy, was I horny.
Whatever. I wasn’t going to say anything
else to Cam. He was still nothing but an aloof, smug asshole to me. And I had
to endure what seemed like a forever ride to the first floor with him. I
turned my face back to the elevator doors with just the sound of
the motors and cables to break the silence.
I was so relieved to get out of the elevator, I
practically sprinted into the parking garage. I slung my faux fur over my
shoulders as I rushed to Sig’s Infiniti QX80. Cam was trailing me, sliding
into his leather jacket. And I just knew he was about to ask me for
my number despite that fiasco in the elevator. Maybe I hadn’t lost my
touch. I was prepared to shoot him down, of course. But he sure was taking
his time. I was already at Sig’s SUV.
However, not only did Cam not ask me
for my number, he was only walking behind me because he had parked
his powerful, black Harley 1200 Custom next to me. He spread his thick
legs and straddled it then put on his Aviator sunglasses and revved
up his baby. I had to say, that motorcycle…the way it just hung between
his legs…looked more like a big, hard dick than anything else.
Cam turned the twist grip like it was his cock and
throttled up. The rumble from the motorcycle bounced off the concrete walls of
the garage. It was almost deafening. He didn’t care. In fact, if
I hadn’t known any better, I would have sworn he’d done it
on purpose. I was totally conflicted.
Never had I so detested a man and still wanted to fuck the
skin off his dick at the same time.
Alas, Cam drove off without even looking in my
direction. I let out an audible gasp. No straight
male ever looked at me and just turned away.
Hmm…maybe my gaydar was in need of a tune-up.
Alicia Rae is a Contemporary Romance Author who lives in Dekalb, Illinois, with her husband and three beautiful boys. Alicia has a passion for reading all types of romance, writing to bring a story to life, and photography. Thank you to my dear sister, Kels, who showed me a few years ago how much I truly missed reading. And to my loving husband, for not throwing away my Nook, and planting the seed of writing into my mind. I am forever grateful. Xo Readers, words cannot thank you enough for supporting me along this incredible journey. I hope you enjoy my novels as much as I do writing them. I thank each and every one of you. Believe in yourself and follow your dreams...
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