I Love My Healed Heart: 4 Book Box Set/Omnibus (Erotic Romance) Read online

The frankness of his confession takes me off guard. That was so hot that it made my heart skip. That’s nice, but I can’t see you anymore, James. It’s not you; it’s Brittany, her sister, my guardian angel and your ex, my boss. I gulp. Deflect it with a joke! Always the right answer! “You’re not here to see what’s hot in the coming season?”

  He throws back his gorgeous head and laughs, and then looks back at me, his eyes dancing. “I’m looking at what’s hot in the coming season.” He leans in, kisses me and I melt. Damn men and how good they feel! Damn them all. What was I going to tell him? I forget. Running my fingers through his hair, I reluctantly return his kisses, which just makes him more excited to have to work for it. I feel him grow against my thigh. I press my hip against his erection, move against it, arouse him even more. We shouldn’t be doing this, a small voice inside my head tells me, but it’s getting quieter and quieter. The electric shocks… I can feel this in my knees, in my toes, in the tips of my fingers. He tastes so good. I can’t help but play… a little. This can’t be wrong. I should go. I should go. I SHOULD GO.

  “I have to get back out there,” I groan, closing my eyes. “The next show is going to start soon.”

  “You don’t want to go.” He kisses my neck, his breath hot on my skin. His bulge presses through our clothing as the rhythmic movements drive our excitement upward. He’s not wearing a jacket today and I run my hands down his sinewy, chiseled back over the cotton fabric stretched tightly over his shoulders. Mmmm.

  “I should go, James. I really should…”

  Deep and thick, he says, “Skip it. And stop trying to leave.” His hand goes under my skirt and feels the spaghetti-thin strap on my hip, of my pink panties. “You’re wearing panties today. I hate that.”

  “It’s a short skirt.”

  “Yeah, well, if you think they can keep me out, you’re wrong.”

  Oh my. Yes, please. I grab onto his ass as he bends his knees a bit, slides both hands underneath the thin layer of lace barely covering me, to cup my cheeks, too. Pressing his thick fingers into my flesh, he is screaming to be released from his pants. C’mon baby. Bring it out. Feeling its firm pressure makes me want him more. This man is so dangerous for me. For my career. For my sanity. I pull him closer. Our tongues play as he wraps his fingers beneath my ass to where it meets the top of my thighs. He slides his fingers into that crease where my legs meet my torso, touching the soft skin that’s so much more sensitive than I could have guessed. He’s teasing me, touching around my pussy. He knows that if he does this long enough, I will give in. How could I not? It feels amazing, this soft sensual caress as he kisses me slowly… so, so slowly. I don’t know if anyone’s taken the luxurious time to pay attention to this spot before. I moan softly against his open lips. He lightly touches me, pressing the tips of his fingers against my clit, hidden and throbbing. I angle myself so that he has to touch where I ache. Chuckling, he gives me what I want and rubs me. But only once, and stops.

  He pulls his hands away and breaks our kiss. His hands cup the base of my ass cheeks again as he looks at me, thinking about something. Why did he stop?

  “Why’d you stop?” I whisper, our lips inches away. More kisses. More.

  “You have to go.” He releases his hold and steps away. What?!!

  “You’re a jerk,” I moan.

  His eyes glitter. “Do you want me to fuck you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then go out with me Friday.” He leaves, as I stare after him.

  “James!” I whisper-yell it, but he doesn’t come back. If he would have stayed or come back, I would have told him yes for Friday and fucked him right now! Why are men so difficult? You know what…what have I been stressing about? The answer is so obvious. I should choose James. He’s great. He’s obviously very into me. Why fight it? Plus, he lives in the same city as I do! I’ll let Mark know that I can’t see him when he comes into town. Yes. This is the right choice.

  Good. I feel better.

  I fix my dress. I pick up my phone and bag from the floor (didn’t even notice I’d dropped them, heh heh). I wait a moment before peeking out - with just one eye - through the curtain. Can I get out of here without much ado? There is a small handful of people directly in my eye-line, but I don’t recognize any of them, so who cares? I step out, ignoring their stares as though it is perfectly normal for me to walk out of a hidden door. I look down to my phone and open up email to finally reply to Mark. I turn to the left and collide into a stationary twelve-year old.

  I should have waited longer to come out of hiding.

  Brittany is standing with her little arms crossed and a weird triumphant smile on her face. She’s wearing a form-fitting power suit, similar to The Bitches. In my mind, she’s twelve, so it looks like she’s playing dress-up. I can’t help but notice her Jimmy Choo shoes because one of them is tapping excitedly from discovering my clandestine move. So she has money… or a heftily charged credit card. Her skin is flawless, but then again, skin is always flawless when you’re twelve. You haven’t hit puberty yet.

  “Well hello, Jess.” she says, with a tone I don’t love. She shortened my name, too, like we’re friends. We are not friends.

  Did she see James? I can’t tell. I take the friendly cue, just in case. “Hi Britt.”

  “Diego wants to know if he should be covering Custo or Project Runway, next.”

  “Project Runway.”

  She frowns and cocks her head to the side in a way that I know men love. I, however, am not a man.

  “Really? Not Custo?” she asks, innocently.

  “No.” I reach up and rub my temple because my lack of coffee combined with this moment, is giving me a severe headache.

  Head still cocked, she looks like she’s very confused and starts pretending to fiddle with her nails. “Huh.”

  Sigh. “What is it, Brittany?” Oops. That didn’t come out with the sweet tone I’d intended. Tee hee.

  Behind her fake innocence, a keen spark flickers in her eyes as they narrow, and it is vicious. “Do you think that’s wise, Jess? Because I don’t want to see you make a horrible mistake.”

  “Oh, that’s very sweet of you. I’m not.”

  “No? Don’t you think Custo is more high-end, more fitting of a magazine of our stature?”

  “Project Runway’s ridiculously huge twitter following of a hundred and eight-seven thousand plus, makes them the stronger choice. Thank you for your input, though. And thank you also, for letting Diego know when you tell him, that we are happy to help his career, too, by all the pic-tweets that are about to go ape-shit viral. He’s such a nice guy, isn’t he?” I smile, and adjust the bag on my shoulder. I want to get out of here. I want to run. I can’t stand the way she’s looking at me.

  “Oh,” she says, deflated by my competence and logic.

  “Brittany, I’m sorry if we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot. Whatever qualms you have about me – and I see that you have many, from the look on your face – we’re going to be working together. We both want the magazine to do well. We’re here to learn about the coming trends – yes – but we’re also here for publicity, and that means numbers first. The magazine industry is falling on its ass and we are all fucked if we don’t access a larger crowd. We love Custo. He is a genius, but that’s not what matters right now. If you’ll excuse me, I’m starving. I have to eat something.” With the best smile I can muster, I turn to leave.

  “You mean James didn’t… fill you up?”

  I freeze. My blood runs cold. “Excuse me?” I say, turning slowly back around.

  An evil The-Bitch-In-The-Making sardonic smile tugs at her mouth. She walks forward and says quietly, for only us to hear, “I saw James come out of that hiding place before you. I have a meeting with his boss in HR tomorrow and I’m going to tell him what a slut you are, and you’re out. Me? I’ll be in! Your boss loves me! What did she say? Oh yeah. She said I reminded her of her, when she was starting out. We’re gonna be like this.” She holds up her middle and
index fingers wrapped snugly around each other. “I heard you met my sister today?”

  I can’t believe it, but I mumble, “She made me drop my coffee.”

  “Oh yeah? Good!” As she saunters away, she calls back over her shoulder, “Thanks Jess! I’ll tell him! You’re amazing!”

  This is one of those stupid moments that I will play over, and over, and over, in my head later on, isn’t it? That was the best that I could do? She made me drop my coffee?!!

  I watch her, until I can’t see her anymore. I look around and see strange faces walking by. They don’t know or care, that I was just bitch-slapped. I can’t help but wonder, how did I get here? How’d I get to this moment, right now? I can take the threat of being fired. I deal with that every day. But calling me out on my slutty behavior, telling me you’re out for my job, that The Bitch who loves no one, loves you – and then topping it off with IT’S GOOD I DROPPED MY COFFEE????

  This is so not fucking cool.

  Lunchtime

  I’m eating my lunch alone outside on a shaded bench so that I can call people to confirm, make and/or break appointments for The Bitch. Phone to my ear, I take a huge sip of my smoothie and tell the show coordinator at Michael Kors, “She wants to see the show, but the seat you gave her last season was unacceptable. We can do better, yes?”

  “It was? I’m so sorry Jess. Sure, we can fix that. Where would she like to sit?” I hear the key taps on his computer, through the phone.

  Knowing I’m going to be fired soon, I’m blasé about everything I’m doing now. Why care? I take a bite of my salad and munch, “One seat over.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  I chew, unfazed, and repeat, “One seat over.” She’s insane. I know this. Soon I will be free.

  “Oh… uh…Okay. One seat to the left or the right?” He’s playing it smart, not voicing aloud that this request is beyond ludicrous. We have to play dumb, even to each other. You don’t dare gossip because you never know who’s playing what side, nor do you know who your boss will be, next year. But none of this matters, because I won’t be here much longer. I feel a pang in my chest and ignore it.

  “To the right.”

  “Oh. The only problem is Maggie Von Turle has the seat on the right, and she’s had it for the past three seasons.”

  “I know,” I say, with meaning.

  “Ohhhhhhh,” he breathes, and now we both now know why The Bitch wants that seat. There is a major pause on the other end, which I take advantage of by consuming more of my salad and looking at the crowd around me, from the privacy of my Prada sunglasses. They were a gift, to get me to butter up my boss about something I can’t remember anymore. I’ll miss gifts like these.

  “Is there no way of changing her mind?” he asks, hoping.

  I answer with a simple, “Nope.”

  He sighs. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “You’re the best,” and we hang up.

  I don’t remember a salad ever tasting this good. Every day for years, I’ve been afraid of getting fired. And now? Now that I know I will be? The suspense is gone. At some point today, I will get my pink slip. I could just go home now, if I wanted to. I tried to call Amber and Nicole to reason it out with, but both aren’t answering. Without my buoys in the ocean to help me process this, I’ve decided on my own, fuck it. I’ve been wanting out, anyway! I’m about to get what I want. Yay me.

  Why am I still making calls and working?

  As I reach for my smoothie (also way more delicious than a normal day smoothie) I see the unexpected face of Chris, from my yoga class. One hand in his jeans pocket, the other holding an army-green computer case by its thick handle, he strolls through the crowd of unnaturals, looking natural. We spot each other at the same time; only he looks more surprised than I feel. My body’s in shock and incapable of surprise. Nothing can get through this layer of what the fuck is wrong with my life. I slurp on my smoothie and wave.

  His smile, relaxed and warm, grows as he walks to where I’m sitting. “Hey!”

  “Hey. Chris, right?”

  “Yeah. Jessica.”

  “Yep. That’s me.” I slurp and try to suck up whatever is hiding along the bottom edge of my cup. Best. Noisiest smoothie. Ever.

  “You okay?” he asks, with a smile.

  “I’m great. I’m about to be fired.” (Slurp.)

  “Ah. Mind if I join you?” He doesn’t wait for the answer. As he sits down, watching me frantically attempt to scrape invisible remains of strawberry banana goodness, he reaches out and takes my cup, lid and straw. It’s done with such compassion and patience that I don’t fight it. I let him take it. I look at him, take my bottom lip between my teeth, and chew. We sit there looking at each other like this, underneath this tree surrounded by fashion and skyscrapers… and all of a sudden I want to cry. He nods and says gently, “Yeah. I hear you. Why are you going to get fired?”

  Without hesitation I say, “There’s a girl who wants my job. She’s got some dirt on me and she’s going to use it to have me fired. I’ve been working this job for four years, and she’s going to take it away from me in one day. She told me so, to my face! And that’s fine, you know, because The Bitch is… such a… bitch! I don’t want this stupid job, anyway. Let her take my job! She can have it. You know?” I am instantly grateful he’s not laughing.

  “What is your job?”

  “I’m the executive assistant to the fashion editor at my magazine,” I say simply.

  “You said ‘your’ magazine,” he points out.

  “I’ve given my life to it for four years now. The first year I didn’t even get paid. I was just a minion!”

  He nods thoughtfully and leans back. “What do you like about it?”

  “What do I like about it? I love fashion. I love the ways it makes women feel, to wear something made with high-quality materials or – if they can’t afford the original – a high-quality knock-off. Like these shades, for example. They’re Prada, and I adore them. I used to only buy the cheapies, because I’d scratch or break or lose them, so why buy the expensive ones, right? But these? I have had them for over a year. Not one scratch on them. I’ve never lost them once. And I don’t lose or scratch them because I care about them. And I care about them because they make me feel beautiful and sexy. What we do is we show art so that women can pick and choose what style makes them feel beautiful. We – people – are all packages waiting to be wrapped every day – like Christmas! Since we’re all going to die, why not wrap your present beautifully?” I gasp for breath and look at the empty cup on the bench next to him, wishing I had something to drink. Man, I’m so thirsty!

  He unzips and reaches into his computer bag and asks, “What do you hate about it?” He pulls out a water bottle and hands it to me.

  “Oh, thank you!” I unscrew the lid and drink until my body says it can’t drink anymore. There’s only a little left, and I hang onto it, clutching it with both hands like a child might. “What was the question? I’m sorry. That tasted so good.”

  He smiles. His teeth are nice. I cross my left leg over my right and slouch a bit, allowing myself to release some of this crazy energy I’ve got going on. Breathe, Jess.

  “What do you hate about it?” he repeats.

  “My boss. She’s awful. I call her The Bitch for a very good reason.”

  He nods and looks away, thinking. “Would you ever want to run the magazine?”

  “The whole magazine? No! No way. My department maybe, but never the whole thing.”

  He smiles and looks back to me. “Her job, then? Do you think you could do it better?”

  “Are you kidding me? I would make it a nice place to work, for one. People are scared shitless of her. It doesn’t have to be that way. I don’t know why some people feel it’s necessary to bully their staff into working harder. It doesn’t work! You create apathy, not loyalty or drive. Look at me. I’m hardly ever at work on time. I take longer lunches. I…” Before I divulge my activities with James, I stop.
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br />   “Would you be happy in her job?” He offers, as if maybe I hadn’t thought about it. You know what? I haven’t. Not until right now.

  “I don’t know…”

  “You don’t have to answer. I’m just offering things to chew on. It’s going to be okay, Jess.” He reaches out and takes my hand, pressing his thumb lightly onto the top of it. For some reason, it doesn’t seem weird for him to have done that, for us to be sitting like this. The anxiety in my stomach begins to ebb.

  Things to chew on, is an understatement. I am deep in thought over what he’s asked, but I’m not frantic anymore. Exhale. It’s going to be okay. It feels so good to hear those words. “Okay. I’ll give it some thought. Thank you.” I take my hand away so I can unscrew the cap and finish off the water. As I drink, I meet James’ glare as he unexpectedly walks up. From the look on his face, he saw Chris holding my hand.

  “Hey,” is the only thing he says. He stands there looking from me to Chris. What else can he say? I’m not his girlfriend. I’m his hidden whatever-the-fuck.

  “Hey.” I answer. No more water left.

  Chris stands and holds out his hand. “Chris. I’m a friend of Jessica’s.”

  James has no choice but to shake it. “James. I work with Jess.”

  Chris nods and seems to understand what’s going on. “Ah. Well, I have to go. I was on the way to a meeting, anyway. Jess? It was good running into you.”

  Looking up to him, I smile and nod, “You too, Chris. Thank you. You really helped.”

  “Good. I’ll throw these away for you.” He gathers my cup and empty plastic salad bowl as he picks up his computer case.

  “Oh! You don’t have to do that!” I argue. James looks irritated, but says nothing.

  “It’s not a big deal,” Chris smiles.

  I realize I don’t know where he works. “What do you do, Chris? I’m sorry. We were so busy talking about my job, that I…”

  “I’m an architect. It’s no big deal. I’ll see you at yoga. Nice to meet you, James.”

  They nod to each other. As soon as Chris is safely out of earshot, I scan around us for The Bitch. She could be hiding behind a tree, is where my mind goes. Fear is a habit. I turn to James. “Yes?”