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  THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION. Names, characters, places, businesses, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or person, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Any trademarks mentioned herein are not authorized by the trademark owners and do not in any way mean the work is sponsored by or associated with the trademark owners. Any trademarks used are specifically in a descriptive capacity.

  No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form (electronic or print) without permission from the author. Please do not participate in piracy or violating the author’s rights.

  Copyright © December 2017 by SP Press

  Cover Art by Najla Qamber

  Printed in the United States of America

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

  VICE

  PROLOGUE

  People like to believe the slide to rock bottom starts with cigarettes or drugs or alcohol or one of any hundred so-called vices.

  Mine started with a dress a size too small, a limp corsage, and tepid fruit punch served in a paper cup already wilting from the heat of too many bodies packed in the American Legion Meeting Hall.

  That was the moment when I realized the entire town of Cotton Creek, Georgia believed I was good for one thing and one thing only.

  I’d ducked behind one of a dozen oversized balloon towers, pressing the lukewarm paper cup to my sweaty forehead. It didn’t actually cool me off—the ice had melted long ago, watering down the already tasteless off-brand punch—but it helped to pretend it did. My dress, a hand-me-down from my older sister and better suited to her slim form than my decidedly curvaceous one, clung like a second skin, drawing attention to my so-called assets in a way which had made old Mrs. Wilson turn up her nose and sniff at me and which also, unfortunately, made me sweat like a pig. The pile of curls, secured by a hundred bobby pins, half a can of hairspray, and prayer, was already in danger of falling down even though I’d only been at the dance for an hour. My corsage was worse for the wear, too, the flowers already drooping. I wouldn’t be surprised if I lost more than a few petals by the end of the night.

  But it was all worth it because I was here with him.

  Abraham Hansom. The Abraham Hansom.

  Everybody in town, even his parents Mary and Marcus, called him Handsome Hansom and he was but he was so much more than that. He was smart and funny and he was nice—nice for real and not the fake kind the so-called Christians who occupied the front row of the First Baptist Church specialized in. He was the best thing in the entire town of Cotton Creek and everybody knew it.

  And he’d invited me to prom.

  Me, the girl who was literally from the wrong side of the tracks, whose daddy had run off with the next door neighbor’s daughter and whose mama had drank herself to death. The girl whose sister had been knocked up twice by the age of sixteen and was on her second marriage before twenty-one. If Abraham Hansom was everything right in Cotton Creek, I was everything wrong.

  But again, it didn’t matter. Because he’d seen past all that, past the hand-me down clothes and shoes and the hair done in the kitchen of Lizbeth Richard’s doublewide. He actually saw me.

  I leaned back against the wall and closed my eyes, glad nobody could see the dopey smile on my face. I lifted my cup to take another sip only to freeze when I heard Lynn Smith’s distinctive laugh.

  “Oh, my God. Did you see her dress?” She laughed again and I caught a glimpse of her through the balloons as she flipped her waist-length blonde hair over her shoulder and turned to one of her ever-present groupies. “She should just stick a price tag on her chest.”

  “There’s definitely enough room.” Beth Bailey, shorter, plumper, her own blonde hair twisted in to the same sort of chignon her mother wore to church every Sunday, scoffed and handed her cup to her boyfriend, Ben Barnes, the epitome of strong, silent, and stupid. “Everybody knows she has more tits than brains. She doesn’t need to remind us.”

  “Yeah, I mean, and if it gets any shorter you’ll totally be able to see her va-jay-jay.” Dana Jones hadn’t had an original thought since she’d became friends with Lynn in the second grade but that didn’t keep her from acting as if she was head of the local chapter of the National Honor Society. I would have blamed it on the bleach she used in order to get her hair the same bright shade as Lynn and Beth but I didn’t think that had anything to do with it. “I still can’t believe you actually asked her, Abraham.”

  Abraham. Abraham was there. He was listening to everything.

  And he wasn’t saying anything in my defense.

  “I mean, like, I know you have that thing about not backing down from a bet and all but still.” Dana snorted—another one of her annoying habits—and slouched against her boyfriend, Allen Woodard, second string quarterback for the Cotton Creek Cougars. “Seriously, would it really have been so bad to have to paint your truck pink for a week? I mean, it’s totally temporary. This, though, is senior prom. This is, like, forever. And all your pictures and memories are going to be with the class whore.”

  He’d say something now. He would. He had to. There was no way Abraham Hansom would let—.

  “Beth.” Even laced with exasperation, Abraham’s voice was low and rich and smooth, as beautiful as the rest of him. “Nobody keeps pictures from prom. That truck, though, will last me twenty years, easy.” He laughed, the sound wrapping around me like a blanket, providing me little warmth from his next words. “I’d do a lot worse than go to prom with Jeannie Jackson. Besides, how else am I going to get laid tonight?”

  Even as the little knot exploded in to laughter, I pushed the balloons aside and stepped forward. Dana was the first to notice me, her big, blue eyes going wide and her jaw falling open. She elbowed Beth, who in turn elbowed Ben, the not so subtle nudging making its way around the circle until Lynn elbowed Abraham, standing with his back to me.

  He turned, the lazy smile dying away, his dark brown eyes still beautiful, even though I knew they were full of lies. He raked a hand through his shaggy brown hair and flicked a tongue over the lips I’d been fantasizing about since freshman year. “Jeannie—.”

  “You think you actually had a chance with me?” I took a step closer, my toes bumping against his. Lifting my chin, I said, “Bless your heart, honey.” I rested one hand on his shoulder, rising up until I was able to press my lips to his ear, lowering my voice to a whisper. “You couldn’t afford me.”

  I dropped back on my heels and spun neatly, striding across the room, pausing only to throw away the mangled cup and wilted corsage before marching out of the American Legion. I had one more week until graduation. One more week and then I was out of Cotton Creek and I was never coming back.

  Anypl
ace was better than here.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Fifteen years later

  I was dying. At least that’s what it felt like when I turned over, nearly braining myself on the sharp edge of the flimsy excuse for a nightstand. The bottle of water I’d set there the night before tipped over the far end, falling to the floor and rolling away. I would have cursed the loss if my mouth wasn’t as dry as the proverbial desert.

  There was no such thing as free tequila.

  You always paid, one way or another.

  Next to me, the man whose tequila I’d spent the night drinking grunted and tugged the sheets around him. His tequila had been better than his tacos and his tacos were infinitely better than his sheets. The sex, what I remembered of it, had fallen somewhere between the tacos and the sheets, which wasn’t necessarily his fault.

  My standards for sex weren’t very high. My standards for tacos, on the other hand, were.

  I sat up, slowly, squinting when the motion set off bells and whistles in my head. As far as hangovers went, it wasn’t the worst I’d ever had but neither was it a walk in the park. So far, it seemed to be confined to only my head but there was a good chance that would change once I started moving. There was only one cure for a hangover and I already knew I wouldn’t find it in....

  Were the hell was I again?

  Careful to not wake the man next to me, I slipped out of bed, tiptoeing my way to the bathroom. Easing the door shut behind me, I turned the sink on full blast, letting it run while I took care of the other necessities. Cupping my hands under the faucet, I let my palms overflow before splashing my face with ice cold water. There wasn’t a spare toothbrush—shocking—but there was no way I could live with the taste of tequila, tobacco, and mediocre sex any longer so I squeezed toothpaste on my finger and used it as a makeshift toothbrush.

  Spitting and rinsing one final time, I turned the water off and straightened, brushing my nearly white blonde hair back and examining my reflection in the mirror. My makeup was still mostly in place—another sign of the okay but not wonderful sex—and would do until I could find a rest stop. There might have been a hint of red rimming my pale blue eyes but it was nothing my sunglasses wouldn’t hide. Huffing out a breath, I scraped my hair back in a loose bun, wincing every time I hit a tangle.

  I wouldn’t win any beauty contests but at least I wouldn’t make little children cry on the street, either.

  When I walked back in to the bedroom, he was still passed out, the sheet wrapped so tight around him he resembled... well, a burrito. I studied him, trying to remember his name, only to give up after a moment. The only reason I needed it was for the restaurant write-up and I knew it was somewhere in the paperwork my near saintly assistant had sent me a few days earlier.

  The only thing left to do was find my clothes and my purse and get the hell out of... wherever I was.

  He slept through my search for my clothing. I found my bra tossed over the back of a ratty armchair in the corner of the room. My shirt and jeans were in the living room. I couldn’t remember if I’d been wearing underwear when I started drinking so if I had, they were gone. My socks and shoes were next to the door and I considered simply tucking them under one arm and walking out in my bare feet.

  Then I opened the door and saw the faux cobblestone path and decided against it.

  A quick search of the kitchen turned up my purse and—thank God—a bottle of cold water. I double checked the bag to make sure I wasn’t missing anything, relieved and more than a little surprised to find I’d had the presence of mind to keep my wallet, phone, and keys inside. Normally I lost at least one of them during the course of an... interview.

  Satisfied the only thing I was leaving behind was a vague memory of a good time, I walked outside, closing the door gently behind me. I glanced at my watch and smiled. I wasn’t even going to miss checkout.

  Even with the hangover, today was looking to be a good day.

  “YEAH, NO, BILL.” I tucked the phone between my shoulder and my cheek, squinting at the in-dash map. “The tacos were okay but they weren’t wonderful. I’d give them no more than three out of five and that’s probably influenced by the tequila.”

  “Sorry, boss.” His voice, already as rough and gritty as ground glass, sounded especially rough today. “Yelp reviews gave the impression they were the best tacos this side of the Rio Grande.”

  “You made two mistakes, Bill.” If the navigation was right, there was a truck stop at the next exit. I certainly hoped so, since my stomach and the car’s gas tank were running on empty and my bladder was more than a little full. “First, you trusted Yelp. Second, you trusted Yelp about a Mexican place in Alabama.”

  “People in Alabama like tacos, too.” He groaned but there was something to the sound which made me think he was nursing a hangover far worse than my own. “People everywhere like tacos.”

  “Yes, which is why it’s important we tell them where to find the best ones.” I sighed in relief when I passed a billboard for the promised truck stop, doing a butt wiggle in my seat at the signage promising a Denny’s. The headache had died down to a dull throb and a greasy bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich would take care of even that.

  Just because I made my living discovering and spotlighting independent and unique restaurants didn’t mean I was above eating in chain restaurants.

  “I’ll write the piece up on wherever I was last night when I get to the hotel later today.” Yet more information which was buried in my inbox somewhere. Even with my assistant running point and taking care of the busywork, I still had two hundred plus emails cross my metaphorical desk every day. I needed a second assistant, one who would handle nothing but my email and paperwork, but I didn’t have the time to head back to Savannah and conduct interviews.

  And nobody worked for me unless I hired them personally.

  “Rough night?” Bill’s question brought me back to the conversation and I cursed under my breath as I tapped the brakes. A few more seconds and I would have missed the exit. “Tequila?”

  “Where there’s tacos, there’s tequila—which actually was worth the trip but barely.” I took my eyes off the road long enough to switch the call to the car’s system, dropping my phone in the center console in a bed of receipts. “I know I have the information somewhere but text me the address for where I’m headed next.”

  “You have the conference in Atlanta. It starts in two days and runs through Sunday but you’re booked at the Westin today through Monday.” There was the faint shuffling of papers and when he spoke again there was no mistaking the sly note which had crept in his voice. “Rumor has it Riley is supposed to be there.”

  “Considering the fact it’s an industry conference, I’d be surprised if he wasn’t there.”

  “So you’re okay with spending the next five days in the same hotel with your ex-boyfriend?”

  “First, you know how much I hate when you refer to him as my ex-boyfriend.” Mostly because it would mean Riley Durant and I had exchanged something other than bodily fluids over the course of our six month affair. Boyfriend conjured up images of pet names and flowers, not phone sex and fuckboys. “Second, why would there be a problem?”

  “Come on, boss. Everybody knows the two of you didn’t exactly part on the best of terms.”

  I suppose that was one way to describe the situation. I was willing to admit it probably wasn’t very often a man nearly seven feet tall who looked as if he could have doubled as an extra on Sons of Anarchy broke down in tears at one of the most popular restaurants in Manhattan before upending a table and throwing a nearly full glass of Malbec in the face of his dining partner. I was also willing to admit it probably wasn’t very often said dining partner simply asked to be moved to a different table before the main course arrived.

  It took me almost nine months to get a reservation at Per Se. There was no way I was going to let a little thing like an on/off fuckbuddy’s bruised feelings ruin the experience.

  “Riley’s a big boy
. I’m sure he’ll be fine.” I eased off the interstate, cruising down the ramp and taking the turn toward the truck stop. “Besides, we don’t really run in the same circles. I doubt we’ll do anything other than pass each other in the hall.”

  “If that’s what makes you sleep better at night.” Bill sighed, the line filling with static for a brief second before clearing. “I’m texting you the hotel information. Drive safe, boss.”

  LATER THAT EVENING, I kicked the hotel room door shut behind me, dropped my bags on the floor, and stumbled over to the bed, falling face down. For five glorious minutes, I allowed myself to wallow. The second I felt myself start to drift off, I slid off the mattress, detouring to retrieve my toiletry bag before heading to the bathroom, peeling my clothes off as I went.

  I loved my job. I did. I had built the magazine from the ground—or rather the blog—up and it was, without a doubt, the most important thing in my life.

  But Christ Jesus did I miss sleeping in actual beds and not pieces of plywood disguised as mattresses.

  I had a vague impression of the bathroom—white floors, white tile, a shower large enough for a tasteful orgy—but nothing really registered. Tomorrow morning, after a full—and sober—night’s sleep, I’d take a full inventory and find out how far Allison had gone over budget this time. No matter how many times I told her I didn’t need even close to the best room in a hotel, she insisted on booking me a suite better suited to the CEO of a small tech company and not the owner/head writer of a still in its infancy travel magazine.

  Just because the lean years were behind me didn’t mean there wasn’t the possibility of more in the future. Nothing made you count your pennies quite so much as growing up dirt poor in a rich town.

  Annoyed with the direction of my thoughts, I finished rinsing my hair before killing the water and stepping out of the shower. I was in the middle of detangling my hair when my cell started ringing. I ignored it—after last night, I was too peopled out to talk to anybody.