Love For Sale—Whitney Dineen
Even though I don’t devour Hollywood news like a sycophant starlet, I still know who Jonathan Silver is. He’s the head of Ravenswood Films, the movie studio that’s been churning out a crazy-long streak of award-winning films.
“Why does Jonathan Silver want to work with you?” Lucy demands. “And what in the world does he mean by, ‘ready to buy love?’ Are you a madame in disguise?” She sneers the last question in such a way as to suggest that’s the only way someone like Jonathan would choose to work with me.
No one in the office, except for Sky, knows about my talent for matching people to the house that will lead them to true love. It’s not something I advertise and my whole client base comes from word of mouth. One happy customer tells a friend, who tells her sister, and so on. Which leads me to believe that somebody in my Rolodex must know Jonathan Silver.
I smile at Lucy as sincerely as I can before answering, “I have no idea what he meant. I guess I should give him a call and find out.”
The throng around my desk eventually begins to disperse when they realize I’m not going to do that in front of them. The only person who doesn’t leave is my boss, Frederic. The smile on his face radiates nothing short of greed. I assume he’s salivating over the commission we’ll get from whatever house Jonathan buys.
He confirms my suspicions when he says, “Don’t sell him anything under twenty mil. I have four listings right now that you can choose from.”
“Frederic, Jonathan will make up his own mind about which house he wants. I’ll offer to show him your properties, but I can’t guarantee he’ll go for any of them.”
My boss shakes his bald head at me. Frederic looks like a villain from a Masterpiece Theatre show that takes place in Victorian London. He’s short, bald, has a pencil-thin mustache he actually waxes, and his eyes are too close together. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he had a rap sheet a mile long for offenses that include, but aren’t limited to, tying women to train tracks.
“I’m not kidding, Emily. I want you to sell him one of my listings.”
“I’m not kidding either, Frederic. I’ll do my best, but I make no promises.” My boss tolerates my non-deferential attitude, which is good because there’s no way I could fawn all over him like the other girls do. Chris Hemsworth, he’s not.
After Frederic stomps away, Sky scurries over and mouths, “OMG!” Then she leans in and whispers, “Let’s get out of here so we can talk.”
—
Love the One You’re With—Jennifer Peel
“You punched in the wrong code,” I whispered, a bit on edge. I mean, it wasn’t like I was getting ready to sneak into the home of one of the most recognizable women in the country right now. Okay, that was exactly what I was doing.
“Don’t get your panties in a wad, darlin’.” Dallas tried the code again to get into Vivian’s gated community. He had the fanciest car of anyone I knew—a Range Rover. And he was more than willing to help in the heist. Not only was he a troublemaker, but he was willing to do anything in the hope that Jake would move out of his place. I’d warned Dallas this was no guarantee that Jake and I were getting back together. In fact, I hadn’t even told Jake about the video yet. I thought maybe I should get the picture back first and then we should talk face-to-face.
“Don’t fuss at him,” Abs scolded me. “You’ll only make him nervous.”
I rolled my eyes. She was sitting in the front with Dallas, and the two had been flirting nonstop on the drive over here.
Dallas flashed Abs a devilish grin. “I’m excellent under pressure,” he drawled.
Even in the dark, I could see Abs blush. “Is that so? Would you like to prove that to me?”
Oh. My. Hello Kitty. I’d started saying that instead of hell when Maribelle was younger because there was nothing like your six-year-old telling your pastor that he gave a hell of a sermon. “Y’all, we are kind of in the middle of something important here. Can we push pause on the flirtation button?”
“I like the sound of pushing buttons,” Dallas said seductively. “Just tell me where.”
Abs giggled.
I threw up my hands and fell back against the seat. “I can’t deal with you two.”
Dallas turned around and pursed his lips together. “Now, darlin’, don’t go acting like someone licked the red off your candy. I got this under control.” Without looking, he reached out of the car window and punched in the code X had given me. The large wrought iron gate began to swing in, allowing us access to one of the glitziest neighborhoods in Nashville—Forest Hills.
“See, darlin’, I got this.”
I blew out a deep breath. I was glad someone had this under control. I didn’t know why I was doing this. If I wanted to, I could have had the picture reprinted and bought a new frame for Jake. It was just that something about Vivian got under my skin. The way she and the show’s producers manipulated those videos was wrong. They were intentionally hurting people’s lives. The lives I cared most about in the world—Maribelle’s and Jake’s. Even if Jake could be insensitive, I still loved the man. He was my first love, my only love.
—
The Love Potion – Excerpt by Becky Monson
It’s going to be a great day.
I believe this. I’m just having a bad moment. That’s all. One moment will not speak for an entire day.
“What’s that smell?” my coworker Josh asks as soon as he sees me. He’s sitting in his black, ergonomic work chair, leaning back, the cuffs of his pin-striped button-up dress shirt pulling taut as he folds his arms.
My heart is hammering in my head, my face feels flushed—even with the cool Phoenix morning—I’m sweating, my bangs are glued to my forehead with perspiration and my glasses are sliding down my nose. It could be this big chunky sweater I’m wearing. I grabbed it to put over my favorite navy dress with the white polka dots. Not even my favorite clothing item can save me from my current . . . predicament.
But it’s fine. It’s going to be fine. I push my large, blue-framed glasses up my nose—the ones my best friend Hazel calls “nerdy-cute”—and set my shoulders straight. Everything is all right. Good, even.
“Seriously, Ally, what is that?” Josh’s face is now scrunched, his light-brown eyes squinting. His extra thick brown hair styled in what can only be called a modern mullet. It’s tall and sort of unruly in the front, and the back is halfway down his neck, the ends curling just behind his ears. It’s the kind of hair that women would want to run their fingers through. I have, actually—I couldn’t help myself.
Josh Wise—never wrong, always wise. That’s how he introduced himself to me when I first started working with him. We were instant friends and not just the work kind. We spend plenty of nonworking time together, too. He’s part of my inner circle now, one of my favorite people.
“Is it bad?” I ask as I sit down in my chair at our shared workspace, the long, double-wide table where my team sits. I open the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet just under my space, putting my purse inside and shutting it with my red patent leather heel–clad foot. I wrap a hand around my long, dark-brown hair and pull it away from my neck, letting the cool air of the office hit it.
Josh crinkles his nose. “I mean . . . it’s not the worst thing I’ve smelled.” He waves his hand in front of his face, as if to ward off the offensive stink.
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