Harper Bliss

Lesbian fiction

PREVIEW: At Your Most Beautiful

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At Your Most Beautiful will be out on 6 April 2021.

Here’s a preview. Enjoy!

At Your Most Beautiful
© Harper Bliss

CHAPTER ONE

A drop of sweat slid down Maya’s neck. Then another. She pushed a strand of hair away from her face and expelled a deep sigh, but there was no one around to hear it. She could sigh as deeply and dramatically as she wanted, without Tommy responding with an exaggerated eye roll.

All was quiet in the garden. The surface of the pool was as unwrinkled as an untouched bed sheet. Only last weekend, Tommy and two of his friends had been splashing about loudly as eighteen-year-old boys do—bold and brash as though there’s no other way to be at that age.

Two days ago, Maya had driven her son to LaGuardia Airport, where he’d boarded a plane for Paris. He would spend two weeks in Provence with his father and Heidi, followed by five weeks of backpacking through Europe. Seven long weeks without seeing her son. And that was only the beginning of her time without him—her time of no longer being a full-time mother.

Maya had spent plenty of weekends on her own since the divorce, but time alone when Tommy was due to return three days later was very different from time alone when he had just embarked on a seven-week trip, before leaving home for good.

Was this what the infamous empty nest felt like? Had she gone from one cliché—divorcée—to another—empty nester—as seamlessly as the decades had passed by and left her alone in this too-big suburban house at the age of forty-five?

She could only reply with another deep sigh. Maybe it was time to add another cliché to all the others she seemed to have become without noticing. Maybe it was time to open that bottle of pinot gris. She squinted at the sun. It was still pretty high in the sky. Wine o’clock would have to wait until the sun had dipped a fraction lower. Maya had some standards left.

A rustle drew her attention back to the garden. She wasn’t expecting any company, so it probably came from next door. Maya’s neighbor, Brooke, would probably be up for sharing a glass of pinot later, when the time was more appropriate. The rustle sounded closer. Maya sat up and wiped the sweat from her brow.

“I hope you’re wearing sunscreen,” a female voice that was not Brooke Hathaway’s came from the garden next door.

Only then Maya remembered that the Hathaways had gone to their cabin in the Catskills for the weekend. She sat up straighter in order to see over the hedge that separated her property from the Hathaways’.

“Quinn?” Maya asked. Who else could it be but the Hathaways’ daughter?

“The one and only.” Quinn stepped into view. “Hi, Mrs. Mercer. Didn’t you get the memo? Sunbathing is so last century, it’s not even funny.”

The girl next door was still as forward as ever, then. “I truly appreciate your concern for my skin, but I don’t leave the house without a full coat of SPF 50.”

Quinn shot her a bright smile. As far as Maya could see, she wasn’t wearing much more than a pair of flip-flops and an oversized tank top.

“I haven’t seen you in such a long time.” Maya walked over to the hedge. “How have you been?”

“I’m in-between apartments, so I’m staying here for a few weeks while I get my bearings.” She pulled her top away from her skin. “The city’s too hot right now, anyway.” Had she just cast a longing gaze at Maya’s pool? “I hear Little Tommy has flown the nest.”

Tommy used to hate it when Quinn called him ‘Little’. Maya nodded. “He’s in Europe. Starting Stanford in the fall.”

“No surprise there. I always knew Tommy would go to one of the big schools.”

There are good schools on this coast as well, Maya thought. “What are you up to now?” Maya wanted to deflect the attention away from Tommy. He’d only been gone a few days. His bedroom looked as though he was still in high school and he’d be coming back any day. Although it had been a long time coming and Maya had had ample time to prepare emotionally for her son’s departure, it all felt surprisingly raw and unnatural.

“This and that,” Quinn said, just as her mother did whenever Maya inquired after Quinn’s job. “Mainly photography these days, but, um, yeah…” She ran a hand through her curly hair. “The temperature might be more bearable here than in the city, but it’s still damn hot.”

Maya was getting the message loud and clear. Years ago, when Quinn still lived at home, and another brutal summer day had descended on Milbury, she would stand exactly where she was standing now, and cast longing gazes at the pool. Usually, Tommy was quick to invite her over for a swim, but Tommy wasn’t here any longer.

“Come on.” Maya nodded in the direction of the pool. “I can’t bear to see you sweat like that any longer.”

“Thank you so much, Mrs. Mercer.”

“I think you’re a little too old to still be calling me that. It’s Maya.”

Quinn deftly wriggled her body through the bushes, which were much denser now than when Quinn had last made her way through.

“You have my infinite gratitude, Maya.” Quinn was already stripping off her tank top. Underneath, she wore the skimpiest bikini Maya had ever laid eyes on. “Seeing as my main career of late has been tending bar, I can make you a mean cocktail later to thank you.” Quinn tossed her tank top to the side of the pool and shook off her flip-flops. Before diving in, she looked back and treated Maya to a glittering, sun-drenched smile.

Maya went back to her chair and watched Quinn swim a few slow laps. The mere fact of having someone to share her pool with, even if it was only for a short time, offered a potent distraction from her loneliness. The promise of that ‘mean cocktail’ was helping as well.

Maya tried to remember the latest news Brooke had given her about Quinn. No Ivy League for the neighbors’ daughter, she knew that much. She’d also known Quinn was gay as she’d always been out. How old was Quinn now? Truth be told, Maya hadn’t given Quinn Hathaway much thought at all. The girl barely came home. Brooke complained about it often enough, while Bill said she was just finding her way because she was still so young and what were we like at that age?

Now Quinn was swimming in her pool. If Maya partly closed her eyes and squinted, she could pretend it was her son enjoying himself in the cool water.

“Aren’t you hot?” Quinn had swum to the side of the pool closest to Maya, and rested her elbows on the ledge. Drops of water pearled on the skin of her arms.

“I’m fine. I’ll go for a dip later.”

“How are you holding up now that Tommy’s gone?”

“Fine.” It was nice of her to ask.

“It must be hard, though.” Quinn tilted her head. “Tommy’s always been such a mommy’s boy.” She grinned broadly.

“I don’t think that’s correct.” If anything, Tommy was able to appreciate qualities in his father that Maya had never known the man possessed.

“That’s because you can’t see it. Because you’re his mom.” Still grinning, Quinn winked at Maya before her head disappeared under the water again.

Maya followed her with her gaze. She came up for air at the other side of the pool, where she leaned her head back and smoothed the water out of her hair with her hands. If Tommy was a mommy’s boy, Quinn Hathaway was definitely a daddy’s girl.

“Do you still have your dance school?” Quinn pushed herself out of the water effortlessly and sat on the edge, looking at Maya.

“I do.” Thank goodness for that, Maya thought.

“Pity you didn’t have it when I was younger. I regret not being able to dance properly.” Did she just give Maya a once-over with that piercing blue gaze of hers?

“It’s never too late to learn. I teach a seniors class, ages sixty-five and up.”

“It must work wonders for your figure. You look amazing for a woman your a—” Quinn paused, and briefly drew her lips into a half-smile. “You really look amazing, Mrs.—um, Maya.”

Heat rose to Maya’s cheeks, and she was pretty sure it wasn’t caused by the sun. “Thank you,” she mumbled. When was Quinn going to mix her that ‘mean cocktail’?

Quinn stood and walked to the sitting area, leaving a trail of water behind her.

“Here. Use this.” Maya tossed her the towel that was hanging off the chair next to her.

Quinn toweled off her hair, then wrapped the towel around her waist. For some reason, it drew Maya’s gaze to her chest—maybe by way of her naked belly. As soon as she realized what she was staring at, Maya averted her gaze.

“Are you sure I’m not interrupting anything?” Quinn sat next to Maya. “With Mom and Dad gone, I was getting bored at the house. It’s so quiet here. It’s uncanny.”

Maya didn’t think it was quiet at all. There were birds. There was the dog from two houses down that yapped at the smallest noise. There was the hum of cars in the distance. But she guessed that compared to New York City, Milbury was very quiet. “Truth be told, I’m happy with some company.”

Quinn nodded as though she fully understood what Maya was going through. She folded her hands behind her neck and let her head fall back, her chest jutting out so the sight of it captured Maya’s attention again. If Maya didn’t know any better, she’d think Quinn was doing it on purpose. On second thought, what did she know about Quinn? Not nearly enough to know if she was toying with her.

“When are you going back to the city?” Maya was suddenly very keen to know all about Quinn’s life.

“End of the month.” Quinn played with her wet hair. “I’m moving in with a friend.” She shook her head. “Rent in NYC is murder.”

“Where did you live before?”

Quinn expelled a deep breath of air. A shadow crossed her face. “With my girlfriend. Ex-girlfriend now. She kicked me out.” She paused to paint on a wry smile. “Thank goodness for hotel Hathaway in good old Milbury.”

“Sorry about that.”

“Well, it was her place, so…” She ruffled her hair and a few drops of water fell onto her shoulders.

“Were you and…” For the life of her, Maya couldn’t remember Brooke mentioning Quinn’s girlfriend’s name—or that they had recently split up. “Were you together a long time?”

“Coming up to a year.”

Quinn had been with her girlfriend for almost a year and Brooke had never even brought it up in conversation with Maya, even though they had shared plenty of bottles of wine in that time.

“Did you ever bring her home?”

With her bottom lip jutted out, Quinn shook her head slowly. “Mom, um, didn’t really approve of the relationship. Rach was older than me. She was my photography teacher. Too many red flags for Brooke to deal with.” She shrugged. “Anyway, it’s over now, so Mom doesn’t have to worry about inviting her over for Thanksgiving.”

“How much older?” It made sense now that Brooke hadn’t mentioned Quinn’s girlfriend.

“Rach is in her fifties. Big deal.” Quinn pulled her feet up onto the chair. “She’s also the fucking hottest woman I’ve ever met.”

Maya bit her tongue to avoid telling Quinn off for swearing, and frantically tried to remember how old Quinn was. When had she graduated high school? She couldn’t pinpoint the year, but surely Quinn was no older than twenty-five. Maya fully sympathized with Brooke on this, although this was not the time to let that be known. 

“Did she break your heart?”

Quinn gave a one-shouldered shrug. “I don’t know. We spent the last two months in this draining cycle of endless fighting and make up sex. I’m honestly glad it’s over so I can focus my energy on something else.”

Maya didn’t know what to say to that. She was curious about this Rach, though. She was probably around the same age as Brooke, hence her disapproval of the relationship.

“It wasn’t the age difference that caused the break-up?” Maya was probably pushing it, but she was curious.

“When the woman you love is thirty years older than you, it’s going to have some consequences, I guess.”

Maya tried to imagine Tommy bringing home a woman thirty years older than him—a woman older than Maya. Purely on instinct, the thought was almost unbearable. She didn’t just understand Brooke’s reluctance to acknowledge Quinn’s former relationship; she fully agreed with it.

“Hey, it will only hurt for a while.” Above all else, Maya was a mother herself and soothing words came naturally to her. “It may not feel like that right now, but it’s reality.” Young people hardly ever took older and wiser people’s word for it. It was impossible. Some experiences had to be lived through before they could be accepted, let alone believed. “You’re still so young. How old are you now?”

“Twenty-four,” Quinn said. She dropped her legs, squared her shoulders, and took a deep breath. “My problem is that I just really, really, really like older women.” She looked straight into Maya’s eyes.

Again, Maya was at a loss for words. Not only because there simply was no quick response to this particular utterance from Quinn, but even more so because of the look Quinn was giving her.

Quinn chuckled. Maya wondered why she didn’t find her more obnoxious, but she didn’t. Even though Quinn made her feel a little uncomfortable, she didn’t mind. At least she was feeling something other than the self-pity she’d been about to drown in before Quinn had caught her attention.

“How about that cocktail I promised you?” Quinn jumped out of her chair. “May I invite you to the Hathaway house?” She pointed to the bush she’d earlier made her way through. “Unless you want it pool-side. Then I’ll just get the ingredients and I’ll be right back.”

“That would be nice.” Something held Maya back from following Quinn to her house. “I shall wait here with growing anticipation.”

 

CHAPTER TWO

Quinn carefully placed the cocktail in front of Maya. Even though the glass was filled to the brim she managed not to spill a drop. It surprised her because Mrs. Mercer—Maya—was a real fox. How had she never noticed this before? It was also fairly easy to make her blush, although this drink would also help with that.

“Enjoy your paloma, milady,” Quinn said. “It was all the rage at my previous place of employ.”

“Looks delicious.” Maya leaned forward to take a sip from the glass on the table and, while doing so, exposed a touch more of her cleavage. Quinn had to stop herself from ogling. She didn’t want to embarrass Maya too much. Quinn would be out of here soon enough, but her parents would still be Maya’s neighbors. She would still come back here every few weeks, or months, probably depending on who she ended up with next and whether her mother approved or not. “Hm. Yum.” The guttural sound Maya produced pleased Quinn.

She sat and sipped from her own cocktail. It was damn good. And maybe it would help simmer down the restlessness in her blood. But this time of year, mid-July, when the days were hot and the nights hardly cooler, had always made Quinn frisky. Everyone, foxy neighbors included, dressed in barely-there clothes and showed off so much silky-smooth skin. The sun was everywhere and Quinn could still smell it on her skin when she lay in bed at night, too warm to sleep. And she no longer had Rachel to take care of things for her. She had herself, though. She knew what she would be getting up to after she had finished this cocktail. But not before she’d teased Maya a bit more.

Maya had flinched when Quinn had revealed Rachel’s age. A lot of people had the same reaction—even some of the women Quinn hit on. But not the one who had just booted her out of her apartment.

“Glad you like it,” Quinn said. “Because I sure would like another dip in your pool.” When she put her mind to it, Quinn could make everything sound at least a little dirty.

“Any time.” Maya looked relaxed as she leaned back against her chair.

“You might regret saying that.”

“It’s just me here. I told you, I’m glad of the company.”

“When did you and Mr. Mercer get divorced?” Her mom must have told her, but Quinn had long forgotten. All she knew was that when she had left home for a failed stint in college six years ago, Drew Mercer still lived next door.

“About five years ago.” Quinn couldn’t detect any bitterness in Maya’s tone.

“Was it a mutual decision?”

“Sure.” Maya’s voice was flat as could be.

Quinn chuckled in response. “Okay. You don’t want to talk about it. That’s fine.”

“What are we doing talking about our exes on such a lovely summer day, anyway?” Maya took another sip. “Over such a delicious cocktail.”

“You’re right.” Quinn relaxed in her seat. “To hell with them.” She couldn’t help but wonder what Rachel was up to now. Before she had started rustling around in the bushes, hustling for a swim, she’d been scrolling through Rachel’s Facebook profile, an unfulfilling habit she’d developed since arriving home. Unperturbed by her age, Rachel would be out clubbing tonight. It was a given. Quinn made a mental note to avoid Rachel’s social media tomorrow—as if she’d even remember when the time came.

“What’s it like living in the city?” Maya asked.

“Expensive,” Quinn said, because, apart from Rachel, money had been preoccupying her the most.

“I bet.”

“But fun. I love the energy. The possibility. As if anything can happen with every corner you turn.”

“You’re not too bored spending time in good old Milbury?” Maya grabbed her cocktail and held it just above her chest. A drop of condensation fell onto the swell of her breast. This time, Quinn couldn’t look away.

“It’s good to take a breather once in a while.” Quinn took another sip to lubricate the dryness in her throat more than anything.

“Gosh, to be twenty-four again,” Maya mused, apparently impervious to Quinn’s locked gaze on her chest.

“Weren’t you a hot-shot dancer in your twenties?”

“Oh, yes. And I loved every second of it.” Maya’s voice grew more powerful, as though the memory stirred something in her. “Despite all the hours of training, all the sacrifice… to go out on the dance floor was always just pure ecstasy.”

“Do you still dance?” Because that had also been the thing about Rachel, and the thought of her out in the clubs tonight, being watched by a myriad of other women stirred jealousy within Quinn. Rachel always had the smoothest moves, the coolest sway to her hips. She might be the oldest, but that never stopped her from being the hippest person in any joint she entered—baby dyke parties included. Quinn had loved to watch Rachel dance.

“Of course. I will only stop when I lose the use of my legs.”

“Did you teach Tommy how to dance?” Quinn’s gaze had traveled back up to Maya’s face. The late afternoon light caught in her eyes, making them glitter.

“Of course. He might end up an accountant like his father, but at least he’ll be an accountant who knows how to waltz.”

“I’d love to see you dance,” Quinn blurted out. It was true. Even when she simply reached for her cocktail, there was such elegance to the stretch of Maya’s arm. But it might not be the best thing to say to her neighbor with whom she was having a chill and lovely time.

“Come to the studio some time. I’ll teach you some moves.”

Quinn hadn’t expected that. “All right. I’ll be there.”

Over the rim of her glass, Maya eyed her. “What did you put in this, anyway?”

“Grapefruit juice, soda water, and some syrup. And a healthy dose of tequila, of course.”

“It tastes deceptively light, but I can definitely feel it after only a few sips.” Maya put her cocktail down, as though to make a statement.

“It’s how we make them in New York City.” Quinn couldn’t stop a grin from spreading on her lips.

“So… why do you prefer being with older women? What’s wrong with girls your age? I know it’s none of my business, but blame this.” She pointed at the contents of her glass.

Quinn chuckled. “I don’t know. Maybe I have mommy issues, but I don’t have the money to pay for therapy to find out.”

Maya’s eyes widened a fraction. “Before Rach, did you also date older women?”

“Before Rach, I didn’t really have a clue about anything. I dated but… I don’t know. It was different. It all seems so meaningless now.”

“Are you okay, Quinn?” The sudden worry in Maya’s tone made Quinn feel even hotter. “Did she hurt you really badly?” Maya canted her body toward her.

Quinn huffed out some air. “The situation wasn’t ideal, but neither was breaking up. I guess these things always hurt. Although, according to Mom, it’s all for the best and, in the long run, I’ll be all the happier for it.”

“And according to yourself?”

“I’ll be fine. I just need some time.” Quinn had always much preferred some light flirting to baring her soul.

“What is it that you’d like to do with your life? What’s your passion?”

“Photography,” Quinn said on a sigh. “In between bartending at night and waitressing during the day, I took a photography course. Guess who my teacher was?”

Maya shot her a warm smile. “Does their name start with an R?”

Quinn nodded. “As a result, when I’m lining up a shot, I still hear Rachel’s voice in my head. I’m waiting for the day when I no longer associate taking pictures with being with her. That’s what makes it so damn annoying. It’s like the two are inextricably linked or something.”

“Look at it this way, though. It’s good that you have a passion. So many people never find the one thing they can’t live without. Like I will never be without dance. I hope you will never be without a camera.” Maya reached for her cocktail and took a sip. “In a few months, you’ll be back at it, and you won’t give Rachel a second thought.” She narrowed her eyes. “Do you know how many dance partners I’ve had in my life?”

Quinn shook her head.

“Neither do I, that’s how many. I’ve lost count. Save a few, people will come and go in your life. But what’s in here.” She put a hand on her stomach. “The thing you love, that will stay with you forever and guide you through the ups and downs of your life.”

“Wow. I wasn’t expecting a swim and life lessons today.” Quinn’s gaze was drawn to where Maya’s hand rested on her stomach. She wore a see-through cotton dress over her swimsuit and seeing her hand pressed against her belly did something funny to Quinn’s own stomach.

“Well, there you go. Sometimes life hands you something utterly unexpected. All you have to do is enjoy it.”

“I will.” Quinn figured that Maya most likely had no idea what life was offering her right now. “I am enjoying it.” Quinn watched how Maya moved her hand from her belly to her hair, which she brushed away from her face with such gracefulness, it made Quinn a little more audacious. “I do have a more specific answer to your earlier question.”

Maya responded with a slight lift of her eyebrows.

“Women in their forties and fifties, to me, are at their most beautiful.” She tried to lock her gaze on Maya’s. It was only hard for a fraction of a second. She needed eye contact for what she was going to say next. “Like you are, tonight.”

The slightest puff of air emanated from Maya’s lips, as though she was a touch perplexed but didn’t want to show it. “I was going to ask you whether Rach had seduced you, but I think I know the answer to that question already.”

“She was my teacher. Making the first move wasn’t really an option for her, although she had little trouble with the second move.” Quinn knew she sounded a touch conceited, but it was all part of the game. And wasn’t that what this had turned into now? A flirting game with her neighbor? Quinn didn’t have anything to lose. Maya hadn’t chased her from her garden just yet.

Maya chuckled. “How did you go about it?” She reached for her cocktail again. Before knocking back the last of it, she peered deep into Quinn’s eyes.

“Lingering after class. Asking some photography questions, followed by some non-photography questions. Inviting her for a drink with the group, then without the group. Things like that.”

Maya nodded slowly, but didn’t say anything. With a soft thud, she deposited her empty glass on the table.

“Can I fix you another?” Quinn asked.

“I think I’ve had enough.” Maya looked as though she was thinking very deeply about what to say next. “But thank you.”

“My absolute pleasure.”

Maya blinked slowly, then gave the slightest shake of the head. “I’m going to get started on dinner. Feel free to have another swim before you go.”

Before you go? Ouch. But what had Quinn expected? A dinner invitation? “Thank you for having me over, Maya. It was really lovely to get to know you all over again.”

“It’s been enlightening to say the least.” Maya pushed her chair back. “See you around.”

“I sure hope so.”

Maya collected the glasses from the table and, without looking back, headed inside the house.

Quinn stared at the open door. There was always tomorrow. It was only Friday. Her parents wouldn’t be back until late on Sunday. Quinn had all weekend for another dip in Maya’s pool.

<<End of preview>>

At Your Most Beautiful will be available on Tuesday 6 April 2021 from all retailers.

PREVIEW: At First Sight (Pink Bean 10)

by 2 Comments

At First Sight

At First Sight (Pink Bean 10) will be out next week on 15 December 2020. The audiobook (narrated by Angela Dawe) will follow on 9 February 2021.

Here’s a preview. Enjoy!

At First Sight (Pink Bean 10)
© Harper Bliss

CHAPTER ONE

Jill took a deep breath and opened the door. It had been a while since she’d welcomed a new client. Despite decades of experience, a ripple of nerves coursed through her.

There were two women in the waiting area, but she recognized the blonde as one of Patrick’s clients. The one with the long dark hair would be for her then. Both women glanced at her. 

“Amelia?” Jill said.

The dark-haired woman drew her lips into a smile and rose. Without saying anything, she followed Jill into the office.

“Please, sit down,” Jill said. “Make yourself comfortable.” She pointed at the chair opposite her own.

While Amelia settled in, Jill grabbed a notepad and pen from her desk, giving her new client some time to acclimate to her new surroundings.

A reassuring smile on her lips, Jill turned and sat. “Because this is your first session, I’ll be making more notes than I usually would. Please don’t be put off by that, it’s mostly for admin reasons. Or if you’d rather I didn’t, I’ll try to exercise my memory and make the notes after you leave.” She broadened her smile and took the opportunity to let her gaze linger on her new client’s eyes. Deep-brown and rather captivating. Jill found it hard to look away from them. 

“That’s fine,” Amelia said. These were the first words she’d spoken and if her eyes were arresting, her voice was even more so. Husky and low, like a soft and soothing bass note. 

A tingle of heat crept up Jill’s neck. This was not a normal reaction to a first session with a new client. Jill forced herself to look down at her notepad. 

“Do you want to tell me a little about yourself or would you like me to go first?” she asked. “Either is fine.” She looked back up at Amelia.

“You go first.” Amelia’s face was all tightness. She was probably nervous. In all her years as a psychiatrist, Jill had never encountered a new client who wasn’t a bundle of nerves during their first session. Seeking therapy was a big step for most people. One they’d often already put off for a long time.

“Sure.” Jill rested the pen and the notepad on her knees. “I’m Jill.” Way to state the obvious. “I’m here to help you with whatever it is you want or need to discuss. Absolutely nothing is taboo in this office. This is your safe space. Nothing you say will shock me. I’ve been doing this for a very long time and helping people through a difficult time in their life is my passion. It’s what I do. Apart from a couple of obvious exceptions, there is complete confidentiality between us. I can tell you about those exceptions if you wish.”

Amelia shook her head.

“But otherwise, nothing you say will ever leave this room.” Jill followed up with another smile. This was the moment to make the client feel a touch more comfortable. She discreetly glanced over Amelia’s body to see if any tension was leaving her muscles. Apparently not just yet. Some clients needed to unload before they could relax. “I’m here for you, Amelia. I have your GP’s referral, but I’d like to hear your reasons for coming to see me in your own words.” Jill caught herself being a bit too eager to hear Amelia’s voice again. She waited with increased anticipation.

“I—uh,” Amelia started. “I had a burnout.” She swallowed. “Very ‘of the times’, I know. I’m usually never up with the latest trends, yet here I am.”

A rather dark and self-deprecating sense of humor, Jill thought, but didn’t write down. She wanted Amelia to talk freely before she took any formal notes. Jill sent her another encouraging smile.

“About a month ago, I had a massive panic attack at work. I thought it would pass after some rest. I took a few days off. But as soon as I got stuck in again, the panic returned.” Amelia put a hand over her sternum. “Since then, I’ve had this continuous agitated sensation right here. I just… I can’t shake it. I can’t relax any longer. I have no energy. I had to drag myself over here. It’s been… utterly grueling because I hardly recognize myself.”

“What do you do for work?”

“I’m a biochemical researcher for a pharmaceutical company. My team and I develop new drugs.” She scoffed. “But as far as I know, no drug has been invented to change the way I feel.”

“Is it a very high-pressure environment?” Jill asked.

“You could say that.” Amelia sighed. “I know I need to talk about my work but even thinking about it makes me feel exhausted.”

“It’s all right. We don’t have to talk about your work right now.” Jill positioned the notepad in front of her. “Is it okay if I take a few notes now?” She waited for Amelia’s nod. “What else do you do beside work? Do you have a partner? A family?”

“I’m single.” It seemed Amelia’s voice had dropped into an even lower register.

Jill hoped to figure out later if that meant anything. For now, she just listened and jotted down some short sentences. 

“I was a cliché: the employee who turns the lights on in the morning and switches them off in the evening. I used to be utterly obsessed with my job. I actually loved it because I felt as though what I did mattered, but, along the way, I seem to have lost that conviction and now I feel like just another cog in the wheel of Big Pharma.”

“What changed?” Jill asked.

For the first time, a small smile played on Amelia’s lips. However tiny it was, Jill still thought it a beautiful sight to behold. She shoved that unprofessional thought away. She had just promised Amelia that she would be there for her and that she would help her. Being entranced by a hint of a smile was not going to further that goal. She’d need to give herself a stern talking-to later.

“Here I am, talking about work regardless,” Amelia said.

“Considering you suffered a burnout, I’d say that’s why you’re here.” 

The side of Amelia’s lips tilted into a crooked grin, the sight of which sparked a new tingle of heat to ignite in Jill’s chest.

Oh, good gracious god.  Jill wondered if she should ask for a moment to gather herself. What was happening? Who was this woman? She was a new client with a burnout. She was someone who needed Jill’s help, for crying out loud. So why was Jill getting so worked up about the degree at which her lips slanted when she half-smiled? She should make a note to discuss this with her own therapist tomorrow. Vic would surely give her an earful.

“To answer your earlier question.” Amelia’s low voice pulled Jill back to earth. “I don’t have a family. I don’t have the best relationship track record. It’s just not something I’ve ever been overly interested in.” She just shrugged as though her relationship status was the least of her worries. It probably was. “Meanwhile, I think my biological clock has ticked past my eggs’ use-by date.”

Jill uttered the tiniest of chuckles while she looked at her notepad. She’d copied the information she’d gotten in the GP’s referral. Amelia Shaw was forty-five. She was one of those women who looked neither young nor old. Maybe she just looked her age. Either way, there was something about her that had Jill much more intrigued than she’d been with any of her clients in a long time. She didn’t consider this a good thing at all.

“No wish for a child?” Jill inquired.

Amelia just shrugged again. 

Jill looked forward to finding out if this was her genuine attitude toward relationships and children, two of the key factors in most people’s lives. Amelia was either very good at pretending, or had adopted this apathetic stance subconsciously over time for another reason. That was also the thing with a new client: there was still so much to discover. Jill’s interest was piqued. Professional curiosity. The challenge of figuring out a brand-new-to-her person. The intricate puzzle of their personality and how it first presented itself. A woman like Amelia was one of the reasons Jill loved her job so much. Although in Amelia’s case, it seemed it wasn’t just Jill’s professional interest that was piqued.

“I don’t have any children,” Jill said, which was true, although it didn’t mean she had never tried to have them.

Amelia simply nodded. She didn’t appear to be one of those clients who liked asking questions. She was here for herself. She hadn’t come to deflect the attention away from her which was a technique many a new client tried. Jill was very skilled at gently diverting personal questions right back at reluctant clients.

“Do you have any hobbies?” Jill asked. “Something that takes your mind off work?”

“I’m the goalkeeper for the Darlinghurst Darlings.” It was the first time Jill detected some genuine animation in Amelia’s voice.

“Soccer?” Although Jill had lived in Sydney for more than ten years, most of them in Darlinghurst, she had never heard of the Darlinghurst Darlings.

“Yep. I take immense pride in keeping a clean sheet.”

Jill arched up an eyebrow.

“Not letting the other team score,” Amelia clarified. “Although my spot on the team is in danger, now that I’m in my forties. I’m the oldest player on the team—even, I think, in the league. You could say I’m holding on to something that I should let go of. You know, give someone younger a chance, but it’s hard for me… That team is like my family, even though most of the women I started out playing with have long stopped. And I will admit it’s not always easy keeping up with the younger ones.” She puffed up her cheeks and blew out some air. “Then again, as the goalkeeper, I don’t have to run that much during a game.”

Amelia’s precarious spot on the team might have contributed to her work burnout. Jill jotted another note.

“Sounds like a fun hobby.”

“I love it… I’ve been thinking about starting a league for 40+ women, but the pickings are slim. Turns out women in their forties have other things to do in their spare time than play soccer.” She narrowed her eyes. “How old are you, if I may ask?”

Jill burst out into a chuckle, although, these days, she didn’t particularly enjoy being asked about her age. “Forty-nine.”

“Do you play any sport?” Amelia sure was passionate about this topic.

“I’m, um, more of an art aficionado,” Jill heard herself say. Could she sound any more pretentious?

“Oh, well, I guess I shouldn’t consider you for my mature players’ league then.” Amelia’s lips stretched into the most glorious smile Jill had witnessed for as long as she could remember. The thought that she’d be willing to try soccer for Amelia flashed through her mind but she managed to extinguish it as soon as she identified it as utterly foolish.

 

CHAPTER TWO

Ever since her first panic attack, whenever Amelia felt stressed or anxious, she focused her thoughts on soccer. Because for as long as she could remember, the pitch had been her happy place. Talking about soccer with her new therapist helped to alleviate that crushing feeling in her chest and was easier than talking about the real cause for her burnout. 

Although, perhaps, she shouldn’t have tried to recruit her therapist for the 40+ league that didn’t even exist yet. She could have also guessed that Jill wasn’t one for rowdy sport, although you just never knew. Some of the women she played with were unrecognizable to Amelia when they were dressed in office attire.

“I wouldn’t be much of an asset,” Jill said. She was smiling again. “I’ve never kicked a ball in my life.”

This was Amelia’s first experience with a therapist and she hadn’t expected her to smile so much. Maybe she just wanted to put Amelia at ease. It was kind of working, although Amelia was still pretty nervous. 

“If you know anyone in our age group from the neighborhood who would be interested…” Amelia inwardly scolded herself for not letting this go. On the other hand, Jill must have heard people say far worse things. Especially first-timers who didn’t really know where to begin.

“Sure.” The skin around Jill’s eyes crinkled. She surely had one thing going for her as a therapist: the woman oozed kindness. It was etched into her face somehow. Or maybe that’s what happens when it’s your job to listen to people’s worries all day long. Your face adapts. That soothing expression becomes permanent. Amelia wondered if any studies had been done about that. She made a mental note to go on Google Scholar later… Argh, no. No looking up any academic research. Amelia was on leave. But it was hard to totally switch off her scientific brain.

“It, um,” Amelia started again. She’d beaten around the bush long enough. “It seems I have a very difficult time relaxing.” She chuckled nervously. “Even on the pitch I’m always doing some sort of calculation to try and predict where the ball will go next.” She shook her head. “I know it sounds a little nuts. Obsessive even.” Another chuckle. “I guess that’s why I’m here.”

“Is it possible to make such a prediction? I thought soccer was mostly a game of chance?”

Amelia frowned. “Whoever told you that doesn’t know the first thing about soccer. I mean, sure, chance and luck have a great deal to do with it, but I would say definitely no more than 50% of the game is down to chance. Technique is very important as is physical condition and of course so is the composition of the team. I wouldn’t say—” Amelia caught herself. She was waffling on, trying to drive home a point that had no importance in this conversation. Although on this particular subject she knew for certain that a scientific study had been done. She’d pored over it with great interest.

“It’s mainly me who doesn’t know the first thing about soccer.” Jill wrote something down again. 

Amelia shuffled in her chair. It was a slightly disconcerting thing to witness—someone making notes about her.

“Whenever I have a pressing question about it in the future, I’ll know who to call from now on.” Jill grinned at her.

“I’m sorry. I get quite passionate about the whole thing. My life used to totally revolve around work, but now it seems that soccer has taken its place. I’m on sick leave, which I utterly despise. I want to work, but… I can’t. It makes me feel so powerless.”

“It’s completely normal to feel this way, Amelia.” Jill paused. “In a way, it’s good that you have soccer to turn to.”

“Due to my low energy levels, I’ve missed more than a few practices and let’s just say it’s not that difficult to replace me on the team.”

“Would it be fair to say that you’re currently feeling like everything’s slipping away from you?”

“I think that would be a pretty accurate assessment.” Now that she was a good while into her first session, the burst of adrenaline that had brought her there seeped from her body. Against her will, she heaved a big sigh. “I’m sorry.” Her voice broke a little. “I’m such a mess. I don’t even know where to begin to fix this.”

“You’ve already begun,” Jill said. “You’re here. Coming to me was the hard part. I’ve got your back now.”

Amelia summoned every ounce of willpower she could to hold back the tears gathering behind her eyes. She wasn’t the crying type—at least not until she’d crashed at work with her first panic attack. Oh, the shame of going through that mortifying ordeal in front of her co-workers. At first, she believed she was having a heart attack, despite all the scientific evidence pointing to the contrary. She’d had blood work done only a few weeks prior and her physical health was optimal for her age. There were no indications for any cardiovascular disease in her body, no matter the hours she worked. There had only been one conclusion to draw: what Amelia was going through wasn’t physical. It was mental. It was all in her head.

Then Jill did that thing Amelia had seen every single therapist on television do. She pushed a box of tissues toward her client. Toward Amelia. For heaven’s sake. She wasn’t even crying yet. Or was she? The tiniest amount of moisture had pooled in the corner of her eye. Amelia guessed Jill could read the signs like no other. Pushing the tissues in her direction was her wordless way of saying that Amelia could cry all she wanted. Better here than anywhere else, Amelia thought, and, with a sharp flick of her wrist, pulled a tissue from the box. 

“Do you live around here?” Jill’s voice was soft.

Amelia nodded. She pressed the tissue to the underside of her nose, just to do something with it. She wasn’t ready to admit that she was close to tears. She wasn’t one to surrender so easily, which was part of the reason she was sitting in this very chair—she knew that much.

“Have you heard of Glow? The yoga studio down the street from here?”

“I’ve walked past it.” Amelia took a deep breath. Jill was giving her time to regroup.

“Have you considered yoga or meditation?”

“Who hasn’t in this day and age?”

Jill just shot her a smile.

“I’m a soccer player,” Amelia said. “I’m not the kind of person to fold myself into various impossible positions in the company of a bunch of housewives on mats. It doesn’t align with how I think of myself.”

“Everything’s a scientific analysis with you, isn’t it?” Did something in Jill’s blue eyes sparkle? Amelia noticed for the first time the darker color of Jill’s eyebrows didn’t match her blonde hair.

“I’m a soccer player and a scientist.” Amelia raised a shoulder.

“What else are you?” Jill quipped—at least it felt like a quip. “What other nouns apply to you?”

Amelia couldn’t immediately think of anything else. Sure, she was a lesbian, but she hardly felt like one these days. She hadn’t practiced the art of lesbianism in a good long while. She simply hadn’t had the energy, despite a new girl on the team showing unmistakable interest in her.

“You’re someone’s daughter, perhaps?” Jill tried.

“That I am, but my parents live on the Gold Coast and we’re not really that close. It’s mostly a proximity thing.”

“A sibling?”

“That, too, but my only brother lives in London.”

“A friend?”

Amelia nodded. “Although a lousy one these past few months.”

“Doesn’t matter. I’m sure your friends have had their own ups and downs over the years you’ve known them.”

Amelia nodded. What other nouns could she attribute to herself? Her mind was drawing a huge blank. That was what she mainly was these days: someone who drew blanks when asked a direct question. As though her brain was just so tired. As if, after all these years, it had finally had its fill of science, when it had only got energized by it before. The sight of an equation used to light Amelia up like a Christmas tree. Now it made her queasy.

“Do you like to read? Watch TV? Go to the theater? Dine out? Go to the movies?”

“I used to read all the time, but ever since my first panic attack, I can’t seem to focus on the words long enough. It’s as if the sentences are swimming in front of my eyes.”

Jill wrote something down again.

“I do like some fine dining,” Amelia admitted. “I’m a restaurant snob, in case you’d like to write that down.”

“Do you like art?” Jill asked, seemingly suppressing a grin.

“Good question. I don’t really know. There’s been a real boom of art galleries in the area the past few years and sometimes I walk past a window and I really like a painting or a sculpture, but I can never really explain why I like it or why it might be good, which really bugs me.”

“Does everything need to be explicable?” Jill tilted her head sideways.

“Well, yes.” Duh.

“Yet not everything is.”

“I tend to stay away from inexplicable events or experiences.”

“Okay.” With a neutral expression on her face, Jill made a note.

Amelia wished she could get a look at that notepad, but she knew that was not how it worked.

“For the record,” Amelia said. “As a scientist, I’m hyperaware of the many events that science can’t yet explain. As a biochemical researcher, I know very well that how our brain works is still very much a mystery. But that doesn’t mean that there isn’t an explanation. It only means we need more time to explain it.”

“Have you ever wanted to be anything else other than a scientist?”

“No.”

“But would you now say that you’ve fallen out of love with the sciences somewhat?”

“No.” Amelia shook her head vehemently. “My problem is not with science. It’s with what the company I work for, and all the other pharma companies, use science for. As though all it takes is to invent a pill for every ailment. Or worse, an ailment for every medicine we can invent. I’ve grown so disillusioned by the whole thing. By the financial side of it all.” She sighed again. “Maybe by capitalism in general. By the whole notion that money, and nothing else, makes the world go round.”

“There’s a lot to unpack there.” Jill rested her calm gaze on Amelia.

Don’t I know it. At least paying someone to listen to all the issues Amelia had acquired over the past forty-five years had the potential of being money well spent. At least Big Pharma had paid her well, and she might as well use the money for something to make her feel better—to counterbalance what earning that money had taken out of her.

<<End of preview>>

At First Sight will be available as ebook and paperback on 15 December 2020

PREVIEW: A Breathless Place

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A Breathless Place

A Breathless Place will be out next week, on 24 September 2020.

You can already pre-order the ebook on Amazon or via my web shop here >>

Here’s a preview. Enjoy!

A Breathless Place
© Harper Bliss

CHAPTER ONE

I’ll be dead in six months. In 183 days to be exact. I can’t wait. But for now, the prospect alone brings me adequate comfort.

I stare at my computer screen. The cursor blinks mockingly on the white background of the Word document. It’s supposed to be the first of many. If this is the speed I’m going to be working at, I might have to add a few days to my very last calendar. I don’t want to do that. I’ve chosen the date carefully—as carefully as these things can be chosen.

One day after my sixtieth birthday, I will say my final goodbye. It turns out, if you want to die, there’s a lot you need to take care of. And I want every last thing to be taken care of. My perfectionist streak will continue until my very last breath. The only problem is I’m not used to sorting out every little thing myself. I have people for that. My personal assistant Daisy handles all my administration. My chef Rian cooks most of my meals. Harry takes care of my home here in New York. My manager Ira has made sure every single one of my needs has been met for the past thirty-five years. But I haven’t told him my greatest need yet.

How do you tell someone something like that? If there is an acceptable way, I haven’t found it yet. And I’ve had years to think this through. It’s been nearly a decade since the thought first crossed my mind. Furtively at first, as though it was afraid to become a full-grown idea, the inkling of such a possibility would creep up on me in unguarded moments. It took months before it dared to linger for more than a fleeting second. Before I dared to grasp it and examine it further. It took years until I became certain it was what I wanted. But my own certainty is just that. My own. It’s not something I can easily inflict upon others. That’s what I’m trying to explain in this letter—the first of many.

Dearest Ira, I type. Before I continue this letter, I need to decide whether I will tell him beforehand or not. It will determine what I write. I’ve been going back and forth on this. If I tell him ahead of the time, I don’t need to write him a letter. But he will try to talk me out of it. Oh, how he will try. Ira might know me best of all, but he will still try, with all his might, with all the power he has over me, to change my mind. That’s not a conversation I want to have. So I need to write this letter. But I guess I don’t need to write it today. Although that’s what I told myself yesterday as well. And the day before. I can’t keep on postponing it.

I click out of the Word document and check the list I made of people who need to receive a letter on March 19, 2021. With the life I have lived, I figured there would be more, but there are only a few names on my list.

Maybe I should start by writing one joint letter to all of them. I can add personal touches later on, once I’ve gotten down the gist of what I want to say.

My phone rings. It’s my private number. The one only a handful people have—the number Daisy doesn’t screen for me. Speak of the devil. It’s Ira.

“Izzy.” He sounds out of breath. “I just got word Bruce fell off his horse.”

“What?” Bruce is the biographer I’ve been working with for the past two years on my final project—although, of course, Bruce doesn’t know it is my very last professional endeavor.

“It’s bad. He’s in a coma.”

“Oh no.” On a really bad day, I would have considered Bruce a lucky son of a bitch. “Is he going to be all right?”

“I don’t know. It’s too soon to tell. But…” I know Ira. The cogs in his brain are ever-turning. Business always comes first. That’s why I pay him his fifteen percent. “I spoke to the publisher. They have a replacement in mind already.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“The book was as good as done, Izzy. All the source material is there.”

I huff out some air, making sure Ira hears my exasperated sigh on his end of the line. “Who are they suggesting?”

“Leila Zadeh.” He sounds as though that name should impress me.

I rack my brain. I’ve heard the name before, but that’s the only bell it rings.

“She writes a lot for The Metropolitan,” Ira says.

“Bruce really can’t be replaced. Not this late in the day.”

“I know. You’re right.” The last one is Ira’s favorite sentence. “But just meet with her. See how you get along. No pressure.”

No pressure? Yeah right. “I don’t know, Ira.” I was never totally on board with the whole biography thing, anyway. To have someone delve deep into my life like that. I only went along with it because of my own secret plan. Because by the time my biography is released into the world, I will be long gone. Ira sold me on the idea of leaving a different kind of legacy.

But Bruce was such a likable man. Easy to talk to. Unassuming. Never pushy, although his hands-off approach seemed to work in the end. Poor Bruce. “Which hospital is Bruce in? Is he getting the best care possible?”

“Of course.” Ira’s voice is calm. “We can go see him as soon as it’s allowed.”

“Send me a dossier on this…. What’s her name again? Then I’ll decide.”

“Coming your way right now.” A silence falls. “Are you okay, Izzy?” Ira asks after a while.

“All the time I spent with Bruce and I never knew he rode horses.”

“Hm.” I can hear Ira swallow. “It was his job to find out everything about you. Not the other way around.”

A minute after we’ve rung off, I get a reminder on my cell phone for my workout. It’s hot instructor time in my virtual gym. Ramona’s the only reason I still show up every day. Ramona and the addictive blend of endorphins and arousal she elicits from me.

After the news about Bruce, I need the distraction. On my computer screen, I get a notice I’ve received a new email. It’s from Ira and the subject reads Leila Zadeh.

That will have to wait until after Ramona has made me sweat and forget.

<<End of preview>>

A Breathless Place will be available on Thursday 24 September 2020 from all retailers.

You can pre-order the ebook here:
– Direct from me
– Amazon US
– Amazon UK
– Amazon CA
– Amazon AU
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PREVIEW: If You Kiss Me Like That

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If You Kiss Me Like That

If You Kiss Me Like That will be out on 25 June 2020.

Here’s a preview. Enjoy!

If You Kiss Me Like That
© Harper Bliss

CHAPTER ONE

Ash quickly paid the driver and hopped out of the cab. She was only fifteen minutes late. Very acceptable by her own standards. But her own standards didn’t matter tonight. A swell of laughter came from behind the fogged-up windows of the party venue across the street. The place looked packed already. Of course it was. She couldn’t think of anyone else who would be there tonight who’d had to commute from London on a Friday night—most people at the party would be retired.

She took a deep breath and went inside. Mercifully, Adrian was standing close to the door and he was the first person to greet her.

“Hello stranger,” he said. “You made it.”

“Was there ever any doubt that I would?” Ash gave her brother a hug.

“Maybe you were hoping to get disowned.” Adrian held her at arms’ length and gave her a once-over. “You look like you work too hard.”

“I do work too hard,” Ash said. As well documented by my ex-wife.

“And for what?” Adrian grinned at her.

“I’d better go find Mum before she actually does disown me for being late on this very special birthday.”

“You can’t miss her. She’s the one with all the airs and graces.” Adrian winked at her.

Before Ash found her mother, she had to make her way through a throng of family members she hadn’t seen in a long time. Uncle Bernard hugged her like she was his own long-lost daughter. Auntie Mabel asked if she had a new girlfriend, emphasising the ‘girl’—as though she’d never been to Ash and Charlotte’s wedding. At least Auntie Joan told her she looked good; that was something.

“Darling.” Her mother opened her arms in a dramatic gesture as Ash approached. “There you are.”

“Happy birthday, Mum.” Ash hugged her mother, who held on to her as though she would never let her go again.

“I haven’t seen you in too long.”

“I was in town just last month.” Ash still stood squeezed in her mother’s embrace.

“It’s not enough.” Her mother finally let go of her. “Now that I’m officially retired, you’ll need to spend more time with me. What else am I going to do?”

“That’s why I got you this.” Ash reached into her blazer pocket and got out an envelope.

Her mother smiled widely, then tore it open. “Exchange this voucher for a night on the town with your only daughter,” she read aloud. “Oh, darling, I already look forward to it.” She kissed Ash on the cheek. “This is just for me, right? Your father’s not invited?”

“Just the two of us, Mum.” Ash had racked her brain for a suitable retirement-slash-birthday present until she came to the conclusion that the best thing she could ever give her mother was her time. “No men allowed.”

“You won’t be taking me to one of those bars, will you?” Her mother grinned.

“We’ll see,” Ash teased. “Speaking of men, where’s Dad?”

“Probably by the bar.” Her mother only half succeeded in suppressing an eye-roll. At least she hadn’t said anything about Ash being late. She had probably been too busy being the centre of attention.

“I’m going to find him. I’ll talk to you later.”

Ash waded through the sea of people, trying to find her father. She grabbed a glass of lukewarm prosecco on the way. Her dad was probably ordering a pint. Prosecco would be too girly for him.

“Ashley.” Before Ash was able to find her father, Aunt Daisy, her father’s only sister and Ash’s godmother, grabbed her by the arm. “Come here.”

Ash dutifully hugged her godmother. It had been a long week and it would be capped by a very long night. Not that Ash didn’t appreciate spending time with her family, but all of them concentrated in a room like this was a bit much. The last time all these people had gathered, had been at her and Charlotte’s wedding. Even though it had been the middle of July, it had rained all day, and the whole event had to take place inside. A bad omen if ever there was one.

“How are you?” Aunt Daisy’s tone was full of compassion—or was it pity?

“I’m fine. And you?” Aunt Daisy was well into her seventies now and getting her to list all her physical ailments would distract her from her goddaughter’s failed marriage for a while.

Ash emptied her glass of prosecco while listening to her godmother, who, instead of discussing her health, raved about her grandchildren. Ash wasn’t sure which was worse.

She caught a glimpse of her father, his elbow propped onto the bar. Ash managed to free herself from the conversation, with the promise that they would continue it later, and finally went to greet her father. That burly man who couldn’t stop tears streaming down his cheeks on his daughter’s wedding day. Ash didn’t know if his cheeks had remained dry on the day the divorce had been finalised. She guessed not, but she would never ask.

“I could murder one of those.” Ash pointed at her dad’s pint.

“Hi, darling,” her father said, as though he had just seen her a few hours ago. “Coming right up.” He gestured to the barman first, before curling an arm around Ash’s shoulders. “How are you?” He gave her shoulder a squeeze.

“Fine.” Fine, fine, fine. The number of times Ash had uttered that word since she and Charlotte had separated. As though it had to be repeated often enough to reassure everyone around her that she was, indeed, fine.

While she waited for her pint, it was as though everyone’s gaze was aimed at her, as they wondered where Ash’s wife was, and why Ash was there alone. What had gone so horribly wrong between the couple they had witnessed getting married only a few years ago?

“Here you go.” Her dad offered her the beer. Ash gulped it eagerly. She had wolfed down a pack of crisps on the train so she wouldn’t have to drink on an empty stomach. Because drink, she would. Facing her entire family for the first time since she and Charlotte had divorced would not happen without an alcoholic beverage firmly clasped in her hand throughout the evening. “How’s work?”

“The same,” Ash said. It was as though arriving at this party had catapulted her into a parallel universe. Even though Murraywood wasn’t too many miles from London, coming here, to Ash always felt a bit like travelling to a different time and a vastly different place.

Her dad grunted, just the way she had expected him to do. Ash and her father didn’t have many in-depth conversations. Sustained silences didn’t make them uncomfortable. They excelled at this very thing in each other’s company. When she needed a break from it all, there was no place Ash would rather be than in the pub, next to her dad, with a cold pint in her hand. He didn’t require any explanations from her. He didn’t need her to express her innermost feelings to him. Just being there was always enough.

Of course, tonight, they weren’t in The Horse and Groom, the pub her father had frequented all his adult life. They were at her mother’s sixty-fifth birthday party at The Pavilion, Murraywood’s prime venue-for-hire. There wasn’t a lot of peace to be found, what with the endless parade of family members and friends of her parents milling about. The only younger people there were Ash and Adrian and his wife, whom he had miraculously managed to hold on to for almost fifteen years. Another case of her younger brother outperforming her in the feats of life. He and Lizzie had also managed to procreate, as straight people tend to do and produce two adorable grandchildren for their parents to dote on.

When she and Charlotte had got married, Ash had believed that, finally, she had done something right by the standards this world still seemed to operate on. Until the divorce, of course.

“Ashley Cooper.” Ash heard her full name being boomed behind her. “As I live and breathe.” A cold hand squeezed her neck. Christ. Some people were just too loose with their touch. “Look at you.”

“Gloria Young.” An instant smile formed on Ash’s lips. She had always liked Gloria.

“Is this really your daughter, Alan?” Gloria bumped her elbow into Ash’s father’s arm. “Did she really make it down to little old Murraywood tonight? If Mary is to be believed, your daughter hardly ever does.”

Ash could have hugged her dad for the very impressive way in which he rolled his eyes. He had lived with her mother’s flair for exaggeration his entire life.

“Don’t believe a word that comes out of my wife’s mouth,” he mumbled.

“How long has it been, Gloria?” Ash tried to remember, but she came up empty. “You look good.”

“Must have been years,” Gloria said, ignoring the compliment. Instead, she briefly touched her hand to Ash’s arm. She must have heard about the divorce.

A piece of cutlery tapped insistently on a glass.

“Time for your mother’s speech,” Ash’s dad said.

Her mother kept it brief, however—surely she would give another, much longer, speech later—and invited everyone to find their assigned seats.

“Let’s talk later,” Gloria said.

Ash watched her go off in search of the table she’d been placed at.

“Time for something heartier than a pint, darling.” Her father put his empty glass on the counter, looking quite sad that he had to leave his spot at the bar.

 

CHAPTER TWO

Gloria had hoped not to be relegated to the singles’ table at this party. Yet, when she finally found her designated seat, she instantly knew she had been, because of Karen Lloyd’s presence. Gloria had shared a table with Karen too many times since George had died ten years ago. She knew all about Karen’s life, which wasn’t dull per se, but it had become dull to Gloria because she’d had to listen to Karen’s stories over and over again. She knew them all by heart by now.

Miraculously, none of Mary and Alan’s siblings had become widowed, and therefore placed at the singles’ table, even though they were all at least a decade older than Gloria. And at least two decades older than George when he had lost his long battle with cancer. But Gloria had stopped blaming other people for simply continuing to live a long time ago. If you started holding their very life against another person, it ended up not being much of a life for yourself.

“We meet again so quickly.” Ash’s voice sounded in Gloria’s ear.

“Welcome to the exile table for widows and divorcees.” Gloria was glad to have Ash’s company. It gave her someone to talk to other than Karen. Gloria had learnt not to expect too much from life anymore and a small mercy, like sitting next to Mary’s daughter during dinner, could actually make her happy these days.

“I’m neither, but hello,” Karen said, while giving Ash a very obvious once-over. Truth be told, she did stand out in this particular crowd, with her platinum-blonde hairdo that looked striking against her tan skin. The sides of her head were shaved so close to her skin that you could make out a birthmark above her ear.

“You’ve got it all wrong,” Adrian said. Ash brother and his wife, Lizzie, had ambled up to the table. “This isn’t the singles’ table at all. This is the younger-than-sixty table.”

“I barely made the cut then,” Karen said.

“Bless you, Adrian, for seeing things that way.” Gloria took her seat.

Ash sat next to her. Gloria knew Lizzie well because they were colleagues. This dinner wouldn’t be too bad at all. In fact, she’d rather find herself at this table, Karen included, than at any of the other ones, where, no doubt, health ailments would be the main topic of conversation. Gloria got enough of that during the day.

A waitress approached with open bottles of white and red wine. Gloria covered her glass with her hand; it was automatic now. She noticed Ash glance at her hand. Didn’t she know? Maybe Mary wasn’t as big a gossip as Gloria believed.

“How’s the money business?” Gloria asked Ash, before any possible untoward question could be uttered. To not drink at a social gathering, especially with people of Mary and Alan’s generation, was still seen as quite the oddity.

Ash just shrugged.

“Are you usually happy when Friday evening rolls around or does it make you itch for Monday morning?” Being a home health nurse, Gloria was very skilled at making conversation. Some of the patients she visited only ever had her or one of her colleagues to talk to. She always made sure they got their money’s worth when it came to a proper chat.

“It depends,” Ash said.

“That’s pretty vague, even for you,” Adrian butted in.

“I love my job, but it has been held against me before, so, you know.”

Gloria tried to read the look that passed between Ash and her brother. Held against her by whom? Her family? Or… oh yes, of course. Her ex-wife. Gloria had to admit she’d never actually met a divorced lesbian before. Same-sex marriage had only been legal since 2014. But why would things automatically work out better between two women or two men, anyway?

“How’s life in London, then?” Gloria asked.

Ash sipped from her glass of white wine. “It’s London. The greatest city in the world. It’s not that far from here, you know. Just hop on a train and you’ll be there in thirty minutes.”

Was that a touch of defiance in her tone? Was Gloria pushing too hard? When had Mary told her about Ash’s divorce again? It wasn’t that long ago. Maybe Ash was still grieving for the marriage. Gloria knew a thing or two about grief. About that ache in the pit of your stomach that never let up, that didn’t seem to diminish with time, but only grew fiercer for the first couple of years. At least that was her experience. She suppressed her nurse’s reflex to pat Ash on the shoulder and decided to cut her some slack instead.

“I do take the train up to London once in a while for some shopping, or just to soak up the city atmosphere,” Gloria said. “Remind me to ask you for some tips later.”

Ash reached for the bottle of water that stood in front of her. “Do you want some water?”

Gloria nodded and let Ash pour her a glass.

“Good luck getting through tonight without a drop of booze,” Ash said.

“It’s really not a problem for me.” Gloria gave Ash the practiced smile she reserved for that kind of comment.

“I tried dry January this year.” Ash took a sip from her wine again, as though she was trying to prove a point. “I lasted a week.”

“To each their own.” Another well-practiced phrase, even though Gloria hated platitudes like that. They stood in the way of a real conversation. But sometimes platitudes were the only possibility.

“I’m sorry,” Ash said. “I don’t mean to be insensitive about this. Drinking alcohol is practically a required skill in my job. There isn’t a cliché about bankers that isn’t actually true.”

“That might be so, but I bet you’re quite different from your co-workers.”

Ash’s face lit up a little. “The amount of testosterone in our office is through the roof.” She shook her head. “You would honestly not believe some of the things these guys say—and some of the women as well, of course. Equal opportunity political incorrectness and all that.”

“How about you?” Gloria saw how Ash came alive when she talked about her work. This skill of Gloria’s was one of the reasons she’d had the same job all her life—she knew the merits of persisting in getting certain conversations off the ground.

“I give as good as I get. And, of course, these days, when one of the guys does go too far, I just have to hashtag-metoo him.” She chuckled.

From the corner of her eye, Gloria could see Karen’s face pull itself into a frown.

“Ash has always suffered from too much testosterone,” Adrian said.

“I’ve always had more than you,” Ash said.

“I got myself a woman and spawned two kids,” Adrian said. “What more can a man achieve these days?”

“I tried to make him pee sitting down,” Lizzie said. “But it didn’t work. He’s got that Cooper stubbornness in him.”

“You have to leave a man some dignity,” Gloria said.

“Christ, almighty,” Karen said. “And the appetisers haven’t even come out yet.”

They all chuckled heartily.

“Why did you never get married, Karen?” Ash asked.

“Why would I?” Karen said.

“No man or woman has ever tempted you?”

“I’ve always been perfectly happy by myself,” Karen said matter-of-factly, and Gloria admired her for doing so.

“I loved my husband dearly,” Gloria said. “But I’ve been single for a very long time now, and it does have its advantages.” Not that Gloria wouldn’t trade everything she had for one more day with George. But she had her children. Once she’d emerged from beneath the rubble of her grief, she’d found she still had a life left. A job she loved. Life-long friends. The persistent kindness of her family and people she had shut out for months and months.

“Like what?” Lizzie asked.

“Why are you so keen to find out?” Adrian threw an arm around his wife.

“Just curious, sweetie.” She blew him a kiss.

God, how they reminded Gloria of her and George when they’d been in their thirties, free of disease and worries.

“Now that my girls have flown the nest, I can do whatever I want. I don’t have to consider anyone’s opinion on how I choose to spend my time.”

“If you have children, you’ll never be truly free,” Ash said flatly.

“That might be true, but I will always have them, so…” Gloria’s mind drifted to Sally, her oldest daughter, who was in her last year of university in York. Would she move back home after? Gloria had no idea. Her youngest daughter, Isabelle, had just started university and Gloria wondered what she would be up to tonight. Some nights, she preferred not to wonder about these things at all.

“I will always have an ex-wife,” Ash said. “No matter what happens next in my life, Charlotte will always be a woman I once married. A person I stood next to in front of all my family and friends and vowed to be with for the rest of my life.” She shook her head more vigorously this time. “I’m never doing that again. Not ever. The utter foolishness of the whole thing.” She looked at the table where her parents and aunts and uncles were sitting. “Can you believe that they’re all still in their marriages? As are all our cousins? What is it with this family?”

“Dumb luck,” Karen said.

“It’s not really something to bemoan, though,” Gloria said. “I think it’s wonderful.”

“Try being the only divorced one of the lot,” Ash said. “First, I made them all come to my big, fancy lesbian wedding. Then, it turned out to be all for nothing. We didn’t even make it to five bloody years.”

“Have you eaten at all today, Ash?” Adrian asked.

“I had a bag of crisps on the train,” Ash said.

“That’s it?” Lizzie sounded appalled.

“Why would you not eat?” Gloria couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

As if on cue, the appetisers arrived.

“I’m about to tuck in.” Ash picked up her cutlery. “And before anyone gets their knickers in a twist, it’s called intermittent fasting. It’s not an eating disorder.” She held a forkful of smoked salmon in front of her mouth. “Yes, I should have eaten more today because I knew I would be drinking, but time just got away from me. If I had taken the time to buy more food before I got on the train, I would have missed it.” She put the salmon in her mouth and started chewing.

Gloria hadn’t seen Ash in years, but she had known both her and her brother for a long time. Ash had been like this as a girl as well. Feisty and stubborn to a fault.

“Intermittent fasting.” Karen said the words as if they were the dirtiest she’d ever spoken. “Whatever will they invent next to torture women with?” She looked at Ash, but Ash didn’t reply. She kept on shovelling salmon into her mouth. Gloria would do the same if she hadn’t eaten all day.

“Ash has been doing it for years. Since long before it became trendy,” Adrian said, earning himself a shut-up look from his sister.

“As much as I’d love to regale you all with the benefits of fasting, I’m too busy breaking my fast right now,” Ash said. Her plate was nearly empty, while Gloria had yet to start.

“I don’t drink alcohol,” Gloria said, “and Ash doesn’t eat food before a certain time of day. I’m sure we each have our own habits.” She glanced sideways at Ash, while finally scooping some food onto her fork.

“Don’t get me started on Adrian’s quirks.” Ash grinned. “We’ll be here all night. Oh wait, we are going to be here all night.” She turned her head and shot Gloria a wink, which Gloria hadn’t expected at all.

“The salmon’s good,” Lizzie said, probably to keep Ash from spilling the beans on Adrian.

Gloria nodded, even though she’d barely tasted it. Ash’s wink was just that. An acknowledgement of what Gloria had said just before, which, in a way, could be interpreted as coming to Ash’s defence. It was nothing. Just a wink. Still, for a reason she couldn’t explain, it felt like something to Gloria.

<<End of preview>>

If You Kiss Me Like That will be available on Thursday 25 June 2020 from all retailers.

PREVIEW: Two Hearts Alone (Two Hearts Trilogy – Book One)

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Two Hearts Alone

Two Hearts Alone (Two Hearts Trilogy – Book One) will be out on 13 February 2020.

Here’s a preview. Enjoy!

Two Hearts Alone
(Two Hearts Trilogy – Book One)
© Harper Bliss

 

Chapter 1
ANNA

Hemingway doesn’t care that it’s snowing outside. He sits by the front door, waiting for me. I’ve tried ignoring him for ten minutes, but even when I don’t see him, I can still sort of see him. That sad, disappointed face with the dramatically droopy eyes, which he only ever puts on when I don’t snap on his leash at 10 a.m. sharp.

But the mid-January cold seems to have seeped into my bones and the prospect of going outside fills me with more dread than usual.

“Remind me again why I got you?” I ask Hemingway.

He turns his face toward me and turns up the drama in his eyes, his snout pointing wistfully toward the door.

As soon as I grab my coat, Hemingway perks up. He wags his tail in anticipation.

“You and I,” I mumble, “we’re not the same. I wonder how we can even live together.” I’m reminded of a podcast I listened to the other week, in which someone claimed that dogs used to walk themselves. But walking Hemingway is one of the reasons I got him in the first place. If I didn’t have to take him out twice daily, I’d never leave my house most days. He’s my connection to the outside world.

Hemingway gives an excited bark as I put on his leash. I find my warmest hat and gloves, and head into the snow.

The cold hits me hard in the face, but Hemingway is pulling on his leash, and I don’t have time to feel sorry for myself. He tugs me forward along our usual route. I half-walk half-jog behind him, keeping my face down. Because Donovan Grove is the kind of town where people keep their driveways clear, it’s not that hard to make my way along the sidewalk, but I do have to ask Hemingway to moderate his tempo for fear of slipping on the snow. It wouldn’t be the first time. When I got him two years ago, in the middle of winter, I let his enthusiasm get the best of me a few times and paid for it by ending up face-down in the snow.

What I like most about Hemingway is that he’s so utterly predictable. Every single day, he does his business on the same street corner—and I dispose of it in the doggy waste bin that was put there especially for Hemingway’s needs by the Donovan Grove council. I would never have requested a waste bin myself, but for some reason my mother felt it necessary. So, there it is.

“Good boy, Hem.” I give him a scratch behind the ear and, in return, he gives me a look filled with such love it almost makes me forget about the cold.

We continue our walk. The streets are quiet, even Main Street where usually a few shoppers dwell. I follow Hemingway’s paw prints on the thin layer of snow that has fallen since the sidewalk was last shoveled. Then I slowly get used to the cold and I lift my head up a little higher. This is how it goes every single day in winter. Getting out of the house is the hardest part, but once I’m out, I try to enjoy the walk as much as Hemingway does.

The familiarity of my surroundings soothes me. The window displays in the stores change as we cycle through every season, but that’s about it. When we reach the end of Main Street, I do notice something different. Bookends, the bookstore that’s been empty for months, has a light on inside.

And not just that, but a big heart’s been spray-painted onto the window.

“Oh no,” I mumble, making Hemingway stop in his tracks. “Don’t tell me the old bookstore will be turning into some cheesy gift shop.”

I peer through the window and I can hardly believe my eyes. Granted, it’s been a while since I actually looked through the window, since the place has been boarded up for months, but still, the transformation from derelict bookstore to whatever this is, is impressive.

The old, dark bookshelves have been painted with bright colors and stacks of books are waiting to find their place. My heart does a little jump at the prospect of the bookstore reopening, but then my gaze is drawn to the big heart on the window again. Inside it, also spray-painted, someone—presumably the new owner—has written: Valentine’s Day is coming!

I only got rid of my Christmas tree last week—always a bit of a sad event. Not only because I love the coziness of Christmas, but also because soon enough, and the evidence is already glaring straight at me, I’ll be reminded of how society believes it’s awful and pitiful that I’m single. It’s bad enough already that my mother thinks so, although she has gotten a bit better at hiding her dismay.

“Can you believe this?” I mutter under my breath, my words visible in the small cloud that emanates from my mouth. But Hemingway doesn’t care. He just wants to get on with his walk.

“We’ll go in a second,” I reassure him, not that he understands. I look past the ridiculous drawing and words on the window and try to see more of the store inside. Mrs. Fincher, who ran the bookstore until she retired last summer, always had a recommendation for me whenever I came in—and I did often. The closing of the old Bookends left a gaping hole in my schedule for a long time. But Mrs. Fincher, especially after Mr. Fincher passed away, hated Valentine’s Day as much as I do, and she would never have disgraced her store window with a ludicrous drawing of a heart. In fact, I’d wager, if she were to walk past right now and notice it, she might have a heart attack, just like her husband did.

“This is basically a health hazard,” I say, but Hemingway still doesn’t care. He has calmed down now and sits quietly by my side, glancing around.

I see some movement in the shop. A young woman—she can’t be older than Jaden, my nephew—is hauling a big box.

The sight of another human is enough to make me back away from the window and continue my walk swiftly.

 

Chapter 2
ZOE

“Someone weird was just looking inside,” Brooklyn says. “They hurried off as soon as they saw me though.”

“A future satisfied customer, no doubt.” I have to keep my own spirits up as well as my daughter’s.

“There isn’t much else in this town, so sure, Mom.” At least Brooklyn’s trying today, as opposed to yesterday, when I could barely get her out of bed. The move from Queens to upstate New York is much harder on her, especially because it’s happening in the middle of the school year. Things have not gone down the way either of us had planned.

“It will take some time, sweetie,” I repeat. It seems to have become my mantra. Things will change for you as soon as you start school again, I add in my head. If I were to say it out loud, it wouldn’t go down well. The changing of schools is still a very sore subject—which I do understand.

Brooklyn looks around the store, which is a mess. We only removed the shutters last night. The first thing I did this morning was paint an obnoxiously big heart on the window. I refuse to let my lonely heart make me cynical—or I can at least pretend that it doesn’t.

“That you gave up your cushy Amazon job for this,” Brooklyn says on a sigh.

“Come here, mija.” I hold out my hand to her. She just stares at it. I bridge the distance between us and take her hand in mine. “I know this is hard. It’s the middle of winter, Mama just left, and we’re in this brand-new town where we don’t know anyone, but…” I pull her a little closer. “You have me. Your mom. And we’re going to make the best of it; that’s what we Perez women do. And you know what? In the end, it will be amazing.”

“If you say so.” She hugs me back a little, which is the most I can expect from my fifteen-year-old under the circumstances.

“Once the store is open, we’ll meet lots of people.” Which is why I want to get it ready for opening as quickly as possible. I had hoped to be able to open for business in a few days, but with how things are looking right now, it might actually take a couple of weeks.

“God knows what they’ll be like.” Brooklyn grumbles it more than she says it.

Her hand is still in mine as I lead her to the window. “Look at it,” I say. “Isn’t it picture-perfect?”

Brooklyn just shrugs. Maybe I did ask too much of her. Maybe I should have stuck it out in Queens, and everything it came to stand for, until she finished high school.

I look out the window, taking in Donovan Grove’s Main Street. There’s the diner across the street, where we will go for lunch later, after we’ve unpacked a few more boxes. There’s the hardware store and the mini-mart and the bakery, all filled with people we’ve yet to meet. A happy mother will always make for a happier child, I repeat in my head.

A man and a woman walk past the window and briefly stop. The woman gives a quick wave, then they’re back on their way through the snow that keeps on falling. Bernard, who owns the candy store next door, was quick to tell me that not clearing the sidewalk in front of your dwelling could result in grumbling neighbors, of which, I got the impression he surely would be one if I didn’t get my shovel out quickly. So I’ve tasked Brooklyn with keeping the sidewalk as clear as possible. If this snow keeps up, she’ll have to go out again soon.

“Do you want to call Marsha and Juan?” I ask, referring to our friends back in Queens, the ones that were hardest to leave behind.

Brooklyn’s body releases some tension. “That’s okay, Mom,” she says. “We have shit to get done.” She wriggles her hand loose from my grasp and opens a box. She sighs the sort of sigh only a teenager can get away with. “Where do you want these?” She holds up a pack of bright-red Valentine’s Day cards.

“We need to put the rack together first. I’m not sure it’s a job for two women on their own.” I hold my smile.

“Oh yes, it is. There’s not a job in this place the two of us can’t get done.” The sullenness in her voice has been replaced by feistiness. “Where is it?”

I point at a box close to the door. As my gaze sweeps around the store, I am briefly reminded of what Brooklyn called ‘my cushy Amazon job’. It might have paid well, but it was far from cushy or comfortable. This store might be a mess, but as Brooklyn just said, it’s nothing we can’t handle. It will take some elbow grease and a lot of energy, but this is the beginning of our new life together, in a brand-new town—Donovan Grove, where there happened to be a bookstore for sale just as I started looking for one. Just as I started to gently contemplate a different life for us. So here we are.

Brooklyn’s tearing open the box. “Just because I’m putting together this rack,” she says, “doesn’t mean I approve of you selling this sappy, capitalist crap.”

“We give people what they want,” I counter. “So we can make a living.”

“This is not what people want, Mom. Maybe when you were young they did, but Valentine’s Day is simply not woke.”

“Ouch, girl.”

“I bet you that no one of my age will buy one of those cards.”

“Oh really?”

“Just retired people. And men who have something to make up for with their wives,” she says.

“So young, yet so cynical.” I flatten the cardboard box she just tore open.

“I guess that’s what happens when your other mother decides to no longer give a f—” She stops herself before I can chastise her for swearing. “To not care about you any longer.”

“Eve does care, baby. She loves you.” I have to say these things, even though I could have strangled Eve when she told us that she was moving abroad months earlier than planned. The moving abroad alone was enough of a punch in the gut for Brooklyn, but making her change her plans—making her move out here with me much earlier than anticipated—was like pulling the rug from underneath her feet entirely.

Brooklyn rolls her eyes. “Let’s not do this again. If she really cared, she wouldn’t be where she is right now.”

“I know, baby. I know.” I look at the rack we’re trying to assemble, hoping to distract her.

“It’s just for a year,” Eve said, when she first told us she was moving to Shanghai.

“A year is still twelve months of your daughter’s life that you’ll miss,” I said.

Because Eve was going to be away for a year, we agreed that Brooklyn would stay with her in the city, while I got settled in Donovan Grove. That way, Brooklyn could make the move in the summer and she’d get to spend some extra quality time with her other parent. Now, she’s had to move out here with hardly any notice, while her other mother lives the high life in Asia. It’s hardly fair on Brooklyn, but it’s how it is.

“I can do this on my own.” Brooklyn squats down.

“But you don’t have to.” I crouch down next to her and give her a hand.

<<End of preview>>

Two Hearts Alone (Two Hearts Trilogy – Book One) will be available on Thursday 13 February 2020 from all retailers.

PREVIEW (+ PRE-SALE!): Next in Line For Love

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Next in Line For Love

Next in Line For Love will be out on 17 December 2019, but you can now get it in pre-sale, exclusively from my web shop here >>

As of 17 December it will only be available on Amazon.

Here’s a preview. Enjoy!

Next in Line For Love
© Harper Bliss

Chapter 1
ALI

I always get a faint whiff of stale beer when I enter the Lennox Breweries offices, even though the actual brewing doesn’t happen in this building. I shake off the imagined scent and head toward the elevator bank. The lobby feels empty—too empty. What was I expecting? A welcoming committee? That would have been nice, actually.

I make my way to the top floor unescorted, briefly wondering if I got the date wrong. But how could I possibly have gotten it wrong? This is the day I start my journey to becoming Chief Executive Officer of one of the country’s oldest breweries.

When the elevator opens to the executive floor, I’m greeted by my brother Sebastian—the last person I want to see.

“Hey, Sis,” he says. The smile on his face is already annoying me. “Ready for the big league?” I know the question isn’t one born from genuine concern. Sebastian’s just here to taunt me. We’re both in our thirties, yet insulting each other is still what we do most of when we are together.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, taking his bait.

“I’m here for you, of course.” He brings a hand to my shoulder, making me believe, just for a split second, that he can be a nice guy if he really wants to be. “On your big day.” He flashes me a smile again—it’s only a fraction less annoying this time. “Someone has to make sure you don’t fuck up straight away.”

“I’m touched.” My voice drips with sarcasm. As we progress toward my father’s office suite, a few people look up; some even give me a nod or quick wave.

“You’d think the old man would be in an extraordinary mood today, what with his favorite daughter reporting for duty, but he’s just as cranky as ever,” Sebastian says. “Trust me. It’s good that I’m here.”

Our father, Jeffrey Lennox, is the kind of man who can strike the fear of God into you with a single, withering look. A man who has gotten used to taking exactly what he wants. And now I’m here to take over his biggest prize.

“If you say so.” We approach the glass box that makes up my father’s office. He’s standing by the window, gazing out over the Los Angeles skyline.

Sebastian looks at his watch. “I do have a meeting that can’t be pushed back—not even for your arrival, Ali.” He gives a curt, ridiculous bow. “You’re on your own.” So much for my brother being there for me on my big day.

You’d think it wasn’t my own father I’m about to greet, what with the way my heart is stomping in my chest. This is ridiculous. And all Sebastian has done is make me more nervous, which was probably his intention.

“Hey, Ali. Right on time.” A voice comes from behind me. “Shall we go in?”

“Jill.” I nod at the woman who has been Lennox Breweries’ Chief Operating Officer for as long as I can remember, although there must have been a time when it wasn’t her. My father makes the decisions, Jill Gold implements them.

Unlike the rest of the SoCal population, Jill’s not the sort of woman to greet you with a hug. She raps her knuckles against the glass door, opens it, and ushers me into my father’s office.

“Alexandra.” My father turns to me and opens his arms wide—as though I’ve just flown in from somewhere far away, instead of seeing him at the house two days ago. Maybe’s he’s putting on a show for Jill, but why would he? If not for Jill, then for me, perhaps? Where’s the crankiness Sebastian was talking about?

“Hi, Dad.” I walk toward him but not too close.

He keeps his arms spread, but it’s more a showy gesture than any actual desire to give me a proper hug.

“The day has finally come. You’ve come to take the crown,” he says.

“Hardly.” I can just about keep from rolling my eyes. “I still need to get my training wheels on.”

“Yes, well.” He heads behind his large desk. “You know what I mean.” He waves for Jill to come closer.

“It makes sense to take you under my wing, Ali,” Jill says. “I know everything that happens at this company. Stick with me for a while, and you’ll be ready in no time.”

“She’ll be your boss in no time,” my father says, his voice gruff.

Jill shrugs off his comment as though she won’t mind working for someone much younger than herself—as though she never considered herself for the part of CEO. But she’s not a Lennox. It was always going to be either me or Sebastian.

“The first thing we need to do,” Jill says, “is make you a viable proposition for the board.” She gives a quick shake of the head. “They’ll be expecting Sebastian.”

“That’s what you get when the board’s mostly made up of old men,” I say. If I’m going to be CEO, I shouldn’t mince my words.

“Very true,” Jill says before my father can make a comment.

“I haven’t exactly been sitting on my ass the past ten years,” I say. “You can order Lennox beer in more than a hundred countries around the world these days.”

While this is true—I’ve been working in the family business for a decade now—even I expected Sebastian to be the one to follow in Dad’s footsteps, despite him being an entitled, obnoxious douchebag.

But times have changed and suddenly share prices can plummet, even when the most logical successor is announced. When they present me as the next CEO instead of my brother, the share price should stay pretty steady. At least, that’s what my father told me when he gauged my interest in the position. It was a heart-warming way to sell me on the whole premise.

“Once we’ve got the board… on board,” Jill says, not a hint of a smile on her face, “we’ll take it from there. But that’s the first objective. We need to create the idea of stable leadership. Someone who won’t rock the boat, but is fresh at the same time.”

“No pressure.” I glance at Jill. Even though we’re in Southern California, she’s wearing a black turtleneck sweater.

“Don’t worry, Ali. I’ve got your back.” There’s something sincere—and therefore very unusual—about her, so I believe her when she says it, although I can’t completely shake off the skepticism I was raised with.

The least I can do is give her a warm smile in response.

A knock comes on the door. It’s Evelyn, my father’s personal assistant. “Dr. Barnes is here,” she says.

My father rolls his eyes and sinks into his leather chair.

“Just follow Jill around.” He as good as waves us out of the door.

Jill holds the door open for me. I’m at least five inches taller than her.

“I managed to convince him to have his blood pressure monitored twice a day. He doesn’t like it, as you can imagine,” she whispers, “but needs must.”

I follow her to her office. She points to the wall behind her desk. “We’ve set you up next door, close to all the action.”

“Thanks.” I glance around. Jill’s office is a smaller replica of my father’s. Perhaps mine will be exactly the same as well, but a little smaller still, to represent the current pecking order.

“How is he really doing? In the day-to-day?”

“He’s an old man.” Jill says it very matter-of-factly. It’s good to know she doesn’t mince her words either. “He should have stepped down years ago, but he’s more stubborn than he’s old, so…”

“Tell me about it,” I say as though I know all about it. I’ve only been back in L.A. a few weeks.

“I have some calls to make.” Jill looks at her watch. “But how about lunch together?”

“Oh, uh.” I slant my head. “I already have plans for lunch.”

“With Sebastian?” she inquires. “He can tag along.” She grins at me. “If he must.”

“Um, no. With my friend Madison. I didn’t think today was going to be, like, a whole thing.”

“A whole thing?” Jill creases her features into an expression I can only interpret as extreme disapproval. “Why do I get the impression you’re not taking this very seriously? You’re going to be CEO of Lennox Breweries, Ali. This ‘whole thing’ is going to take up a lot of your time, if not all of it. I hope you’re aware of that.”

“I’m well aware. It’s just that today’s the first day. I have the rest of my life to be serious about it.” I reach for my cellphone in the side pocket of my blazer. “But if it’s so important, I’ll have lunch with you instead.”

Jill’s phone starts ringing. She shoots me one last glance—is that some mild disdain I detect?—and turns to pick it up.

I slink out of her office, in search of my own. Maybe it’s good that we’ll have lunch, so I can manage Jill’s expectations of me. We already seem to have different ideas of what it means to become the big boss.

 

Chapter 2
JILL

“I hope we didn’t get off on the wrong foot earlier.” I’m not sure why I’m being so nice to Ali—probably because she’s the boss’s daughter. And it’s my job to train her to become my next boss.

The sushi I ordered sits untouched between us on the conference table in my office.

“I’m the one who should apologize.” Ali doesn’t really sound as though she means it. For someone who has been out of the state—and out of the country—for so long, she sounds like a quintessential spoiled brat from Beverly Hills, irritating inflections in her voice included. “Tell me honestly, Jill. Am I nothing more than a figurehead here? Because that’s what I’ve been led to believe. Both by my brother and my father. They need me for the optics and that’s about it.” She glares at the food on the table, making no move to actually eat any of it. Maybe it’s not up to her standards.

I’ve been dealing with Jeffrey Lennox’s children since I started my career at Lennox Breweries—although I haven’t seen Ali in a very long time. I’ve often lamented that if Jeffrey wanted his children to succeed him, he should have raised them a little differently, but he was always too busy building his business to put much thought into his offspring.

“Lennox needs you. All of you,” I say, with feeling. “Not just your pretty face, Ali.” I want her to have a chance. She might have spent the past decade living the high life in various European and Asian cities, pretending to be export manager for the company, but if I have my way, Alexandra Lennox will become the next CEO of this company. I’d much rather have her at the helm than her brother, whose privilege has only been increased by the fact he was born male.

“That’s the first I’ve heard of that.”

“Look.” I open a bottle of overpriced Fiji water. “We have a chance here to usher this company into a new era. The only reason we even have this opportunity is because your brother screwed up one time too many. Because he thinks he can get away with anything. Well, he can’t anymore. This is a golden opportunity for us, for you and me, Ali. We can run this company together, if we want.”

I hope I’ve read Ali correctly and that she dislikes her brother as much as I do. I’ve never seen any evidence to the contrary, but years abroad can change a person.

“And let Sebastian know he cannot run things behind the scenes?” Her face lights up.

“Exactly.”

“Maybe we can even push him out in the process,” Ali says. “Shouldn’t he be in jail or something, anyway?”

“He went to rehab.” Lennoxes don’t go to jail, I add in my head.

“Fat load of good that did him.” She wrinkles up her nose. “Pity there are no rehabilitation centers for first-class douchebags…”

“I take it there have been no grand reconciliations since you’ve returned?”

Ali’s very different from her brother. I can actually have a conversation with her where things are articulated instead of insinuated. I can get to know a few things through her.

“Sebastian wants to drink my blood.” Ali leans back in her chair and crosses her arms over her chest. “He won’t come out and say it, but he absolutely loathes that Dad has chosen me over him. Even though it’s his own stupid fault.”

“It’s not something he’ll get over any time soon. You’ll need to watch your back.”

“I thought you had my back.” Ali draws her lips into a smile.

“I do.” I pluck a piece of salmon sashimi from the plate in front of me. “Do you have mine?” The slice of salmon hovers in front of my mouth as I wait for Ali to reply.

“Are we forging some kind of sisterly pact over sushi?”

“We can.” I chuckle to make light of it, but it’s exactly what I want. If I can get Ali accepted by the board, I can have virtual control of this company once Jeffrey steps down. Our first move, after Senior is out of the door, will be to get rid of Sebastian. All I need is Ali Lennox on my side.

“Okay.” Ali doesn’t dismiss the idea. “I’ve always liked you, Jill. You’ve obviously steered this company through some rough patches, but… I’m not as young and naive as I used to be. And I don’t really know you. So I guess your other very important and urgent job is to make me trust you.”

“Of course.” Perhaps I underestimated Ali a little. I had my guy do some research on her, because I haven’t seen much of her while she was gallivanting around the globe. From what I’ve heard, she likes to party just as much as her brother does, but the substances she uses are always legal, which already makes her a fair bit smarter than Sebastian. “Challenge accepted.” I have quite a few years on Ali, and a whole lot more experience in business in general, and this company specifically. Getting her to trust me shouldn’t be too hard—as long as I don’t make the mistake of underestimating her. She’s still a Lennox. After their mother died, Jeffrey might have allowed Alexandra and Sebastian to do anything they wanted while he escaped into work, but they were both born with Lennox smarts. It runs in their blood.

Ali nods at me sternly, as if I’m her subordinate already.

“Now tell me, how have you been, Ali?” It’s time to lighten the mood, and to get to know her all over again. The last time I saw Jeffrey’s daughter was at her twin sister’s funeral ten years ago.

“Singapore was a hoot,” she says. “I wouldn’t have minded staying longer. They just really get extravagance there. Having a shit ton of money is, like, so normal in some countries.”

She sounds a lot like Sebastian right now. They are siblings, after all. But I decide to focus on the other parts of her—and to unearth at least one positive trait I can work with.

“How are you?” she asks, much against my expectations. Sebastian never deigns to ask me how I am. No one on this floor does. “Are you married with a couple of brats?” She squints. “Don’t tell me you’re a grandma already. I won’t believe you.”

I chuckle. She couldn’t be further from the truth. There’s a reason why nobody here asks me how I’m doing. I’ve taught everyone that it’s a pointless question. I don’t discuss my private life at work, mostly because I don’t have one.

“None of that. I’ve always been married to the job, which I know is a terrible cliché.”

Ali examines my face, then nods as though she has suddenly understood something about me. I’m not sure why my palms suddenly feel moist.

“Your dedication to my family’s brews is touching,” Ali says with a grin on her face. Then she finally picks up a pair of chopsticks and starts to eat.

<< End of preview >>

Next in Line For Love will be available from Amazon on 17 December 2019.
You can now get it on pre-sale from my web shop >>

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