CHAPTER THREE
“WHAT’S WITH THE FACE?” a voice said, breaking me out of the hypnotic trance the blinking cursor had put me under.
I’d been staring at a blank computer screen all morning. Not a single word flowed. Instead of resorting to my old muse hunting grounds, otherwise known as a bar on Boylston, I grabbed my laptop and headed down to the café, hoping a change of environment would help inspire me. The smell of coffee and sugar, coupled with the sounds of clattering dishes and friendly conversation, gave me a feeling of belonging, like one’s childhood bedroom often did.
My dependence on a muse could have been entirely psychological, but I’d written my first book because the guy I was seeing at the time sparked a story. Ever since then, I felt like I had to have a muse in order to write. It was like a security blanket…a living, breathing, incredibly sexy security blanket.
“What face?” I shrugged out of my daydream and glanced up at Brooklyn, treating her to the worst fake smile I could muster on such short notice. She plopped into the chair across from me, waving at my brother to bring her morning dose of caffeine.
“That face.” She grimaced at me. “You look like your dog just died or something.” Her eyes widened, compassion crossing her face. “Oh, my god. Pee Wee didn’t…”
“No! Do you think I’d be sitting here if he did? I’d be a complete mess!” I brought my mug, which contained probably my fourth or fifth coffee of the day, to my lips. I knew I had a serious addiction to caffeine, but I had no desire to change that at the moment. “I like that dog better than I like most humans.”
“Then what’s wrong?” She had smoothed her dark hair into a slick ponytail that trailed down to the middle of her back. Her vibrant green eyes stared at me with intrigue, as if they could read my innermost thoughts. They probably could.
“Nothing,” I insisted. I wasn’t fooling anyone, especially my best friend since our first day of kindergarten. We were kindred spirits, outsiders from the beginning. We’d watched with longing as moms doted on their kids, tears streaming down their faces. We were the only two who didn’t have parents snapping photo after photo as we waited to be escorted into the school by our teacher. Brooklyn’s mom had died the previous year, killed by a drunk driver when she ran out to get milk.
My story was almost the same. My mom had run out to get milk, too, as my dad had told me for years, and never came back. However, she wasn’t killed by a drunk driver. She had abandoned us, said she didn’t want to be saddled with a family any longer. Although, to this very day, I still received a crummy pair of slippers for my birthday every year.
She got cold feet being married to my father and raising a family. I was constantly reminded of that fact.
Every.
Fucking.
Year.
“She’s a bitter cynic,” Drew interjected, placing Brooklyn’s mug in front of her and offering her a smile, which she was only too eager to return. Just like practically every other female friend of mine, she couldn’t hide her attraction to my brother. Time and time again, I had told her if she wanted to pursue something with him, I would be okay with it. Drew’s kids adored her. I had a feeling Drew adored her, too. It made sense. Regardless, she insisted our friendship was more important to her than that. Brooklyn was a rare gem in a selfish world. I didn’t deserve her friendship.
“Tell me something I don’t already know,” she shot back, smirking at me.
“She’s blocked,” Drew explained, lowering his voice.
He knew the drill by now. The only people who knew what I really did for a living were within a foot of me. It wasn’t that I was ashamed of my writing. I didn’t have a full-time job where they would look down on me for writing books that soaked your panties. I simply preferred the anonymity.
Brooklyn leaned in. “With what? Sexy Mr. Price?” She read my stuff before everyone else, even the absolute garbage that never made the final cut and was usually complete gibberish. She had a talent for seeing things I couldn’t, helping me figure out where to take the story. “If I had a boss who looked like him—”
“He doesn’t exist,” Drew reminded her. “You make it sound like he’s a real person.”
I sat back in my chair, a cocky look on my face. “That’s the sign of pure brilliance, Drew,” I joked. “My writing is so compelling, she believes he’s real.”
“If he were real, perhaps there wouldn’t be cobwebs growing between my legs,” she muttered.
“On that note…” Drew offered us a tight smile. “I’m going back to work.”
I glanced at the bar, seeing Aunt Gigi and Dottie, another staple of the coffee shop, talking as my aunt wiped it down and restocked the display cases. The café was a bit different. It had the typical booths and bistro tables most other places had. When Drew took over ownership, he made one drastic change. He put in a real bar that actually served alcohol. According to Drew, who had studied business in undergrad, the profit margin on alcohol was huge.
“It’s not busy,” I argued. “You can sit with us for a minute. All you do is take photos and sign autographs for all the hockey fans who come in.”
“That’s not all I do here, Mols.” He shot me a sideways glance. “Truthfully, I’d rather be called for jury duty than have to listen to you two talk about cobwebs in places I’d rather not think about.”
He gave Brooklyn a small smile, then headed back to the bar, his eyes glued to one of the large televisions that was playing one of the sports networks.
“Like you don’t think about vaginas all day, every day,” I called after him. Instantly, dozens of customers perked up from their smartphones or laptops. “You’re a guy! From my experience, guys spend, like, twenty-three hours of the day thinking about the next time they’re going to get some pussy!”
“Molly!” Aunt Gigi scolded, her dark eyes shooting daggers at me. “Watch your language!”
“The other hour, they’re actually getting said pussy.” I crossed my arms in front of my chest, ignoring my sixty-five-year-old aunt. “I’m pretty sure thinking about vaginas is all part of that.”
“Molly!” Drew hissed, heading back to the table. “You’re going to give Gigi a heart attack, for crying out loud,” he berated me, unable to stifle the laugh struggling to escape. Drew was the typical oldest child — serious, pragmatic, methodical. I was always the wild one. The one who didn’t take anything in life too seriously, including myself. Still, I loved when I could get a laugh out of him…or anyone else, for that matter.
“Like she’s never heard the word vagina before. Or pussy.”
He sat down in the chair next to me, leaning close. “Thanks to you, I’m pretty sure we all have at this point, along with far too many other words you have stored in your vernacular for the female genitalia. No brother should have to listen to his sister say some of the things that come out of your mouth. No brother should have to read his sister’s sex-filled books, either, but I do.”
I planted a kiss on his cheek. “That’s because you’re the best brother in the whole wide world.” My voice oozed with sarcasm, although I meant every word.
Through all the ups and downs in our lives, Drew was my one constant. Men would come and go, but Drew was always there for me, even during his professional hockey career. When some of my know-it-all cousins or uncles told me a degree in journalism was a waste of time, Drew reminded me I was a damn good writer and it would be a disservice if I gave up because of a few ignorant comments from people who wouldn’t know how to open a book if their lives depended on it.
“So what’s the problem this time, Molly?” Brooklyn asked once Drew relented and joined our discussion.
“I got a phone call from my editor this morning.”
They both perked up. “What did she have to say?” Drew asked.
“She was wondering why she hasn’t seen anything from me, considering the final draft is due in a month.”
“You haven’t sent her anything?” Brooklyn lifted her brow. “What about all the stuff you’ve had me read? Granted, I’ve probably read about twenty different versions of the first chapter, but at least it’s something.”
I sank into the booth, playing with my coffee mug. “I know. I just… Like I told Drew earlier, it just doesn’t feel right.” I narrowed my gaze on my two confidants. “It feels like every other book I’ve been under contract to write. When I signed this latest deal, I thought it was perfect. All I had to do was write a forbidden romance between two people who are complete opposites…if it could even be called a romance. It’s really just an egotistical prick using his position of power to seduce his assistant. It’s more like sexual harassment. Throw in a conflict, which even a blind person could see from a mile away, that our heroine is somehow able to look past because she can’t stand not to feel his dick inside her every day, giving her orgasm after orgasm, which isn’t possible, and we have our entire story, wrapped up in a neat little package, ready to market to the masses.” I rested my head in my hands. “They ate it up. They made it sound like this was a completely new concept, like it hasn’t been done before. Hell, I’ve done it before…repeatedly.” I let out a long breath. “Maybe I’m burnt out. And my editor expects to see 20,000 words by Monday.”
Brooklyn scrunched her eyebrows. “But, Molly, it’s Friday—”
I held up my hand, cutting her off. “To add fuel to the fire, Kevin walked out on me this morning. He was all wrong for this particular book anyway, but at least he was someone. Now I have no muse and a nearly impossible deadline hanging over me.” I leaned my head back against the booth and stared at the ceiling.
“What happened with Kevin?” Brooklyn asked, intrigued.
I rolled my eyes. “That went up in a blaze of glory.”
“What did you do?” Drew turned to me, his expression almost smug, as if he’d been expecting this for a while. I knew my arrangement with Kevin wouldn’t last, but I hated the thought of having to search for yet another muse. I loathed having to put on a tight dress and a pair of heels just to attract some guy, but it was necessary for my art.
“He asked what I was doing up so early,” I answered. “We got on the subject of my magazine articles and how there aren’t exactly a lot of them. Then he started asking what I was really doing all the times I told him I was working on my column.”
“And what did you say?”
“I tried to distract him.” I bit my lip, feeling oddly guilty about this morning’s unexpected fireworks.
“Why didn’t you just tell him?” Drew pushed. “I don’t understand why you don’t want people to know.”
“I know why.” Brooklyn crossed her arms, a self-righteous look on her face.
“Oh, you do, Dr. Freud?” I loved my friend dearly, but she psychoanalyzed everything. Granted, she did have a degree in psychology and worked as a therapist for the Department of Children and Families. Still, I hated feeling as if she were studying everything I did and said.
“This has nothing to do with me being a therapist. It’s because we’ve been friends since we were still pissing our pants. You don’t want anyone to know what you really do for a living because you haven’t written anything you’re proud of yet.”
“I’m proud of what I’ve accomplished!” I shot back. “Not everyone can say they’ve written a book.”
“That’s certainly true.” Brooklyn took a sip of her Americano, her eyes still trained on me. “But you said it yourself. You’re more proud of the act of publishing a book than the material contained in it. If you’re happy, why not use your real name?”
“I don’t want to jeopardize my deal with the magazine.”
“Are you kidding me?” Drew scoffed. “Their circulation would skyrocket if word got out the Vivienne Foxx was writing for them. Your readers would salivate over your columns… ‘Overheard in the Women’s Restroom’, ‘Molly’s Misadventures on Public Transport’, ‘Ten Weeks to Giving Better Head’, ‘Confessions of a Serial Dater’. Those columns are hysterical and have such a great following. Imagine if your readers knew. It would only increase your popularity.”
“That doesn’t matter to me.” I tapped my fingernails on the table, avoiding their eyes. “I like living in the shadows. I don’t need the spotlight.” I met his gaze, then glanced just past him to the walls that seemed to be like a museum exhibit.
Anyone could tell just by walking into this place how proud my father was of all Drew’s accomplishments. The walls that were once covered with vintage photos of my ancestors, who built the café when they didn’t even have two pennies to rub together, were replaced with a history of Drew’s notoriety. There were still framed newspaper clippings chronicling his rise in the hockey world from high school to college, leading up to his professional career, which was actually much longer than most. I often caught Drew staring at them when he didn’t think I was looking. I could sense he wished things were still the way they use to be, but he’d never admit it. Still, I knew he must miss the thrill of lacing up those skates, listening to the crowd go wild when he took the ice, thousands of people chanting his name.
“You know he’s proud of you, too, don’t you?” Drew offered, taking my hand and squeezing it. I snapped my eyes away from the framed image of the front page of the Boston Globe from six years ago showing Drew in his Bruins jersey, holding up the Stanley Cup, surrounded by his teammates and coaches.
“I know.” Even a complete stranger could tell I just said that so we could talk about something else. My father couldn’t even remember my name.
Growing up, Drew had my dad and, for a few years, I had my mom. After she left, my dad tried getting me into sports, since that was all he really knew. I gave him credit for at least making an effort, but sports just weren’t my thing. Over the years, I had actually welcomed sitting in a dark corner of the skating rink, a book in my hand, while my father cheered Drew on from the front row, his face beaming with pride. The Brinks name had become well-known because of my brother, and my father didn’t hesitate to tell everyone about his famous son, including anyone who stepped foot in his café. It didn’t bother me. I was happy living in the shadow of his success. I’d been so accustomed to the way things were, I often responded when people shouted “Drew’s sister” to get my attention.
“You owe it to yourself,” Brooklyn interjected, sensing my growing unease. “You’ve worked too hard to just let someone else take the credit for what you’ve accomplished.”
Noticing Aunt Gigi hovering around us like a hawk, trying to eavesdrop on our conversation, I lowered my voice. “I’m not letting someone else take the credit.”
“In essence, you are, Mols,” Drew replied. “By refusing to even have your face connected to your alter ego, you’re letting this person you made up in your mind take all the credit. Your agent has had requests for you to go on morning talk shows, for crying out loud. Do you know how many other authors would kill for an opportunity like that? It could make you even more of a household name than you already are. You could become the next Danielle Steel or Nora Roberts.”
“Just drop it.” I was bored with this conversation. They brought it up every few months. No matter what I said, they couldn’t understand why I refused to make any public appearances under my alter ego.
“I’m not going to drop it this time, Molly.” Drew leaned into me. “What’s the real reason?”
I crossed my arms, inching away from him. His eyes bored into me, making me uncomfortable in a place that had always been like a second home. Narrowing my gaze at Drew, I formed my lips into a tight line. “You are,” I answered with a severe look.
Blinking repeatedly, his mouth turned into a frown. “Me?” He straightened his spine, taken aback.
“Yes, Drew.” I slammed my laptop shut, my voice firm, although barely louder than a whisper. “I was there every step of the way. I shared each victory of yours. When you received the Hobey Baker award in college, I was as humbled as you. When all those coaches from the NHL scouted you, I was just as nervous sitting in the stands as you were on the ice. When you skated your way to your first Stanley Cup and were awarded the Conn Smythe trophy for being the MVP, I cried along with you. Hell, we drank beer out of Lord Stanley’s cup together when it was your turn to have it! Every emotion you felt throughout your career, I felt it, too.”
My shoulders fell as a knowing expression crossed his face. “All the ups and especially the downs… I felt them, Drew. I know what it’s like to be on top of the world, then have that ripped away.” I shook my head. “I’ve already been there and am not going back. That’s why I like my anonymity. If my books stop selling, it won’t be Molly Brinks who will have failed. It’ll be Vivienne Foxx.”
Drew and Brooklyn were silent for a moment. I didn’t expect them to understand. The book industry wasn’t what it once was. These days, it seemed everyone and their dog published a book. Readers had started caring less and less about the craft of writing. They wanted sexier, racier, raunchier. Just telling a great story was no longer enough. You had to push the envelope. I knew there would be a day in the near future where even my stuff would be too tame for some. I wanted to be able to walk away without too much damage to who I was as a person.
“Plus, I’m pretty sure Aunt Gigi would have a heart attack if she knew,” I added, lightening the mood. Humor had always been my coping mechanism. Drew said I masked my true feelings with sarcasm. I didn’t see anything wrong with that. “She already practically lives at that damn church. If she knew the things I wrote about in my books, she’d start sleeping in the confessional.”
“You may be surprised,” Drew answered with a smug look. “This isn’t about what Aunt Gigi thinks, Mols. Sure, there may come a day when your books don’t sell, but that doesn’t mean you’re a failure. It just means you took a risk. I took a risk on a relationship with Carla, knowing full well she was a hockey groupie. If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have the two beautiful daughters I do. It’s scary putting yourself out there, but the rewards you could reap far outweigh the downfalls.”
“Whatever.” I wasn’t in the mood for his little pep talk. Nothing he or anyone said would convince me to give up my anonymity. For what? So my father would finally realize he had a daughter, too? That ship had sailed years ago.
“So what are you going to do? What’s your plan?” he asked, returning to the issue at hand.
I pinched my lips and shrugged. “Go back to square one. Try to find a muse that has more of a businessman vibe to him. Not sure I’ll find someone like that in my usual spots.”
“Oh! I know!” Brooklyn gasped. “You should try online dating! One of the girls at the office met her husband on Tinder or something! I’ll do it with you!”
Drew’s eyes shot to her. “I don’t know. There’s a lot of freaks out there.” A slight scowl crossed his unshaven face.
“We’re not stupid enough to go to someone’s house to meet for the first time,” she assured him. “There are rules.”
“Rules?” He cocked a brow.
“Yeah. You always meet in a public place, preferably for just drinks. Dinner’s too much of a commitment. You can down a drink in ten minutes, maybe even less, so if he’s really dull or posted a Photoshopped picture, you can get out of there quickly.”
Drew and I both gaped at her, wondering how she came up with these rules on the spot.
“I’ve done the online thing before,” she admitted casually.
“You what?!” I exclaimed. “How come you didn’t say anything? If you were looking to meet someone, I would have gone bar-hopping with you!”
A faint smile crossed her face. “I’m not interested in the kind of guys you meet at a loud bar. Not that there’s anything wrong with the way you typically go about things. I prefer having a connection with someone. Online dating is just as random as picking up a guy at a bar, but at least you’re not under the cloud of alcohol or beer goggles. It’s…safer.”
“I’m safe!”
“I know you are, but I don’t have your looks or personality.”
“What are you talking about? You’re a beautiful girl, Brooklyn.”
“No. I’m unique,” she emphasized, gesturing to her nearly jet-black hair, freckled face, and slender stature. “There’s a difference.”
“If it means anything…” Drew turned to Brooklyn. “I think you’re beautiful.”
She tried to hide her smile, but it was impossible. She’d had a crush on Drew since middle school. Drawing in a breath, she changed the subject as best she could. “So it’s settled. We’ll put up profiles on every dating site out there. You may just meet the one.” She looked at me hopefully.
“That’s not the point of this. I just need a guy with a modicum of good looks and a professional persona to help inspire me to finish this billionaire businessman romance. All I need is a little spark. Then I’ll walk away.”
“What if you like the guy?”
“That won’t happen.” I shivered in disgust at the notion.
“You act as if being in a serious relationship is a curse,” Brooklyn observed. “Life isn’t like Sex and the City, you know.”
“It should be. Think of all the shoes!”
Her eyes widened. “Shoes…,” she exhaled in a drawn-out voice, a look of absolute bliss on her face.
Drew chuckled, pinching the bridge of his nose. “The female gender is a complete mystery. I will never understand the fascination with shoes.”
“But what if you fall in love?” Brooklyn pushed. “You’re just going to walk away from that?”
“I’ve been doing this for years now. I’ve yet to find anyone with whom I wanted to pick out window treatments. And it sure as hell won’t happen this time, either. Love isn’t real.”
“I don’t know.” Drew leaned back in his chair, studying me. “I think it’s all a front. You act like you have no desire to be in a committed relationship with someone, but deep down, you yearn to be completely swept off your feet like happens in all those movies you constantly watch, allegedly in the name of ‘research’. I think you watch them because you secretly believe your Mr. Darcy is out there somewhere.”
I rolled my eyes, hating that Drew used Mr. Darcy against me. Pride and Prejudice was one of my weaknesses, and he knew it. “They’re all just fantasies. All those movies and books are nothing more than a carefully crafted story marketed to the masses who want to feel all warm and fuzzy for a minute. There’s no such thing as happily ever after. You show me the happily ever after in waking up one morning after retiring from the NHL because of an injury to find the woman you wanted to spend the rest of your life with ran off with an uninjured player, leaving you to raise a two-year-old and six-month-old.”
Drew narrowed his gaze at me. “Fuck you, Molly.”
I knew my words hurt him, but it needed to be said. Of all people, Drew should realize true love was just a pipe dream.
Brooklyn’s eyes darted between us. “Just because some relationships don’t work out doesn’t mean the right person isn’t out there. Yes, Drew’s been hurt.” She reached across the table and clutched his hand, his severe expression softening as his gaze shifted to her. “But that doesn’t stop him from hoping for something better. The right woman will come along and will accept the scars, bruises, brain injuries, everything.” She smiled, breaking the building tension at the table.
Brooklyn had a gift. Like all siblings, Drew and I had our fair share of arguments. Throw in our innate Italian stubbornness, and what started out as a simple disagreement could turn into World War III if it weren’t for Brooklyn constantly stepping in.
“Did Carla break my heart?” Drew faced me once more, his eyes brimming with sorrow. “You better believe she did. But I don’t regret a second of it because, for a short period of time, I felt something. I felt that spark people want to feel when they read your books.” He lowered his voice. “And I feel bad for anyone who’s never experienced that. Molly, you’re thirty years old.”
My eyes widened as I shot daggers at him. “Don’t say that vile word!”
His lips turned into a smile. “Okay. Okay. Twenty-nine-plus-one.”
“Better.” I smirked.
“You’re going to do whatever you want, regardless of what I say, but maybe it’s time you thought about finding someone who’s interested in you as a person, not just in hooking up with you. I know Mom leaving had a bigger impact on you than it did on me—”
“It didn’t—” I interrupted, but Drew held up his hand. I closed my mouth.
“It did. And it scarred Dad, too. I don’t think he ever dated again after that. I remember hearing him say, ‘Real love isn’t real life.’”
“He said that?” I scrunched my nose.
Drew simply nodded. “It must be where you got it. I love you, Molly. You’re my best friend. I hate the idea of you never opening your heart, or at least your mind, to the prospect of meeting someone who could love you.”
“Andrew!” Aunt Gigi yelled from behind the counter. “Break’s over. It’s almost noon and I need the bar stocked.”
He rolled his eyes. “Who owns this place? Me or her?” He winked and got up as Aunt Gigi approached the table, holding a piece of light green paper she had ripped off the advertisement corkboard beside us.
“Here you go.” She slammed the paper down on the table.
“What’s this?” I picked it up, reading it.
“Speed dating,” she answered. “I heard what you were talking about.”
My large blue eyes grew even bigger, wondering exactly how much she had overheard.
“I wasn’t born yesterday, Molly. You don’t exactly have the softest of voices, my dear.” She leaned down, then whispered, “And your Uncle Leo thanks you. Things have gotten…interesting since I began reading your books.”
When she pulled away, my face reddened with embarrassment, my mind spinning, wondering exactly which of my books my aunt had read. None were tame enough for her. The Bible wasn’t tame enough for her.
“Start here. It could be fun.” She glanced over her shoulder. “And Drew will go, too.”
“Go where?” He looked away from the TV showing highlights from last night’s Bruins game.
“Speed dating,” I answered with a grimace. I hated making small talk, feigning interest in someone’s lame story about their exciting weekend trip to Home Depot. At least with online dating, I could hide my disgust behind a computer screen.
“I’m busy,” he shot back.
“You don’t even know when it is.” Aunt Gigi crossed her arms in front of her chest. “And it’s tonight.”
“I can’t find a sitter on such short notice.”
“I’ll watch the girls.”
“I don’t want to put you out.”
“You’re not,” she insisted. “You want your sister to meet someone. I want the same for you.”
“I’m okay. I’m happy. I don’t need—”
“Ah, ah, ah.” Aunt Gigi held up her hand. “You’ll go, too.” There was no sense in arguing with her. It was a losing battle. “Those girls need a mother. I’ll babysit. No arguments.”
“Yeah, Drew,” I jabbed. “No arguments. If I have to suffer through this, you can suffer along with me.”
“I’m not the one who breaks out in hives at the mention of a committed relationship.”
“I don’t break out in hives.”
“Hyperventilates then.”
I bit my lip, remaining silent.
“Gotcha,” he joked.
“Come on!” I implored. “You can size up the competition and give every guy who looks at me the evil eye.”
“I’m not so sure that’s a good way to find a new muse,” Brooklyn added. “Drew will have every guy running for the hills.”
I was about to tell Aunt Gigi it was a lame idea when the fine print on the flyer caught my eye. “It may not be a complete waste of time.” I held the flyer up, pointing to the bottom. “There’s an open bar.”
“Fine,” Drew relented.