Chapter One

 

~ FREYA ~

 

Two years later

 

I tear down the creaky steps of my apartment above the deli on Main Street and explode through the doorway into the bustle of downtown Annapolis. The humidity strikes me first; I hadn’t known it was sweltering because I’ve been locked up in my abode enjoying the air conditioner on high all day.

The flowered wreath that was hanging on the door falls to the ground, and a curse escapes me as I stoop to retrieve it. The guy who rents me the place treasures the handmade wreaths he hangs from the door—a new one for every month—and I don’t want to annoy him because he lets me stay here for a song. I hang it carefully back on the door.

The air is layered with the smells of Annapolis in the summer, a delicious mix of fudge and cookie scents wafting past the streetlamps on the brick-paved street from the candy shop down the road. They keep their doors open to lure in tourists and I swear I gain a couple pounds just from breathing in the aroma of succulent semi-sweet chocolate and melting butter. The breeze is coming from the east, and I can fill my lungs with the slightly salty scent from where the Severn River spills into the Chesapeake Bay.

I love this town, filled with inspiration for my writing, even if the only paycheck I collect right now is from my job at an antique bookstore up the road from my apartment. The energy here is different from what I experienced growing up in Forest Hills, Queens. Here, in what Annapolitans like to call the sailing capital of the world (a claim heavily disputed by some), there’s a unique mix of the population. There are politicians, since Annapolis is Maryland’s state capital. There are the diehard sailors who chose Annapolis to retire. And then there is the United States Naval Academy, which brings a constant influx of servicemembers, including the guy who has become one of my closest friends these past couple years.

Correction, he’s really my best friend, even though if I told him that, his head would swell to even a larger size than it already is.

He is also my partner in crime, which is why I’m high-tailing it to The Buzz to meet him for coffee. I have something to tell him. Something huge. And some things are better shared in person rather than in a text.

Chimes jingle as I nudge open the glass door and spot Mason lounging in a leather chair with his coffee in hand. God, he is a sight in his khakis—the way the brownish color showcases his light tan complexion and makes his sea-blue eyes virtually pop out from his face. The usual handful of butterflies flutter in my belly—a sign I’ve chosen to ignore for nearly two years now. Attraction to a guy like Mason is inevitable. But a relationship with him is out of the question, and that’s a good thing. Had we started dating, we never would have lasted more than a month together. And in place of the fleeting relationship I might have had with him, I’ve ended up with a friendship I, quite frankly, couldn’t imagine living without.

His eyes spark when they met mine and he grins. I stop momentarily inside the doorway just to soak in the sight of him as my writer’s mind wanders…

 

Broad shoulders stretched the tan fabric of Zander’s uniform, with his impressive pecs teasing her from behind the rows of awards and badges, reminding Genevieve that his muscles weren’t honed in some cookie-cutter gym, but rather on the fields of war defending her country…

 

I bite my lip as I hold one finger up to Mason and reach for my phone. Pecs tease her from behind the rows of awards, I begin typing. I like that line and think I’ll try to work it into my next round of edits.

My eyes dart upward from my phone again as I walk toward him. I grin at his image, just as picture-perfect as the hero in my book. It’s no damn wonder I can’t resist being a little inspired by the sight of him.

I am a girl, after all.

“Hey, hot stuff,” he greets me. Always a flirt. It doesn’t matter if he’s dating someone else. Or if I am. Flirting is like breathing to a man like Mason.

I ignore his greeting. “Read this,” I say, opening the agent’s email I received this afternoon and plunking down my iPhone next to his cover on the table in front of him.

Raising an eyebrow at me, his blue eyes always seem to glint of mischief.

“‘Dear Ms. Hansen,’” he reads, “‘Thank you very much for submitting your manuscript to me. I enjoyed reading about your characters, and your plotline held my interest.’”

His face elongates with promise. He’s read every one of the rejections that has been tossed my way since I started submitting my manuscript to agents. He knows this sounds more promising than the others.

Stretching his long legs out toward the wood fireplace that is empty during the summer months, he continues, “‘It did not, however, have as much heat as I would have expected from a military romance. Today’s trend is to include more explicit sex, harsher language, and often BDSM…’ What the fuck?” His face contorts as he looks over at me.

“No, keep reading.”

“‘—BDSM scenes. However, you have captured my attention with your style of writing, your setting, and your military details. If you would be interested in editing your work to make it more in line with what our agency is pursuing now, I would reconsider it. Please be advised that resubmitting your work does not guarantee an offer for representation by our agency. If you are interested…’ blah, blah, blah.” Shaking his head, he tosses my phone onto a stack of free newspapers on the table. “What a bitch.”

My face falls. “What do you mean?”

“She’s a bitch. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”

I shake my head furiously. “No, no, no. This is good news, Mason. Good news. She’s actually interested in my work.”

“She practically told you to have your hero pull out the whips and chains. I’d tell her to go to hell.” His eyes brighten, reaching again for my phone. “Hell, I’ll tell her that right now.”

“No way.” I lunge to retrieve my phone. “This is a top tier agent, Mason.”

“I thought you said you already got rejected by all the top tier agents.”

“Okay, okay. The second tier then. The top of what’s left.” I fold my arms in front of my chest defensively. “I mean, she actually gets books published. This isn’t some little yahoo throwing a shingle up on her door and calling herself an agent. She’s the real thing.”

“Okay, so she’s the real thing. But she wants you to rewrite your story. Shit, you’re still waiting to hear back from that other agent who wanted your SEAL to be a shifter. That took weeks of work. Why would you want to go through that again?”

“Yeah, but this is different. She doesn’t need me to rewrite it. Just revise it. I can do this. Easy. I just spice it up a little.”

“Spice, as in restraints and spreader bars?”

I cringe, mostly because I’m not sure what spreader bars are, and the image I’m conjuring just doesn’t say “romance” to me. “That’s what’s selling now.”

“It’s been six months since you resubmitted your manuscript to that shifter lady. Is this agent going to be any different?”

Suppressing a groan, my eyes roll upward. He sure knows how to rub salt in a wound, doesn’t he?

“You worked your ass off to turn your book into what she wanted, and then you didn’t even hear back.”

“I might still hear back,” I tell him, struggling to infuse my tone with hope. “It’s not like she said no.”

“You’ve emailed her twice to follow-up.”

Does he have to remember everything? “Agents are busy, Mason.”

“I’m busy, too. And so are you. It would be nice if she just acknowledged that she got the latest version.”

He wasn’t saying anything I hadn’t thought myself about twenty times a week. I’d been so excited when an agent actually replied to my query last winter, saying she loved the book but would only consider representing it if I turned my hero into a shape shifter—kind of a stretch for a military romance. So Mason and I came up with the idea of a secret SEAL Team comprised of warriors with supernatural shifting capabilities, based here in Annapolis under the auspices of the United States Naval Academy.

Frankly, the revised manuscript turned out pretty damn well, if I do say so myself.

“I know, I know. But I should have known about that one. I mean, my book wasn’t written for a shifter character. But this?” I lift my phone, glancing at her email again. “This is a breeze. Just more spice. I can make these changes in a day or two, Mason.”

“I still say your book is great the way it is. And I should know. I’ve read six versions of it so far.”

A smile perks up on my lips, and I lean back in my chair. “Well, did you notice what she wrote about liking my military details? That’s all you, Mason.” Finally, I look over at the counter. “I need a latte to celebrate. Can I get you another one? We can have a toast.”

“I don’t toast with coffee. Let’s skip it and head to O’Toole’s. Grab a beer.”

“A beer? This early? Don’t you need to get home and change for a hot date?” I ask, eyeing his khakis up and down, and lapping up the sight of him. I might just be his friend, but I still have to admit that he’s as appealing as any man could dare to be.

“Nah. Greta and I broke things off last night.”

“Why? I actually liked her.” Cocking my head, I press my lips together momentarily. “A little anyway. More than the last two.” Combined, I finish in my head. Mason’s taste in women is a little questionable.

“She’s getting too clingy. Scares the crap out of me.”

“Having a relationship that lasts more than eight weeks is what scares the crap out of you.”

He almost looks like he’s going to argue with me, but then shrugs, conceding, “Yeah, me having a relationship longer than that is as likely as you driving across the Bay Bridge.” Touché, his eyes say as he finishes.

Ouch. He’s right. I guess we all have our issues. I drive across bridges in Annapolis every day, but that Bay Bridge leading to the Eastern Shore terrifies me. I don’t mind if someone else is driving, but the idea of me at the wheel makes me break out in a feverish sweat even sitting here at The Buzz. “Okay, you win.”

“Besides, I’m leaving in a matter of days. You know I don’t do the long distance thing.”

I can’t help the frown that forms on my face. I wasn’t up for a reminder that Mason is leaving me. I mean, Annapolis. Leaving Annapolis, my brain quickly corrects. But it still feels like I’m losing my right arm.

“Breaking it off now is the right thing to do,” he continues. “It was completely mutual.”

I shake my head. “God, I’m so glad I don’t date men like you.” Mason Adler is everything any woman would fall for and immediately regret, bundled up in an intimidating frame with an eight-pack I’ve had the pleasure of viewing on our many trips to Sandy Point State Park for a day at the beach.

“I’m trying to be noble and you’re chastising me for it,” he comments, rising to his full 6’2” and extending his elbow my way. “Come on. I’ll buy first round if you don’t spread the word to Annapolis’s women that I’m a pain-in-the-ass with commitment issues. Ask Patrick to join us.”

I sigh at the sound of my boyfriend’s name. Or at least, I think he’s my boyfriend. On nights like tonight, I kind of wonder. “He’s busy. Working late again. He’s got a trial next week and needs to be prepared.”

“He’s not celebrating your good news with you? Asshole.”

“Hey, in his defense, I didn’t tell him about the email from the agent yet.”

“Why not?”

My lips draw together tightly as we step through the door and into the hive of activity that defines Main Street on a clear summer evening. “He… wouldn’t get it. You know. Doesn’t really understand why I’m bothering. After a few rejections, I think he just thinks I should give up and go get a real job or something.” Dejected at the admission, I feel something gnaw at my belly. I like my job working at a bookstore, surrounded by the novels that inspire me. But mine is not quite the kind of résumé that would impress someone like Patrick.

“I don’t know why you’re bothering with that guy.”

“He’s smart. Successful. His car is paid off.”

“So the hell what? My SUV is paid off. Does that make me a catch?”

I angle a look at him. He has to know the answer. Mason is the catch of the century. Funny, sharp, sexy as hell. But I’m not in the mood to stroke his already sky-high ego. “Besides, he’s taking me to a black tie gala this month, and I already bought a dress for it. So we might be on the tail end of our relationship, but there’s no way I’m letting it die out until I get to wear that gown.”

“Oh, that’s a good reason to stay with a guy.” His tone is laced with sarcasm.

I shrug. I do like Patrick. But I’ll admit I’ve grown tired of the constant criticism and pessimism when it comes to the side of me that still aspires to be a published author. “I never get to dress up. This is Annapolis, for God’s sake. People either wear jeans or a uniform here. And sometimes it’s nice to have plans that are a little dressier than a beer at O’Toole’s, Mason.”

He stops in his tracks alongside the historic Market House. “Ouch. Well, if you wanted to go someplace else, you just had to say so.”

“No, I don’t mean tonight. I mean anytime. Other than coffee at The Buzz, O’Toole’s is pretty much the only place I go in Annapolis.”

“Well, hell, why are we going to O’Toole’s tonight? Let’s go somewhere else.”

My hand waves through the air casually. “O’Toole’s is fine.”

“Fine? Let’s shoot for higher than fine tonight. Let’s go to Eagle’s Point.”

My brow furrows. Eagle’s Point is one of the best places to eat in Annapolis, with sweeping views of the Chesapeake. “Eagle’s Point? You told me you won’t even take a date to Eagle’s Point.”

“Hells, no. They’d get the wrong idea if I picked up the tab in a place like that. But you’re not a date. And for some reason you don’t look at me and envision a minivan full of kids and a white picket fence in my future.”

I tilt my head slightly, gazing at him, a smirk on my lips. “No, I definitely don’t picture that.” Yet I’d be lying through my teeth if I didn’t admit that I could picture Mason settling down and starting a family one day.

All it would take for him is meeting the right girl, and that man would never hesitate to pull out the big C word. (Commitment. Not Copulation.)

Yep, just the right girl.

I’ll probably hate her.

Mason shrugs. “Let’s go. I’ve never been there, and this might be my last chance.”

I pout. I don’t like remembering that he’s about to leave in a handful of days. I’d rather ignore that until his car is packed and he’s headed south to Little Creek, Virginia, where he’ll be stationed next.

“I’m not exactly dressed for it,” I say, looking down at my shorts and t-shirt.

“So, change,” he replies, giving me an up-and-down look of appraisal. “Come to think of it. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in a skirt and heels before in my life.”