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  OTHER TITLES BY VI KEELAND AND PENELOPE WARD

  Rebel Heir (Rush Book One)

  Rebel Heart (Rush Book Two)

  British Bedmate

  Mister Moneybags

  Playboy Pilot

  Stuck-Up Suit

  Cocky Bastard

  Other Titles by Vi Keeland

  Sex, Not Love

  Beautiful Mistake

  Egomaniac

  Bossman

  The Baller

  Left Behind (A Young Adult Novel, cowritten with Dylan Scott)

  Beat

  Throb

  Worth the Fight

  Worth the Chance

  Worth Forgiving

  Belong to You

  Made for You

  The Naked Truth

  Other Titles by Penelope Ward

  Gentleman Nine

  Drunk Dial

  Mack Daddy

  Stepbrother Dearest

  Neighbor Dearest

  RoomHate

  Sins of Sevin

  Jake Undone (Jake #1)

  Jake Understood (Jake #2)

  My Skylar

  Gemini

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2018 by Vi Keeland and Penelope Ward

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Montlake Romance, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Montlake Romance are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781503904484

  ISBN-10: 1503904482

  Cover design by Eileen Carey

  To Kimberly, for finding Reed and Charlotte the right home.

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1 CHARLOTTE

  CHAPTER 2 CHARLOTTE

  CHAPTER 3 CHARLOTTE

  CHAPTER 4 CHARLOTTE

  CHAPTER 5 CHARLOTTE

  CHAPTER 6 REED

  CHAPTER 7 CHARLOTTE

  CHAPTER 8 REED

  CHAPTER 9 CHARLOTTE

  CHAPTER 10 REED

  CHAPTER 11 REED

  CHAPTER 12 CHARLOTTE

  CHAPTER 13 REED

  CHAPTER 14 CHARLOTTE

  CHAPTER 15 REED

  CHAPTER 16 REED

  CHAPTER 17 CHARLOTTE

  CHAPTER 18 REED

  CHAPTER 19 CHARLOTTE

  CHAPTER 20 REED

  CHAPTER 21 CHARLOTTE

  CHAPTER 22 REED

  CHAPTER 23 CHARLOTTE

  CHAPTER 24 REED

  CHAPTER 25 CHARLOTTE

  CHAPTER 26 REED

  CHAPTER 27 REED

  CHAPTER 28 CHARLOTTE

  CHAPTER 29 REED

  CHAPTER 30 CHARLOTTE

  CHAPTER 31 REED

  CHAPTER 32 CHARLOTTE

  CHAPTER 33 REED

  CHAPTER 34 REED

  CHAPTER 35 CHARLOTTE

  CHAPTER 36 REED

  CHAPTER 37 CHARLOTTE

  CHAPTER 38 REED

  EPILOGUE CHARLOTTE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  SIGN UP!

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHARLOTTE

  I wouldn’t have been caught dead in here a year ago. Don’t take that the wrong way—I’m not a snob. Growing up, my mom and I spent hours combing the racks at the secondhand store. And that was back when secondhand was called Goodwill, and the stores were predominantly in blue-collar neighborhoods. These days, used is called vintage and sold on the Upper East Side for a small fortune.

  I sported “gently worn” before the gentrification of Brooklyn.

  Secondhand was not my issue. My problem with used wedding dresses was the stories I imagined they carried with them.

  Why are they here?

  I pulled a Vera Wang sweetheart ball gown with a crisscross bodice and cascading tulle skirt from the rack. Fairy-tale expectations. Divorced after six months, I decided. A delicate lace Monique Lhuillier mermaid dress—the groom died in a horrific car accident. The devastated bride-to-never-be donated it to the church for its annual tag sale. A savvy shopper picked it up for a steal and tripled the return on her investment by reselling it.

  Every used dress had a story, and mine belonged on the He turned out to be a cheating son of a bitch rack. I sighed and returned to the two women bickering at the front desk in Russian.

  “It’s from next year’s collection, yes?” the taller woman with bizarre, unevenly drawn eyebrows asked.

  I tried not to stare at them, but failed. “Yes. It’s from the Marchesa spring collection.”

  The women had been flipping through catalogs, even though I’d told them twenty minutes ago when I walked in that the dress was from an unpublished future collection. I assumed they wanted to get an idea of the designer’s original prices.

  “I don’t think you’ll find it in there yet. My future mother-in-law—” I corrected myself. “My ex–future mother-in-law is related to one of the designers or something.”

  The women stared at me for a moment and then resumed bickering.

  Okay, then. “I guess you need more time,” I mumbled.

  Toward the back of the store, I found a rack labeled CUSTUM MADE. I smiled. Todd’s mother would’ve had a heart attack if I’d taken her to a place where the signs were misspelled. She’d been appalled when I went to look at a dress in a shop that didn’t serve her champagne while I was in the fitting room. God, I’d really been drunk on the Roth Kool-Aid and had nearly turned into one of those snooty bitches.

  Running my fingertips along the custom-made gowns, I sighed. These dresses probably had even more interesting stories behind them. Eclectic brides too free-spirited for their boring boyfriends or husbands. These were strong-minded women who went against the grain, women who marched at political rallies, women who knew what they wanted.

  I stopped at an A-line white dress embellished with bloodred roses. The corset bodice had red piping running along the bones. Left her banker boyfriend for the French artist next door, and this was the dress she wore when she married Pierre.

  No designer dress could have possibly worked for these women, because they knew exactly what they wanted and weren’t afraid to say it. They went after their hearts’ desires. I envied them. I used to be one of them.

  Deep down, I was a custum girl—misspelling intended. When had I lost my way and become a conformist? I hadn’t had the balls to admit my feelings to Todd’s mother, which was how I ended up with the fancy, boring wedding dress to begin with.

  When I got to the last dress on the CUSTUM rack, I had to stop for a moment.

  Feathers!

  They were the most beautiful feathers I’d ever seen. And this dress wasn’t white; it was blush. This dress was everything. It was exactly what I would have picked if I could have custum-designed a dress. This wasn’t just any dress. This was THE dress. The top was strapless with a slight curve. Smaller, wispy feathers peeked out of the neckline. Lace overlay covered the entire bodice, which led to a beautiful trumpet-style skirt. And the bottom was a crescendo of feathers. This dress sang. It was magical.

  One of the women up front saw me eyeing it.

  “Can I try this on?”

  She nodded, leading me to a dressing room in the back.

  I undressed and carefully slid the dress up. Unfortunately, my dream dress was a size too small. All the stress eating I’d been doing lately had caught up with me.

  So I left th
e back unzipped and marveled at myself in the mirror. This. This did not look like a twenty-seven-year-old who’d just dumped her cheating fiancé. This did not look like someone who needed to sell her wedding dress to be able to eat something other than ramen noodles for two meals each day.

  This dress made me feel like someone who hadn’t a care in the world. I didn’t want to take it off. But honestly, I was sweating and didn’t want to ruin it.

  Before I removed it, I looked at myself in the mirror one last time and introduced myself to the imaginary person admiring the new me.

  Standing confidently with my hands on my hips, I said, “Hello, I’m Charlotte Darling.” I laughed, because I sort of sounded like a news reporter.

  After I slipped off the dress, a patch of blue on the inside caught my eye. It was a piece of stationery stitched into the inside lining.

  Something borrowed, something blue, something old, something new. That’s how it went, right? Or was it the other way around?

  It occurred to me that perhaps this was supposed to be the “something blue.”

  Lifting the material closer, I squinted to read the note. At the top, From the desk of Reed Eastwood was embossed. I ran my finger over each letter as I read.

  To Allison—

  “She said, ‘Forgive me for being a dreamer,’ and he took her by the hand and replied, ‘Forgive me for not being here sooner to dream with you.’”—J. Iron Word

  Thank you for making all of my dreams come true.

  Your love,

  Reed

  My heart pounded. That had to be the most romantic thing I’d ever read. I couldn’t begin to imagine how this dress ended up here. How could any woman in her right mind give such a powerful sentiment away? If I’d thought this dress was everything before . . . now, it was definitely everything.

  Reed Eastwood had loved her. Oh no. I hoped Allison hadn’t died. Because a man who writes those words to someone doesn’t just fall out of love.

  The attendant called out to me. “Everything okay?”

  I pulled the curtain back to face her. “Yes . . . yes. I seem to have fallen in love with this dress, actually. Have you figured out how much I can get back for my Marchesa?”

  She shook her head. “We don’t give money. You get store credit.”

  Shit.

  I really needed the cash.

  I pointed to the blush-feather dress. “How much would this dress cost?”

  “We can give even exchange.”

  It was tempting. The dress was my spirit animal, and I felt like the note could have been written for me by my imaginary perfect fiancé. I didn’t want to guess the story behind this one. I wanted to live it, create my own story for this dress. Maybe not today, but someday in the future. I wanted a man who appreciated me, who wanted to share in my dreams, and who loved me unconditionally. I wanted a man who would leave me a note like this.

  This dress needed to hang in my closet as a daily reminder that true love can exist.

  I said the words before I could change my mind. “I’ll take it.”

  CHAPTER 2

  CHARLOTTE

  Two months later

  My résumé needed a makeover. After two hours online searching the help-wanted ads, I’d realized I was going to have to embellish my skills a bit.

  The crappy temp job I’d finished today could spruce up my administrative experience. At least it would look good on paper. I called up my sad excuse for a résumé in Word and added my latest position as a legal assistant.

  Worman and Associates. Now there’s a name that fits. David Worman, the attorney I’d just finished a thirty-day temp gig for, was indeed half worm, half man. After I typed in the dates and address, I sat back in my seat and thought about what I could list as experience gained working for that jackass.

  Let’s see. I tapped my finger to my chin. What did I do for the worm man this week? Hmm . . . Yesterday, I’d removed his hand from my ass while threatening to file a complaint with the EEOC. Yes, that needed to be on there. I typed:

  Adept at multitasking in a high-pressure environment.

  On Tuesday, the worm had taught me how to backdate the postage-stamp machine so the IRS would think his late tax check was timely and wouldn’t charge him a penalty. Good stuff. That needed to be added, too.

  Thrives within deadline-driven conditions.

  Last week, he sent me to La Perla to pick up two gifts—something nice for his wife’s birthday, and something sexy for a “special friend.” I might have added a little something for myself on the jerk’s bill. Lord knows I couldn’t afford a thirty-eight-dollar thong these days.

  Demonstrates superb work ethic and commitment to special projects.

  After adding a few more bullshit, buzzword-phrased accomplishments, I sent my résumé off to a dozen new temp agencies and rewarded myself with a full-to-the-brim glass of wine.

  What an exciting life I led. Twenty-seven and single in New York City on a Friday night, and I’m sporting sweats and a T-shirt at barely eight o’clock. But I had no desire to go out. No desire to sip sixteen-dollar martinis at fancy bars where men like Todd wore expensive suits to hide their inner wolf. So instead, I clicked on Facebook and decided to check out the lives everyone else had—at least the ones they put on display.

  My newsfeed was full of typical Friday-night posts—happy-hour smiles, pictures of food, and the babies some of my friends were already starting to have. I scrolled mindlessly for a while as I sipped my wine . . . until I came to a photo that made my swiping finger freeze. Todd had shared a photo posted by someone else. It was of him and a woman arm in arm—a woman who looked a lot like me. She could’ve passed for my sister. Blonde hair, big blue eyes, fair skin, full lips, and the foolishly adoring look I’d once had for Todd as well. The way they were dressed, I thought perhaps they were going to a wedding. Then I read the caption underneath:

  Todd Roth and Madeline Elgin announce their engagement.

  Their engagement?

  Seventy-seven days ago—not that I was counting—our engagement had ended. And he’d already proposed to someone else? For fuck’s sake, she wasn’t even the woman I’d caught him cheating on me with.

  It had to be a mistake. My hand shook with anger as I moved the mouse around and clicked to Todd’s home page. But, of course, it wasn’t a mistake. There were dozens of congratulatory notes—and he’d even responded to a few. He’d also posted a picture of their joined hands, showcasing the engagement ring on her finger. My. Damn. Engagement. Ring. My classy ex hadn’t bothered to have the setting changed after I threw it in his face while he was still zipping up his pants. There was no way he’d changed the mattress we’d slept on for two years before I moved out. In fact, Madeline was probably already a buyer at the Roth chain of department stores—sitting at my old desk, doing the job I’d quit so I wouldn’t have to look at his cheating face every day.

  I felt . . . I wasn’t sure what I felt. Sick. Defeated. Aggravated. Replaceable.

  Oddly, I didn’t feel jealous that the man I’d thought I loved had moved on. It just really hurt to be so easily substituted. It confirmed that what we’d had wasn’t special at all. After I’d broken things off, he’d vowed to win me back—told me I was the love of his life and that nothing would stop him from proving we were meant to be together. The flowers and gifts had stopped after two weeks. The calls had stopped after three. Now I knew why—he’d found the love of his life, again.

  Shocking even myself, I didn’t cry. I just felt sad. Really sad. Along with my life, my apartment, my job, and my dignity, Todd had robbed me of the ideal I’d always believed in—true love.

  I leaned back in my chair and shut my eyes, taking a few deep, cleansing breaths. Then I decided I wasn’t going to take this news lying down. This is crap! I had no choice but to take action. So I did what any scorned girl from Brooklyn would do after discovering her ex-fiancé didn’t wait for the bed to cool before bringing home another woman.

  Finish off
the bottle of wine.

  Yep. I was drunk.

  Even if my speech hadn’t been slurred, the fact that I was sitting in a feathered wedding gown with the zipper wide-open at the back, while slugging directly from a wine bottle, might have been a dead giveaway. I tilted my head back in a very unladylike manner and emptied the last drops before slamming the bottle down on the table. My laptop jolted, causing it to spring to life from sleep mode. The happy couple greeted me.

  “He’s going to do the same thing to you.” I wagged my finger at the screen. “You know why? Because once a cheater, always a cheater.”

  The damn feathers on the gown tickled my leg again. It had happened a dozen times over the last hour, yet each and every time, I swore it was a bug crawling up my leg. When I reached down to swat again, my hand brushed against something, and I realized what it was. The blue note.

  Lifting the hem, I pulled the inside of the dress up and read the note again.

  To Allison—

  “She said, ‘Forgive me for being a dreamer,’ and he took her by the hand and replied, ‘Forgive me for not being here sooner to dream with you.’”—J. Iron Word

  Thank you for making all of my dreams come true.

  Your love,

  Reed

  My heart let out a yearning sigh. So beautiful. So romantic. What had happened to these two that this special dress had wound up on some drunken girl instead of being cherished and passed down to their daughters? It was a long shot, but I couldn’t stand to look at Todd’s face anymore anyway. So I typed into Facebook: Reed Eastwood.

  Imagine my surprise when two popped up in New York. The first guy was probably midsixties. Although the dress was a little sexy for a bride his age, I stalked to be sure anyway. Reed Eastwood had a wife named Madge and a golden retriever named Clint. He also had three daughters and cried while walking one down the aisle last year.

  Even though part of me really wanted to stalk Reed’s daughter’s wedding photos to torture myself a little more, I moved on to the next Reed Eastwood.

  My pulse jolted me back to sobriety when his profile picture popped up on the screen. This Reed Eastwood was drop-dead gorgeous. In fact, he was so incredibly handsome that I thought it could possibly be a model’s photo someone had used as a joke or to catfish. But when I clicked into the photos, there were others of the same man. Each more gorgeous than the last. He didn’t have too many, but the last one I clicked on was of him and a woman, taken a few years back. It was an engagement photo—Reed Eastwood and Allison Baker.