Plus One

  PLUS ONE

  Copyright © 2017 Romig Works, LLC

  Published by Romig Works, LLC

  2017 Edition

  ISBN e-book: 978-0-9981895-8-1

  Cover art: Letitia Hasser at RBA Designs / Romantic Book Affairs

  Editing: Lisa Aurello

  Formatting: Angela McLaurin at Fictional Formats

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any informational storage and retrieval system, without the written permission from the copyright owner.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This book is available in print from most online retailers

  2017 Edition License

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment. This eBook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to the appropriate retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  WHAT TO DO NOW…

  STAY CONNECTED WITH ALEATHA

  BOOKS BY AUTHOR ALEATHA ROMIG

  ALEATHA ROMIG

  Over a year ago my friend Georgia Cates and I decided to start an adventure: writing stories that were outside of our brand. Our endeavor was successful on many counts. It opened a world of possibilities and let us shake off the chains of expectation. Though we each wrote different titles, we ventured into that new world under one name.

  While that pen name no longer exists, it helped us to expand our horizons and try new things.

  The story you’re about to read started as a short and sexy, predictable novella written by me as Jade Sinner and entitled DUNCAN: The Deal. My reviews were good and I learned that while writing dark twists and turns, I could also be funny and light.

  If any part of this story seems familiar, it could be because you read the 12K-word short novella. That was just the beginning.

  PLUS ONE is more! It is now a full-length, contemporary romantic-comedy novel.

  I hope it makes you swoon, laugh, and finish the last page with a smile.

  I know that I did all of that while writing.

  Thank you for allowing me to shed the other name and embrace this side of Aleatha. Thank you for giving Leatha, the lighter side of Aleatha, a chance!

  I hope you enjoy PLUS ONE!

  A fun, sexy, new stand-alone from New York Times bestselling author Aleatha Romig.

  He’s sexy and confident, the kind of man every woman notices. You know, the one with the to-die-for body and panty-melting smirk. And then there’s the way his designer suits drape over his broad shoulders and big… well, we’ve all heard the rumors, the ones that say he’s up for any challenge.

  But I can’t see him that way. He’s technically my boss—one of the owners of the company where I work—and definitely not in my league. Men like him don’t notice women like me, and they don’t date them.

  And I don’t date men like him.

  Until that one time that I catch him in a compromising position when I’m also in need of a last-minute date for a wedding… and then it’s not real. It’s blackmail.

  For one weekend, he’s my plus-one.

  Beautiful and unobtainable.

  From the moment she walked into my office with those stunning blue eyes and crazy, sensual curves, she’s been on my mind. Three years and never once has she acted interested in me. Usually, I flash a million-dollar smile and women fall to their knees, some literally.

  Not her.

  Then on the occasion that I agree to let another woman do that—fall to her knees—guess who happens to catch us?

  It may not be the most conventional way to get on her radar, but I didn’t get this far in business without knowing when to seize an opportunity. If this sexy, little firecracker with perfectly kissable lips thinks she can blackmail me into attending her cousin’s wedding, I’m going to jump at the chance to be her plus-one.

  You love her darker side. Now it’s time to meet Leatha, the lighter side of Aleatha, as she trades her renowned twists and turns for laughs and love with this sexy, new, stand-alone romance, PLUS ONE.

  AS THE MIDTOWN breeze blows between the tall buildings, I brush strands of hair that have escaped my workday bun away from my cheeks and freshly painted lips. Shielding my eyes from the early evening sun, I gaze up at the giant limestone building in front of me. In a few minutes, I’m supposed to meet my best friend and roommate on the top floor at one of the newest, swankiest restaurants in Manhattan, Gaston’s.

  Everyone is talking about this place. Gaston’s boasts the best panoramic view of the city from its rooftop patio. The service is supposed to be unrivaled, and the chef is world-renowned. And those are only some of the qualities I’ve heard. With its recent grand opening, getting a seat at the bar, much less a reservation, is only for the elite.

  That’s why as I stand on the busy sidewalk and gaze upward, I can’t help but wonder what in the world I’m doing here. What is Shana doing here? A place this nice isn’t our normal stomping ground.

  While the glow of the setting sun and the warm spring breeze give me the promise of summer, I continue to formulate questions.

  How in the world did Shana get a table at Gaston’s?

  And more importantly, why didn’t she give me more notice so I could dress properly?

  As it is, I came straight from work, responding to her surprise text message. Not having a chance to go home and change, I’m still wearing the gray sheath dress and black pumps I donned this morning. They’re fine for the pharmaceutical logistics company where I work, but knowing what I’ve heard about this restaurant, I anticipate I’ll be a little too blasé for the likes of Gaston’s.

  At the very least, if I’d known I’d be going out to dinner in a place like this one, I would have brought some fun accessories. I’m a fan of brightly colored necklaces, earrings, and even shoes.

  Shaking my head and running my palm over my dress, I make the decision to stop worrying about my attire and instead enjoy this unexpected night of fine dining. Just as I’m about to step into the large glass revolving door that leads to the marble lobby, my cell phone vibrates and chirps.

  Taking a deep breath, I open my purse and move out of the crowd’s way. Pressing myself against the giant limestone wall, I hit the call button and place my phone to one ear.

  “Hello,” I say without reading the screen.

  The whoosh of wind and traffic and murmurs of others rushing around me drown out the voice on the other end. Turning toward the building, I cover my other ear and speak again “Hell
o?”

  “Hello!” my mother’s voice yells. “Can. You. Hear. Me?”

  I shake my head and speak louder. “I hear you.”

  Passers-by look my direction as if I’m yelling at them.

  “Kimberly Ann?” she asks, her volume still louder than necessary.

  “Mom? It’s me. Is everything all right?”

  “Can you hear me?”

  “Yes, Mom. What’s wrong?”

  “You know,” she says, dragging out her words in a way that tells me this isn’t a quick call. “You never call me anymore.”

  I don’t have time for this. “That’s not true. We spoke just last week. Is Dad okay?”

  “We’ll find out soon. He has that appointment.”

  I rack my brain trying to remember what appointment my father has. “The appointment?”

  “With the urologist. They’re going to—”

  I cut her off. Not because I don’t care about my dad, but because the streetlights are brightening and the sun is sinking near the horizon. Shana’s reservation is for six o’clock. I don’t want to make her wait in one of the best restaurants in the city. “Mom, sorry. I’m about to go to dinner with Shana. Can I call you tomorrow?”

  “Yes, just don’t forget. You know how you are. First…”

  I hold my breath, wondering what could possibly be so important.

  “First,” she goes on, “can you tell me Timothy’s jacket size, waist measurement, and pant length?”

  I press my other hand over my free ear tighter, certain I’ve misunderstood her question. Timothy and I dated months ago. More accurately, we broke up months ago. Why in the world would she care about his suit size?

  “Mom, why?”

  “Kurt’s friend from California broke his leg. It was a skiing accident. From what I heard…”

  Kurt… my mind searches for Kurts. The company where I work has one who is employed here in New York and also one at our Chicago office, but that wouldn’t make sense.

  “…three places,” she continues. “Can you imagine? Kurt’s heartbroken. And you know how Scarlett is. She has six bridesmaids and it wouldn’t be right if Kurt only had five groomsmen. Thankfully, the tux shop said he could get another size and your aunt asked if Timothy would mind. As you know, Kevin is already in the wedding and then there’s Jimmy…”

  The wedding!

  The figurative light bulb above my head illuminates.

  Kurt is my cousin Scarlett’s longtime boyfriend and fiancé. Shit. Their wedding is coming up soon. How soon? I’m afraid to ask.

  “…happy that you’re dating someone, anyone. The entire family can’t wait to meet Timothy. Everyone is so excited that you have a plus-one.”

  My temples pound as I slouch against the building. I never told her that Timothy and I broke up because I didn’t want to hear about how I’d never find a man, how I should move home, or mostly, how Darrin McKinney from my high school class is still single and owns a shoe store in Cartersville. The only shoe store. It’s the only one because the town has one stoplight and one grocery store. Why do they even need a shoe store?

  “Mom… go… will… Tim… tomor…” I speak between taps of my fingernail on the microphone of my cell phone.

  “What was that dear? You’re breaking up.”

  “Bad… problem…”

  “Kimberly Ann?” she asks, back to yelling.

  I disconnect the line.

  No, we didn’t have a bad connection. The fingernail against the microphone is an old trick, one you’d think she’d figured out by now. I inhale and exhale as I look around, reminding myself that I’m in one of the biggest and most exciting cities of the world. I’m about to have dinner with my best friend, and I love my life. I won’t let thoughts of my perfect cousin’s wedding, or my need to tell my mother that Timothy isn’t able to attend, or my eventual admission that I no longer have a plus-one, ruin my night.

  Maybe I could make up an accident like the one Kurt’s friend had. Would two ski accidents be too coincidental?

  As I ride the special elevator up to Gaston’s and tap my finger against my chin, I contemplate possible stories. Perhaps in a series of unfortunate events, Timothy stepped off the curb and got hit by a car. I practice the story in my head. “It was so sad. He never saw the taxi and it didn’t see him. You know how traffic is in the city…”

  A smile forms as I add gory details: broken leg, arm, and maybe a rib or two. That could work, but depending when the wedding is, this terrible accident would need to happen soon. My mood lightens as I ponder the consequences of his morbid demise. No, not demise. Just an injury. The pieces start to fall in place. Timothy’s make-believe accident could be more beneficial than just saving him from the wedding. It could also save me. After all, what kind of a girlfriend would I be if I left my nonexistent boyfriend alone to recuperate from his pretend accident?

  As the elevator doors open, a smidgen of relief fills me. Just as quickly, the thoughts of my cousin’s wedding and ex-boyfriend’s injury fade away into the chic ambiance of Gaston’s. Stepping into the dimly lit foyer, I’m enthralled with the decor. High above, the ceiling is filled with small, twinkling lights mimicking a starry sky. Near the entrance the hostess stands in a pool of blue light. The couple who rode the elevator with me moves ahead and speaks to her.

  Not only must guests clear the sentry on the first floor, we also must make it past this woman to get inside. As I wait, I gaze toward the wide archway leading to the prize—Gaston’s. My breath catches as I take in the beauty. Beyond the array of tables covered in linen and lit by flickering candles, the walls don’t exist. Instead, they’re made up of floor-to-ceiling windows filled with the most beautiful view I’ve ever seen.

  Through the glass, the sunset’s final orange and purple blush beams from the horizon, illuminating the restaurant and showering it in a bronze glow. Outside, the windows of Manhattan’s buildings blaze in radiant glory.

  Even after nearly three years, I can’t help but marvel that this is where I live, that the grandeur of New York is all around me.

  “Miss?”

  The hostess brings my attention back to my mission at hand—getting inside the archway. “Yes, I’m here to meet Shana Price. I believe we have a six o’clock reservation.”

  After a quick search of the electronic tablet, the hostess smiles. “Yes, I see the reservation. Let me show you to your table. Ms. Price is already seated.”

  I follow the petite hostess as she weaves between tables. Even at this early hour, most of the seats are filling with happy patrons. Their hushed murmurs add to the posh feel as I think about Shana.

  We’ve been roommates since we both moved to New York. It was a lucky match. Both recent college graduates and from small towns, we were paired by a realtor site when we both followed our dream jobs to the big city.

  My job is with Buchanan and Willis Pharmaceuticals while hers is with Saks. Yes, Saks Fifth Avenue, as in the one on the actual Fifth Avenue in Manhattan. Though if you saw Shana, you would swear she looked like a model, her dream job is being a buyer.

  When she’s not in New York, she’s flying to fashion shows and inspecting textile companies.

  After receiving her text earlier today, I texted back and asked why we were going to Gaston’s and how in the world she got a table. Her answer was that we’re celebrating and money talks.

  I’ve heard that before about money; however, as I gaze around the upscale surroundings, I’m pretty sure that even if all my money got together and shouted, it would barely make a whisper compared to the monetary clamor of the other patrons.

  Near a large window filled with the majestic skyline, I spot Shana. When our eyes meet, her perpetual smile grows and her arm pops up as she waves my direction.

  “Your table,” the hostess says as she pulls back my chair.

  “Thank you.”

  The hostess’s response is a quick nod—maybe only the movement of her chin, it’s hard to be sure—and a pivot as s
he disappears into the maze of tables.

  “I’m so happy you could meet me,” Shana says with her blue eyes sparkling.

  I shake my head as I lift the satin napkin. “What in the world happened? Did you win the lottery?” I lean closer. “I didn’t know you even played.”

  “I don’t, but I did.”

  “I’m so confused.”

  “Well, it was kind of like winning the lottery and we need to celebrate.”

  The word celebrate brings back memories of Scarlett’s wedding. I push the thought of my mother’s call away and concentrate on Shana. As I do, the slippery napkin escapes my hold. Quickly, I slide from my seat to retrieve it.

  “Excuse me,” a deep voice says as black leather loafers stop precariously close to where I’m now kneeling to rescue my napkin.

  Seeing the shoes, I look up and suck in a deep breath.

  Towering above me are long legs covered in tailored trousers. As I follow them up, they lead to a trim waist, a black belt, and a white shirt that buttons over a broad chest. I barely swallow the lump in my throat as I recognize the wide shoulders covered with the matching suit jacket. Seizing the napkin, I stand, suddenly face to face with one of the owners of the company where I work.

  My face burns with embarrassment as his shimmering green eyes narrow and head tilts. Inches away from me is one of the handsomest men I’ve ever met. He should be on the cover of GQ, not gracing the halls of Buchanan and Willis.

  His firm lips form a tight smirk and cheeks rise in amusement. “Miss Jones.”

  Staring into the sea of emerald, I try to pretend I wasn’t just on my knees in a chic restaurant in front of Duncan Willis.

  “Mr. Willis,” I respond, my voice cracking. Nervously, I take a step backward. As if the moment weren’t awkward enough, I wobble, teetering precariously on my high heels.

  Swiftly, he reaches out, grabs my elbow, and steadies my footing. Though he just saved me from making an even bigger fool out of myself by falling face-first into what I can only imagine is a hard, defined chest, my mind is suddenly consumed with the electricity of his touch. The energy heats my skin as his grasp lingers.