Love By The Book

LOVE BY THE BOOK

By Dara England

Electronic Edition

Copyright © 2011 Dara England

Edited by Lauren Dee

Cover art by Dara England

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. Excepting brief review quotes, this book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the express written permission of the copyright holder. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, real events, locations, or organizations is purely coincidental.

This work was originally published in 2009 by Lyrical Press Inc under the title
Brought to Life.

DEDICATION

To my hardiest companion with the most blood on her sleeve and to all the inventors of the Traditional Irish Sandwich (you know who you are).

Chapter 1

My romantic obsession with an imaginary man began the week after I was fired.

That’s right, I got the sack. And I wasn’t even particularly sorry when I got it. Okay, maybe a teensy bit worried but not enough to risk streaking my double-curlicious mascara and shimmerberry eye shadow down my cheeks.

What? Oh, you thought I was going to explain about the imaginary man? Well, that story begins something like this…

“You’ve got to read this book, Meggs. The hero is this Victorian duke and he’s majorly dreamy.” With that glowing endorsement, Carlita slapped the thin paperback down on the edge of the bathroom counter.

I spat a mouthful of toothpaste into the sink, never taking my eyes from my reflection in the mirror. Speaking around my toothbrush, I reminded my roommate, “That’s what you say about all your brooding noblemen and handsome cowboys.”

At least that’s what I tried to say, but it came out as an unintelligible string of gibberish. Pulling my toothbrush out, I added, “And let’s not forget your countless widowed doctors with their dark secrets and smoldering eyes.”

“Now you’re confusing my novels with my soap operas. Anyway, this book’s different. The author—Virginia Lace—she’s amazing. She makes the characters so real you feel like you know them.”

I rinsed and spat. “Virginia Lace? Please. Who has a name like that?”

Leaning closer to the mirror, I changed the subject. “I think I found a wrinkle today. Look here. Do these look like crows-feet to you?”

“Will you stop with the wrinkle-check already?” Carlita gave me a light smack on the arm. “You’re not even thirty yet and already you’ve got to look in the mirror every morning and make sure everything’s still there.”

“I know it’s still there,” I mumbled, “with more besides. It’s the ‘more’ that’s keeping me worried.”

I glanced enviously from Carlita’s smooth, bronzed skin to my own painfully pale complexion. If she were anyone else I might hate her for that perfect tan. But she and I had been best buds for nearly two years now, since meeting in beauty college. I’d had time to move beyond envy and get to know what lay beneath her pretty exterior. She was snarky, obnoxious, always sure she knew everything…

Yeah, she was me.
If
I had long, wavy hair and wore a D cup instead of an A.

I gave up examining my face in the mirror. Pulling the twisted towel from my short, dark hair, I ran a quick comb through the damp locks. “By the way, can I borrow your gray slacks? Mine are in the laundry and I want to look professional for my interview.”

Carlita snorted, dropping her pajamas and stepping into the shower. “If you want to look all cute for an interview at a coffee shop, knock yourself out. You probably won’t get the job anyway.” She might’ve said more but the rest was interrupted by the noise of water blasting out of the showerhead.

Like I said, best friends.

“Thanks for the encouragement.” Hanging my wet towel on a hook, I slipped on a pair of fuzzy house-shoes and padded out of the room.

“Hey,” Carlita called after me, voice muffled by the roar of the shower. “Don’t forget the book.”

“Sure. Whatever.” I backtracked to grab the novel lying on the linoleum counter. I glanced at its cover and was mildly surprised to find it wasn’t one of Carlita’s typical bodice-rippers—the kind displaying a shirtless hero with rippling abs embracing a gorgeous heroine in front of a fiery sunset. This cover lacked illustration, instead presenting the title,
Noble Hearts
, in swirling gold script across a simple black background.

Shoving the book into the pocket of my robe, I went to my room. There the glowing numbers of the digital clock on my nightstand told me I was in danger of being late for my interview.

Forget blow-drying my hair. My favorite thing about my recently acquired short ’do was how low maintenance it was. I squirted a little gel into my hand, combed it through my locks, and put on just enough makeup to cover the humongous zit that had popped up on my chin overnight.

Yeah, I was twenty-eight and still dealing with zits. The universe is a cold, unfair place.

Throwing on a fitted blouse—freshly ironed last night—and raiding Carlita’s closet for the promised slacks, I readied myself in double time.

Thanks to my speed I wound up with a few minutes to spare after all so I sat down at the kitchen table with a bowl of cereal. While I ate I checked out my horoscope.

I was a Capricorn, which means I was supposed to be cautious and set in my ways. Also, maybe a bit on the conventional side. Today my horoscope read:

Big changes are coming your way. Don’t be afraid to take a leap of faith
.

I wrinkled my nose and tossed the paper aside. Leaps of faith didn’t come naturally to us Capricorns.

Something furry brushed against my legs just then. I squeaked and nearly leapt out of my chair. But it wasn’t a giant rat, just Frigga. Truthfully, close proximity to Frigga was about as scary as a rodent attack. The skinny black cat had adopted Carlita and me months ago and, moved by the stray’s ragged condition, we’d taken her in. She bonded instantly with Carlita but for some inexplicable reason considered me the bane of her life.

She was also, by the way, grossly misnamed. According to Norse mythology, Frigga was supposed to be some sort of motherly goddess who protected children. I’m fairly confident if
our
Frigga ever saw a kid she’d eat it.

Even now she was glaring balefully up at me as if to say if I didn’t feed her this instant she’d have my toes for breakfast.

I put my dishes in the sink, dumped food in Frigga’s dish (from a safe distance), and was on my way out the front door when I remembered Carlita’s romance novel. Maybe I’d need some light reading material while I waited in the coffee shop.

I retrieved the paperback and tossed it into my Louis Vuitton handbag. Okay, my cheap imitation of a Louis Vuitton handbag. Whatever. I’d wasted too much time and was again in danger of being late.

***

There was no wait at the coffee shop. Just my luck, the one time I wasn’t on time for a job interview the boss was waiting on me. I’d no sooner told the teenager at the front counter about my interview than the store manager appeared at my elbow. As he led me to a quiet seat in a far corner of the shop, I cast a glance back at the acne-faced kid at the register. He caught my eye, winking suggestively. I looked away with a grimace.

Was this how far I’d sunk? Pushing thirty and desperate enough for work I was ready to take a job that could be manned by kids barely out of high school?
So much for those wasted months at beauty college. That the first guy to hit on me in months was a pizza-faced coffee boy was no great ego-boost either.

Over the next twenty minutes my last shreds of self-confidence were ripped to tatters. The manager of Hot N’ Steamy was anything but hot and steamy. A balding man in his mid-sixties with hairy arms and a fuzzy unibrow, he had all the charm of a big boss from a 1930s gangster movie. I didn’t know if it was that analogy, popping into my head out of nowhere, or his naturally unpleasant persona that made him seem so creepy.

Either way, my impression of him didn’t make much difference, because his estimation of me was equally unfavorable. I didn’t get the job. I lacked the “people personality,” as he put it. Evidently peddling coffee in a rundown sidewalk shop required a good deal of enthusiasm both for people and for the drink. As I passed back out the door of the shop, I wondered exactly what it said of me that I didn’t have the qualifications to serve up some hot water and coffee beans.

Seeing the pimple-faced coffee boy cast me a look of commiseration as I left, I felt bad for mentally calling him pizza-face—felt bad for noticing the acne at all. Heck, it didn’t take much to make me feel bad at the moment. I decided to stop in at the neighboring café and comfort myself with a pastry. Maybe a chocolate éclair would soften the blow of the failed interview.

I bought a fat éclair and a bottle of milk and took them outside. Finding myself a lonely table away from the other customers, I sat with my back to the busy street and ate away my worries.

Um, I mean, I soberly considered my situation.

I was still a little sour about losing my old job. Two years ago, I had moved all the way to the city and spent three months in beauty college to pursue my dream career, the chance to become a manicurist at the second tiniest beauty salon in Central district, Baltimore.

Okay, so that wasn’t the original plan. I’d first moved to the city with the crazy idea of getting by on my artistic skills as a painter.

Hey, don’t laugh. I’d been painting since I was a kid and had been told I wasn’t half bad.

Just the same, the artistic career wasn’t supporting me. So in an effort to find another creative outlet I took some courses, got my certificate as a nail technician and snapped up the first job that’d pay the bills. And what do you know? It turned out I had this natural talent for massaging strangers’ feet and for trimming and buffing their toenails. That was until last Tuesday when my boss caught me slipping my Avon business cards to the customers (only to the ones who severely needed makeovers). Hey, I was doing a service to humanity.

Anyway, the boss flipped out over it. Apparently a girl wasn’t supposed to make a couple extra bucks on the side by selling quality beauty products from home.

And so I came to my current sucky situation.

The savings I’d managed to put back and the trickle of money I still made selling Avon were a lifesaver. But I knew I wouldn’t be able to stretch my savings more than a couple months. Sooner or later I was going to have to find a day job again. And one thing was sure, that collection of painted canvases heaped in the corner of my tiny bedroom was never going to translate into a career. Sure, I’d given plenty of my art away—one or two old co-workers at the nail salon had even paid me a few dollars for pieces they liked. Still, I knew I was a long way from earning enough at it to live on.

Closing my eyes, I tilted my face up to the warm sunshine and tried to distance myself from the noises of the traffic and the conversations of my fellow diners.

I weighed my options. I was a single woman of nearly thirty, with only a manicurist’s license to my name and coffee shop managers turning down my resume. Maybe I was wrong to try and move in a different career direction. Should I take Carlita’s advice and hit up the beauty salons and spas in Inner Harbor? At least it was work I was familiar with, even if it didn’t exactly feel like my niche.

Shaking my head, I brought my thoughts back to the present. Checking my watch, I saw it was only a little past ten. I had a whole empty day ahead of me yet. Although I dreaded the thought of spending another afternoon practicing the time-honored tradition of the unemployed—watching soap operas and chomping potato chips—I couldn’t work up much enthusiasm for getting back to the old job-hunt either.

Instead, I dug around inside my purse and pulled out Carlita’s romance novel. I wasn’t usually much of a reader, but I might as well crack the cover so I could tell Carlita I’d at least tried to read it.

Settling comfortably in my chair and propping my black flats on the seat across from me, I tuned out the busy world passing me by and focused on the first sentence of the book.

It was at the avenue of shattered hopes and half-realized dreams that I first crossed paths with the enigmatic duke
.

I rolled my eyes. Carlita had picked another one.

I read on, skimming the chapter that described the 19th century heroine’s first dramatic meeting with the dashing and mysterious nobleman. An entire page was devoted to a description of the handsome hero. At this point, I found myself becoming interested in the story. The plot itself was pretty cheesy but Carlita had a point. There was something vaguely appealing about the gallant hero. At the end of the first chapter I glanced at my watch and closed the book.

Nearby tires squealed sharply against pavement. I jerked my head up just in time to see a long blue car sliding across the street, breaks screaming as it tried to come to a stop. But it was too late.