Carats and Coconuts (22 page)

Why not?

Because not all of us go totally
Cinderella and marry our own prince.

Okay, yes. My cousin, Zoey
Witherspoon, did.

But there are plenty of us who end up
with frogs. Frogs that never become princes no matter how many
times you kiss ‘em.

Hell, at this point, I might just take
another frog. That sure beats my current reality, which is a big
nothing, zero, nada, as in no man in sight.

‘
Course now that I’m about
to be at the cruising altitude of 35,000 feet, if I saw a man
outside my first-class cabin window, he would not be my choice of a
dating prospect. Whatever he was doin’ out there couldn’t be
good.

Realizing just how far that little
sign had sent me over the edge of my barely-there sanity really
scared the hell out of me. When would I ever get myself put back
together again?

I fought with the coarse blanket I’d
retrieved from the overhead compartment. These miniscule scraps of
fabric were never big enough to cover my long limbs. Luckily, I’d
grown used to the discomforts and irritations of travel and always
brought along my own pashmina scarf. I’m a total Linus, desperately
in need of my blanky.

While struggling with the blanket and
my scarf, I managed to tip over my tote bag, which was way too big
to fit nicely underneath the seat in front of me. Out flew one of
my old business cards.

I thought I’d tossed out every last
one of those bastards months ago.

What the hell?

It must have been hiding in one of the
interior pockets.

After retrieving the card, I couldn’t
seem to quit staring at the fancy metallic embossed letters. I
stared so long my eyes began to water.

“
Aldredge & Aldredge”
the card read.

Hmph. No need for that
second Aldredge now. And yes.
That
Aldredge was my total nightmare of a
frog.

“
Excuse me, Mrs. Aldredge,
is there anything I can do for you before departure? Perhaps a
cocktail?”

Thankfully or unthankfully, depending
on how you chose to look at it, my self-pity party was interrupted
by the annoyingly kind but canned concern of a flight attendant.
The talking mannequin bore a nameplate identifying her as
Allison.

Flashes of rage heated my cheeks.
Somehow though, I managed to contain my deep desire to strangle the
shit out of Allison’s way-too-perky affront.

“
That would be
Ms.
Aldredge. And no
thank you.”

“
Oh. I’m sorry.”

Allison, attendant extraordinaire, who
looked like she should be on that once hot, now cancelled
television show Pan Am – a beehive of an upsweep hairdo included -
glanced at her manifest.

What was that about?

Did she think I didn’t know for sure
that I was now single?

“
Let me know if you change
your mind and would like a drink.”

I nodded and buried my head in my
hands, trying to shake off the horror.

And yes, sound reasoning to the
rescue, I was fully aware that Allison had no way of knowing the
significance of her error. But in my book, it was a damn big one.
And I wasn’t about to let it slip by without correcting the
offending party.

I closed my eyes and settled back into
the cushions of my reclined seat. The long hours I’d spent
reworking an overdue manuscript had left me drained.

“
Ms. Aldredge.” Allison
poked me in the arm with her bone-cold pointer finger. “You must
put your seat in the upright position for takeoff.”

I swore I heard the bitch place
emphasis on the ‘Ms’. But without further comment, I repositioned
my seat. I had bigger battles brewing and didn’t need to start a
new one with Pan Am Barbie.

The sound of the jet’s engines roaring
to life mercifully brought an end to my flight attendant’s
honey-tongued torture. Thank the powers that be she had a cabin to
prepare and no additional time to mess with me.

I leaned against the window and
watched LaGuardia’s runway disappear.

Before the plane could have been off
the air traffic controllers’ radar, I was fast asleep.

“I
f
Indianapolis is your home, welcome back. If you’re just visiting,
then we hope you enjoy your stay.”

Until the wheels touched down and
Allison’s annoying voice echoed throughout the plane, nothing had
broken through my dream fog.

I sure wish I was here for a
short-term visit, but fate had dealt me a different
hand.

Once we’d taxied into our gate and
Allison gave her final set of instructions, I stood up and cracked
my head on the overhead bin.

“
Perfect way to begin my
journey,” I muttered to myself while checking the bin to make sure
nothing had fallen out of my laptop bag. I’d left the damn thing
unzipped. And since “idiot” was now my middle name, that was par
for the course.

On my way to retrieve my baggage, I
spotted the blessed Starbuck’s mermaid and privately praised sweet
serendipity.

Perhaps all hope for me was not lost.
I could sure use a black eye. The single shot of espresso included
in my normal red eye just wasn’t going to cut it today.

Noticing the juice bar next to the
Starbucks, I had to laugh. If my cousin Zoey had been with me, we’d
be going there too for one of her horrendous all-things-green wheat
grass shots.

I, on the other hand, don’t like much
of anything good for me. Including men. I had a knack for choosing
losers across the board. Except in one particular area of
expertise, where I’d had nothing but winners. Big-time
winners.

Seeing a combination newsstand and
bookstore conveniently located on the opposite side of Starbuck’s,
I couldn’t pass it up. It just wasn’t in my nature to walk past a
bookstore, even though I did all my reading on a Kindle.

For that matter, my world as of late
seemed to revolve around all-things-Kindle and Ereaders in general.
Most of the freelance editing I’d contracted was for many of
today’s hottest Indie Epub superstars.

Now that I was freelancing and getting
paid well for preparing manuscripts to become Ebooks, browsing
these little shops seemed like taking a stroll through the past. A
past my Ex refused to let go of. Yep, he was on the TradiPub
Titanic. I…had sailed on. He was going to sink along with all The
Big Six publishers. I wasn’t.

In fact, I would be the perfect
subject for some New York Times piece on the Epublishing World. If
newspapers like The Times, firmly entrenched in the world of The
Big Six - who spend major bucks advertising with them - gave a shit
about reality.

Setting my carry-on bag between my
feet, I freed my hands to explore the storefront racks and shelves.
I focused my attention first, as I always did when beginning my
perusal of a new store, on the Bestseller display. Like a child
seeing his or her artwork proudly displayed on the refrigerator, I
smiled triumphantly.

Four of my authors anchored down the
second, third, sixth and seventh slots. Not bad for a once senior,
then executive, now totally on her own freelance editor.

Luckily for me, my authors were
selling Ebooks by the cyber truckload. They were out of contract
and had no interest in continuing to be screwed by The Big Six.
They were all going Indie Epub all the way, meaning I hadn’t lost a
single client and stood to gain a gazillion new ones.

I pulled up the handle of my suitcase
and headed for the rental car area.

The fact that the second place author,
Nicky Blane, had survived getting his last book published was not
only a miracle for him but for me as well. If I’d spent one more
session with him, one of us would have ended up on Death Row and
the other would be buried several feet beneath the earth’s
surface.

It really wouldn’t have mattered which
of us received which fate, as we both would have volunteered to
suffer either as long as it was at the expense of the
other.

Labeling our relationship as
love-hate is much too generous. There’s
no
love. And way too much
hate.

We’re no Castle and
Beckett.

Our books are the same kind of police
procedural crime thrillers of that dynamic Nielsen-ratings duo, but
we don’t have the made-for-TV attraction of Fillion and Katic,
which is what makes that show work.

To be honest, I’m still not sure what
makes Nicky Blane and I work so well together. But we have ten
bestselling books that say we do…at least on paper and in
e-sales.

Nicky Blane is the biggest asshole I
know. In fact, I’m certain Webster had him in mind when stating the
definition. And every thesaurus would be accurate using ‘Nick’ as
an alternative for the word ‘asshole’.

Trying to cool off my attitude and
cool down my coffee, I blew through the hole in the lid another
time then sighed. What I wouldn’t give to be back in Manhattan.
What I wouldn’t give to…

What?!

Not see Nicky waving at me like a
suave pig from the Hertz desk. Maybe I should stop and grab an
apple at the fruit stand that separated us.

Wanting to get the pain over with as
soon as possible, I took a deep breath and quickened my pace to the
rental car center.

Forcing a tight smile, I rolled my
suitcase up and over Nicky’s foot. Oops. So yeah, I guess I wanted
to inflict some pain too.

Seeing him flinch, I relaxed a
bit.

Checkmate, Asshole.

But after surmising from the desk
clerk that Nicky was my ride and not a rental, Nicky’s discomfort
from my luggage wheel connecting with his dorsum couldn’t have come
close to matching my displeasure at having to be his
passenger.

The jack-ass had cancelled my
reservation. And since Hertz was out of cars, I had no choice but
to accept a ride from Nicky.

“
Ahhh, Nicky. If I’d known I
had to see you this soon, I would have had a least one drink on my
flight.”

Maybe Pan Am Barbie was smarter than
I’d given her credit for. After all, she had tried to convince me
to have a cocktail.

“
Better wipe that shitty
grin off your face, Ms. Allwitch…I mean Ms. Aldredge. For a minute
there, I thought you were actually glad to see me.” Nicky grabbed
my carry-on as well as the rest of my luggage from the carousel
then pointed me toward the exit doors.

“
Not in this life-time,
Nicky,” I said and sidestepped his reach to put more distance
between us.

“
It’s Nick, God damn it! My
name is Nick. Not Nicky.” He moved past me and into the revolving
door that spit him out toward the parking garages.

“
Not according to your book
covers,” I said struggling to keep up with him.

“
That was your idea,
Allwitch. Not mine.” He glared at me while we scrambled to make an
elevator before the door slid shut.

As the door closed with him in and me
out, he hollered, “Third floor. Take the next elevator or use the
stairs.”

“
Asshole”, I said, not
giving a damn that the priest standing behind me heard
it.

I stomped up the stairs.

Out of breath by the time I reached
the last landing, I looked up and saw Nicky tapping his foot and
studying his watch.

“
Don’t you even think…about
goin’ there,” I huffed and puffed, resenting the fact that he was
the big bad wolf to my now aching little piggies.

I mean, really, who hustles up
multiple flights of stairs in brand new Louboutins?

“A
ll I was gonna say was Happy Valentine’s Day, Allwitch,” Nicky
said, so sweet and innocent-like I wanted to kick him in the
shin.

Except I couldn’t kick him ‘cause my
feet hurt too damn bad. I couldn’t wait to get into my Ugg
boots.

“
Bite me,” I said and
stomped past him.

“
Uhm, my car’s this
way.”

I stopped mid stomp and turned back to
face him as heat flushed my cheeks and the sweat on my forehead
became glue for my bangs. Although, I was sure those issues were
left over from my impromptu cardio workout.

“
I knew that. I just needed
some extra space.”

“
Right. Sure you did. What?
Are you gifted with more than word magic now? You also know where
cars that you’ve never seen are parked?”

“
You’re such an
asshole.”

“
So you’ve said.”

And then he did the worst thing he
could do…

He laughed at me.

“
Leave it to me to get stuck
with a schmuck on Cupid’s Big Day,” I said.

Noticing he flinched a bit at that, I
almost felt bad.

“
A schmuck? Really?
Ouch.”

He still opened the car door for me,
so I had to give him a few points back for that.