“Let’s just say I had no idea my wife had such a devious side.”
I narrow my eyes, because that’s not exactly an answer to my question, and I can’t help but wonder if he’s known all along. I consider asking outright—if I do, I know he’ll tell me—but I hold my tongue, too happy with the success of the evening to take even the slightest bit away from all my hard work.
I think about other kinds of hard work as I lead him into the living room and then straddle him on the couch, kissing him lightly before leaning back to grin at him.
“What?” he asks, amusement in his voice.
“I submitted the Dallas proposal early this morning,” I say. “Thank you. For everything.”
I see something like pride reflected in his smile. “You’re welcome,” he says, and I know he understands. I’m not just thanking him for the help he’s already given me, but for the support that will come if I get the job.
“There’s something else, too,” I say, sliding off of him so that I can open one of the drawers on the end table. I reach in and pull out a wrapped box about the size of a book.
His brows rise. “I thought the party was my present.”
I shrug. “I wanted to give you something tangible, too. But you’re a hard man to shop for.” I nod at the present. “Go ahead.”
He does, peeling off the paper to reveal a box of Swiss chocolates. He looks up at me, and I see confusion in his eyes. “You got me candy from the confectionary I own?”
“No,” I say. “You got them for me. Ages ago, when you took me on the Ferris wheel on the Santa Monica Pier. I saved the box.”
He still looks confused, but he opens the box. But there’s not chocolate inside, but a variety of small items. He reaches in and lifts out a tiny wrapped bar of soap. It’s from Desert Ranch, the exclusive spa that Damien once treated me to. I see his mouth twitch with amusement, his smile growing wider as he pulls out the tiny Eiffel Tower, a miniature bottle with sand from our private beach, and a tiny pine cone from the house in Lake Arrowhead where we’d gone after his trial and recently spent Christmas.
I see the delight on his face as he inspects each item, but when he comes to the last, he laughs outright—the pair of silk panties I’d left in his limo that night we’d met at Evelyn’s.
“You’re a hard man to shop for,” I say. “So I took some of my souvenirs and made you a box of memories.”
“Nikki, it’s. . .” He trails off, his voice thick with emotion.
“Happy birthday, Mr. Stark. I hope you like it.”
“I love it,” he says as he pulls me into his arms.
But what I hear is I love you.
Coming Soon From J. Kenner
It’s a new chapter in the life of Nikki and Damien Stark . . .
Though shadows still haunt us, and ghosts from our past continue to threaten our happiness, my life with Damien is nothing short of perfection. He is my heart and my soul. My past and my future. He is the man who holds me together, and his love fuels my days and enchants my nights.
But when tragedy and challenge from both inside and outside the sanctity of our marriage begin to chip away at our happiness, I am forced to realize that even a perfect life can begin to crack. And if Damien and I are going to win this new battle, it will take all of our strength and love . . .
Read on for Chapter One of Anchor Me by J. Kenner.
Coming April 2017 from
Chapter One
I look out the window at the beautifully manicured yards that line the wide street down which I am traveling in the sumptuous luxury of a classic Rolls Royce Phantom. A car so sleek and magical that I can’t help but feel like a princess in a royal coach.
The road is shaded by parallel rows of massive oaks, their branches arcing over the street toward their counterparts to form a leafy canopy. Morning light fights its way between the leaves, creating golden beams in which dust sparkles and dances as if to a celebratory melody, adding to the illusion that we are moving through a fairy tale world.
All in all, it’s a picture perfect moment.
Except it’s not. Not really. Or at least not to me.
Because as far as I’m concerned, this is no children’s story.
This is Dallas. This is the neighborhood where I grew up. And that means that this isn’t a fairy tale. It’s a nightmare.
The trees branches aren’t stunning—they’re grasping. Reaching out to snare me. To hold me tight. To trap me.
The canopy doesn’t mark a royal corridor leading to a castle. It leads to a cell. And it’s not The Dance of the Sugarplum Fairies that fills the air. It is a Requiem for the Dead.
The world outside the car is lined with traps, and if I’m not careful, I’ll be sucked in. Destroyed by the darkness that hides behind the false facades of these stately houses. Surrounded not by a bright children’s tale but by a horror movie, lured in by the promise of beauty and then trapped forever and slowly destroyed, ripped to pieces by the monsters in the dark.
Breathe, I tell myself. You can do this. You just have to remember to breathe.