Switched
Authors: Elise Sax
Switched
By Elise Sax
Switched
Copyright 2014 by
Elise Sax
Cover Design by Natasha Brown
Formatted by
IRONHORSE Formatting
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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Published in the United States by Elise Sax
Also by Elise Sax
The Matchmaker Series
Wish Upon A Stud Series
Wicked Ride
For my brother, who told me I should write about a disastrous home exchange.
Table of Contents
I cleared my throat and readied myself for my wedding toast. I’m not what you’d call an experienced public speaker. As a CPA, I’m perfectly happy to sit alone in my gray cubby and crunch numbers all day. Not exactly Hillary Clinton, right?
But my life was perfect, and I wanted to tell the world, or at least my four hundred wedding guests. Don’t get the wrong impression. I wasn’t a bridezilla. My mother-in-law-to-be was the bridezilla
for
me. She was the one who insisted on the gorgeous white mermaid gown with crystal-appliquéd bodice, the Waldorf Astoria Chicago ballroom wedding venue, a twenty-piece orchestra, enough flowers to reforest the Amazon, and an intimate gathering of four-hundred guests. Nothing was too good for her son.
She was right. Nothing was too good for Jackson Remington. He was perfect, and he deserved perfect. He was brilliant, kind, gorgeous, and his family was old money. Old as Chicago itself. For some reason he picked me, which made my life perfect.
That’s why even though it’s unusual for a bride to give a wedding speech, I was determined to do it and share my perfect happiness. I had prepared my twelve note cards months in advance, even before picking out the flowers with Jackson’s mother and the wedding planner.
“My life is perfect,” I started, clutching on to my note cards with one hand and smoothing out the silky skirt of my gown with my other hand. “Three years ago I met the love of my life, Jackson Remington. He had just become partner at Huntsman, Jones, and Shapiro, and he went to a local tavern to celebrate.”
I choked up and wiped away a tear at the memory. It had been the evening that had begun my perfect life. My best friend Stacy and I had ducked into the Hog’s Arms Pub to get out of an April sleet storm, which was pretty typical weather for Chicago. Inside was pretty typical for Chicago, too. A bunch of Teamsters truck drivers were tipping back a cold one after work.
We tried to lay low in a corner behind a pile of chili cheese fries, but we quickly drew attention anyway. We were the only women in the bar, and we were soon surrounded by drunken truckers who wanted a lot more than we were willing to give.
“Now, there’s a fine piece of ass,” one of them said to me. He smelled like onions and body odor, and he took a seat at our table, leaning into my face as if he was planning on giving me a dental exam.
I’m not really a fine piece of ass. Stacy is. She’s a catalog model, and she ordered the chili cheese fries just to smell them. She’s rail thin and so drop-dead gorgeous that she’s driven men mad with wanting her. She’s so used to men chasing her that she’s constructed this invisible attitude bubble around her of I-don’t-care-about-men that seems to hold them off.
Next to Stacy, I’m not much, but if I’m standing a good distance away from her, I’m not bad. I’ve hovered at a size eight since puberty. I have shoulder-length light brown hair, green eyes, and a straight nose. I’m a C-cup, my legs are strong, my feet huge, and I’ve been told that I have kissable lips.
I’ve had my share of boyfriends but nothing serious. Besides, I never wanted serious. I wanted to be successful. That’s why I worked sixty hours a week.
“Why did we have to come in here?” I muttered to Stacy, as the truckers crowded in, leering at my breasts.
“My shoes were not made for sleet,” Stacy reminded me.
I looked down. I was wearing sensible boots for the weather, along with a sensible suit and a sensible purse. I was a sensible accountant, and this wasn’t the way I wanted to die, in a bar, gang-raped by twelve truckers on a mound of chili cheese fries. I wanted to die from old age, secure in an assisted-living condo in Miami while enjoying the benefits of a generous 401(k).
The truckers were huge and drunk, and they graduated from leering to jeering, closing up the space between us pretty quickly.
“This might be a bad situation,” Stacy said, stating the obvious.
With visions of gang rape filling my head, I panicked. In a moment of pure survival instinct, I stood, pulled my arm back like a bow and let it fly, punching the closest trucker in the jaw. My fist made impact with a loud crack, breaking my hand in two places. My face went slack with pain and shock, but you should have seen the other guy. He went down like a ton of bricks, landing face-first in my fries. He was out cold.
“Shit, you’re Mike Tyson,” Stacy said to me, eyeing the trucker’s prone body.
I was more shocked than the Teamsters. They recovered pretty quickly from their surprise at a five-foot-four, twenty-something woman coldcocking their hulk-like buddy. They lifted the unconscious man out of the fries and pulled the chili beans out of his nose.
Then their attention turned to me.
“Uh-oh,” Stacy said. I snapped out of my shock and into the reality of my dangerous situation. With the fear of a painful death taking all the space in my mind, the pain in my hand disappeared. My brain raced around my head like a hamster on a wheel. What to do? What to do?
“I know Krav Maga,” I announced to my killers. Total lie. I had signed up for the self-defense class, but in my professional life, I had no time for extracurriculars. In fact, the most I could do was spray them with my can of Mace, but I had left that at home in my other purse.
Despite the fact that I had knocked out their friend, they rightly guessed it was only a lucky punch, and they were not at all impressed or intimidated by my martial arts claims.
I gulped and closed my eyes. I tried to think of a prayer, but the only thing that came to my mind was the tax code’s doubtful debts provision.
Then, just like that, everything turned around. The sexiest man I had ever seen broke the tension. He flashed his business card to the crowd. He was a handsome young lawyer in a tailored, expensive suit. Whether it was his six-foot-five frame, his threats of litigation, or his offer to pay for a round of beers, the Teamsters forgot about revenge, removed their wounded friend, and cleared out to the other side of the bar.
I patted my body with my good hand, searching for bleeding wounds and more broken bones. But as hard as it was to believe, besides my broken hand, I was intact. Jackson paid the bill, hailed a cab for Stacy, whisked me off to the emergency room, and stayed with me until they set my arm and doused me in pain medication. Then he drove me home, tucked me into bed, got my number, and kissed me good night.
Normally I’m not the kind of woman who allows a perfect stranger—and a male at that— into my home, especially at night when I’m wounded and under the influence of a hardcore pharmaceutical-grade narcotic.
Normally I go on at least three dates before I do the dirty deed, and normally I Google-stalk a man for hours before I go on a first date. Google-stalk for days. I’ve watched too many True Crime shows on TV to trust anybody with a penis or a deep voice.
But it was different with Jackson. I trusted him.
I trusted him even though he was a thief. He had stolen my heart from the first moment I met him, and I was hopeless and helpless there in my bedroom, face-to-face with the love of my life who wanted me with a raw passion I had never witnessed before.
Jackson got to my bedroom door and turned around. He had dark eyes, and they grew darker when he looked at me.
“You know,” he said without the barest hint of embarrassment. “I’m glad you broke your hand. It gave me time to be with you.”
It was a crazy thing to say. I could have taken it badly. But I felt the same way, and it was just one more in a string of connections I felt the moment I laid eyes on him.
“I’m glad I broke my hand, too,” I said with only my head sticking out from under the covers. My hand had completely stopped hurting, either because of the extra Vicodin I took in the bathroom or because Jackson looked like a movie star in his suit, and he was eyeing me like I was his leading lady.
He took a step toward me, and I realized I was pretty near naked in my bed, and I could get down to the full monty in record time if he wanted.
He wanted.
Hell,
I
wanted.
“I want to court you,” he said, his voice low and sultry, making the hair stand up on my arms and making me warm and melty under the covers. “I want to wine and dine you. I want to spend long hours listening to your life story. I want to
know
you. I want to take care of you.”
“That all sounds good,” I said.
“But here’s my quandary. More than all that, I want to taste you, Debra. I want to feel the dips and curves of you under my fingertips. I want to fit inside you. I know we’ll fit together perfectly.”
I gurgled in response. My tongue had swollen in my mouth, and I couldn’t get words out, but I was communicating pretty clearly. I imagined my pupils had dilated to the size of saucers, and my face was burgundy with the flood of desire Jackson was bringing out of me.
Jackson was Edward to my Bella, a romantic hero come alive in my tiny bedroom. To hell with being a serious professional accountant, I was his, his, his.
Even with my inability to speak, Jackson got the picture pretty quickly. He stripped down next to my bed, baring his beautiful body in slow, precise movements. Strong. Lean. He obviously worked out. I guessed weights and probably a lot of cardio. I had been meaning to hit the gym, just as soon as I lost five pounds.
He slipped under my covers and lay on his side, close but not touching me. Our eyes locked, and I sighed as if he took my breath away, and I guess he did. Jackson radiated heat. I pushed the covers off of me without thinking. I meant only to cool my body, but it was obvious he took the action as a message that I wanted to get things moving.