Unwritten
Authors: M.C. Decker
UNWRITTEN
Copyright ©2014 M.C. Decker
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means including electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written consent of the author.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or publishers.
Cover Design: Kari Ayasha, Cover to Cover Designs
Interior Design and Formatting: Christine Borgford, Perfectly Publishable
Cover photos: Mandy Hollis, MHPhotography stock and custom photos
To my mom; my role model; and my best friend:
While writing this book, I often wondered what your words of encouragement would be, but I know you would have told me to push through and that you believe in me, always. Thank you for being the greatest mom a girl could ever have. And, thank you for introducing me to the boxes of Harlequin Romance Novels that would come in the mail each week. That is how I know that you would approve of your daughter writing a “smutty” book without even blushing. I just wish more than anything that you could have had the opportunity to read it. Love you and miss you, always.
*DPGROUP.ORG*
October 2011
T
here was a limousine waiting for me when I exited the terminal at Dulles International Airport, just a little after daybreak. I’d only ridden in a limo once before and it had been with
him
. I never imagined a potential employer going to such extremes for an interviewee. First, I received first-class boarding passes and now a stretch Hummer with my very own driver. This was certainly a few hundred steps above my current, small-town, reporting gig.
Even while riding in the lap of luxury, I couldn’t shake the butterflies fighting in my stomach, or the incredibly sweaty palms that I kept wiping on my navy, pinstriped, pencil skirt. Thankfully, I decided to forgo breakfast before catching the red-eye out of Detroit. That would’ve made the butterfly situation a whole lot worse.
I could do this. I should have researched the editor, Davis, a bit more. Why didn’t I think of doing it two days earlier? Where was the brown paper bag when you needed it? They were always so readily available to the broken heroines in the kinky romance novels that I enjoyed reading.
After what seemed to be a short drive, the limo began to slow down in front of a large building with oversized, tinted glass windows. Both an American flag and the flag of Washington D.C. flanked the entrance of my destination, the home of the
Washington Post
. Before the car came to a stop, I wiped my sweaty palms one final time, pulled my compact from my purse, applied a light pink lip gloss and took a deep breath.
Showtime!
My driver came around and escorted me from the car. For that I was thankful, as I’m not sure my nervous, wobbly legs could have survived my new ankle-strap, cream leather Louboutins that I purchased just for this interview. Sure, they may have cost me half an entire paycheck, but I wanted to look the part of an up-and-coming Washington reporter. My new shoes paired nicely with the vintage Valentino suit jacket that I found on clearance at my favorite consignment store and with my favorite go-to, pencil skirt.
I made my way up the front stairs, opened the heavy doors and headed toward the receptionist’s desk. There sat a young blonde with what appeared to be a fake rack and an even faker tan.
“Hi, I’m Brooke … Brooke Anderson. I’m here for an interview with Mr. Davis.”
The much-too-perky female handed me a visitor’s badge and directed me to the twelfth floor where I was to ask for Mr. Davis’s secretary, Caroline. I waited at the elevators for what seemed like an eternity before the doors opened and a group of people pressed forward.
A few suits exited the elevator on the sixth floor before the doors, pinging open on the twelfth floor, snapped me out of my nervous trance. I straightened my skirt and began to exit the elevator when I collided with all solid muscle and six feet three inches of him. And, that smell – why did this man smell so familiar? … I hadn’t smelled that perfect scent since … it’s then that I looked up and was greeted by those teal eyes. I’d never forget those eyes – those eyes that I never believed I would gaze into again. It was immediate déjà vu. I’d met him like this once before, only eleven years earlier. I had been a young and naïve student with so much to learn about life, love and heartache. I felt my heart begin to race and I feared that it might actually leap from my chest.
I thought it was too late for us. I thought our story had already been written. …
PART ONE:
September 2000
I
remember the first time I saw him, stepping off the elevator, on my way to journalism class, chatting with my best friend Cassidy and not paying too much attention; that’s when I collided with all six feet three inches of all solid-man muscle. Against my tiny, five feet three inch frame, it felt like I had hit a solid brick wall.
Standing against his chest, I couldn’t help but breathe in his intoxicating scent – a mix between Giorgio Armani’s Acqua Di Gio and Irish Spring Body Wash. What can I say? I know my fragrances. I worked at a drugstore the previous summer and all my male friends from high school wanted my advice on the cologne that would be sure to “get them laid.” I would always tell them Acqua Di Gio. After all, it was almost a sure thing. In fact, just this man’s heady scent alone was making my lady parts pool with desire.
I remember peeling myself back and looking up into his striking, tealish blue eyes which reminded me of the deepest depths of the ocean. Those eyes alone stopped me dead in my tracks. And, let’s not forget his perfectly chiseled jaw and Hollywood smile and that shaggy, messed-up, yet perfectly styled, chocolate brown hair. He was my ideal man … until he opened his mouth.
“Hey, can you watch where you’re going? You’re going to make me late for my class.”
“Ugh, underclassmen, never paying attention,” he continued under his breath.
I stood just inches away from him, utterly speechless. I wasn’t sure if it was because of my awe over his perfect male beauty, or because he was such a dickface. Probably a combination of both, I would guess.
“Wow, you don’t have to be a complete jackass,” Cassidy yelled back in my defense.
I made a mental note to thank her later before finally talking, “Shhh, Cass, it’s not worth it. He’s not worth it.”
Well, so much for that. Dream over and let the nightmare begin! I went from feeling an instant, butterflies-in-my-tummy attraction to an instant sense of dreaded annoyance. To make matters worse – much worse – I followed him right into room 208 and straight into my Journalism 101 course.
“You have got to be freakin’ kidding me,” I muttered under my breath.
I soon learned that Mr. Gorgeous Asshole’s name was Rich Davis. He was a year my senior and thought he knew everything! Every time he opened his mouth it was to suck up to Professor Markley, or to correct another student. Ugh, he really just made my skin crawl.
When I found out that I was paired up with him for a writing assignment during the third week of class, I just wanted to vomit right then and there. Maybe then I could get out of it and pass it off as the latest stomach bug making its way around campus. Who cares if it would be a little embarrassing? I was known as Brooke the Klutz during my high school days, so what would a little vomit-and-dash incident really matter? Besides, I was already spoken for and completely in love with Jason James so I really couldn’t have cared less what other male students in the class thought about me. And the girls would just feel bad for me and give thanks that it hadn’t happened to them.