Speaking of Love Read online

  Mac stepped through the gate and knelt down, reaching her hand out so the dog could sniff a hello. “Madison?” she asked, running her hand down the sleek, muscled neck. “Isn’t that the name of the dog you had as a kid?”

  Rick smiled, touched that she remembered. “Yeah.”

  “And what about this one?” Mac asked, moving her hand to the other hound who had been nudging her with a wet nose.

  “I named her Caviar,” Rick said.

  When Mac threw her head back to laugh, and Caviar began licking her exposed neck, Rick had never wanted to be a dog so badly in his life.

  “When did this happen?” Mac asked, taking Caviar’s small face between her hands and rubbing behind her ears. Caviar’s tail began thumping on the ground.

  Again, Rick felt inappropriately envious.

  “Three days ago,” he said. “We’re still getting to know each other, getting a routine going.”

  “Did you know I wanted to adopt a greyhound?” Mac asked, looking up at him while scratching Caviar’s ears.

  “You mentioned it a while ago,” Rick said. “That’s what gave me the idea. I’ve wanted a dog for years. I was finally ready to make the big commitment.”

  “My application was turned down. Strict requirement.” She shrugged with a hint of sadness in her voice. “My apartment is too small.”

  “Mine’s not,” Rick said, pointing his chin toward the two dogs touching noses. “So, obviously I’m going to expect you to spend a great deal of time there in the future.” He looked at her. “A great deal of time. Speaking of…” He gave each dog one last scratch then stood up. “I should probably get them home now. We’ve been out here a while.”

  “Oh,” Mac said, her expression falling a little. “Um, okay. Well, I guess I’ll go—”

  He handed her a leash. “Shall we?”

  Mac smiled and took it, winding it twice around her wrist.

  Rick took the other leash and wrapped his free arm around Mac. She leaned into him and made a little noise. She felt warm and round and soft. Rick wanted to touch her face, run his hands through her hair and down her body. But they’d both been bathed in doggy drool. Though the way Mac was pressing herself against him, Rick didn’t think she would really mind. But he would try to wait until he washed his hands, just the same.

  It felt like a part of him broke off when Mac stepped away from him, leading Madison toward the gate. Rick sighed and grabbed the handle of his Deluxe Miracle Jaws Scoop and followed behind them, Caviar trotting obediently at his side. As they crossed the parking lot toward his car, Mac sent Rick a little look over her shoulder that he felt down to his hair follicles.

  “Come on, girl,” he said to the sluggish Caviar, tugging her leash, picking up the pace.

  When he made it to his SUV, Mac was already leaning against it, eyeing him. Rick fumbled in his front pockets for his keys.

  “Need any help with that?” Mac asked, her eyes flicking down. “I have experience.”

  Every muscle in Rick’s body flexed.

  He finally found the keys, pressed the unlock trigger, and opened the hatchback. His dogs leapt in, tumbling over each other, sliding off the seat.

  When he shut the back hatch, he found Mac leaning against the driver’s side door. He swallowed.

  “I’m…covered in dog drool,” he gave as explanation when Mac tilted her head, much too seductively for eight o’clock at night on a Thursday. In a public park. Honestly, the two of them should have been arrested by now.

  “So am I,” Mac replied, taking his hand. “We can scrub each other later.”

  Rick didn’t need a second invitation. He wrapped his arms around her and held her tight, feeling her softness against his body, happy to relish in the moment.

  After giving him her own tight squeeze, Mac pulled back, resting her chin on his chest. “I love you,” she said, gazing up at him.

  The words were like heaven. A heaven he looked forward to experiencing for the rest of his life.

  He kissed her smiling lips, tasting nothing but the woman he loved. Taking her face between her hands, he said, “Have I ever told you your war paint makes me crazy?”

  Suddenly, she grabbed him and spun him around, so it was Rick’s back that was pressed against the car now. Wow, she was stronger than he thought. Mac lifted a satisfied smile and leaned her body against his, grinning when Rick moaned. Her fingers slid behind his neck and pulled him down.

  Rick was helpless.

  She hugged the back of his head, pressing his face to her neck. Like he needed the invitation. His fingers itched to run through her hair, down her skin. Frankly, his fingers were itching to do a lot of things that would not be appropriate in the middle of a parking lot.

  He hugged her tightly then rotated them around and away from the car. “Okay, now we really have to go,” he said.

  She was smiling up at him, her breathing deliciously labored. “Finally.”

  Rick managed to open her door and then his. He even managed to start the engine…which was no easy task with Mac keeping a very tight hold on his hand at all times.

  He knew this was going to be a very long drive home, but he also knew it was a journey he’d waited a very long time to take.

  Acknowledgments

  A lot of people touched this story.

  Thank you to Stacy Cantor Abrams and Alycia Tornetta. Without your editorial guidance, this book would be ten thousand pages with no clear chapter endings and way too many sighs. (Although maybe Mark Sanchez would have made an appearance.)

  Thank you to all the supportive authors at Entangled. You ladies rock. And it’s so nice to know I’m not alone in this.

  Thanks to all those hard-working book bloggers out there. Your lovely words mean so much to me.

  My beta, Nancy. I mean, hello, right?

  My critique partner, Sue, who freaking still won’t let me get away with anything! Even after I sent her fig jam from Trader Joe’s.

  Thanks to all my proofreading friends who lend me their eyes and their hearts.

  Jessica, I love my cover!

  Heather and Tara, thanks for sticking with me on the publicity end and always coming back with the coolest ideas.

  Thank you especially to my mother who talked me through plot points, who knew Mac shouldn’t be as sarcastic as me, and who made me potato soup and jelly and pulled pork while I sat in my office like a crazy person for four straight days and wrote a first draft. Your contribution to my life is (obviously) invaluable.

  Don’t miss Ophelia London’s first full-length novel, ABBY ROAD, coming in March 2013 to online and print retailers everywhere!

  Touted by the tabloids as the biggest rock star of our generation, Abigail Kelly is used to being in the spotlight. But beyond the glam of Hollywood, her world is falling apart. Still reeling from the death of her brother and wilting under the iron fist of Max, her manager, Abby banishes herself to the secluded beaches of Florida for the summer, thinking some anonymity and sunshine are just what she needs. What she finds instead is Todd, an ex-marine eager to embrace life after war. Together, Abby and Todd find the balance Abby’s life has been missing.

  That is, until Max resurfaces, demanding that Abby return to Los Angeles to record her band’s newest album. As the pressures of public appearances, paparazzi, and late-night recordings start to mount, Abby will have to risk everything or lose the life she always dreamed of.

  Ophelia London’s ABBY ROAD is a love letter to music—both the kind you cherish and the kind you create—as well as a beautiful love story that proves even when everyone in the world can recognize your face, the only people who matter are those who can see inside your heart.

  Read on for a sneak peek…

  Prologue

  How could there be no valet parking? This was Los Angeles.

  After circling the building a second time, I finally found a space. Even though parallel parking was not my forte, I managed to snake in, then did that reverse-forward-reverse-forward tric
k about ten times, trying to straighten out. I glanced through the passenger side window, inspecting the population of the sidewalk. Hmm—busy, lots of businesspeople and shoppers dodging one another. Hopefully no tourists, though. My stomach felt queasy at the thought.

  I sat back in my seat, closed my eyes, and breathed slowly. In through the nose…out through the mouth… Repeat until pulse steadies…

  If I were late to my appointment, I’d just tell Dr. Robert it was because I was practicing a relaxation technique. He knew agoraphobia wasn’t my current paranoia, however, so he probably wouldn’t buy it. So, after one more inhale, I adjusted my huge round sunglasses, took a last look through the window, then opened the car door.

  I was careful not to slam it shut—no need to draw unnecessary attention. I walked around the car. And I was fine. I stepped onto the sidewalk. Still totally fine. Dr. Robert’s office building was only about fifty paces away. Dead ahead. If I looked down and walked fast, no one would—

  “Abigail? Abigail Kelly?”

  I froze in place. Bad idea; I should’ve kept moving. I turned toward the voice. It was a girl, maybe about sixteen years old. She was pointing at me with one hand while her other was clapped over her mouth. Probably stifling one of those ear-splitting teenage squeals.

  “It is. It’s you!”

  “Hi there,” I said, forcing my mouth to turn up into my “charming smile.” Before she’d even reached me, I was automatically ready to take whatever scrap of paper she handed over. It was a movie ticket stub this time. I glanced at the title, but I’d never heard of it. Occupational hazard of being on the road and out of the country for the past eleven months.

  “What’s your name?” I asked, then scribbled my best wishes followed by my signature, including the trademark loopty-loop on the Y at the end.

  By that time, three other girls—friends of girl number one, presumably—had joined us.

  “Seriously. I just love you!” one of them said, beaming. “Your songs are, like, all my favorites.”

  “You’re so much prettier in person,” declared another.

  I was nodding and smiling and loopty-looping as fast as I could, keeping one eye on the building entrance a few yards away.

  “Your hair,” girl number one said, “is so totally beautiful. How do you get it that blond and shiny?” Then she actually reached out and touched my head. I allowed it. Not that I was used to having total strangers pet me on street corners, but it was like I’d been nine months pregnant for the last five years, and everyone thought they were allowed to rub my belly.

  “Yours is gorgeous.” I smiled. And it was true—it was the kind of red you can’t get out of a bottle. “Never change it,” I said, signing the last piece of paper. “Grow it long. You’ll rule the world. Trust me.”

  The girls gathered in a buzzing huddle as I started to walk away. Not too petrifying that time. Four autographs, probably a couple of cell phone pictures. Nothing that was going to make tonight’s news. I clutched my purse strap over my shoulder and exhaled. Home free.

  “Hey. Abigail.” It was a man’s voice this time. “C’mon, give us a big smile now.”

  When I looked over my shoulder toward the voice, I didn’t find just one man, but three, all dressed in their typical LA daytime street garb: shorts, wrinkled T-shirts, ball caps on backward and cameras strapped around their necks.

  Suddenly, they were one arm’s length away from me.

  The paparazzi really had no sense of personal space. Looked like I’d picked the wrong day to run a simple errand alone, without Shugger, my bodyguard, or even Molly, my personal assistant. I wondered for a frightening second if I should call Max and have him send in the troops to pull me out; managers were very good at things like that. But I dismissed the idea—causing a scene might’ve been worse.

  “Hi, guys.” I waved in what I hoped was a friendly manner, even though I was dying to turn and run. “I gotta go.” I pointed toward the building. “I have an appointment.”

  “With the Psychiatrist of the Stars again?” one of them said, his snapping camera literally three inches from my face.

  Really, I shouldn’t have been at all surprised that they knew, even though I’d only gone in to see Dr. Robert one other time—the rest of our sessions had been done over the phone, because I was out of the country. Not that they were doing much good, if you ask me. When I’d tried to convince him I was simply having a quarter-life-crisis, he didn’t believe me.

  Maybe he was smarter than I’d thought.

  “What do you talk about with him, Abigail?” another paparazzo asked.

  I shook my head, playing mysterious, and backed away.

  “Yeah, c’mon, you can tell us. It’ll be our little secret, right?” He snickered while moving his camera to a different angle.

  Knowing this had already gone on for too long, I turned on my heel and started to walk off, ignoring the warning bells chiming in my head. But they followed me, saying things I tried to ignore. All the paparazzi were really after was a reaction—they wanted to snap a picture of you crying or yelling or adjusting your bra strap.

  “Yo, Abby,” one of them called out, stepping in front of me right before the entrance. “How’s Christian these days? Huh?”

  The question made my stomach drop to the floor and my throat feel like a long, slippery snake was choking off all oxygen. This was a low blow, even for them. But I did not react. Christian was my one button the paparazzi knew they could push—even though what happened to Christian was a year ago. That didn’t matter to them. In fact, they would sink as low as they had to, dig up the most painful part of your past, then twist it into something even uglier, just to get the response they wanted. But I refused to give it to them.

  Instead, I swallowed hard and said nothing. When I tried to step around them, the photog in front blocked my way again.

  “How does it feel, Abby? To know you killed your brother?”

  I wasn’t sure when I realized that my forward motion had stopped. Half of my brain was screaming to remain calm—do not react, Abby—while the other half was painfully aware that the clicking sound of the cameras had suddenly tripled. There was no part of my brain that could give the command to retreat.

  The next sound I heard was my own gasping. I felt tears on my cheeks when I pressed a hand over my mouth. Blood rushed to my head as I bent forward, my other hand braced on the front of my thigh. My eyelids were clenched so tightly that all I saw was black…

  The next thing I was fully aware of was sitting on the small sofa in Dr. Robert’s office. He was staring from a wingback chair a few feet away while some hidden machine was playing sounds of the ocean, and there was a steaming cup of something minty-smelling on the table next to me. I looked down at my lap toward an area of acute pain. Both fists were white-knuckled—nails digging into my palms. When I swallowed, my throat felt uncharacteristically raw. I tried to think back, wondering if I’d really just broken down like that. In the middle of rush hour. For the whole world to see.

  “Are you ready to talk about it?” Dr. Robert asked, clicking his pen. “About your brother?”

  I took a breath and opened my mouth.

  But then I closed it, sealing my lips together. No, I was still not ready to talk about it.

  Dr. Robert crossed his legs. “All right, then.”

  I reached over for my drink and took a sip, then another, staring down into the mug; the liquid inside looked like tiny tsunamis as my hands shook uncontrollably.

  “Okay,” Dr. Robert said, lowering his notebook. “Let’s talk about something lighter for a while.” He tapped a finger to his chin. “When was the last time you felt happy?”

  I chuckled darkly and rolled my eyes, about to explain to him that I hadn’t had one moment of joy since Christian died. But then I thought of something else and realized that wasn’t the truth.

  “Three…three days ago,” I began, my voice sounding scratchy. “We were in Paris. The band was exhausted—it was our nin
th show in nine nights. We were running on adrenaline.” I returned the cup to the table and looked toward the window past Dr. Robert’s head. “During the acoustic set, it was just Hal and me onstage. The song was slow—a love ballad from our first album. We were sitting on stools; Hal was on guitar and I was behind a standing mic. Toward the end of the song, I remember closing my eyes.” I closed my eyes now, reliving the memory. “I could actually feel the music pulse through my body, down to my toes, under my hair. I’ve never felt so…alive.” I sat forward, leaning toward Dr. Robert. “My voice, the band, all the instruments were blending perfectly that night; everything was clicking. As I sat under the spotlight, I felt the energy of fifty thousand friends singing along with me, singing their hearts out. That massive venue was suddenly intimate, like we were all in sync. I wondered if they knew we were experiencing something extraordinary.”

  I pressed both hands over my heart. “Hal and I snuck a look at each other at the end. “We were both grinning like idiots. Right then, I knew I was doing exactly what I was meant to do, what I love to do, every day, every minute. I felt that in my bones. And I was so…” I broke off when my voice cracked. “I was so perfectly happy.”

  I opened my eyes and looked at Dr. Robert, pleased that I’d done what he’d asked.

  “And now?” he said. “How do you feel today?”

  I felt my chest go instantly tight and my hands ball up as before.

  One

  “A Day in the Life”

  “Yellow Submarine” was playing from my jeans. I knew who was calling by the ringtone, but I didn’t answer right away. It couldn’t be too important; we’d already spoken five times today.

  By the second chorus, I moved to a corner of the bookstore and fished out my cell. “Hi, Molly,” I half whispered. “What’s happening on the home front?”

  “Hold on, Abby. Just a tick.” Behind her voice, I heard traffic, the radio, and a single horn honking: Molly’s. “Bloody move it, Tiny Tim!”

  I bit my lip in amused pity, imagining some poor waif on crutches trying to cross the street without being mowed down by the beautiful, impatient brunette in the convertible Mini Coop with the Union Jack paintjob. Despite the British accent, Molly’s creative potty mouth was legendarily dirty.