It started with a kiss, p.1
It Started with a Kiss, page 1
Copyright © 2022 by S.L. Scott
All Rights Reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the written permission of the author. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. Published in the United States of America
ISBN: 979-8-9861994-2-9
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New York Love Stories (Stand-Alones)
Never Got Over You
The One I Want
Crazy in Love
Head Over Feels
It Started with a Kiss
Hard to Resist Series (Stand-Alones)
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The Redemption
The Revolution
The Rebellion
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Naturally, Charlie
A Prior Engagement
Lost in Translation
Sleeping with Mr. Sexy
Morning Glory
It Started with a Kiss
S.L. Scott
S.L. Scott
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Epilogue
New York Love Stories
Head Over Feels
Head Over Feels Prologue
Head Over Feels Chapter 1
Never Got Over You
Never Got Over You Chapter 1
Thank You
Prologue
Marlow Marché
“Marshhh—”
“Marché,” I say, emphasizing the ending. I’m used to people butchering my last name. What I’m not used to is a stranger standing in my high-security building on my floor, much less at my front door without being buzzed in by the doorman prior to arrival.
I thought Jackson would be picking me up for the party. With a slouchy misbuttoned gray shirt and jeans that sag, this guy is definitely not Jackson St. James.
When he remains standing there staring at me, I eye the large envelope in his hands, trying to scan it for clues to his presence. “I’m Marlow Marché.”
He hands me the package, and seeing my name on the front has me reaching forward. As soon as I take it, he says, “You’ve been served.” Tipping his hat, he chuckles. “Have a great day.”
“What?” My voice shakes, matching my hands as the words sink in. “What do you mean I’ve been served? For what?”
Shrugging, he punches the button to call the elevator, and then ignores me.
I hold the envelope out from me like it’s an infestation in my home and then tilt my head to the side to read the return address. The bank? I thought I had more time to find a solution. My stomach drops because I know this can’t be good.
After the bank rejected the deposit I offered in good faith to secure more time to come up with the down payment, I didn’t realize they weren’t willing to negotiate. Is that what this is? My time is up.
I feel sick.
“Financial institutions don’t care about feelings.” The last words my dad said to me after cutting me off financially ring through my head. I glance down at the package that feels as cold as the knife he stabbed into my back.
“Yeah, no kidding.”
Who fakes the purchase of their daughter’s apartment?
Apparently, my dad.
The months of unpacking his deceit while packing my bags and belongings has been a task I never thought I’d bear.
And the bills?
Who knew things were so damn expensive?
Apparently, not me.
Now I do.
How am I supposed to clean up this mess on my own?
Returning inside my apartment, I close the door with my foot and then lock the bolt, sliding the tips of my fingers against the smooth steel. Still holding the package away from me, I walk into the kitchen and drop it on the counter next to my crystal-encrusted clutch. Did the bank really have to serve me on New Year’s Eve?
Stepping back, I stare at it as if I can magically make it disappear, but I know that time has been running out for months, and I’ve had no such luck. Deep down, I admittedly hoped things would turn around like they always do—in my favor, that is. But I’m thinking I’m supposed to learn a lesson. I just wish it wasn’t at the expense of my apartment.
No. I can’t let this get to me. Not tonight, anyway.
I grab my lipstick—a bold red—that makes me feel more like the Marlow I know I am—Confident. Strong. Determined—and then use the mirror inside my bag to apply it.
“You can do this, Marlow,” I say before touching up the bow at the top of my lip. “I’ll show everyone that I can stand on my own two feet.” Somehow.
I slide the lipstick into my clutch and turn to leave. But my gaze sweeps across the delivery lying on my countertop like a bomb ready to detonate.
My stomach twists in forewarning. Dammit. I’ll be distracted all night if I don’t at least have a peek at the contents.
My heart beats heavy in my chest, my throat constricting as I set my clutch back down. The envelope scratches against my palm as I rip it open and pull the sides apart.
Eviction Notice.
Despite knowing this was coming, the weight of the announcement crushes me. I blink back the tears forming in my eyes. As an art director, I can’t afford this apartment without help from my dad. I look around the space, my home, and know that Bob Marché can’t afford it any longer either since he filed for bankruptcy.
Another knock is heard. Jackson.
I swipe my clutch from the counter, leaving the documents behind and hoping to forget about them for the night as I head to answer the door.
What am I going to do? Where will I go?
There’s no time to answer questions. Hell, there have been months to prepare, and I still haven’t come up with a solution. I was hoping for a miracle that didn’t come through.
A third knock raps against the door, this time louder. I can deal with this mess tomorrow since this might be the last time I get to celebrate. Whatever it takes, I’m determined to enjoy tonight.
When I swing open the door, I’m hit with a gorgeous smile and clean-shaven face that shows off the strength of the jawline. Jackson’s dressed in what looks like a tailored Tom Ford black suit, and the light in the hall shines in his blue eyes. I swear they twinkle for me when he w inks. He looks so handsome that I momentarily forget that we’re nothing more than friends with the occasional benefits.
Jackson’s always been a bit of trouble, but trouble might be just the thing I need tonight.
Giving me the same smirk that got me into bed this past summer, he asks, “Are you ready for me?”
1
Jackson St. James
If Marlow Marché knows how to do one thing, it’s torture me.
Sexy ass.
Tight dress.
Killer curves on full display.
Her gaze locks with mine from across the room. Our arrangement has been a highlight of the past four months.
Who knew that these added benefits with one of my closest friends would end up being the best sex of my life?
Or that sneaking around with her would be more fun than publicly parading any other woman in this city?
We’ve agreed it’s been fun to act like there’s nothing to see here, to pretend that I don’t know what it feels like to be buried deep inside her heat, or like she hasn’t made me privy to the fact that she likes to be bent over and taken from behind. We’ve fucked every way imaginable, yet with midnight fast approaching, I can’t stop thinking about kissing her tonight.
I realize now that I would have been content staying home on New Year’s, celebrating with her at my place or hers. Low-key. Order in. Have some drinks. Kick back and then have sex.
She’s been doing a fine fucking job of torturing me since the moment she opened the door. But now, from across the room—locking eyes with me as another man vies for her attention—it’s another level. Tired of the distance, I weave my way through the party, heading straight for her. Eyeing the curve of her exposed lower back where it meets the top of her ass, I lower my gaze to the short red dress highlighting her great legs and then back up. The graceful line of her neck is on display under a loose twist of her hair, drawing my attention to that spot I tease with my tongue near her ear that drives her wild.
It’s warm in here, so I tug on my collar.
Slowing when I pass from behind, I lean in close and whisper, “I’ll be on the balcony if you’re looking for someone to kiss, Marché.”
Turning back, I catch her gaze dip to get a good look at my backside before those bright blues reach mine. “And why would I be looking for someone to kiss, St. James?” She takes a sip of her champagne, acting prim when I know how she shreds my clothes when we’re alone. Those buttons don’t stand a chance against her desire to see me naked.
I don’t either, but I never did when it came to Marlow.
We may have been just friends all these years, but I always gave in to her whims. And more recently, to her sexual desires. Not without a little, or a lot, of teasing as a lead-in. But we both benefit from the deal we made.
I tap my watch and wink. “Ten minutes.”
She grins before some jackoff dressed in a tux dares to fucking touch her bare shoulder to get her attention. There’s more than one reason she’s watching me, so the fucker needs to take the hint and move along.
Of course, he doesn’t hear my internal tirade. I’m a gentleman, after all, and this is a party. My fists clench, but I keep walking, not looking to end this year in a fight or start the next one in jail.
She removes his hand from her body just before her eyes meet mine again and the slightest of grins graces her lips. She enjoys making me jealous, but it’s become more agonizing every day.
The woman may have been pampered her whole life, but I’ve learned firsthand that the last thing Marlow wants stepping into the mix is a man. She doesn’t let anybody into her life that easily, which has been one of the hurdles we’ve faced. So I know she can handle that situation without my assistance.
I’ve become a student, intent on learning everything about what makes her tick. I’ve spent our time together studying how the puzzle pieces of our lives might fit together. Or if it’s an impossibility.
I read her body language like a book, digging deeper into each of her expressions, the sounds of her pleasure, and most of her glances.
The way her eyes lock on mine, telling me she wants me without saying a word.
Her annoyance, seen in the roll of her eyes when I talk sports with the guys.
The impatience that embodies her tapping foot when she’s bored and ready to go to the next place.
Those are the simple ways she expresses herself.
It’s the soft lines on the outside corners of her eyes that make my chest tighten. I know the genuine smile that caused them is from something I said or the joy she feels. The gentle way she touches my leg when a meal with our friends has her feeling connected to me, even if short-lived. Even when she treats what we do as casual sex, I see through her.
Marlow Marché has started treating me in ways that allow wonder to creep in—what if we tried for more? I’m not opposed to this idea anymore, not like I used to be. In fact, with her, I’m beginning to like it.
A lot.
Little mysteries embody the parts of her left to discover, and I can’t wait to unravel every one of them.
“Jackson?” Fuck. “There you are,” Mr. Morgenstern starts. He’s a former client from when I was an advisor for Christiansen Wealth Management. We made a lot of money together. He also hosts one of the best parties in Manhattan. Not only did I score an invite but my five friends were also included. I wouldn’t have come if they weren’t, but I thought I’d actually get to spend time with them. I haven’t. Not so far.
I’ve been paraded around the place as Morgenstern’s golden ticket. But I need a break from the stale financial conversations I’ve been stuck in for the past two hours, looking for free advice.
“Do you have time to meet with a friend in the library? He’s in need of some good advice,” he asks.
I start backing through the crowd. “It’s almost midnight, and I promised my friends—”
He checks his watch. “Ah. Yes. Go. I need to find my wife. She’ll kill me if I don’t kiss her.”
I escape, leaving him there mumbling about Argentina 1986. Sounds like that was the only time he’d made the mistake of not kissing his wife at the stroke of midnight.
Tugging at the sleeve of my dress shirt, I straighten the cuff as I trek through the party toward the large balcony. Large being the distinguishing factor from the other three this apartment has.
When I push through the door, the gang is almost back together. As best friends since college, we always kick off the new year together. Rad, Tealey, Cade, Cammie, and me. We’re only missing Marlow. I’m hoping she’ll be here in time, but we didn’t set anything in stone. We never do.
A wink.
A nod.
A subtle insinuation.
That’s usually enough for the other to get the hint to move behind closed doors. Even when subtle, she knows the signals without me making a production. I don’t have to chase her down just like she doesn’t do that to me, but when I look back, she’s not coming. Yet.
Should I sneak back in to help her free herself from the crowd, or should I disappear to avoid being stood up? Maybe.
Whatever I decide, I need to figure it out fast. That or be stuck with couples kissing all around me while I stand alone at midnight twiddling my thumbs. Or staring at me, like they are now, which makes me think it’s too late to make a break for it. “Hey,” I say.
“Hey,” Rad replies, moving his arm from his fiancée Tealey’s waist to her shoulder.
