rel="nofollow" href="#u253ef30b-c647-50a9-bf65-ceba9c1c681f">CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ONE
IN THE LIVING ROOM of Samantha Brady’s Upper East Side apartment, right next to her aging laptop, sat a small, green ceramic frog.
The frog would have been considered ugly by most standards, with its bulging dark eyes and a semblance of a mysterious smile, as if it knew something she didn’t. But Samantha loved it. Her best friend, Jack, had won it for her years ago at the Dutchess County Fair, and it had come to symbolize all the unsuccessful relationships with men she had experienced over the years.
Samantha had kissed a lot of frogs while looking for her Prince Charming, but all she’d gotten for her trouble was chapped lips.
The Big Romance that everyone wrote and sang about continued to elude her. The closest she’d come was The Bastard, which was how she always thought of Tony Shapiro, the man she had given her heart to shortly after her arrival in the city, and the man who had caused the naive little farm girl from upstate New York to smarten up and quick.
The Bastard had been married with three children. She’d been humiliated and decimated by the experience. But it had served to teach her a good lesson: Men were pigs, not frogs!
The exception to that was Jack Turner. She and Jack had grown up together in the quaint upstate community of Rhinebeck. He was exasperating and bullheaded, but also kind and caring.
She’d had a secret crush on him in high school and entertained wildly romantic ideas about him during her senior year. But he’d begun dating the very popular Suzy Stedman exclusively, and Samantha knew she was no match for a gorgeous cheerleader with boobs the size of bowling balls; hers were more in the golf ball category. At any rate, she’d put aside her foolish notions and settled for being best friends.
To the left of Samantha’s computer sat another ceramic figurine—a shiny red apple that her mother had given her before she’d left home to pursue a writing career. An inscription in gold leaf read: Take a bite out of the Big Apple. Love, Mom. She’d taken many bites of that apple since arriving to pursue her career as a freelance writer and novelist. But so far Samantha had come up with a lot more seeds than pulp.
And quite frankly, it was the pits.
Writing a book, especially finishing it, was a lot harder than Samantha had originally thought, owing to the fact that she was something of a perfectionist and agonized over every word. There was also the minor problem that none of the publishers she’d queried were interested in a humorous pseudo-mystery/romance novel about two old ladies and their niece, who ran an inn and were suspected of murder because of some buried bones found in their basement.
Apparently, those uninformed editors hadn’t seen Arsenic and Old Lace, or they’d have jumped at the chance to buy her book.
“Are you going to sit there and stare out the window all day, or are you actually going to write something? I thought you had a deadline.”
The front door closed and Samantha turned to face her roommate. Arms crossed over his chest, six-foot-one Jack Turner was disgustingly handsome, every woman’s idea of Prince Charming. He was frowning at her in that no-nonsense way he always did, but she could see the twinkle in his dark eyes and knew he was only teasing.
He’d been her knight in shining armor when she’d finally gotten the courage to move to the city despite her overprotective father’s vehement protests, and then hadn’t been able to find a decent apartment, if there was such a creature to be had.
It had been Jack who’d insisted she move in with him, taking most of the financial burden from her shoulders. That had been almost six years ago, and she hadn’t regretted a single day.
Well, except for maybe today.
“I thought you were going to eat breakfast with the adorable Bunny this morning,” she retorted, referring to Jack’s latest bimbo—uh, girlfriend—who resembled a Siberian husky with her long, dyed platinum hair and ice-blue eyes.
Jack was into bimbos: women with large breasts, small brains and the inability to converse on any subject not having to do with fashion. He was also into noncommitment, so his bimbos—uh, girl-friends—fit the bill perfectly.
“Why are you home so early? Was the sex that lousy?”
His eyes filled with amusement, but he didn’t respond. Instead, he ruffled his dark brown hair and grinned.
“It’s Sunday, in case you’ve forgotten,” she went on. “I don’t have to work if I don’t want to. This article isn’t due till next week, so leave me alone.”
Pulling a bag of bagels from behind his back, he dangled it in front of her, like the devil tempting Eve with that damn apple. The aroma of freshly baked goods surrounded Samantha, making her stomach grumble and Jack grin.
She was a sucker for bagels, donuts, pies, cakes and most unhealthy foods, despite her claim of eating only organic products. Sugar was her downfall. Chocolate was…well, chocolate was chocolate.
In addition to her freelance writing jobs, she’d been working part-time at the Starbucks around the corner, sucking down mocha lattes by the gallon and literally devouring the store’s profits.
