Complete Me (A 1Night Stand Story) Read online

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  Complete Me

  Copyright © 2014 by Catherine Peace

  ISBN: 978-1-61333-679-3

  Cover art by Mina Carter

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work, in whole or in part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Decadent Publishing Company, LLC

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  Also by Catherine Peace

  This Time Next Year

  Complete Me

  A 1Night Stand Story

  By

  Catherine Peace

  ~Dedication~

  Thank you to my BFF Connie Smith for writing and perfecting the songs in this book.

  Without you, Ty wouldn’t have a song to sing.

  Chapter One

  “You did what? ”

  Of all things to suggest. Of all the backhanded, dirty things to do. If Penelope Birchfield hadn’t been one of the best PR people in the business, Claire would’ve strangled the woman through the phone. This topped every ploy Penny had used to get books on shelves and into readers’ hands. Every single, solitary one.

  “It’ll be good for you,” the PR maven said. “I’ve been working with you for five years now, and in each interview, you’ve danced around the significant other question. I got tired of it. It’s not helping your image.”

  Ah, yes. The Holy Image could not be tarnished. Not like Claire didn’t have a perfectly good reason for staying single.

  “You’re in the public eye too much not to have something steady. I mean, really, how many best-selling romance authors do you know who don’t even date?”

  With enough time, Claire could find a suitable response. Right then, Penelope had her too flustered to think straight. “I’m busy all the time, thanks to a certain somebody.”

  “Yeah, you should really fire that bitch.”

  “I should. Definitely.” It wasn’t entirely Claire’s fault her Prohibition-era series, set in the Windy City and inspired by the still-popular 1970s band Chicago, had done so well. She stared at the text of All Roads Lead to You, her latest, and sighed. “In the meantime, I have edits to finish.”

  “Noooo, you have a date to get ready for. I sent his profile to your private e-mail. You should probably look it over.”

  While she still had Penny on the phone, Claire accessed her seldom-used account. “If this guy is anything less than perfect….”

  “I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised.”

  She pulled up the e-mail and opened the attachment, labeled, 1Night Stand—Claire Greene. After a few moments, her date’s profile dominated her laptop screen. Dear God, there’s every romance writer’s dream. Ty Krause’s photo alone had her salivating thanks to a sexy rocker look, dark hair, intense stare, and the most beautiful eyes she’d ever seen, more like mahogany than true brown. “He has a lip ring.”

  “Yes, he does.”

  “You might have mentioned that.” Only Penny knew about Claire’s peculiar fetish. The silver ring accented his lower lip, which she’d already imagined nibbling on. “I still don’t think this is a good idea.”

  “No, it’s not a good idea. It’s a fantastic idea.”

  “How’d you hear about this company anyway?” In the last few years, she’d been goaded into trying every dating service known to man, but somehow, 1Night Stand had escaped everyone’s attention.

  “Teri recommended it.”

  Claire almost imagined the nonchalant shrug that must have followed Penny’s statement.

  “Teri Carr?”

  “The very same.”

  The one who’d rocketed up both USA Today and The New York Times’ best-seller lists within the last couple of months?

  “Are you still there?”

  “Y-yeah. Sorry. Having a writer moment.”

  The other woman grunted. “Right now you need to have a woman moment. Read Ty’s profile and figure out what you’re wearing, princess.”

  Princess. Like she caused so much trouble. “Yes, wicked stepmother.”

  “Aww, aren’t I the fairy godmother?”

  “We’ll see.”

  ***

  Ty’s profile contained everything she needed to know. A thirty-two-year-old Charleston native, a musician—score—with sexual interests similar to hers, none of which were horribly kinky. The more she read, the more she liked, but she couldn’t stop wondering why his name sounded so familiar. Google told her after a few keystrokes—he’d been the bassist and main songwriter of an early-2000s hard- rock band, Dejected, which had one hit, penned by said bassist, and received serious airtime on pop stations. She vaguely recalled the tune, though she couldn’t remember the lyrics. Currently, he wrote songs for some teenybopper band from England that probably used them to get laid.

  Talk about a fall from grace. She understood sacrifice, though. You have to go where the money is.

  Clicking on the e-mail again, she jotted the details on her desktop calendar. It’s one night. What harm could it really do? Besides, it’d be something fun to talk about in interviews.

  Yeah. This could be good. Maybe a little actual romance in her life would translate to her characters’. For some reason, Trace and Ella still wouldn’t cooperate even after multiple rounds of edits and her third extended deadline loomed on the horizon. If she begged her publisher to postpone the release again, she could very well lose her contract. Claire had to make the scene sing. It set up the climax of the story.

  Closing the document, she decided to give in to the girly need to raid her closet for a suitable outfit. How often did a romance author get to have dinner with a sexy songwriter? Then she thought about the photo. She had his, so he’d have to have hers, right? Time for a phone call.

  Before Penelope could say hello, Claire said, “Which photo did you send?”

  “What?”

  “With the profile. Which photo did you send?

  “I didn’t use any of your author shots, if that’s what you’re worried about. Your sister sent me one she liked.”

  “Oh, God. You let Sheila decide? You really are the wicked stepmother.”

  “It’s a nice picture. Very flattering.”

  “E-vil.”

  Penny sighed. “Have you fo
und an outfit yet?”

  Claire rolled her eyes. “I’m. Looking.”

  “Look harder, and don’t call me until you have something to report.”

  Wicked, evil, insufferable stepmother, indeed.

  Chapter Two

  Ty fingered the bass and tried to push the newest bullshit melody he’d written for Sleeping Angels out of his mind. Bunch of twerps. What the hell business did fifteen-year-olds have making music? Shouldn’t they be in school? Or at least back in England and far away from him?

  Didn’t help that their dumb-as-fuck manager did stupid shit, like buy them all alcohol the night before their last performance. Theo—nicknamed Shy One for some ungodly reason—had been slightly drunk when they’d performed and botched every word. Not like Ty put a ton of big words into their songs, but still. A musical massacre like that would hurt anybody. At least Sleeping Angels were on tour and out of his hair for a while so he could remember what real music sounded like.

  The only consolation: they paid well. More than well. And they got played like nobody’s business on the radio. Every other song the previous summer had been “Seize the Summer” and the royalties had paid for his cozy Kiawah Island beach house, which he used as a hideaway-slash-studio. Whoever conceptualized private beaches needed to come over for drinks.

  Instead, he jammed on a nice solo session, a combination of a few of his band’s old songs and something he hadn’t gotten out of his head quite yet. It’d started as a few chords, which he’d banged out on the keyboard, but refused to go any further than that. What he’d played so far that day hadn’t given him any breakthroughs. Creative limbo hell had closed its gates and locked him in. And when that happened, his mind always turned to Jocelyn.

  It’d been almost ten years since she’d left, but no matter what he did, he couldn’t get her out of his mind. Joss had been his muse, his true love, his everything, and when she walked away, he’d crumbled like the pathetic POS he was. He couldn’t make it without her. Dejected fell apart, and he took to writing songs for whiny teenage boys to make ends meet.

  And hadn’t had a girlfriend since.

  He’d barely managed two friends-with-benefits situations over the years. They’d been good—Brielle had been great—but they’d done nothing to fill the hole left by his muse. Sometimes, he heard part of “Beautiful Blaze” on the radio and turned the sound off altogether. He’d written the music for Joss, written the lyrics so she’d know exactly how much he loved her, and she’d walked out anyway. For all his bravado, his heart could not say “Fuck that bitch” like his mouth had been able to.

  He’d tried a few dating sites, too, and come up empty. His last resort had been Madame Eve’s 1Night Stand, and while another one-night stand was the last thing he needed, it’d break the monotony. Graeme, Dejected’s guitarist and Ty’s one friend, had suggested the service, said it’d worked wonders for a friend or cousin, or somebody. Couldn’t hurt, right?

  With that thought, he begrudgingly stepped back inside. The cool air from the A/C chilled him for a moment, but he shook it off. The background of his computer showed the last time he’d been truly happy—Dejected’s final concert. He and Graeme had been involved in an epic guitar duet that had lasted almost ten minutes and energized the crowd to the point its roar drowned out the monitors, and he’d never felt more alive. Like living electricity.

  Then Joss left him for Anderson, the drummer, and Dejected never played again.

  Pushing the memory aside, Ty opened his in-box. Buried in the avalanche of unread messages, he found one from Madame Eve.

  He opened the e-mail before he bitched out of it. The text contained the necessary information, which he’d note later. Right then, he wanted to see the profile.

  When it loaded, his date’s smile, so carefree and beautiful, caught his attention. She looked like she’d been in the middle of laughing, and at that moment he decided it’d be his mission to hear that laugh, see that kind of joy light up her face.

  Then he noticed her eyes, some shade of aquamarine he’d never seen on another person. They were clear, like the waters of the Mediterranean, full of mischief and secrets. He grazed his fingertips over the photo, wondering if her porcelain skin would be as smooth as it looked, if the Cupid’s-bow mouth would taste as sweet as he imagined.

  His cell phone rang. Trance broken, he glanced at the screen and a jolt rocketed through his body. Why now? He debated letting it go to voice-mail, but when Jocelyn wanted something, she could be relentless.

  “Hey, Joss.”

  Without humor, she chuckled. “Ty. I heard you’re all alone.”

  Ah, their code. If either of them said they were alone, the other would come to the rescue. Most of the time, he did the rescuing. He rolled his eyes. “What do you want?”

  “Just wanted to see how you were.”

  Translation: she wanted to make sure he still missed her. “Actually, I’m kind of busy right now.” While he looked over the date details, he tuned her out. They’d played this stupid game for so long, it’d become an almost ritualistic part of his life, and he’d let it. He shouldered his half of the blame, but a small part of him still desperately needed his ex in his life, in whatever capacity he could have, even if all he got was this. Stupid as it sounded, he’d never given up hope someday they could try again. Maybe, after tonight, he would.

  “Doing what?”

  To tell her, or not to tell her…. “I scored a gig at a small bar. Acoustic set.”

  “Aww, well, good for you.”

  “Thanks. So I have to go get ready. Sound check’s in an hour.”

  He ended the call before she had a chance to toss in how much Anderson’s new band loved their current European tour.

  Life had more to offer than this; it had to. So what if he didn’t play large venues anymore? His life brought him satisfaction. Mostly.

  Running a hand through his hair, he pushed Joss from his mind. After all, he had a beautiful woman to get ready for.

  And, hopefully, she wouldn’t be batshit crazy.

  Chapter Three

  Claire had heard of “musician time,” but as she checked her watch to discover she was thirty minutes late, she wondered if Ty knew anything about “author time.” Her hero, Trace, had finally gotten past his hang-ups and asked Ella to dance in the new scene she’d plotted. The deadline for their story loomed over her head like a storm cloud ready to unleash the heavens.

  Smoothing her dress, she approached the maître d’. “Jada—er, Claire Greene.” So weird giving her real name for something anymore.

  With a polite smile, the older gentleman led her past tables filled with happy couples, seated next to each other with barely any space between them, unaware of anyone else in the room. Some were deep in conversation, and others appeared to be enjoying their golden years with glasses of wine and laughter, almost as oblivious as the younger couples. She headed toward the partitioned area of the restaurant, marked private.

  She shivered, and not from the cool air circulating through the room. The anticipation, the excitement, the miniscule amount of dread, all caused her to tremble. But nothing had prepared her for the man sitting at the only table there, situated in front of the enormous bay window. When he spotted them, he stood and smiled, looking her up and down with a beautiful mahogany stare. The maître d’ dipped his head and left.

  “Ty,” she said. One word took every bit of her concentration. He’d dressed in a way she defined as rock-star chic. White shirt, black tie, black blazer with sleeves that stopped at his muscular forearms, tight-fitting dress trousers, and a black-and-white checkered fedora with a black band. On any other person, it probably would have looked ridiculous, but on him? Just right.

  “Claire. A pleasure to meet you.” He planted a small kiss on her knuckles. Then he walked around her and pulled a chair out. “You look beautiful.”

  Dear, sweet baby Jesus. Forming coherent sentences would be the least of her challenges that night. “Thank you. You look�
�.” As a thousand adjectives tumbled through her overstimulated brain, he simply smiled. She wondered if the look on her face said what her mouth couldn’t.

  Then he removed the hat and swept a hand through shoulder-length hair she wanted to play with. “I started to think you wouldn’t show.”

  She laughed, too loudly, considering her nerves. “I’m sorry. I got swept up in work.”

  “It happens.”

  The next couple of hours passed almost in a daydream. They discussed their similar interests—a love of action flicks and Bruce Willis, music, reading, the outdoors—and shared a few somewhat embarrassing stories. She told him about her books, and he talked a little about his band, but without the enthusiasm she’d expected. Hiding something?

  “How about heading upstairs?” he asked after dessert. “The room is…pretty spectacular.”

  And it was.

  Typical of Charleston, the suite had been decorated in subtle creams, yellows, and light and navy blues to provide a nautical feel. Straight ahead, a small seating area with a sand-colored couch, dark end tables, and a large flat-screen TV in a matching cabinet took up a quarter of the actual space. And, of course, situated as a focal point in the room, a fireplace. Not like it’d be cool enough to warrant a fire, but somehow the room would have been incomplete without it.

  To her right, in its own nook, sat the bed, a large four-poster dressed in luxurious mother-of-pearl silk. A cornflower-blue chenille throw with the Castillo logo covered the foot. She spared a quick glance at her date. He watched her, unabashedly, and her face heated. So what if she thought about having sex with him? That was part of why she’d agreed to their date. Well, why Penny had agreed to it on her behalf, anyway.