Page 6 of Miss Behaved
Motivation, inspiration, relaxation. And whatever you do, do not—I repeat, do not—call Steven.
I’m Monica Meadows, best-selling author. Who does Steven think he is, cheating on me and having the nerve to beg forgiveness? I don’t need a man to fulfill me, and I certainly don’t need him.
When I reach the front of the registration table, a young girl with bleached blonde hair smiles up at me.
“Name?”
“Monica—”
“Lopez.” I’m cut off by a deep voice attached to an all-too-familiar face.
“Carson.” I frown, and he shoots me one of his Hollywood grins that makes me feel like I left my knees back home. Of all the places, of all the times, of all the people. Of course the universe would send me Carson Calloway in a moment like this. No doubt it’s a form of cosmic torture for pissing off the gods of romance.
If my misfortune with men could be traced back to a single moment in time when the universe let out a hiccup and permanently messed up my dating life, it would all go back to him.
The boy next door I climbed trees with, shared gum with, hugged when his dad drank too much. The boy who slipped into my room and slept on my floor on nights when his parents would fight too loud. The boy who moved away with his mom junior year and then only came back during summers.
The boy who grew up.
We both did.
Somewhere between playing hide and seek and growing breasts, I went from thinking of him as a friend to something more. And something more is what I gave him. Right before he disappeared and never came back.
“I’m not seeing a Monica Lopez,” the girl says to me, flipping through the pages on her clipboard.
“Meadows,” I say, narrowing my eyes on Carson. “It’s Monica Meadows now.”
“That’s right.” He grins, turning my insides into mush.
“There you are.” The girl beside us flicks her pen against the paper. “Here’s your pass, the week’s activity list, your room key, and the presentation schedule.”
“Thank you,” I say, eyes fixed on Carson, who seems intent on a staring contest.
I shouldn’t mind locking gazes with his predatory eyes. After all, Carson Calloway lives up to his reputation for a reason. His looks are downright sinful. He is flawlessly put together in his fitted t-shirt and dark jeans, while still looking effortlessly casual. A perfectly chiseled jawline, with a hint of scruff that keeps him from being completely polished. The man is tall, and he’s built like a blonde god. And judging by the smirk on his lips, he knows it.
If it weren’t for those ocean blue eyes threatening to pull me under, I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of blinking first. But, strong and determined as I may be, those pupils make me weak.
Turning around with my welcome packet in hand, I try to cut through the crowd and get away from him as quickly as possible. In no version of today is it a good idea for me to be caught up in the orbit that is Carson Calloway, even if it’s for only a moment. But just as I reach the edge of the room, Carson slips in front of me and brings me to a halt.
“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” he says.
I square my stare on him, irritation bubbling inside me. “Why are you even here? You write crime, not romance. Isn’t there a murder or a BDSM convention you should be at?”
“If you want to be tied up, Mon, all you have to do is ask.” He dips his chin and looks at me with a spirited grin.
“I don’t—” My voice catches in my throat. “I’m not doing this with you.”
“I’m just messing around.” His posture relaxes, and he sticks his hands in his pockets. “It’s been a while.”
“Ten years.”
Ten years since you broke my heart and branded me with the inability to fall for anyone who isn’t an asshole.
“I’m aware.” His smile tightens. “Surprised it’s taken us this long to run into each other, us being in the same profession and all.”
“Same profession, very different circles,” I remind him.
If there was a counterpart to my sweet-as-pie romance, it would be Carson’s crude, rude, and downright filthy novels. Not that I’d admit to him how I know that.
