Read Online Mr. Fix-It by Crystal Hubbard - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Crystal Hubbard
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birthday.
Khela’s gift to her was the dedication: To Daphne Carr and Carl Sandburg, for obvious reasons.
A few months later, after graduating with honors, Khela moved to Boston to take an assistant researcher position at a small bioengineering firm. She’d enjoyed the work—few recent college grads had the chance to develop cutting-edge biologic matrix products right out of the gate.
But when Fawn offered a multibook deal with Cameo, Khela veered from a career path that had once seemed perfect.
The polarized windows of the banquet hall softened the intensity of the sunlight reflecting off the placid surface of the harbor. Unlike the night before, when she’d accepted the Torchbearer Award, she now easily saw clear to the back of the room, where people stood two rows deep to hear her keynote address.
More than ever, Khela truly appreciated how damned lucky she’d been all those years ago. There were better writers and better storytellers, Daphne foremost among them, sitting attentively at the ivory linen-draped tables dotting the enormous room. The next Beverly Jenkins, the next Theresa Medeiros—hell, the next Khela Halliday—was probably right there in front of her, sipping a slightly chilled Boyden chardonnay, or picking the bitter radicchio from her mesclun salad.
What can I say to give that woman what I clumsily stumbled upon? Khela wondered, misery clawing at her insides. How can I inspire these women to pursue their dreams of romance when I don’t believe in love myself?
“Miss Halliday? Are you all right?”
A light touch of a hand on her shoulder shook Khela free of her reverie. The woman who had presented her with the Torchbearer now stared at her, a moue of concern behind her pleasant smile.
Tears boiled behind Khela’s eyes as she nodded. She offered a weak smile that seemed to do little to convince the RAAO president, who nonetheless, backed away and left Khela alone on the dais.
She cleared her throat, and glanced down at her note cards. Then her head snapped back in a double take.
The silent crowd in the back parted to admit another guest—Carter, dressed in a crisp white button-down and freshly pressed khakis. He hunkered down, as if it were possible to make himself any less noticeable as he murmured “Excuse mes” and “Sorrys” in the preternatural quiet. Even though he bumped knees, shoulders and displaced a guest or two, his polite words were met with openly adoring looks from every woman he passed.
His hands briefly lighted on the back of Rose Gracen’s chair. The petite Inspirational-romance novelist’s cheeks flamed as her pert nostrils flared to inhale the air he had just moved through.
Venus Black, the star author of Throb Books, actually licked her cherry-red lips and ran three red-taloned fingers along her décolletage when his backside swept past her face.
Daphne glanced away from him long enough to give Khela a hearty thumbs up, but Khela looked at him only after he had removed her pink Prada croc clutch from the one empty chair at the head table. After seating himself in the chair, he plopped the clutch onto his lap. His expression unreadable, he stared at her.
She swallowed hard, but the hard lump in her gullet remained. Her super-looking super had the attention of every woman in the room, and every one of them probably believed him to be every bit as educated, wealthy and sexy as one of the heroes in her books.
With a gnawing, burning sensation growing in her belly, she imagined what they would say if they knew that the Prada clutch resting on Carter’s lap probably cost more than he earned in a year keeping up her brownstone.
The handbag was as much a part of her charade as Carter. Daphne had “loaned” it to her, along with the two-carat diamond studs glinting in her earlobes. Khela’s idea of accessorizing was typically limited to a pair of simple white-gold hoops and nothing more. Daphne had convinced her to purchase the clutch and diamonds in
Khela’s gift to her was the dedication: To Daphne Carr and Carl Sandburg, for obvious reasons.
A few months later, after graduating with honors, Khela moved to Boston to take an assistant researcher position at a small bioengineering firm. She’d enjoyed the work—few recent college grads had the chance to develop cutting-edge biologic matrix products right out of the gate.
But when Fawn offered a multibook deal with Cameo, Khela veered from a career path that had once seemed perfect.
The polarized windows of the banquet hall softened the intensity of the sunlight reflecting off the placid surface of the harbor. Unlike the night before, when she’d accepted the Torchbearer Award, she now easily saw clear to the back of the room, where people stood two rows deep to hear her keynote address.
More than ever, Khela truly appreciated how damned lucky she’d been all those years ago. There were better writers and better storytellers, Daphne foremost among them, sitting attentively at the ivory linen-draped tables dotting the enormous room. The next Beverly Jenkins, the next Theresa Medeiros—hell, the next Khela Halliday—was probably right there in front of her, sipping a slightly chilled Boyden chardonnay, or picking the bitter radicchio from her mesclun salad.
What can I say to give that woman what I clumsily stumbled upon? Khela wondered, misery clawing at her insides. How can I inspire these women to pursue their dreams of romance when I don’t believe in love myself?
“Miss Halliday? Are you all right?”
A light touch of a hand on her shoulder shook Khela free of her reverie. The woman who had presented her with the Torchbearer now stared at her, a moue of concern behind her pleasant smile.
Tears boiled behind Khela’s eyes as she nodded. She offered a weak smile that seemed to do little to convince the RAAO president, who nonetheless, backed away and left Khela alone on the dais.
She cleared her throat, and glanced down at her note cards. Then her head snapped back in a double take.
The silent crowd in the back parted to admit another guest—Carter, dressed in a crisp white button-down and freshly pressed khakis. He hunkered down, as if it were possible to make himself any less noticeable as he murmured “Excuse mes” and “Sorrys” in the preternatural quiet. Even though he bumped knees, shoulders and displaced a guest or two, his polite words were met with openly adoring looks from every woman he passed.
His hands briefly lighted on the back of Rose Gracen’s chair. The petite Inspirational-romance novelist’s cheeks flamed as her pert nostrils flared to inhale the air he had just moved through.
Venus Black, the star author of Throb Books, actually licked her cherry-red lips and ran three red-taloned fingers along her décolletage when his backside swept past her face.
Daphne glanced away from him long enough to give Khela a hearty thumbs up, but Khela looked at him only after he had removed her pink Prada croc clutch from the one empty chair at the head table. After seating himself in the chair, he plopped the clutch onto his lap. His expression unreadable, he stared at her.
She swallowed hard, but the hard lump in her gullet remained. Her super-looking super had the attention of every woman in the room, and every one of them probably believed him to be every bit as educated, wealthy and sexy as one of the heroes in her books.
With a gnawing, burning sensation growing in her belly, she imagined what they would say if they knew that the Prada clutch resting on Carter’s lap probably cost more than he earned in a year keeping up her brownstone.
The handbag was as much a part of her charade as Carter. Daphne had “loaned” it to her, along with the two-carat diamond studs glinting in her earlobes. Khela’s idea of accessorizing was typically limited to a pair of simple white-gold hoops and nothing more. Daphne had convinced her to purchase the clutch and diamonds in
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