Breathless

  Breathless

  A Love Serial

  Maria Luis

  Alkmini Books, LLC

  Contents

  Breathless: a Love Serial

  Author’s Note

  1. Claire

  2. Claire

  3. Jake

  4. Jake

  5. Claire

  6. Jake

  7. Claire

  8. Claire

  9. Jake

  10. Claire

  11. Jake

  12. Claire

  13. Claire

  14. Claire

  15. Jake

  Epilogue

  a Love Serial, Book 2 has now begun!

  The Original Voting Polls

  Join the fun!

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Maria Luis

  About the Author

  Jake Matthews has seen me at my worst.

  We’re talking me dressed in a chicken-suit, selling fried wings for his family’s restaurant kind of bad—a fact he never lets me forget.

  He’s arrogance wrapped up in Hollywood good looks.

  A New York City lawyer who owns vintage cars (I’m pretty sure he’s overcompensating), and who takes delight in driving me insane.

  I wouldn’t mind punching him in his handsome face. I also wouldn’t mind kissing him, just to shut him up.

  And then he sends me a note: “When you bite into a cherry, just know that I’m imagining the same. Your legs over my shoulders. My mouth tasting your sweet heat. Your fingers tugging at my hair. I want you, Claire. But you already know that, don’t you?”

  Under all that sex appeal and swagger is a man who won’t stop until he’s left me breathless...

  Copyright © 2017 by Maria Luis

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover Designer: Najla Qamber Designs

  Proofreading: Tandy Proofreads

  Created with Vellum

  To those of you who read, voted, and made Breathless what it is today.

  Thank you for reading.

  Thank you for joining me on a wild ride during the summer of 2017.

  And thank you for all the blindsides with this story.

  For twelve weeks, Tuesdays were my highlight because of you.

  *

  *

  *

  *

  Good job, honey.

  Author’s Note

  (Please Read)

  Breathless is not your average romance novel. It’s what I fondly call a “Love Serial.”

  In other words, each week for two months, I allowed readers to cast their votes to determine what happened next in the storyline. The following week, I ran with the most popular option and wrote the next chapter. I didn’t know what would happen; my readers didn’t know what would happen. All I can say is that there were ties, blindsides, and a good dose of sexy tension.

  As one reader put it, “I’ve always wanted to have a story written for me, and with Breathless, I felt that way for the first time.”

  So, sit back and enjoy!

  At the back of this ebook, you will find a list of the choices readers had at the end of each chapter, as well as a notation for which option “won.”

  And if you’re interested in taking part in the second season of my Love Serials, it has officially kicked off and you can join in on the voting. Link is available at the back of this ebook.

  Much love,

  Maria

  1

  Claire

  It is a truth universally acknowledged that men can only think with one head at a time.

  Yes, ladies, I went there. Don't you dare pretend you don't know what I'm talking about.

  Let's put it this way—you're out to dinner at a real nice restaurant. You've put on your sexiest LBD—because what date doesn't call for such a thing when you’re out on the town—and you are more than ready to make some conversation with the man you've been eye-fucking for weeks now at your local bar.

  So, there you are, champagne glass clasped in one hand. With the other you execute the most perfect hair flip there ever was, because of course you are dialed up to damn-you’re-fine status this evening.

  And then you make eye contact with him (Stephen, in case you’re wondering) across the table. You stare at him, he stares at you. You sip your champagne, subliminally sending him messages like, “I’m so enjoying our discussion about our astrological signs right now.”

  He swipes the pad of his thumb across his bottom lip. The look reads, “Girl, the only astrological-anything you'll be seeing tonight starts with the moon and ends with Uranus.”

  Now, if he said that out loud, things would progress differently, because, honestly, it’s really weird and also a complete turn-off. But that's not what he says, he doesn’t say anything, and so you proceed to the next step of the night. You giggle, hair toss, giggle again, drink champagne, and then his eyes move away.

  They move away, and you're thinking … hello, my hair flip is amazing. My makeup is amazing. My tits are amazing—look at them!

  But his attention has vacated the immediate premises, and not even your little black dress can recapture his focus. You plant your hand on the table, grumbling beneath your breath about Neanderthals masquerading as modern-day men, and glance over your shoulder to see what is so damn exciting behind you.

  Nothing is better than the hair toss, nothing.

  Your gaze flits over old couples, young couples, and everything in between, and then…

  Your heart squeezes, because seated four tables over is none other than your date's ex. You know this because you stalked him on Facebook like the modern-day woman you are.

  This is not good, this is not good at all.

  Then, the ex lifts her gaze and . . . damn. She makes eye contact with your date, and that's a wrap. The man is officially not thinking with his cock anymore.

  You twist back around. Stephen is already climbing out of his chair.

  Your fingers snake out to grab his wrist, just before he exits the scene completely. “Are you picking up this tab?” you ask. No way is it your problem when he's the one ditching.

  He frowns, his attention darting back to his ex. “We didn't even order food yet.”

  “I'm sorry,” you coo demurely, training your features to look ticked off, like you’re one second away from reaching for the steak knife sitting on the table, “but from what it looks like . . . you're leaving.”

  “That’s my . . . hell, Claire, I'm sorry.”

  You know what? Screw the storytelling narrative.

  I glare up at my date, letting my fingers overtly brush the steak knife on the table. Stephen’s gaze drops to where I’m practically petting the serrated utensil, and he inches back. Good. We’re right on track. The only thing left to do . . . this is so not my favorite part of my evening, but it must be done. And I might as well have fun with it because when you do what I do, it’s all about finding the glimpses of joy in the bucket-load of sob stories.

  “So, what,” I demand, “you're just going to waltz over there and . . .”

  His handsome features wince. “Talk to her, hopefully.”

  “Didn't she dump you after you cheated on her?”

  Brows furrowing, he asks, “How do you know that?”

  Instagram, mostly. There's a hell of a lot a person can piece together from a person’s choice of inspirational quotes. Still, I’m not going to admit to that. I may have an un-official degree in Online Stalking, but no way do I have to give him this information on a silver platter. Plus, not all of my information came f
rom Instagram. The good stuff came from the original source herself.

  I calmly sip my champagne. “Lucky guess,” I tell him.

  “Well . . .” He trails off awkwardly, scrubbing a hand over his perfectly shaven jaw. “Look, I'm sorry. Tell the server I'll take the tab. Order whatever you want.”

  My fingers tap impatiently against the table. “You're supposed to be a jackass, you know. Since you're not stripping me naked tonight”—at this, coloring works up his throat and I swallow my satisfaction—“the least you can do is pretend to be a jerk.”

  Blue eyes squint in confusion. “You . . . want me to be an asshole?”

  I nod. “It'd make me feel better.”

  “Ah . . .”

  I motion at him. “This is a very lackluster attempt right now.”

  “I don't know what to say.”

  “How about that I look slutty tonight?”

  He peers down at me. “Don't women hate that word?”

  “No,” I tell him, sipping my champagne again. “We love it. It boosts our ego, strokes it real good. And since you won't actually be stroking me, the least you can do is do what I say.”

  I can see the hesitation lingering in his expression. He darts a quick glance over at his ex, and then brings his focus back to me. Then, he lets out a big breath. Here we go . . . “You're a slut, Claire Holloway.”

  “One more time,” I tell him, motioning with my index finger for him to turn the volume up a notch, “just a little louder for me.”

  His shoulders creep closer to his ears. “You're a SLUT, Claire Holloway.”

  That's my cue.

  Without further ado, I grab my champagne glass by the stem and toss the liquid into his face.

  He comes up spluttering about the same moment that I snag my purse and jab it at his chest. “How dare you,” I growl with every theatric-part of my being, “how dare you treat a lady in such a way.”

  His lips part, and the champagne dribbles like droplets cascading from a bubbling fountain from his chin. “What the hell, Claire? What the ever-living hell?”

  Another satisfying jab with my purse. “You don't get to judge a lady like that.”

  “What—you told me to say that!”

  Bringing my purse to my chest, I glower at him, and do a fine job of it, too, if I do say so myself. “It was a test,” I sniff, “and, in case you didn't realize it, you totally failed.”

  “I-I . . .” His face contorts with frustration. “You're a nut job, Claire Holloway, you are a complete, fucking nut job.”

  A smile twists my lips and I lean close to him, as if hoping to impart some big, dark secret. “Yes,” I say sweetly, “but I'm the nut job your ex hired.”

  And with his mouth hanging open, and his blue eyes wide, I leave him standing there and waltz over to his ex-girlfriend's table.

  Humor glints in her eyes when I say, “Your call from here, Miss Smith. The minute he saw you, it was over for me. To be frank, I think he quite likes you.”

  “Yes,” she says, glancing over at her ex who is still causing a scene, “I think he just might.”

  I smile pleasantly—this is my job after all. “If that's all you've got for me tonight . . .”

  “Go ahead, darling. You were utter perfection tonight, just as I envisioned. I appreciate the help, and I'll see you at the gym on Monday.”

  I bend down to buss her cheek good-bye, make a quick detour to the hostess to pay my tab (tax deductions, ladies, tax deductions), and take my leave.

  After all, when your day-to-day gig comes down to working as a starving actress in New York City, you'll take what you can get. I like to call myself an opportunist freelancer . . . I go where the demand is.

  Tonight, it was playing the loose girl looking for a one-night-stand (at the bequest of Stephen’s ex, to see if he was worth taking back), tomorrow it will be … oh, damn it all the way to hell, I think I'm dressing up as a chicken again.

  My eyes squeeze shut at the thought as I stand out on the street, waiting for a cab to recognize my cue that I’m looking for a ride.

  I've done the chicken-costume gig a few times now, and it's hell every time. Not because of the costume, though it's as horrendous as it sounds, I promise you, but because of the restaurant owner's son, Jake.

  I swear that bastard keeps hiring me to pass out drumstick samples on the street, just so he can laugh at me the entire time.

  I hate him, I do.

  But there's a part of me which finds him sexy, if not a little rugged around the corners. And as much as I hate dressing up like Big Bird, I never tell him to shove it where the sun don’t shine when he calls me to cover a shift.

  I may be broke, but I'm also suffering from a ridiculous school-girl crush.

  The money is sweet, but something tells me that the man tastes even sweeter.

  2

  Claire

  I run a giant, padded claw over my sweaty boobs just as a car rolls past me at my Intersection of Shame. The window lowers, a man’s face emerges from the depths of the shadowed vehicle, and he hollers, “I’d love to puck-puck-puck-p’kaw you!”

  Rooster jokes—how original. I’m not even sure he realizes that I’m a hen, and that I wouldn’t sleep with him if he were the last rooster on Earth.

  My arm lifts and I shoot him the bird (literally) with my talons. The sound of honking cars eclipses whatever other condescending words he has for the chick in the chicken suit.

  (I will stop the chicken puns, but not yet—it’s the only thing that makes this gig bearable.)

  “I hate my life.”

  I don’t look at my fellow victim, Darci. If I do, I may lose whatever composure I’ve scraped together today. It’s one thing to wear this Big Bird costume—without a mirror nearby, I can forget the fact that I look utterly ridiculous. But if I glance Darci’s way . . . well, there won’t be any way to pretend that Big Bird hasn’t totally taken a stroll down stripper lane, and now comes in a package of metallic-gold booty shorts and a bustier that would give an A-cup the same amount of cleavage as a DD.

  If it sounds like a horrible wardrobe choice, you’d be right. The bustier and booty shorts sit over the chicken suit itself, and there are so many feathers protruding at so many angles, it looks like we haven’t been waxed . . . ever.

  With a talon, I click on my microphone so Darci can hear me. “We have ten minutes left.”

  “We should have called it quits the moment we ran out of samples two hours ago.”

  My gaze drops to the empty tray at my feet. Sure enough, the drumsticks have been gone for over an hour, but I figured it was best to stay out here than to potentially run into Jake Matthews, the stealer of hearts.

  He doesn’t have my heart, mind you, but that hasn’t stopped him from catching every Jane, Harriet, and Sally’s in Brooklyn.

  He never keeps them, fickle playboy that he is. If you’re wondering how I know so much about him, just remember that I have that unofficial degree in Online Stalking. A skill, I’d like to point out, that comes in handy during the rare occasions when I drink one too many flutes of champagne and can’t help but do a little Google searching.

  “Five more minutes,” I tell Darci. “You’re off for the rest of the day, aren’t you?”

  Unlike myself, Darci works at the Matthews’ family restaurant, The Roost and Hen, as a full-time office receptionist. And, unlike myself, Darci is paid salary. I’m a freelancer, which means that I need to freelance my butt off until my full four hours are a wrap if I want to make the most of my paycheck.

  “I—oh, hell.”

  My feathers still their ruffling. “What?” I whip around, talons going to my head piece to keep it from falling off. The street is oval-shaped, thanks to my limited vision and the cut-outs for my eyes, but then I see the car, and . . .

  Oh, hell.

  Jake.

  The driver’s side door of his red, vintage Mustang swings open, and one finely polished shoe hits the cement, followed by the other. Crisp Chino’s
follow next, and my mouth waters in anticipation for the best part of him—his wide chest, those spectacular abs that are concealed today by an equally crisp white button-down—and then I see his face.

  Thank God for the chicken suit, because no one but me knows that I’ve just blossomed about fifteen different shades of red.

  Dark sunglasses sit perched on his nose, lending him a bad boy air that is all too realistic. Jake isn’t a bad guy. He helps with his parent’s restaurant, even though he makes oodles of money as one of New York City’s top lawyers; he’s been known to sit through a cross-stitching session, just to please his aging grandmother; and, if I’m not mistaken, he frequently donates a lot of his money from his law firm to local charities.

  So, not a bad guy, but he’s not necessarily a good one either. In the six weeks that I’ve been working the chicken suit, there’s been no escaping his barrage of “girlfriends” who come into The Roost and Hen while on the hunt. I’m not sure if he has a magical penis, or whether these girls just don’t realize that they’re wasting their time, but Jake rarely takes them out and even that never stops them from believing they’ve found The One.

  In six weeks, I have seen no less than eight women stroll into the family restaurant, mascara smeared, as they pledge their case to Darci to let them see Jake.

  I’m convinced that if he weren’t so good-looking then this wouldn’t even be an issue—his personality is atrocious.