Truly Madly Deeply (Forbidden Love, #1)

by L.J. Shen

“Dylan,” I gasped, melting into her hug, breaking into a million pieces and knowing somehow, she’d hold m...

She was crazy if she thought anyone I’d met in NYC could rival the awesomeness of her, but I could tell she didn’t want to talk about us. I grabbed her hands. They were limp against my own. It was time to change the subject.

“It’s lobster season, so he’s away on the boat for three to four weeks. Depending on the catch.” “Tucker is a fisherman?” My eyebrows jumped to my hairline. I was so far out of the loop. “Well, NASA reached out for the aerospace surgeon position, but he said the Texas weather didn’t agree with him.”

“Oh. I’m not,” she answered airily. “All he does when he’s around is watch football, drink beer, and complain I don’t fulfill my ‘womanly’ duties. Team Ocean all the way.”

You had sex with Tucker Reid, Dylan. Ohmigod.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to make myself a pregnant lady plate and devour it while listening to a complete stranger reciting horror birth stories to me. Last time I socialized, Melissa told me about her

“Dot.” A husky voice drifted straight into my bloodstream, and I knew exactly who it belonged to. “My sincere condolences.”

He was so gorgeous. I was so screwed. Row Casablancas had always been a showstopper, but this? This was the face of my feminism leaving my body permanently, buying a one-way ticket to Bora Bora.

The chiseled planes of his jawline, the dent in the center of his lower lip, the crinkles fanning his heavily lashed eyes. What business did he have being so attractive? His lips moved, and that was when I realized he was talking to me while I was imagining myself riding that mouth like the future of the nation depended on it.

We were definitely not on the same page. I wanted to climb this man like a tree. And he wanted me to fall from one and break my spine. It was obvious he wanted to be polite and move on. His body was already half-tilted to give me his back and walk off. My eyes ticked.

That’s not even a sentence, Cal. Just a collection of filler words.

felt my chin wobbling.

Row said nothing. Just stared at me dispassionately with his liquid gold eyes. I wiped my face quickly. I hated that every encounter with this man involved me looking and acting like a hot mess.

“I asked you.” I tried peering into his face, dread blooming in the pit of my stomach. “Because you live there. Wikipedia says so. So it must be right. It’s right, right?” “Great, another stalker.” He scowled, stabbing a piece of prosciutto

“You’re famous and I grew up with you. Of course, I jealousy-googled you. It’s not like I stole your sperm. And hey, I actually had the chance.”

“Though ‘live’ is an exaggeration. This place doesn’t even have a fucking Whole Foods.”

Sarcasm was a good look on him. Hell, a trash bag probably would be too.

Also, why did he have to be good at everything he touched? It was completely exasperating to someone like me, whose life was a string of failures, interspersed by bodega runs and late-night trips to the laundromat.

“Taco Bell was taken.”

He rubbed his thumb over his lower lip, and my nether region clenched in response.

Asshole is my entire personality.”

My confession frightened me. It was too honest, too raw. Row’s face remained blank and unimpressed. Not one muscle twitched. “What a crappy adolescence you must’ve had to put so much stock in someone who didn’t give a shit. Go back to torturing Lyle with your VH1 trivia.”

usually a ball of anxious sunshine just trying to get along with everyone—I couldn’t let him get away with this kind of behavior.

“Just the tips.” I felt myself blushing and was surprised that I did. Yes, I’d had a crush on him when I was a teenager, but I was over him. I’d only thought about him whenever he popped up on my TV screen or in glossy magazine covers. “Indigo. It represents sadness and mourning.”

Me? I chose my meals like I chose my paths in life—badly. Junk seemed to be the recurring theme in both of those fields, and I always ended up feeling like crap.

All thanks to you, slimeball.

I’d played that night hundreds of times in my head over the past few years, and the only excuse I could come up with was a moment of sheer madness. It was like gambling away your entire life savings at the casino.

“I might become a space cowboy.” “No, you won’t.”

Row a fuming glare that concentrated enough hostility to fuel a nuclear bomb, baring his teeth at him. “Hey, Casablancas. Come to ruin another fine piece of this small town?” he all but spat at Row’s feet as we stood on the buffet-style line along a table.

Whoa. What the hell? Row was royalty in this place. Staindrop’s golden boy. He had been handled with adoration and respect before he’d gone on to become the American Alain Ducasse. His shitty attitude added to his mysterious aura and bad-boy persona.

Too stunned to be properly offended, all I could do was stare at him, jaw on the floor.

Randy shoved his plate in Lyle’s chest, stepping into Row’s vicinity with his fist raised above his shoulder. “You got somethin’ to say to me, Chef?” “Yeah, actually.” Row ate the rest of the distance between them, dropping his plate at the table with a loud clank. “Eat. Shit.”

Gasps erupted from every corner of the room. Whispers and loud shrieks ensued. And poor Lyle, who still looked only half-recovered from our Meat Loaf conversation, pushed Randy to the other side of the room, shoving at his chest like he was breaking up a bar fight.

the two were immediately swallowed by a human frock of gossipers. Everybody’s eyes hung on Row’s face, and nobody came to his defense.

“Because I’m incapable of starting a conversation without turning it into a lovefest for everything nineties related, and I will probably give both of them a ten-minute lecture about the origin of ‘Kiss from a Rose’ by Seal, which, by the way, is one of the greatest songs of all time. Ask anyone with ears.”

“Are you flirting with me or ridiculing me?” I stomped. Actually stomped. The man was insufferable.

“How come you didn’t kick Tuck’s butt for getting together with Dylan?”

“He’ll never be able to jerk off again. His fingers look like deep-fried Cheetos.”

“Tried to.” “Whoa.” My eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets. “Ballsy.”

“That was the next item on my list of bodily organs to destroy if he didn’t man up.”

“Pretty sure you moved away because of college, not as a gesture of good faith.” He popped an olive into his mouth. “I’m talking about my virginity, you swine.” “That was a gift?” He squinted at a piece of Muenster cheese dangling on a toothpick with the utmost concentration. “What’s the return policy on that?”

“I can stand you fine.” “Is that why you’re being sarcastic with me?” “I’m being sarcastic with everyone, Dot. Ain’t nothing special ’bout you.” “You weren’t sarcastic with me back when I was a kid.”

“New rules now. You’re a commoner like everyone else.” “What? Why?” Did he just Meghan Markle me? “You really wanna know?” “Yes!”

His jaw locked, and he appeared to be grinding his molars to dust. Still, through the tension, I detected some pensiveness too. Like he was contemplating giving me a real, non-sarcastic answer.

“All right, I’m tired and my favorite K-drama is about to start. Everyone can leave now.” Pregnant silence. “Other than Calla, I suppose.”

The human ocean of grievers parted for Row, but the looks the townsfolk gave him no longer oozed awe and admiration.

Did they not see what I saw? A disgustingly accomplished businessman? An artist? A sex icon? The celebrity who put Staindrop on the map?

Mom melted under Row’s touch, patting his hand on her shoulder.

People began swarming around me and Mom, offering hugs and words of encouragement before taking off to their griefless lives. I thanked them, my eyes frantically searching for Dylan in the room.

“Please tell me you are an unfortunate hallucination caused by my lack of sleep.” I stepped into the kitchen in a daze. Row was there, washing the dishes at the sink like he wasn’t a famous, stunning human with pictures of him in a tux available for download on Getty Images.