Suit: Best-Dressed Series, #1
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About this ebook
More than anything else, she wanted romance. That thing that made a man do extraordinary things for a woman just because he loved her.
She wanted, for one moment, to live the life of novels and fairytales.
Wealthy businessman, Ludwig Fabrinni, has a closet full of expensive suits, not to mention a cushy job and anything else money can buy. The director at a well-known publication company, he's surrounded himself with textbooks, encyclopedias, and educational materials. But when his boss puts him in charge of the new romance department, his life takes a dive.
Romance? What man reads romance?
Writer, Kirsten Friedman's, life has fallen apart. She's lost custody of her son and is dead broke. When Ludwig saves her from drunken embarrassment, what starts out as his act of kindness turns into an amazing job offer. Perhaps, working for him, she can get her life back on track.
But what seemed clear-cut soon proves to be much more complicated. Things at the publishing company aren't as peaceful as they seem and the man she spends all her days with struggling with the very thing that keeps throwing them together – love.
Book 1 of 2 in the BEST-DRESSED SERIES by best-selling author, SUZANNE D. WILLIAMS.
Suzanne D. Williams
Best-selling author, Suzanne D. Williams, is a native Floridian, wife, mother, and photographer. She is the author of both nonfiction and fiction books. She writes a monthly column for Steves-Digicams.com on the subject of digital photography, as well as devotionals and instructional articles for various blogs. She also does graphic design for self-publishing authors. She is co-founder of THE EDGE. To learn more about what she’s doing and check out her extensive catalogue of stories, visit http://suzanne-williams-photography.blogspot.com/ or link with her on Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/suzannedwilliamsauthor.
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Book preview
Suit - Suzanne D. Williams
Dear Reader,
When I wrote this story in 2013, I was still wet behind the ears, as they say. My style of writing has developed more since then. Some of the things I used to write, I don’t care for anymore. Writing is like any other craft, you work at it every day to improve, to fine tune yourself, to find what you do best.
I still love this story, the sweetness of its message, but I have taken the time to edit it so it would flow more like my newer works. I have kept the scenes in their original order, simply polishing my thoughts, as well as improving the grammar and punctuation. I believe it is better, and I hope you enjoy it.
God bless,
Suzanne D. Williams, Author
www.feelgoodromance.com
June 29, 2019
CHAPTER 1
LUDWIG FABRINNI TOSSED the bound manuscript across the desk, and page after page slipped from the clasp and scattered across the floor. What is this trash? I don’t print smut.
Isn’t smut, sir. It’s romance.
He pinned a scowl on his secretary, and she squirmed. Rolling her six-inch heel onto its side, she tilted catty-corner.
Like I said,
he spoke evenly. Smut. Heaving bosoms. Bare-chested men. Sex.
N-no, sir. People falling in love. Lords and ladies. Castles. Knights.
He snorted. I. Don’t. Print it.
He enunciated each word carefully.
She righted her shoe and knelt to pick up the papers strewn across the tile. Stacking them neatly, she refastened the clasp. I’m afraid you do, sir,
she said. She sat the manuscript back before him, and this is your first one. I suggest you read it.
With that, she spun around and exited the room. Ludwig stared after her, catching a glimpse of her pink pencil skirt, reflecting in the far glass wall. He lowered his gaze to his desktop.
‘Sensual Deeds.’ Right,
he mumbled. He flipped the corners with his thumb and selected a page halfway in. ‘Ava gasped as Humboldt trailed his mouth along her silken throat.’
He released the pages, and they fell back into place. No way.
Grasping the desk’s shiny, black phone, he lifted the receiver and pressed five. A steady tone hummed in his ear, then a deep male voice answered.
Richard, why was I not informed about this ... this ... filth on my desk?
he asked. "What happened to The Battle of Castillon?"
He reclined in his chair, his feet on the desk. The light from the lamp gleamed on the tips of his Italian loafers. "What do you mean, you canceled it? It was the final installment in James Darcy’s series on the Hundred Years War. We can’t very well publish all but the last one ... I know the sales were down, but ... Your wife?"
At Richard’s last statement, he removed the phone from his ear. Since when did Parlance Publishers cater to Richard’s wife? This was a money-making business, not a social club. They weren’t here to make housewives swoon but to educate the masses. Histories. Biographies. Textbooks.
He returned the phone to his ear in time to hear Richard’s final words.
Wait ... You’re kidding, right? I will not ... You can’t ...
But he did, and he had.
Ludwig’s gut contracted. He replaced the phone in its cradle and hung his head in his hands. Of all the impossible, horrible things.
A knock at the door brought him upright.
One hand on the knob, his secretary tucked her auburn curls behind her ear. Bad news?
she asked.
The worst.
She offered a crooked smile. You heard then?
He dropped his feet to the floor and straightened the sleeves of his suit. How is it you knew all this before me?
She tilted her head. How many years have I worked for you?
Three.
She’d been an excellent secretary. Efficient. Organized.
Then you should know by now I read the memos.
She nodded toward his overflowing inbox.
He removed the paper on top and flipped it over. There it was in bold print—the end of his sanity and the beginning of endless hours of Ava and Humboldt.
KIRSTEN FRIEDMAN INHALED in the vain hope it would silence the rattle of her nerves. Instead, her hands trembled, and her keys jangled. She clenched them tighter in her palm.
Hello, Galen.
She rehearsed her lines. I’m a little broke.
A little? More like, a lot. More like, a month’s worth of bills and an empty refrigerator, broke. The last dollars she’d had she spent on wash suds.
She peered out the passenger window of her compact car toward the front door. Galen’s new wife, Myra, had hung an autumn wreath. He probably liked that. He probably liked it more because it wasn’t her.
This wasn’t getting any easier, sitting here. A parade of faux ants nipped at her fingertips, and she curled and uncurled her hands. Mashing the latch, she climbed from the car. Her sneakers squeaked on the concrete pavers, arching toward the doorway.
She should have dressed up. Myra always put her in the shade. Name brand clothing. Expensive perfume. Fingernails she could dig a hole with. She wouldn’t though because that’d be messy, and Myra was all about cleanliness.
The door knocker clanged loud enough the entire neighborhood would hear it, and she jumped in place then settled herself. Wouldn’t do to appear shaky. Galen never liked shaky. Galen never liked her, for that matter, except for the two months leading up to their wedding.
After the wedding night, he was finished. Problem was, all it took was once, and now they were hitched for life through the presence of their son.
You’d never know their son lived here though. Every time she’d come to pick him up for the weekend, the place was pristine. Not a toy, a plaything, not one sign of young life anywhere. That wasn’t how it was supposed to be. A boy should be messy, leave his bike on the lawn, a ball on the stoop, toy cars in the entranceway.
The rush of air through the opened door blew cool on her cheeks.
Galen raised an eyebrow. He slouched on the door frame. Don’t tell me,
he said. You need a loan.
Was she that obvious?
He frowned. "When are you going to get a real job? You lost custody of our son. It looks like you haven’t eaten in two days, and you’re driving that." He inclined his head toward her car.
Honestly, Galen, you don’t have to be mean.
Though, he was right on all counts. Except saying she’d lost custody was harsh. She’d given him custody with the assurance she got weekends—weekends she had food to feed him, that is. She’d missed the last one, and she just wouldn’t ... wouldn’t disappoint her little boy again.
Galen backed up in the doorway and motioned her inside.
Her eyes were drawn to the seat of his khakis. That was the first thing she’d noticed about him. Not his eyes. Not his smile. But a very fine derriere bent over a car hood. And that hadn’t changed. He was an attractive man, although his personality ruined it.
The foyer opened into a formal living area dressed in varying shades of white. Achingly white. Again, not kid friendly. More showplace, magazine-cover friendly. Myra-esque.
She didn’t dislike Myra. No way her son would live here if she did. No, it was more they were opposites. While her life descended into chaos, Myra’s become more and more coordinated, down to the color of her shoes.
Where’s Lyle?
Kirsten asked.
Galen glanced over his shoulder. At school. But you knew that. It’s why you came at one o’clock.
He waved his hand. And Myra is out, to answer your next question.
Relief washed over her in a cool wave. She hated asking for money with Myra around, worse than anything. Too much condemnation, much of it self-inflicted.
Galen returned forward and moved from the room. He reappeared a minute later. His wallet in one hand, he splayed it open and eyed her. How much do you need?
How much? She bit her lip. Five?
Hundred?
His voice rose.
I-is that too much?
She cringed.
Galen sighed and counted five one-hundred-dollar bills into her palm. She folded her fingers around them.
Just take it off the next payment,
she said.
He shook his head. You know I won’t do that. I can’t see you hurting, despite our past.
She exhaled her gratitude. Even when they’d divorced, Galen had taken care of her, bought her groceries, filled her gas tank. He was basically a good guy, simply not in love with her anymore.
I need to speak with you,
he said. He closed his wallet and stuck it in his back pocket. Myra and I were talking. We think Lyle should stay here on the weekends.
What? No!
Kirsten grabbed his sleeve. You can’t do this to me ...
Wait a minute,
he said, tugging free. Let me finish. It’s only temporary, until you get a job. Kirsten, be reasonable. You can’t pay your bills, and I’ll bet you have no food. How can I send our son over there?
He’ll blame me. He’ll think I’ve abandoned him.
She couldn’t stand the thought of that.
Compassion flickered on his face. I’ll tell him different. Plus, I told Myra that you had to have time with him, so why don’t you come over on Sunday afternoon? Say, like three? He’ll be awake from his nap then. I’ll fix supper.
Sunday afternoon. She’d been relegated to a couple hours on Sunday? How much more