Life of the Party Read online

  Titles by Kris Fletcher

  The Bridesmaid and the Bachelor

  Life of the Party

  Life of the Party

  Kris Fletcher

  INTERMIX

  NEW YORK

  INTERMIX

  Published by Berkley

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

  Copyright © 2017 by Christine Fletcher

  Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.

  INTERMIX and the “IM” design are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  ISBN: 9781101989227

  First Edition: January 2017

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  Contents

  Titles by Kris Fletcher

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Epilogue

  Excerpt from the next Calypso Falls Romance

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Jenna Elias Stirling Elias—now Jenna Carpenter, thanks to her legal name change finally having been approved—gave an experimental lift to the tray of assorted coffees, lattes, cappuccinos, and one lone plain hot tea. Too heavy. Her arms could handle it but her stupid damned leg would give out on her and she would end up sprawled on the floor. Loudly. Messily.

  Not the best course for someone whose mantra was nothing to see here.

  She removed the mug with the tea bag and the silver pot of hot water before trying again. Better, but not quite. Off went the nonfat latte. Ah. That was better. Two trips were a pain, especially when the Brews and Blues coffeehouse was hopping, as it was this on this early June afternoon. But a pain in the ass was infinitely better than making a spectacle of herself.

  Aunt Margie would disagree, of course. But she wasn’t the one hauling overloaded trays through a swarm of folks all focused on their phones, their companions, or their conversations—anywhere but their surroundings. Those who did notice Jenna usually fell into two camps: those who frowned at her for blocking their way, or those who moved aside with an apologetic grin before patting her ass. She would never have suspected that merely crossing a room could be the modern-day equivalent of running the gauntlet, but hey. She had never suspected that she would find herself doing the broke student-waitress thing at her age, either.

  Soon, she reminded herself. She had her new name. Her degree was one semester from completion. In a few months she would be far away from Calypso Falls. And memories. And history.

  Meanwhile, there was coffee to deliver.

  Jenna ducked and dodged her way to table six, the big one in the farthest corner (of course), with no real trouble. The people seated around the table—four men, three women—barely paused in their conversation as she delivered drinks to their recipients. Good. She hated when people came to an abrupt halt at her approach. For one thing, she always felt like she was interrupting something crucial. For another, a part of her always wanted to check her smile and her walk to make sure that both of them were still working properly.

  “I’ll be right back with the rest,” she said to anyone who might be listening as she picked up her empty tray.

  The woman who seemed to be running this show glanced up from the sea of notepads, tablets, and phones filling the table. “My latte?”

  “On its way.”

  “In that case, could I get a fruit cup, too, please? Yogurt. No granola.”

  “Sure thing.”

  Jenna moved back behind the counter, grabbed a fruit cup, and added it to the tray with the remainder of the drinks. She turned to the register and was modifying the receipt when a deep voice from across the counter commanded her attention.

  “Excuse me.”

  She glanced toward the speaker. Her usual smile—the one her ex had paid so much money to repair—slipped a bit as she took in the man who waited patiently beneath the Order Here sign.

  He was . . . well, it was odd. There was really nothing extraordinary about him. He was dressed well but not flashy, his gray pinstripe suit and muted blue tie obviously good quality but not obnoxiously so. His dark brown hair had the slightest wave at the front, spoiling the otherwise neat lines of his short cut. Everyday, ordinary brown eyes watched her with the mildest interest. They certainly weren’t smoldering, or evasive, or hypnotic.

  Yet she couldn’t quite stop staring at him.

  Her rational brain ticked through the points—attractive guy, my age, waiting politely—while something within her urged her to look harder. Deeper. Before she missed something vital.

  Then he raised his eyebrows and tipped his head, and she caught it. The flash of humor. The air of expectancy. The feeling that, in this moment, she was the only thing that mattered to him.

  “Could I get a coffee, please?”

  Hello, reality, you cruel bitch.

  “Um . . . sure. Sorry. I’ll be right with you.”

  Okay. So his desperate focus had been not on her, but the caffeine she represented. Nothing wrong with that. Better, even, than the possibilities being offered up by her imagination.

  She returned to the register and focused on the order she needed to modify. It would be a lot easier if she wasn’t certain that he was following her every move, watching her hands glide across the keyboard like they held Harry Potter’s wand. Or maybe he was the one with the magic. It certainly took all of her resolve to stay on task when she had this sense that she was being compelled to turn back to him.

  Lucky for her, learning to walk again had taught her a few things about determination.

  At last the receipt was modified. She braced herself and returned to Mr. Compelling with the practiced smile she kept in her pocket for any situation requiring tact and/or faking.

  “Sorry for the delay. One coffee, right?”

  “Right. Milk, no sugar.”

  “Let me deliver these and I’ll get right on that.”

  She reached for the tray, but he placed a hand across it.

  “Hang on,” he said.

  Well, hell. There was nothing like watching a guy turn into an entitled, demanding jerk to crash through the Hormone Net.

  “I’ll be right back.” She said it firmly, resisting the urge to explain playground rules about taking turns to him.

  “That’s going to the table in the corner, right? The loud group?” At her nod, he added, “I’m with them. Add my coffee to the bill, le
t me pay up, and I’ll do the delivery myself.”

  Her first thought was that Aunt Margie had got things seriously wrong when she said that all men were shortsighted asses who couldn’t see beyond the ends of their peckers.

  Her second was that he’d caught her limping and felt sorry for her.

  She straightened her shoulders, her backbone, her hips. “Thanks, but I can manage.”

  “Sure you can. But I’m heading that way anyway.”

  “That’s very kind of you, but I’ve kept them waiting long enough.”

  “Yeah, well, I kept them waiting longer. If I come bearing gifts, they might be more forgiving.” The grin flashed again. “In fact, why don’t you toss a few of those muffins on the tray, too. I have a lot of groveling ahead. It might go better if I feed the beasts before I throw myself on their mercy.”

  How was a girl supposed to resist that?

  Jenna laughed before she knew what she was doing, loosening the knot that had tightened her insides.

  Not every man was her ex. Not every man was her father.

  “Okay. The customer is always right, and all that jazz.” She drew his coffee and added half-and-half. “But don’t tell the boss, okay? Can’t let her think I’m slacking off.”

  So what that the boss was her sister, who would be far too delighted that Jenna had talked to a man—a good-looking one, to boot—to worry about who carried a tray to the table.

  “My lips are sealed.”

  Jenna had to check. Not only were they sealed, they were also curved in a secret smile. And utterly enticing.

  Not now, Jenna.

  “That’ll be a dollar ninety-eight, please.”

  Up went the eyebrows again. “For everything?”

  “I’m sorry, did you mean you are—”

  “Taking care of the bill for the whole table. Right.” He extended a credit card. “Unless that complicates things too much.”

  “No, it’s fine. I just forgot.”

  Because she had. She’d forgotten that he had said he would do it. Forgotten that there were still men who did what they said they would do.

  Of course, she hadn’t forgotten that when most people did something nice, there was usually an ulterior motive at play. That was undoubtedly the case with this guy.

  Pity. He had seemed so nice.

  “In that case,” she said, “give me a second and I’ll give you the grand total. Unless you think there will be more.”

  “Now is good.”

  She turned back to the register and compiled the bill, presenting him with the new total.

  “Great,” he said with a nod. “And by the way, the coffee is perfect.”

  She heard that every day. But no one had ever said it with quite that same fervor. Nor had anyone else ever followed it up with, “A cup of this is just what I need to face the lions.”

  It was his nod toward the table that got to her—the way he pulled her into his corner, building a bond of You and Me Against the World. There was nothing she could do but grin.

  Grin, and check out his name as she ran his card.

  Cole Dekker.

  Why did that sound so familiar?

  “Here you go.” She handed over the slip for his signature, peeking as he signed. She had a thing about handwriting. Not that she thought it revealed everything that the handwriting “experts” at the state fair would want folks to believe, but she was pretty sure there was a correlation between a strong, confident signature and a person’s integrity.

  Her ex had always signed with a hurried scrawl of his initials. Nothing more. His signature had practically screamed I am far too busy and important to waste time on such trivial matters.

  Cole Dekker’s name was easy to read. All the letters in the right place. It filled the space perfectly, not so long that it had to be squeezed into place, not so short that it looked lost and unfinished on the line.

  “Here you go.” He pushed the pen and slip back toward her, flashing that grin once again. God. Hadn’t anyone ever explained the concept of overkill to him? Because really, this guy was too much.

  Not that she was complaining. Not really. It was kind of nice to look at a guy and be impressed again. That hadn’t happened in ages.

  But there was something about him that made his actions feel like . . . not a show, precisely. But almost. Like he knew people were watching, not because he was vain but just because that was what always happened, and he wanted to be sure he left them with a good impression.

  There was something oddly comforting about that. No, not comforting. Familiar? Maybe. Unsettling? Definitely.

  “Thanks again.” He pulled the loaded tray from her reach and was on his way with a speed and grace that would never be hers again. She didn’t want to stare, but it was like she had no choice. And neither was she the only one. He left a path of turned heads and lingering glances in his wake. Only some of them were of the curious or predatory variety. The bulk of them were from folks who simply seemed . . . interested. As if they expected him to burst forth with something witty and insightful and important at any moment.

  What was it about Cole Dekker?

  ***

  Cole set the tray on the table and distributed the assorted cups and plates to their owners. Despite what he’d said to the woman behind the counter, the group assembled in front of him was nothing like lions—except when it came to sinking their teeth into a project on his behalf. He owed them big-time. The least he could do was spring for some drinks and pastries to keep them happy.

  There was a flurry of thanks, some offers of money, some good-natured teasing. He took his seat, knowing what would come next.

  “Well, now that the candidate is in the house,”—Allison, his cousin and campaign manager, delivered the words along with a stern glare in his direction that brought soft laughter from the other participants—“let’s get this meeting on the road. Item number one: we need a location for our campaign headquarters.”

  This was what he got for not making time to read the agenda Allison had sent to him before making the office-courthouse-coffee shop dash. “I think it’s a bit early to be thinking about that.”

  The man seated at Allison’s side made a buzzing sound and leveled his finger in Cole’s direction. “Wrong answer.”

  “Come on, Ram. It’s only June. We haven’t even made it through the primary yet.”

  “Not that I’m dissing this place,” Ram said with a wave to the room, “but it’s a little public. Anybody could be listening.”

  “Yeah, I see them lurking behind the chairs, waiting to steal our strategy.” Cole felt safe taking the sarcastic route with Ram. They had known each other since Ram called him a boogerhead back in second grade. The need to be polite had passed a long time ago.

  “Ram’s right.” Allison didn’t like to admit that, as Cole knew all too well, but she was fair enough to say it when it was true. “We need a home base.”

  “Not until after the primary.”

  “Cole.” Allison pointed her spoon in his direction. “I get it. You don’t want to waste money, you don’t want to appear overconfident, yada yada.”

  Overconfident? That was a good way to describe it. Better than counting his chickens before they were hatched, which was the phrase that kept running through his head. He’d made that mistake once before and had his heart handed back to him on a monogrammed platter. Losing this election wouldn’t carry that same risk, but he was in no hurry to tempt fate.

  “But,” Allison continued, “you might not have noticed that the storefront two doors down from here is available. I think we should look at it.”

  “It’s a great location,” Ram said.

  “With plenty of parking.” Aubrey, his volunteer coordinator, glanced though the plate-glass window of Brews and Blues toward the Suburban necessary to haul her four kids and all
their gear to hockey practices.

  “Any idea what they’re asking in rent?” That was from the treasurer, Tim. Probably already anticipating how much paperwork he was going to have to file for this expense.

  “I called while I was waiting for you all to arrive.” Allison flicked through her phone, managing to pull up her notes and inflict guilt at the same time. She always had been able to do three things at once, even when they were kids. “They’ll give us a deal if we do a six-month lease, which I know is longer than we need, but it works out to be just a bit more than they would want for four months. And that way we’d be all set to stay there once the election is over and you need a place for your transition team.”

  “Whoa. Time-out.” Cole rested his elbows on the table and leaned forward to give Allison the are you shitting me? look she needed right now. “Come on, Allie. It’s one thing to stay optimistic. It’s another thing to have me elected and moving into the mayor’s office.”

  “You’re going to win the primary without breaking a sweat,” Allison shot back. “Nobody else wants to take this on and you know it. We need to look ahead and focus on beating Tadeson. And now that he’s getting such bad press—”

  “I know. I know.” Cole had to stop her before she started ranting. Allison was the most reasonable of women until it came to current mayor Paul Tadeson. Then she tended to lose her objectivity. “But the deadline to declare for the primary is still weeks away. And even if I win that, and even if Tadeson ends up smeared across every newspaper and talk show in town, a lot of folks still feel a lot of loyalty toward him. They’re not going to toss him out lightly, just because of some bad press.”

  Press that hadn’t even been that bad, to be honest. Paul Tadeson had merely been linked to someone with a track record of buying politicians. There was no evidence that he himself had gone to the Dark Side.

  Ram spoke up. “All the more reason we should get ourselves settled into a real base now. Because once we have the primary behind us, shit is gonna get real.”

  Ram had a point. The primary might not be too intense—Cole wasn’t going to let himself assume a cakewalk, no matter how nonthreatening the competition—but November was the contest that mattered. Once the primary was behind them, they would need to hit the ground sprinting.