And I’ll be damned, it wasn’t a podcast. It was a book. An audiobook, to be exact. Lady Jane was aromance novelist,American Tailamongst her top-selling books. As a teenager, my sister used to hide books like this under her bed; “Books for the devil” my momma had called ’em.
Curiousity burned in my veins, wondering what else this seemingly proper woman listened to. Was the whole book full of stuff like that?
Before I could think twice, I pulled up the author’s page and scrolled to findAmerican Tail.The devil on my shoulder grinned as I hitBUY NOW.
CHAPTERTWO
POLLY
There, in the inky black of the shadows, stood Lucian. His ripped chest appearing cut from granite, sweat glistening under the silvery bands of moonlight. As if an internal clock struck, his head strained back, eyes forcefully shut in both agony and ecstasy, a fierce howl letting loose from deep within. His muscles began to pulse as the night filled with the sound of flesh tearing and bones breaking. In a symphony of shadows, moonlight, and magic, his perfect mask was ripped clean, revealing his true self as his magnificent wolf form broke free.
The Seduction of the Shiftby Angel Marie
Narrated by Michael Smolton
Four Weeks Later
“I’ll have the eggs Benedict.”
My father always ordered the eggs Benedict.
This was our fourth country club brunch, making it his fourth eggs Benedict, and the fourth time this year I had to face his judgment. And when your father’s a judge, there’s plenty to go around.
Meeting for brunch every Sunday was the stipulation he placed prior to me and my two kids moving from Chicago to my vacant childhood home in Green Valley, Tennessee, one month ago. Wearing his typical dark suit and tie, my father frowned at the menu displeasingly, then folded it and handed it to our server.
“Excellent choice, Judge. And for you?” our sweet server, Kathy, asked me.
“I’ll have the egg white omelet with the hash browns.” She winked at me as she took my menu. She was my favorite as she always gave me an extra ketchup cup to go with my hashbrowns. Eating hashbrowns without ketchup was like eating pancakes without syrup. A waste of calories.
I also ordered the same thing each time. Maybe one day I’d try something different, but ordering the same thing somehow seemed easier. I knew an egg white omelet and hashbrowns met with my father’s approval, as he didn’t remark on my choice. So, ordering it felt like the path of least resistance. Growing up the only daughter of the widowed and esteemed Judge Alan Alberton, I’ve taken this patha lot.
“How was your week, sir?”
“Uneventful.” My father adjusted his water glass and silverware to be in the exact place he preferred. Fastidiousness, keen observation, and intelligence were my father’s MO, and while it made him an excellent judge—his almost encyclopedic knowledge of the law made his courtrooms efficient and his decisions fair and swift—it made growing up under his roof . . . difficult. I’d compare it toThe Sound of Music, except I had no siblings, Julie Andrews never showed up after my mother died when I was twelve, and my father sure as hell never smiled at me while singing a song about little white flowers.
Looking up from the table, he seemed to inspect me, then cleared his throat. “How was your week?”
I hesitated. Let’s observe how I’d have answered if I was being honest:“Well, exciting week. First, Ryla was kicked out of her swimming lessons at the YMCA because she punched a kid right in the stomach for cutting the line at the diving board. Then I was threatened to be sent to collections for the twenty-two-thousand-dollar bill for Max’s intensive outpatient program this past February that my health insurance is refusing to pay despite getting a pre-approval and am now in our third appeal process.”
Instead, I replied, “Great. Work is going well, and Mrs. Simon is wonderful with the kids.”
To be fair, that last part wasn’t a lie. I’d been incredibly lucky to have found Mrs. Simon, a sweet, retired schoolteacher, to be the nanny for my two kids when we moved back to Green Valley. Since she started with us, I felt like maybe, just maybe, we would finally get back to normal.
Whatever “normal” meant.
I hadn’t seen anything approaching normal for almost a year. Ten months ago, my husband of twelve years asked for a divorce, then went off on a yearlong yachting expedition relinquishing all legal and physical custody of our children. It’d been seven months since our longtime au pair, Giselle, moved back to Italy, and five months since I’d had to quit my pediatrician job to homeschool my son after severe anxiety made it impossible for him to go to school. Any nest egg I’d had from the sale of our home after the divorce went to health care fees and living expenses, so any hope of buying a new home in Chicago had died a slow and painful death. Moving back to Green Valley was the very last option I had, so I called my father. He lived and worked as a judge in Knoxville, so I knew the country house I grew up in near Green Valley was empty. It’d been empty for twenty years, ever since I’d moved out right after high school.
It was only a brief head nod that let me know he’d heard my reply. His focus remained on the strawberry jelly he meticulously spread across his cut croissant. After a few minutes, he asked, “Does that mean you’ll be changing your schedule to full time?”
My father was referring to the bold parenting choice wherein I decided to “shirk” my work duties over, you know, my less important responsibilities, like raising my children. My father would know all about that.
It took all of my willpower to keep up my calm and controlled front, a front solidified with reinforced concrete since I was twelve years old. So, I kept my answer brief.
“No.”
“I thought the purpose of working part-time was to watch the children. Now that you have competent childcare, you should be able to work full-time.”
No, the point of my slightly reduced-hour contract was to have flexibility and availability for my children and to attend Max’s counseling appointments.
