Title: La Vie en Rose
(Life in Pink)
(Life in Pink)
Author: Lydia Michaels
Publication Date: April 12th, 2016
Category/Genre: Adult Romance
Emma
Sanders has always dreamt of being a bride, wearing fancy gowns, pretty pearls,
and—of course—falling madly in love. Then life happened. Finding herself one
fiancé short of her happily ever after, she leaves the fairytales behind. Some
days are simply too perilous for pink gowns and pearls.
Riley
Lockhart is the sort of man who can make a woman lower her gaze with only a
smile. That he doesn’t realize his charm makes him all the more enchanting.
Determined to save Emma the pain of her breakup, he steps in as a friend, but
soon finds himself wanting more.
She
was just a girl, but she somehow winds up being the strongest woman he’s ever
known. Losing her is not an option and when life can’t be tied neatly in a
pretty little bow, he holds tight to all that he loves—his Emma. His hero.
Sometimes the greatest scars are worn on the inside.
Pre-Order: Amazon / Barnes & Noble / iBooks / Kobo
Riley’s lips twitched as soft ebony curls
ghosted over his bare stomach, lower and lower, tickling his hips and teasing
that tight strip of flesh just below his bellybutton. A deep, satisfied growl
rumbled in his chest like distant thunder as anticipation teetered on
impatience—but it was a good, burning sort of anticipation. Holy fuck, was it
good. Stretching, he gave Curls the access she needed and—
“So I’m thinking we’re going to settle on
coral with deep navy blue accents for the main theme. That should compliment
the nautical look Becket wants.”
Why was his roommate’s voice in his dream?
Shaking off the distraction, his palm
lowered, fingers gently knotting in the satin ringlets to better direct the
ebony waves going down on him. His body hardened as soft kisses teased his
happy trail and she got to work. Yes…
Rolling his shoulders, he stretched his
hips and drew in a slow breath. Heaven. The first true sensation of
tongue-to-tip had his toes pointing as the heat of her pouty lips—
“Whatever you want, toots. It’s your day.”
Oh God, no! What the hell was his sister doing in his
dream? Get out, Rarity! Get out!
The ethereal weight of the dark haired
woman’s touch faded. No, no, no!
There was a soft girlie sigh. “I can’t
believe it’s actually happening. I’m going to be Mrs. Becket Grayson.”
Emma, his roommate, was definitely there
too. Damn it! They were ruining everything. This
was his time. Not their time. Dream blowjob time! The anticipation of sin and
sex paled, as Emma’s voice carried on about champagne toasts and processionals.
His roommate’s incessant wedding planning was officially intruding on everything.
The loft
used to be a sanctuary. The day Emma got engaged their living situation took a
turn for the worse as girlie crap slowly corroded every square inch of his
life—even his fantasies. Passing out on the couch was a dangerous gamble,
leaving him widely susceptible to wedding babble bullshit when he could’ve been
enjoying some nice fantasy head.
“Will I
be wearing coral or navy?” his sister asked then mumbled, “Say navy. Say navy.”
Emma did
that tiny chirp she claimed was a laugh. “You can wear navy, but there’s
nothing wrong with coral.”
“You
know how I feel about pink,” Rarity reminded.
“Coral’s
not pink.”
“It’s in
the family.”
“Fine.
You’ll wear navy, but you’re wearing a dress.”
Rarity
groaned with resignation. She’d always be the brother he never had. “Fine, but
Lexi’s wearing a tux.”
“Look at
these carnation balls I found in this issue of I Do. My florist can make
them in the coral.”
It was
as if he were invisible. They just kept yapping and yapping.
“They
look pink to me,” Rarity said.
He
growled obnoxiously. “That’s it! Do you two mind? I’m trying to sleep!” And
I lost fantasy girl!
A throw
pillow smacked him in the face. “Then don’t use the couch as your bed, dumbass.
It’s noon. Go to your own room if you want quiet,” his sister snapped.
“Sorry,
Riley. We’ll be more quiet,” Emma apologized then whispered, “We could use navy
ribbons to hang the balls off the white chairs we’re renting for the ceremony.”
Their
loft was spacious. Did they have to stage these womanly talks right on top of
him? They could have at least moved to the kitchen ten feet away—or better yet,
parked this prenuptial symposium all the way down the hall in Emma’s freaking
room.
The
wedding plans carried on ceaselessly, as they had since Becket proposed to Emma
six months ago, and Riley once again considered how much happier he’d be
renting his own place. Sharing a loft with two girls, one being his sister,
hadn’t been a bad setup until that damn ring and all those girlie magazines
came along. Before the dawn of the bridal apocalypse everything was kosher.
They
lived in the hipster section on the posh Upper West Side of New York. He liked
his home, loved the industrial feel and the exposed brick walls. The raw space,
exposed ductwork and battered moldings were just aged enough to qualify as
vintage. Splitting the rent three ways afforded them some square footage, but
things were getting a little cramped lately, with Emma’s new obsessions.
His
sister, Rarity, exhibited a tolerance for girlie crap that surprised him.
Rarity was seriously chill, like a pretty guy that peed sitting down. She
didn’t cry or squeal like a valley girl or do that needy drama shit girls
tended to do. She was easily the coolest chick he’d ever met. And being that
she was a lesbian, they had plenty of shared interests.
Never
giving a damn about clothes or purses, Rarity appreciated the finer things in
life, like good beer, decent music, a nice set of tits, and red meat. Her
unarguable beauty and confidence pulled men in from miles away. And for years
he enjoyed watching his little sister turn every last one down. She was his
best friend and Emma was hers.
The only
girlie thing Rarity couldn’t live without, apparently, was Emma.
Rarity
was uniquely striking, with dark shorn hair and high arched brows, but it was
her dry wit and endless sarcasm that could make any man second-guess his
worth—a neat parlor trick to watch. Emma, on the other hand, was compassionate
with soft blonde curls, dimpled cheeks, and eyes that pathologically betrayed
her, eyes too full of innocence to hide her inexperience.
Emma was
the quiet, sweet type that never got in the way. But lately she’d really
cranked up the fem-meter and was driving him insane—which made him a horrible
person, because he was going to shoot her if she didn’t shut the hell up.
All this
wedding talk had to be getting to his sister. Riley was ready to duct
tape Emma’s mouth shut. How in depth could a discussion about linen be? The
texture, the hues in natural light versus candlelight, the thread
count—bullshit conversations like that went on for days. He was amazed Rarity
hadn’t reached her limit and freaked yet.
“I can’t
wait until my dress gets here!” Emma announced, clapping like an excited child.
“I’m dying to try it on.”
Riley
groaned. It was as though no one could see him at all. Screwing his eyes shut
and jamming a pillow over his ear did nothing to drown out her voice. So
much for dream sex.
“You
already tried it on,” Rarity said.
“That
was in the store. Once I get it to the loft, I’ll be able to really appreciate
it. Then, when you get your dress, we can try them on together. It’ll be so
much fun!”
“Sounds
mind-blowing.” Rarity’s sarcasm was so expected it didn’t phase Emma.
The
doorbell buzzed and Emma screeched—literally screeched. “It’s here!” The
chair skidded against the hardwood floors as she catapulted out of her seat.
Yeah, he
wasn’t going back to sleep.
Groaning,
he twisted and cracked open his lids as she sprinted down the hall toward the
main entrance. Craning his neck in the direction of the chair, he peeked at
Rarity, who wore a disinterested expression as she paged through a wedding
magazine.
“There’s
something wrong with her,” he grumbled.
“Yup,”
she agreed.
“This
isn’t going to stop until she gets married, is it?”
“Nope.”
“When’s
the wedding again?”
“We have
nine more months of this and the closer we get the worse she’s going to be.”
Shifting,
he sat up and frowned at his sister. “You’re surprisingly calm.”
“She’s
my closest friend and she really wants me to be a part of this. I can do the
maid of honor thing as long as she doesn’t expect me to throw her some
hideously pink party where girls drink cosmos and act like prissy hyenas, while
being the pole for some male stripper to rub his scabies all over.”
She
sighed and turned the page. “Plus, I smoked a fat joint the second she pulled
out the wedding binder. You could probably cut my leg off right now and I
wouldn’t put up much of a fight.”
“Nice.”
He stared at the front door waiting for Emma to come racing inside at any
second carrying the legendary dress. “She’s not gonna walk around in a wedding
dress for the next nine months, is she?”
Rarity
shut the magazine and tossed it on the table. “Don’t let her hear you call it a
dress. It’s a gown. I’ve been corrected twice. And I have no idea. I
wasn’t born with the bride gene. None of this shit makes sense to me.”
At least
he wasn’t alone. Rubbing a hand over his jaw he yawned. “You’re bringing Lexi
to the wedding?”
“Yup.”
He
chuckled.
“What?”
“You
realize Mom and Dad will probably be invited.”
“They
won’t go,” Rarity said, matter-of-factly.
“What
makes you so sure?”
It
shouldn’t matter anyway. His sister was twenty-four years old. She and Lexi had
been a couple for over a year. It was absurd to hide that she was gay from
their parents. Who cared what they thought?
“It’s
the Devonshire’s fortieth wedding anniversary. They’ll pick that over Emma’s
wedding. You know how they feel about her.”
He grunted.
His parents—mostly his mother—had always been weird about Emma. Though he and
Rarity were nothing like the people that spawned them, they were still blood,
so his and Rarity’s liberal attitudes were often overlooked, but that didn’t
mean their parents would abide the same socialist standards from others.
Their
parents were proud black card members of the upper crust society that summered
in the Hamptons, went yachting on the weekends, and dined on ridiculously hard
to pronounce small foods like Foie Gras.
Riley
was once grounded and accused of being a ‘recalcitrant activist’ because his
friend Jake came over in a PETA T-shirt and asked if he wanted to play Frisbee.
To his mother’s way of thinking, that was a gross and barbaric display of
uncouth trash.
He and
Rarity were generationally wealthy trust fund babies. No matter how much they
survived off their independently earned incomes, Mumsy and Daddy would
always be there to bail them out if needed. It was their shared goal in life to
never need their parents in such a way.
Their
wealth should be comforting, but it felt more like a noose around Riley’s
non-conformist neck. The entire white pants, polo-playing, fracking-investing
group of peers was repellent to him.
Emma
didn’t have a house in the Hamptons or an au pair as a child. She had parents
that worked nine to five and wore—gasp—denim. Her association with the
Lockhart’s was the result of her grandmother’s trust fund, which included
scholarships to the same schools he and Rarity attended.
Once,
while walking the topiary garden with his mother as she sipped a crushed Valium
cocktail, she referred to Emma as ‘that new money filth having a bad influence
on Rarity’. It was clear then that his mother would never approve of Emma,
which quite possibly could have permanently cemented the girl into Rarity’s
life.
Emma’s
fiancé, Becket Grayson, wasn’t a guy he or Rarity would voluntarily hang out
with, but he made Emma happy. The Graysons were paying for the wedding, of
course, so it was nice she was finally getting a fantasy she never expected.
That was why they let her carry on about linens and bows and whatever the hell
a nosegay was. Because she was nice.
“What’s
wrong?” Rarity’s voice broke the comfortable silence.
Riley
glanced at the door and scowled. Emma stood, trembling. Big brown eyes, rimmed
in red, shimmered under a sheet of unshed tears, as she stared at them.
“Did
they send you the wrong dress?” he asked stupidly, then corrected, “Gown.”
He never
saw her upset. It was filling him with all sorts of uncomfortable emotions,
feelings he didn’t know the names of. He wanted her to stop being upset that
instant so he could have his manly emotions back. Dear God, it was like staring
at a helpless basket of kittens floating down the river.
“Emma,
say something,” Rarity insisted.
“It
wasn’t the delivery from the bridal boutique. It—” A stuttering breath
intersected her words. “It was Becket.” The heel of her palm swatted away the
tears as they quickly fell. “We—oh God—we broke up.”
Silence.
This was
bad. How long was an appropriate length of time before someone could say
something in situations like this? And why hadn’t he gone to his own room when
he had the chance? Now he was stuck there, smack dab in the awkward—
“He what?”
Rarity snapped.
Emma
blinked, sending big crocodile drops unchecked down her round cheeks. “We
aren’t getting married,” she croaked. “We’re through.” She spoke as though she
was still convincing herself.
“What do
you mean, you’re through? You just ordered ugly invitations with stupid
anchors on them. Becket insisted on the anchors!”
Her head
crooked as she blinked those big innocent eyes at his sister. “You thought my
invitations were ugly?”
“Who
cares what I thought? What happened?”
Shuffling
to the living room without shutting the door, she delicately sat on the edge of
the overstuffed chair. The picture of the carnation ball was still in her hand,
drawing his attention to her enormous engagement ring as it winked in the
sunlight.
“He was
supposed to be in class,” she whispered.
Rarity
scooted to the edge of the chair and removed the crumpled magazine page from
her grip. “Toots, look at me. What happened?” she asked again, slowly.
Drawing
in a shaky breath, Emma shook her head. “He said he couldn’t marry me. He said
he’s…in love with someone else.”
“What?”
Emma
sniffled. “Her name’s Goldie.”
Rarity
drew back and made a face like she tasted vomit. “Goldie? What is she, a
retriever? Who the hell has a name like Goldie?”
“Good
question, Rarity,” he chimed in. Goldie Hawn’s hot. Don’t mention
that now.
His
sister’s evil stare snapped to him. “Shut up, dick.”
Yeah,
he’d better stay out of this. Figuring now was a good time to escape, he
gripped the arm of the couch and—
“How
could he do this to me? I’m so humiliated!” Emma burst into tears again.
Riley
dropped his head to the back of the couch and shut his eyes. This was going to
take a while.
Lydia Michaels is the award winning author of 23 romance novels. Her novels from the darkly compelling Surrender Trilogy were iBooks Bestsellers and her work has been featured in USA Today. In 2015 she was the winner of The Best of Bucks Award and she has been nominated as Best Author in the Happenings Magazine two years running [2015 & 2016]. She is a four time nominee for the prestigious RONE Award. Her books are intellectual, emotional, haunting, always centered around love. Lydia Michaels loves to hear from readers! She can be contacted by email at Lydia@LydiaMichaelsBooks.com
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