Modern Heart: City Love 3 Read online

  About Modern Heart: City Love 3

  Limited time only: Dream career! Perfect man! The catch? Emotional availability.

  Scarlett Wong has a reputation for toughness. A talented and often feared Creative Director at an award-winning Sydney advertising agency, she doesn’t do relationships, she doesn’t invite men home, and she never stays the night. The only people who see her softer side are her three closest girlfriends, and they’re finally convinced they’ve found her perfect man: John Hart.

  Scarlett’s never been one to back down from a challenge and she’s not going to start now. But when John secures Scarlett an invitation from one of New York’s leading galleries to exhibit her artwork, it means putting herself out there like never before. Scarlett’s perfect man wouldn’t interfere in her life like this – would he?

  For a woman who thinks she’s not scared of anything, Scarlett is about to discover she’s not as tough as she thinks. Will she take the chance to turn her secret passion into a career, risk the safety of her advertising career, and let John in? Or will old habits die that little bit too hard?

  Perfect for fans of Rachel Gibson, Susan Mallery, Victoria Dahl, and Susan Elizabeth Phillips.

  Contents

  About Modern Heart: City Love 3

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Eight years old

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Eleven years old

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Fourteen years old

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Sixteen years old

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Acknowledgments

  About Wish List: City Love 4

  About Belinda Williams

  Also by Belinda Williams

  Copyright

  For Ryan.

  You’re perfect as you are. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise, including us.

  Be yourself; everyone else is already taken.

  Oscar Wilde

  Chapter 1

  I had lost all feeling in my arm.

  I tried one more time to wrench it free from the man lying on top of it, but it was no use.

  “For fuck’s sake,” I swore, being careful to keep my voice low despite my frustration.

  He sighed deeply in response, but didn’t move.

  Just my luck. The one time, the one lousy time, I accidentally let myself fall asleep and I ended up physically restrained in the bed.

  I huffed and rolled onto my back, staring up at the ceiling. My right arm was still pinned underneath the man lying next to me. It would probably hurt if I could bloody well feel it. It was just as well I couldn’t then.

  I glanced over at him. In the morning light he looked older than I remembered, but that was no surprise. The day after always had an awful habit of revealing those little details I’d glossed over the night before. In this case, it wasn’t age that bothered me. I liked older men, and the gray stubble contrasting the deepened lines around his eyes and forehead suggested maturity and intelligence.

  The drool however? Not so appealing.

  The trail of saliva glistened mockingly at me. It had traveled a path of least resistance to pool on his pillow. Judging by the amount of mouth breathing going on, a recommendation to an ear, nose, and throat specialist was definitely on the cards.

  Not that I’d be sticking around to suggest it.

  With renewed energy, I twisted back on to my side to face last night’s bad decision. I’d be needing a specialist appointment soon if I didn’t hurry up and get my arm free. Blood loss to this extent couldn’t be a good thing.

  Gently, I attempted to flex my fingers. The idea wasn’t to tickle him and wake him up, but to create enough of a sensation that he’d want to roll over in his sleep. I was alarmingly proficient at such techniques, except of course that was when I could feel my goddamn hand.

  I held my breath. He shifted on top of me and for one horror-filled moment I thought he was going to wake up. I watched his face with a degree of concentration that was impressive given the hangover looming large, which I knew would hit with full force once I was able to actually physically sit up.

  His eyes remained firmly closed and with a low groan he rolled over so his back was to me.

  Thank God.

  I stretched my arm to the sky in triumph then bit down hard on my tongue to stop from crying out.

  Holy crap. Pins and needles pierced my arm with relentless force as the blood flow was restored. I shook my arm fiercely, hoping to speed up the process, and sat up quickly without thinking.

  “Sweet Jesus,” I whispered. Passing out wouldn’t do. Besides, I was made of stronger stuff. I closed my eyes tightly until the spinning stopped and then opened them again tentatively.

  With a long exhalation I reflected that many a weekend spent drinking was not all wasted. Hangover, schmangover.

  I eased myself carefully off the bed, allowing my feet to settle firmly on the cool floorboards before standing up slowly. Success. I padded around the floor of his bedroom, eagerly plucking items of clothing from various interesting vantage points. Underwear on the chest of drawers. Bra under the bed. Jeans on the floor. Following the trail, I recovered my boots several meters down the hallway and then my top from the lampshade in the lounge room.

  It really was as simple as following the clothing yellow brick road.

  I dressed hurriedly in front of the television and was just getting to my top when I heard it.

  “Shit!”

  My goddamn phone. I pulled my top roughly over my head and sprinted around the lounge room looking for my handbag. In the quiet of the morning, the phone ring sounded reminiscent of last night’s bar with Sia singing unapologetically about how she wanted to swing from the chandelier.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I hissed.

  Finally I located my bag underneath one of the armchairs. I ripped it open and grabbed the source of the offending noise, my thumb poised to reject the call.

  I swore again and hit the accept button, vaguely wondering if an outsider would mistake me for a Tourette’s sufferer based on the expletives I’d been uttering this morning.

  “Christa, what the hell?” I whispered into the phone.

  There was a stunned silence.

  “Seriously bad time,” I continued, walking quickly into the kitchen, which was furthest from the bedroom.

  “Well, good morning to you too, Scarlett,” came Christa’s bright voice once she’d recovered from the initial shock of my hostile greeting. We hadn’t given her the nickname, “Bubbles”, for nothing.

  “What do you want?”

  “Some manners would be nice,” she replied easily, “but seeing as you’re incapable of those we were just wondering when you were going to grace us with your presence?”

  I frowned and closed my eyes, bringing a hand up to support my forehead, because it suddenly felt like it
was about to fall off. “What are you talking about?”

  “Breakfast down at Ripples. The girls and I are here waiting for you.”

  “Oh.” It was Saturday morning. Right.

  “How far away are you? It sounds like you could do with some coffee.”

  I swallowed rising nausea, wishing like hell I could take a sip of that blissful, bittersweet cup of coffee right now. “Give me half an hour,” I managed, but it came out more like a contorted, angry groan.

  There was another pause. “Where are you?”

  From the doorway of the kitchen, I took in the minimalist design of the lounge room. Sparkling glass coffee table, black leather armchairs that looked more like a work of art than something worthy of sitting on. Then the actual artwork. Big, beautiful canvases hanging from the walls in prominent positions. Their splashes of vibrant and messy color were unable to properly assault my drunken, bloodshot eyes through the sheer strength of my art-loving will.

  “Scarlett?”

  I blinked at Christa’s voice. “I’m just leaving.”

  “OK.” She sounded confused.

  That made two of us.

  Then a deeper, more confused voice echoed up the hallway. “Scarlett?”

  “Shit,” I hissed into the phone. “Got to go.”

  I didn’t bother to hit “end” before throwing the phone into my bag. It was fortunate my phone even made it there at the rate I was moving. Adrenaline was powerful enough to make me feel as though I had miraculously left my hangover in the kitchen. I was at the front door in seconds, scooping up my boots as I went.

  “Scarlett? Is that you?”

  Nope. It wasn’t me, I thought, as I carefully, noiselessly, opened the front door. I slipped out into the corridor, closing it behind me with a gentle click.

  It was no one at all.

  Chapter 2

  “Why, good morning, sunshine.”

  I ignored Cate’s greeting and the laughter shining in Maddy’s and Christa’s eyes while they assessed my appearance.

  I’d been able to make out my reflection in the train window on the journey there, and it hadn’t been pretty. My short cropped raven hair, which was usually impossible to mess up, had lost its texture due to my late night adventures, and was decidedly fuzzy. My black eyeliner was even worse. It was a constant feature, day or night. I used it to outline my dark eyes and open up my distinctly Asian features, but it had smudged. Badly. When I’d left my apartment yesterday evening the last thing I’d thought to throw into my bag was sunglasses.

  I sat down gratefully on the chair beside Christa. Squinting painfully at the table in front of me, I tried to determine whether they’d had the forethought to order me a double shot coffee.

  God, it was bright out here this morning. On a normal morning, when I was in a less alcohol-induced state, I would have described the setting as pleasant. We were seated at the harborside cafe, Ripples, located in Milsons Point. The Sydney Harbour Bridge towered over us in the background and the water in the harbor shone the sort of deep azure blue I’d pay someone to bottle so I could use it in my paintings. Despite this, my coming here was a very, very bad idea. I should have just gone straight home and washed off the traces of last night’s excess.

  “Here.” Christa pushed a mug of coffee in front of me. She shared my addiction to coffee and was my closest friend since university for a reason.

  “There is a god,” I muttered, and swallowed as much of the bitter liquid as I could in one mouthful. I was seriously craving a cigarette too, but the coffee would have to do. My girlfriends had been at me for ages to give up smoking. To my surprise I’d lasted an entire month without one but this hangover wasn’t helping my resolve.

  “I take it you weren’t at home?” Cate asked delicately.

  I shrugged, ignoring her attempts at political correctness. It was me, after all. “I was with the guy I fucked last night,” I announced.

  Cate choked on her coffee, and Maddy thoughtfully patted her on the back, her dark eyes knowing.

  “Unusual for you to hang around until morning,” commented Maddy lightly.

  I studied Maddy for a moment, or more likely scrunched up my eyes to prevent the sunshine from destroying my retinas. Maddy was Christa’s oldest friend since childhood, and she looked impeccable as usual. Her long, dark hair tied into a neat, high ponytail complemented the tortoiseshell of her sunglasses and the maroon tones of her outfit. The gentle mound of her growing belly also somehow managed to look like a carefully planned accessory. At six months pregnant, most women would be starting to appear ungainly. Not Madeleine. Her olive skin glowed. I’d be annoyed at her beauty if I didn’t love her so much.

  “Not planned,” I told her. “I was exhausted and accidentally fell asleep.”

  Christa giggled from her seat beside me, her chin length blonde curls bouncing up and down mockingly at me.

  “Shut up,” I said.

  Christa’s light blue eyes rounded innocently, and she held her hands up. “I didn’t say a word!”

  “You didn’t need to.”

  Christa knew what I was like when I got in one of my dark moods. We’d known each other since we’d shared a tutorial during our courses at university. She’d been a design major while I’d been a fine arts student. Where she was bright, positive, and cheerful, I was dark, cynical, and moody. For some unexplained reason, the friendship worked.

  “It’s not the end of the world if you wake up beside someone in the morning,” she said, taking a sip of her own coffee.

  I frowned. “Only if you want a relationship.”

  Christa smiled into her coffee, while Maddy shook her head. They both had the sense not to comment any further, but predictably Cate had to go and open her mouth.

  “What’s so horrible about a relationship?” she appealed.

  Trust Cate. Dear, sweet Cate. If Christa and I were light and dark, Cate and I were the sun and a galaxy far, far away.

  I sighed. “Nothing. If you want a relationship.”

  “And you don’t?”

  I leveled a dark gaze at her over my cup of coffee.

  Her shoulders slumped beneath her shoulder length, straight blonde hair blowing gently in the breeze. I almost felt sorry for her. Cate had been Christa’s flatmate for the last three and half years and that was the only reason we’d become friends. If you could call it that. It was a sort of forced association on account of our mutual friendships.

  I softened my gaze a little. She wasn’t really all that bad. Just different to me. A typical middle class girl who’d chosen a safe career like accounting, and who wore staid, conservative suits reminiscent of her traditional values. She’d like nothing more than to settle down with the love of her life except for the small problem that she hadn’t found him yet.

  “You know the rules, Cate,” I reminded her. “I—”

  “ Don’t do boyfriends,” the three of them finished for me in unison.

  I shrugged. They might not agree with it, but hey, at least I was consistent.

  “So who was this non-boyfriend?” Christa asked.

  “No one special. Just some business guy I met at a gallery showing. He’s into art, like me.”

  “If I didn’t know you better, I’d say you’re developing a type,” suggested Maddy.

  I tilted my head thoughtfully. “What? Older, rich men who appreciate artwork?”

  “You’ve been involved with about three that I can think of in the last year,” Maddy said.

  Christa gave me a coy look as she pushed some toast around her plate. “Yeah, it’s almost like you’re discriminating against the younger men.”

  I ignored her and reached over to grab a menu, even though I knew exactly what I was going to have: bacon and eggs. The ultimate hangover cure.

  “Or one young man in particular,” Cate added. I didn’t miss the hint of mischief in her tone.

  I pointed a finger at her menacingly. Or at least I hoped it was menacing, because I was still squinting fa
r too much to see anything properly. “Don’t start, OK? At least not until this coffee has kicked in and I’ve got some food in my belly.”

  “Let it go, Cate,” Christa said. “We all know John is too good for her.”

  “I just can’t believe she won’t even entertain the concept! He’s gorgeous and such a completely genuine guy.”

  “In other words, he’s way too good for Scarlett,” Christa repeated.

  “Are we finished?” I asked them.

  “Not a chance,” said Christa. “We’re just getting warmed up.” She grinned at me insincerely then took a bite of toast.

  Give me strength. The last thing I needed this morning in my hungover state was another lecture about how wonderful John was. It wasn’t like I needed convincing, not that I’d tell my friends that.

  I’d first met John at one of my gallery showings last year. At that point, I’d decided he’d be a perfect blind date candidate for Maddy on account of her career-obsessed, single lifestyle. And because of his genuineness, as Cate had so helpfully reminded me. Despite his hot looks, I hadn’t remotely considered him a possibility. He was the keeping variety. Definitely not my sort. I was more into the play around and have fun variety until we eventually got bored of each other and said goodbye.

  Of course, what I hadn’t counted on was Maddy and John becoming really good friends, Maddy falling in love with another man, and John developing feelings for me. Unrequited, of course, on account of me not doing boyfriends. And he was definitely the boyfriend type.

  Christa was still looking at me carefully. Sensing my need to change the subject, she swallowed her mouthful and spoke. “Has your annual leave been approved so you can travel to the exhibition?”

  I resisted groaning. “Not yet.”

  Christa nodded sympathetically. Before Christa jumped ship last year and joined Maddy’s marketing agency, we both used to work at the same advertising agency, Shout. Christa had been on the graphic design team, whereas I was in the creative department. I was as shocked as everybody when I was made the creative director.