It's in His Kiss

  IT’S IN HIS KISS

  by

  CAITIE QUINN

  * * * * *

  PUBLISHED BY:

  Caitie Quinn

  It’s in His Kiss

  Copyright © 2011 by Caitie Quinn

  Cover by Razzle Dazzle Design

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  No work gets published by one person alone. It’s in His Kiss was a fun creative outlet for me at a time when I needed to re-rev that creative engine.

  Everything here is due to the support and help of my Invisible Posse. Those ladies know who they are – Love you guys bunches.

  IT’S IN HIS KISS

  ONE

  The thick smoker-voice on the other end of the phone made demands I wanted to ignore. “It’s time for Chloe’s first kiss.”

  “What? It can’t be,” I replied, pushing back the panic. “She’s far too young to be involved with boys.”

  “Honey, she’s sixteen. Almost seventeen if I remember correctly.”

  “But, kissing? Boys?” I shook my head against the receiver, my glasses clinking the earpiece. “I don’t think she’s ready.”

  “No, Jenna. You’re not ready. But that doesn’t mean a teenaged girl doesn’t reach that point without us.”

  I glared at my Hello Kitty phone, tempted to hang up and claim a bad connection.

  “I think maybe a big school dance story line would be great,” Ely continued. “She’s co-captain of her soccer team and vice president of the junior class. Isn’t there anyone she’d be interested in?”

  Ely Morgan, Agent Extraordinaire-slash-Pushiest-Woman-on-the-Planet, had never steered me wrong before – except maybe that one time with the now infamous author-photo-from-you-know-where – but still, good advice was there to be had. That didn’t mean I had to like it.

  I collapsed back in my worn leather office chair, tempted to spin until I was dizzy. “It’s time?”

  “Sugar, it’s past time.”

  “I’m not sure.” It’s too soon. “Maybe I could work a potential love interest into the next book.” If anyone good enough crosses my word-processing fingers. “And then we can fold it into senior year.” Or college. Or never.

  “I know you want to protect her, sweetie.” Ely's voice sounded muffled, the click-clack of a keyboard echoing in the background. Agent Extraordinaire was also Multitasking Empress.

  The clatter from her phone hitting the ground told me I’d been right.

  “Sorry about that,” Ely said. “You still there?”

  “Mmhmm.”

  “Ok, Jenna. Here’s the deal. Forest Oak won’t take another book unless Chloe matures a little. Your fan mail is from girls who grew up with her and, while a lot of them are shy or nerdy or untrusting or whatever it is keeping them from kissing a boy, that doesn’t mean they don’t want Chloe to. So the deal is, next book, out early fall, homecoming maybe. Chloe gets a kiss.”

  I pushed back and spun, the phone cord wrapping around my neck. A sign perhaps?

  “All right. I’ll do my best.”

  “You always do, my little overachiever.”

  Without a goodbye, Ely had hung up and gone on to her next seven multitasking events.

  Untangling myself from Ms. Kitty’s tail, I opened the drawer where my writing notes were lovingly filed, alphabetized and color coordinated. The blue boy file was right where it was supposed to be, fourth back in the character notes, behind the pink girl folder but in front of the black folder of death — the place characters who didn’t work out went to die.

  Marty O’Donnell — snob, dated best friend, dumped her for an underclassman…er, underclasswoman? Girl?

  Mark Andersen — smelled funny, mentioned in three books.

  Tony Baccio — funny, smart, cute. Friend's brother. Should be in college this fall.

  Kevin Kline — currently dating best friend.

  Slamming the blue folder closed, I considered transferring Chloe to a girls' boarding school run by nuns on an unchartered island. If I did that, I could add the blue folder to the black one and cut down on folders. It was economical. It made sense.

  It would lose me a contract.

  Grabbing Hello Kitty, I dialed Lisbeth Nardi’s number in desperation.

  “Ciao.”

  Lisbeth was the only person I knew who could get away with answering her phone like that. She was also the only one I knew who had kissed half the metro area.

  “Lis, I need my character to get kissed. I need a guy and a kiss description.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to write what you know?” I heard the laughter in her voice and knew she didn’t mean to be cruel. Unfortunately, she was also right.

  “That’s why I need you. You can tell me how kissing a guy feels the first time.” Her earlier words still stung, so I added, “You’ve had plenty of experience in the first kiss department.”

  A sigh blasted my ear. One of those declare-yourself-a-martyr sighs.

  “First off Jenna, I think what you need to do is just get out there. Get your own first kisses. Get your own life.”

  I could almost hear her shrug over the phone.

  “Second, your character isn’t you. Her boyfriend is imaginary. He’s not going to convince her to go to the same college, propose the middle of junior year, stand her up at the altar because his frat brothers called him an idiot at the bachelor party the night before, and then try to convince her they should still have sex on the side. That stuff only happens to you.”

  That was painful. True, but painful. And kind of rude. Okay, more than kind of, but I was feeling desperate.

  “You’re no help.” If the queen of the pick-up couldn’t help me, I was out of luck.

  “Oh, I’ll help all right,” she answered. “Actually, I wouldn’t miss this for the world. Meet me outside O’Leary’s at ten and I’ll be more help than you could have wished for.”

  TWO

  “What is that?” I asked as Lisbeth stepped from the cab.

  “What is what?”

  “That outfit.”

  “Oh, this?” Lisbeth waved a hand in front of the sackcloth she was trying to pass off as a dress. “Cloak of invisibility.”

  Sometimes her logic was so…um…different, I struggled to follow it, let alone understand it. “I don’t mean to start one of those conversations where we repeat everything the other person said, but, cloak of invisibility?”

  She adjusted the loose fitting fabric on her shoulders. “Last night, Jeremy said he never would have asked me out if I didn’t have such a, and I quote, ‘hot little body only a bimbo should possess.’ I’m senior marketing consultant at a huge company and he dated me to get it on with my body.”

  “And so you’re hiding it to date men who are only interested in your mind?”

  She nodded. I doubted she was unaware of her beautiful face with flawless hair and make-up. Below the short, loose dress stuck out perfectly shaped legs leading down to —

  “What the hell are those?” I waved at he
r clunker-shod feet.

  Lisbeth shrugged. “They match the cloak of invisibility.”

  “Where did you get them?” There’s no way she paid money for those. Well, maybe if they had a brand name I couldn’t pronounce and a three-digit price tag.

  She pointed a toe, still looking dainty in the black, female version of steel toe boots. “I think you left them at my house.”

  I fought the urge to roll my eyes before I realized it might be true. “You can’t really expect to go out wearing that?”

  “Oh, like you’re one to talk Miss I’m-Dressed-Like-Our-waiter.”

  “What?” I glanced down at myself, somehow unsurprised I’d ended up not even knowing what I’d put on. “Darn it.”

  “My dress doesn’t look so bad now, does it?” There was that smug thing again. Why could I never pull off smug? Or look like that in a sack dress.

  Or a cocktail gown.

  “I put on the black capris and a pink top, but the pink top needed to be ironed.” Actually, just about everything I owned needed to be ironed. Always. “So I put on the white top with a navy skirt, but it was too snug. Then I tried that grey dress, but it looked too ‘librarians gone bad’ for a bar. So I just put on the two most comfortable things and left the house.”

  Lisbeth smirked as only a gorgeous woman could. Slightly arrogant yet still gorgeous. “Nothing screams ‘can I take your order’ quite like a white button-down short sleeve shirt and black pants.”

  “Can we just do this?” I pushed. Not that I wanted to head into one of those underlit-overheated holes, but getting it over with was a plus. Glancing at her outfit, I added, “We should stop at an ATM. You might have to pay a cover and buy your own drinks.”

  Lisbeth got that look you’d give a child who said something stupid but was still adorable.

  “No sweetie. I’ll leave that up to you.” She grinned and I knew, even dressed like that, she’d be surrounded by men all night. Most of them drooling.

  She’d probably even start a new fashion trend.

  The doorman took my money and waved me along, but stopped Lisbeth. “ID, miss?”

  “Are you kidding me?” I craned my neck to look past the bald, oversized bouncer’s head. “Do you really think she could possibly be under twenty-one? She’s four years older than I am.”

  The giant peered over his shoulder. “Do we have a problem, ma’am?”

  Cringing at the word ma’am, I snapped, “No. I’m used to it. Go on, Lisbeth. Giggle for the nice man.”

  Lisbeth shot a look of pure venom my way, making her appear every minute the four years she had on me. I hovered between the door and bar area, waiting for her to finish her flirt-for-entry routine. Eventually, several men turned and stared, the drool almost visible from across the room. Obviously, she’d finally been allowed in.

  “I chose this place very carefully.” Lisbeth took my arm and steered me toward the bar in the center of the room. “The men are older, no frat boys. All nice, successful businessmen, rolling up their sleeves at the end of a hard day’s work. Even you should be able to handle this.”

  I placed my handy-dandy notebook on the bar as I climbed atop my stool, making sure not to topple myself onto the already beer-dampened floor.

  “Thanks,” I mumbled.

  Lisbeth beamed, oblivious to the sarcasm. “No problem.”

  The bartenders were obviously hired for appearance, not ability. The upside was that Bran could have graced the seven-foot tall poster outside Abercrombie and Fitch.

  “What can I get you ladies?” I liked him immediately. He may have looked only at Lisbeth, but he included me in the question. Very impressive skills at noticing shadows.

  “Green Apple Martinis.”

  “And a Diet Coke,” I added.

  “I don’t think so.” Lisbeth turned her smile on the bartender. “Two Green Apple Martinis.”

  I slid my pen and notebook out of my bag and jotted that down. “Green. Apple. Martini.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Noting our drinks.”

  “You write YA. You can’t even get your heroine her first kiss. What do you need to know about adult beverages for?”

  “Some day I may want to write about this. You know, going out on the town with my friend dressed as Raggedy Anne. Having a couple of drinks. Scoping out guys to hit on in a not-hitting-on-them type of way.”

  “Who would read that?” Lisbeth squinted at my notebook, the consultant in her running through possible business strategies.

  “How would I know? I write YA.”

  The bartender returned with the order: two Green Apple Martinis… and a killer smile for Lisbeth.

  “You might try slouching a little.” I honestly was trying to help. If she didn’t want attention, I was the girl to show her how to not get it. “Looks lazy and hides those boobs.”

  Not only did she not slouch, I swear her shoulders went back. “Sweetheart, nothing can hide these girls.”

  She was right. Or perhaps comparison made hers look so big. Next to my not-quite-B cups, anything needing support was impressive.

  Studying the room over her martini, Lisbeth jumped right in. “Scoping the guys is a big part of any night out. Start with looks. There are three categories of guys.”

  Finally. Something I could answer. “Blond, brunet, redhead.”

  Her look questioned my almost perfect SAT scores.

  “No. Jeep, Civic, Yugo. Obviously you want to avoid Yugos at all cost.”

  “Obviously.” Note: more sarcasm.

  “The Jeep is the hot guy. The one that always looks good. And just like his namesake, looks even better with his top off.”

  “Are you serious?” If this is what I was going to learn out in ‘the real world,’ no wonder I stayed home so often.

  “The Honda,” Lisbeth steamrolled my question. She motioned to my notebook with a pointed look until I raised my pen to capture her…um… brilliance. “Is a nice run of the mill guy. Depending on the year and model, he could be close to a Jeep or, you know, more like a rust heap. The Yugo, well, that’s self-explanatory.”

  “And probably what I’ll end up with.”

  “Jenna, you’re a solid, one-to-three year off the lot Civic. I’d say you’re silver. If you put makeup on, you might even be red. Don’t sell yourself short.”

  So where did that leave me? I was dependable, flat-chested, shopped at the Gap, and you could get me drunk off one drink. Yup, I was a mid-level Honda all right.

  I looked at my friend, the Jeep, and counted all the blessings of being a Civic. Low cost, reliable, compact, inexpensive maintenance, low gas mileage.

  “So, I need a Civic, right?”

  Lisbeth scanned the room, weeding out guys in her head like a chef tossing soft vegetables.

  “Him.”

  Almost directly across the bar sat The Target.

  Plusses:

  • Good looking, but not too good looking

  • Not wearing a t-shirt or ten-year-old fraternity paraphernalia

  • Alone. No buddies to face as I made my notations

  Lisbeth adjusted herself on the barstool to block the man trying to get her attention. “You can do this. Just be yourse–” Her gaze dropped to my notebook. “Just relax, and smile.”

  “I can do this.” I nodded my head in self-affirmation.

  I pictured myself walking around the bar without tripping. I pictured approaching him and no one stepping in front of me. I pictured him turning and smiling at me as I set my drink down without spilling it on him. I pictured him being sweet and understanding and agreeing that, of course it was necessary to research a fictional seventeen-year-old’s first kiss in a downtown bar.

  “Maybe you should leave that here.” Lisbeth took my drink. “You can’t even keep milk in a sealed carton.”

  Every part of me wished she wasn’t right, but I left the drink where she placed it. I rounded the bar, no tripping, no bumping, no spilling. First mental picture, complete
d.

  I reached Target Guy’s side. My hands shook like a coatless club girl’s in a January bar line. Second mental picture, completed.

  “Hi.” That was easier than expected. Guys complain about having to cross the room all the time.

  “I’ve already got a drink, thanks.” Target Guy turned back to the bar.

  “I’m not actually a waitress. I’m a writer.” I waved my pen and notebook in front of him like a B-movie cop with his badge. “I write YA, ah, young adult. And I’m doing some research.”

  “In a bar?” While it wasn’t an encouraging question, it did give me my in.

  “You see, Chloe, my main character, just turned seventeen. Now the publishing house says it’s time for her to get a boyfriend. They told Ely, my agent, the next book has to have a boy and a kiss. I disagree, but if I want to continue being paid, it’s boyfriend time for Chloe.” I laughed, trying to fill the awkward silence before storming forward again. “Which, of course, I worry about. I mean, I know she’s imaginary, but I feel very protective of her.”

  I glanced across the bar at Lisbeth and the man sitting in my vacated seat. She gave me the keep going look.

  “So, anyway,” I continued. “It’s been a long time since my first kiss. I’m not sure I could imagine it. I mean, can you even remember your first kiss? I don’t mean like who it was with, but like, what was it like, how did it feel. That kind of stuff. So I was wondering if, maybe, you would consider, perhaps, kissing me and I could think about what it would be like being a first kiss of sorts and, if you don’t mind, I’d just make some notes.”

  Target Guy looked dumbstruck. It’s a common expression, but this was the first time I’d seen it in action. Or, as the case may be, inaction

  “Make some notes?”

  Encouraged, I nodded and waved my handy notebook again to reassure him. “Yeah. I’m not some crazy pick-up girl. I just need to make some notes.”