The Thing About Love Read online

  The Thing About Love

  Copyright © 2018 by Kim Karr

  Cover designer:

  Michele Catalano-Creative

  Cover model:

  Forest Harrison

  Photographer:

  Wander Aguiar Photography

  Editing:

  Nichole Strauss, Insight Editing Services

  Proofreading:

  Rosa Sharon, iScream Proofreading Services

  Interior Design & Formatting:

  Christine Borgford, Type A Formatting

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Please note:

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.

  Contents

  THE THING ABOUT LOVE

  The North Star

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  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

  Epilogue

  LOOK FOR MORE STANDALONES IN THIS SERIES . . . COMING SOON!

  HAVE YOU MET NICK CARRINGTON IN SEXY JERK?

  HAVE YOU MET JACE BENNETT IN BIG SHOT?

  AND ALSO: A LOOK INSIDE WHAT READERS ARE CALLING THEIR FAVORITE KIM KARR BOOK EVER

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  BOOKS BY KIM KARR

  TO THE READER

  The North Star—aka Polaris—is famous for holding nearly still in our sky while the entire northern sky moves around it.

  That’s because it’s located so close to the north celestial pole, which is the point around which the entire northern sky turns.

  Polaris is significant because it marks your way due north.

  As you face Polaris and stretch your arms sideways, your right-hand points due east, and your left-hand points due west. About-face of Polaris steers you due south.

  Polaris is not the brightest star in the nighttime sky, but you can find it easily. And once you do, you’ll see it shining in the northern sky every night . . . and you’ll always be able to find your way.

  Back to the Drawing Board

  JULES EASTON

  . . . YOU’RE NOT NERVOUS, JUST EXCITED.

  . . . . . . You’re not nervous, just excited.

  . . . . . . . . You’re not nervous, just excited.

  I had been chanting these five words for the past couple of blocks. The dose of calm my self-help book had assured me this phrase would trigger had yet to take effect.

  I made a mental note to return that book. If anything, I was even more wound up than I had been before. Now my heart was beating faster, my palms were sweatier, and my entire body was trembling.

  I had to calm down—and soon.

  Having already tried smiling, closing my eyes, and thinking positively, I was entirely out of stress relievers.

  Time to suck it up—and deal.

  The mere thought of meeting with prospective clients always made me slightly anxious, but today I was full-out nervous.

  Oh God, did I have everything I needed?

  As I stepped off the curb to cross the street, I ran through the list I kept in my head. Menu options—check. Invitation samples—check. Venue photos—check. Favor ideas—check. Jaxson’s business card—check.

  Check.

  Check.

  Check.

  Yes, all the checks were tucked safely in my bag.

  All of a sudden it seemed to weigh a ton. Feeling like I was carrying the weight of the world on one shoulder, I attempted to switch the heavy leather tote to the other side. While doing so, the strap slipped from my sweaty grip, and my bag dropped to the ground. With a shriek, I watched in horror as all the contents tumbled out.

  In the middle of the busy street, I found myself on my bare knees trying to gather my things before the light changed to green and all of my hard work turned into road kill, not to mention myself.

  As I shoved the blue fabric swatch into the vast, leather rectangle, I thought about the young woman I had an appointment with in less than an hour. She was engaged to the Governor’s son, and she wanted her wedding to be the most significant affair the State of Georgia had ever seen.

  Beep. Beep.

  Beep. Beep.

  Scrambling back on my feet, I rushed to the corner with my mind still on the client I was desperate to sign. Landing this event was exactly what Easton Design & Weddings needed to prove to the community that the new management was just as capable as the previous.

  The problem was I wasn’t one hundred percent sure it was. But I’d keep that to myself.

  There was no doubt in my mind the press received from nuptials of this magnitude would be of tremendous value.

  The timing couldn’t be more perfect.

  I had to land this job.

  Even if only to prove to myself I was more than competent enough for this position.

  With the afternoon sun beating down on me, the air felt unusually thick in my lungs. I took three deep breaths while making my way along Peachtree Road. Blowing them out slowly, I glanced down at my outfit.

  In a navy shift dress embroidered with white birds that I happened to catch sight of in the thrift store window only ten minutes ago, I knew I should feel confident about my upcoming appointment.

  This dress was undoubtedly a sign.

  Although I had gotten more than a few strange looks from passersby on the sidewalk, I didn’t care because what I was wearing was more than appropriate.

  Trust me.

  When I heard someone shout, “Pierre, come back here,” I quickly lifted my gaze just in time to see a dog trotting in my direction. Before his owner could retrieve the leash, the toy poodle was at my feet. I bent down to pet the little ten-pound cutie, and when I did, he barked so fiercely it startled me, and I went flying backward into a trashcan.

  “I’m so sorry,” the older man said. “Pierre tends to get excited around pretty girls.”

  Straightening up, I smiled. “It’s fine.”

  Hey, at least someone got excited when he saw me.

  After wiping any debris from my rear, I reached for the sanitizer in my bag and squeezed some on my hands, and then I decided it was time to hasten my pace.

  This walk seemed endless today.

  I probably should have driven, but parking was always impossible on this side of town.

  When I saw someone get out of the back of a car and then watched it drive off, I considered the fact that I probably should have taken an Uber, but then again, that was money I didn’t need to spend.

  Blowing a piece of stray hair from my face, I sighed. I probably should have skipped lunch with my uncle
, but I couldn’t do that.

  Sighing again, I thought about all the ‘probably should haves’ and ‘buts’ in my life and sped up. No time to contemplate the decisions I’d already made. They were mine, and I owned them. The thing was . . . I wanted everything to be perfect . . . I just didn’t know how to make it that way.

  With long strides, I glanced into the window of designer store after designer store until, at long last, I turned onto the small street that would bring me to the older and ever-so-charming area of Buckhead known as Wedding Lane.

  As soon as I felt the cobblestone beneath my feet, my heartbeat finally began to slow.

  I loved this part of town.

  Small.

  Quaint.

  Quiet.

  Amidst the old sidewalks and the flowering magnolias, one could find floral shops, bridal boutiques, travel agencies, fine china stores, stationary lofts, and of course the offices of almost every principal event planner in Atlanta, including my own.

  It was three solid blocks of heaven.

  One more turn, another lane, and then I spotted it—the battered red brick of the building I was headed toward. With all those industrial-sized windows, it made it hard to believe the place was one of the best bakeries in the southeast.

  The Bride Box was a gem tucked away for those of us in the wedding business seeking out the very best of the best.

  A bead of sweat dripped down my back as I once again hastened my pace, and then I was finally here. Like a kid in a candy shop, I peeked through the clear glass and there it was. A burst of delight shot through me. Even from the sidewalk, the sight made my knees go weak.

  Its size.

  The colors.

  Its design.

  The birds.

  This cake was going to make a magnificent first impression, and it was going to knock my pitch right out of the park.

  Even in the oppressive heat of this typical Atlanta summer day, I couldn’t help but stare at it for a few long moments.

  Don’t be mistaken. I wasn’t bragging. This place wasn’t my business. I wasn’t the baker. I was a wedding planner, and this was the place I had selected to meet Rory Kissinger for the very first time.

  More than a dozen wedding planners had pitched the Governor’s son’s soon-to-be bride, but none had met her expectations. In her correspondence to me, she not only provided more than one list of wedding musts, but she also told me she expected me to wow her.

  I would certainly say this cake should do the trick.

  Finally feeling like the meeting was going to go even better than I planned, I hurried around the corner. Once at the entrance, I took a single deep breath hoping to expel any remaining jitters before I opened the front door.

  I so had this.

  As soon as I walked through the lobby and into the showroom, all of my senses engaged, and just like that my worries disappeared. Not only was there a delicious scent of chocolate wafting through the air, but also the sight of the bowl of icing sitting beside the cake made me drool. And don’t get me started on the massive lovebirds perched so perfectly upon the top tier. Although I knew they were made from pure sugar and more than edible, they looked so real they gave me goose bumps.

  There was no doubt about it—this wedding cake was not only a work of art, it was also a masterpiece.

  From the doorway, I cleared my throat to alert Montgomery I had arrived. “Hi,” I greeted.

  “You’re early,” Montgomery tossed over his shoulder with his thick southern drawl as he finished transforming a panel of fondant into a swatch of elegant, edible, tree branches.

  Rushing over to him, I took my sunglasses off to better admire his work and made a hush noise. “Pretend I’m not here. I just thought I’d watch you work for a bit.”

  With a confidence that never failed to amaze me, he placed the completed tree branch on the bottom tier, and then he glanced over at me. “Darling, I hate to say this, but I don’t believe that for one minute. I know you. You came for a sample before your new clients arrive.”

  I shook my head. “Nope, not today.”

  Reaching over, he pretended to feel my forehead. “My Juliette, are you ill?”

  Montgomery was the only person I allowed to call me by my proper name. After moving from New York to Atlanta to live with my uncle, I was teased in school relentlessly about all kinds of things—being the new girl, a Northerner, my New York accent, my height, my lack of southern grace. You name it, the mean girls used it. They wanted to make sure I stayed away from the boys they liked, and when they came up with the Romeo and Juliette clichés, they taunted me with them for almost a year. Ever since then Jules was the only name I ever went by.

  Pushing Montgomery’s hand away, I fluttered my lips in mock protest. “Don’t be ridiculous, I couldn’t possibly indulge in chocolate this early in the day. That would be crazy. You know it makes me hyper. Besides, I just ate lunch and I’m way too full.”

  He continued to eye me with speculation. In his own way, he was a very handsome older man. Today, his salt and pepper shoulder-length hair was pulled back in a low ponytail. And beneath his slightly wrinkled, double-breasted chef’s jacket that showed a gut that screamed of the sweets he ate, he wore a Tiffany-blue tie.

  Nice touch.

  His houndstooth–patterned, black and white pants were, of course, to die for, but when he put on that torque blanche hat of his, which was always stuffed in his pocket, he drove the women mad, especially the mothers of the brides.

  Too bad he was taken, and his husband didn’t like to share. That didn’t stop Montgomery from exerting his deep southern charm every chance he could.

  He made a burly sigh of disappointment as he picked up the metal spatula from a cup of water on the counter. “Did I tell you this cake has four moist layers of chocolate? Four! And that each layer is not only held together by ganache filling but also filled with a tremendous amount of it as well?”

  Even though he couldn’t see me, I pretended to cover my ears. “Stop taunting me. It isn’t nice.”

  Smoothing a few spots of icing with only the very tip of his tool, he ignored me. “Oh, and in case I didn’t mention this either, I made an extra tier just for you. It’s in the refrigerator chilling, just the way you like it.”

  The way he was describing the cake made it sound like a bottle of the most expensive champagne. “Montgomery,” I warned. “I can’t.”

  He shrugged. “I know, I know, you never do anything crazy like eat—”

  Lost in the moment, I stared at the cake and licked my lips. It had been a long day, and it wasn’t even dinnertime yet. One piece wouldn’t hurt. In fact, it might just help by giving me that little extra spunk every girl needed once in a while.

  Setting the spatula down, he got back to working on the branches. He pulled some kind of white, straw-like thingy from a drawer and then using it, he molded them into place. While he worked, he continued to describe the details of the cake until it became the only thing I could think about. Eventually, I subconsciously tuned him out as my mind wandered.

  Four filled layers.

  Chocolate.

  Ganache.

  Chilled.

  With only the thought of the taste of that cake on my tongue, I practically orgasmed on the spot.

  Hey, thinking dreamily of that cake was the most exciting thing to happen to me in . . . too long.

  I blinked back the sad reminder of how imperfect my life was. “Well, if you insist,” I told Montgomery, “but not until you’re finished. We don’t have much time before my clients are due to arrive.”

  Swapping out his tools, he ran the spatula under the tree branch and around the tier. Smoothing the icing into place with such concentration, I had no idea how he remained so steady. When he finished, he placed the metal tool back in the water along with the straw-like thingy and pushed the vessel against the backsplash. “There, now it’s finished,” he declared, a happy gleam in his eyes.

  I clapped my hands together. “Thi
s cake is so great!”

  He nodded in agreement. “Now I’ll get you that piece of cake and then clean up.”

  “Oh, no,” I declared, “I’m not eating alone. You have to share it with me.”

  A girl never likes to eat cake by herself unless she’s in her bed drowning boy troubles in cake and ice cream.

  It’s a fact.

  The coy look on his face made me grin. “Oh, my darling,” he laughed. “I would be more than happy to.” He lowered his voice. “But you have to keep it between us.”

  “You mean like a secret?”

  He nodded.

  With a curious look, I asked, “And why is that?”

  Montgomery sighed deeply. “Archer thinks I need to watch my waistline.”

  “No!” I whispered in a gasp. Montgomery loved his sweets.

  “Yes, it’s true. But how can I turn you down when you so clearly need help easing whatever absurd guilt you’re feeling about eating chocolate cake in the afternoon?”

  “It’s not guilt. It’s just too much chocolate makes me hyper.”

  “Everything makes you hyper,” he declared.

  It was true.

  There was no point in denying it any further, so instead, I shrugged. “It’s just a thing.”

  He shook his head. “No, it’s not just a thing, it’s a Jules thing,” he joked, and his southern drawl was especially thick.

  Once again I found myself lifting my shoulders in an undeniable shrug. He knew me, and he knew I had quirks.

  A lot of them.

  Montgomery set his gaze back on the cake, and when he did, a line creased his brow.

  “What is it?” I asked in alarm, worried something was wrong with the cake that I hadn’t noticed.

  Taking a step back, he eyed his work. Circling it, he searched for flaws, of which I was sure there would be none because Montgomery was nothing if he wasn’t a perfectionist. Not a single thing was ever overlooked.

  My gaze followed his. Each tier looked like driftwood, only instead of being made out of bark, the frosting, or fondant to be politically correct, was created from the most decadent white and dark chocolates.

  There was also a heart piped on the middle tier as if it were carved in the tree, and inside were the couple’s initials, written in Tiffany blue.