Kiss You Like You're Mine

By Nicole Vidal

Peter
A mysterious woman in a mask and a spectacular night together.
The next morning, she's gone leaving only a note signed M.
I look for her everywhere I go. So far, I've failed in finding her.
Perhaps, I need to move on and try finding a real relationship without my rules.

Billie
I didn't heed their ultimatum and ventured out on my own.
Now, I have a fabulous job, a cute condo with water views and a gorgeous boyfriend.
Things are looking up.
I thought I was in the clear, my parents had other plans.

Can my new found freedom and love survive?

The York Beach series are standalone romances with interconnecting characters.
Each novel completely stands alone (no cliffhangers!) and can be read in any order, but you'll enjoy reading them in order!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nicole Vidal
• Release date: Oct 13, 2020
• ISBN: 9781734341966

Nicole Vidal

Nicole took the long way to deciding on becoming a writer. As young as six, Nicole wrote poems and started drafts of novels. After over fifteen years as an attorney she decided to give writing an actual try and finish one of her many stories.Avid reader, lover of coffee and chocolate, and animals. If she isn’t writing, she is driving to the field, watching a game or curled up with a good book and a cup of coffee. She lives in the Northeast with her husband, their four children and four pets, for now.

Book preview

A York Beach Novel

Nicole Vidal

copyright

Published by: Jasper Media, LLC

Copyright © 2020 Nicole Vidal

Cover design by Designs with Sass

Cover images © Nicole Vidal (lighthouse), Matthis Volquardsen from Pexels (landscape), and kiuikson from Shutterstock (models).

This book is an original publication of Nicole Vidal.

Printed and bound in the United States of America. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by an information storage or retrieval system—except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a magazine, newspaper or the Web—without permission in writing from the publisher by contacting [e-mail]. For information, please contact Jasper Media LLC, PO Box 438, Ledyard, CT 06339

Although the author and publisher have made every effort to ensure the accuracy and completeness of information contained in this book, we assume no responsibility for errors, inaccuracies, omissions, or any inconsistency herein. Any slights of people, places or organizations are unintentional.

ISBN 978-1-7343419-6-6

table of contents

Title

Copyright

Table of Contents

Keep in Touch

Prologue

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

33

34

35

36

37

38

39

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41

42

43

44

45

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48

49

50

51

52

53

54

55

56

57

58

59

60

61

62

63

64

65

66

67

68

Acknowledgments

Coming Soon

My Books

Keep in touch

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Amazon (https://www.amazon.com/Nicole-Vidal/e/B082DJHPXP?ref_=dbs_p_ebk_r00_abau_000000)

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Prologue

I’m here. I don’t want to be, but I am. For the last few hours, I’ve been primped, scrubbed, dried, applied, and any other formal occasion pampering you can think of. Work not pampering. Her words echo in my head. You must be perfect, nothing out of place, and be demure. My mother, Margaux Elizabeth Masters Morgan, is the epitome of perfection—well, perfection bought and paid for. If anything, my mother is the definition of marrying for money, or more money considering her family already had plenty. She’s tall and thin with bottle blonde hair and the perfect wardrobe for any and every occasion.

Warren Morgan, my dad, is particularly good-looking for his age. He’s tall and fit with salt and pepper hair, but it’s obvious sweets are his weakness. He worked his way from the mailroom to the top of a Fortune 500 company and made smart financial decisions on his way up. I’m more like him than my mother. I love my work, and I look forward to crafting my designs every single day. Most people can’t say that about their job.

The ballroom at the Plaza is expertly decorated. Reds, golds, and black adorn every surface. Small lights twinkling overhead weave through red tulle. The masquerade ball to benefit the arts is about to begin. This burgundy dress with sequins, crisscrossing straps, and a fitted skirt is my own design. My Jimmy Choo’s add a solid three inches to my height, bringing me almost up to my brother Cassius’s shoulder, who is over six feet tall. I arrive at the same time as my two older brothers. Once we step into the ballroom, we go our separate ways. August is the luckiest of the bunch. My youngest brother was able to squirm out of this event simply because Mother let him.

I love the allure of a masquerade ball—everyone cloaked in secrecy because their faces are hidden. It allows me to be the real me, not the high society rich girl my mother wants me to be. Surprisingly, my parents allowed me to follow my dream of becoming a fashion designer. The Fashion Institute gave me the skills to take my childhood passion and sketches forward into the real world. I would spend hours on end drawing, sketching, and fabricating clothing for my dolls. I hosted fashion shows in my room. Tonight, though, I’m looking to have some fun.

There are plenty of eligible bachelors Margaux would deem worthy of my time and energy. Thorsten Thomas IV is a suitable place to start as an example. He’s gorgeous and would make most women swallow their tongue—tall and rugged but clearly gets a weekly manicure. He works alongside his father at a hedge fund for over a hundred hours per week. He’s using most of his free time for the next two days here this evening. I would date him, but I know he isn’t what I’m looking for long term.

Across the room in the black and blue mask is Jameson Michaels, heir of a shipping magnate. He’s almost too pretty for words. He also puts in tons of hours, but his off-hour tastes are rumored too risqué to pass any test Margaux would throw at him. I’m all for surprises in the bedroom, but he comes too close to Christian Grey for my taste.

Margaux’s requirements for a husband are vastly different from mine. Despite allowing me to go to college, Mother deems my career not worth pursuing. She would like me to get married, start popping out grandchildren, and keeping a grand home like she chose to do. I’d like to say I want it all, and part of me does, but I’m not fool enough to think it’s possible. I’m sure choices will be necessary on either side of the equation to find some sort of work-life balance. However, there’s no scenario where I don’t want to design the most spectacular gowns for my clients and have a family in the future.

The air leaves the ballroom when he enters. The collective gasp announcing his presence is deafening. It seems as if there’s a beat of silence and appreciation from every female in the room. Tall, dark, sharp jawlines—he’s a sight to behold. His tux, clearly custom, fits his body like a glove. His broad shoulders were sculpted by hours upon hours in a gym. I have never seen him at an event before.

Casually, I sip my champagne as he walks to the bar to my left. I only resist the urge to stare for the slightest of moments. Our eyes meet as I gaze in his direction. I tip my glass and turn away. I don’t intend to play games, but I wasn’t prepared for him to catch me staring. My reprieve lasts only for a fleeting moment as he moves next to me.

Hello, he says in a deep, soft voice close to my ear. A warmth rushes over me like I’ve never felt before.

Hello. I turn to look into his eyes. His mask is black and gold. The flecks in his irises reflect the golden hue.

Would you like to dance? he asks, extending his hand.

I pause, taking in his mouth and jaw. His lips are perfect, kissably perfect. The desire to lightly graze them with mine tears through my mind.

Yes, thank you. I slide my hand into his and electricity flies up my arm as he tucks it around his, holding it in place. Manners, nice. He may be new to this group of art benefactors, but he acts the part. One point for the masked god whose arms are equally as defined as his shoulders. He turns me into his body and winds his hand around my waist. The other is intertwined with mine and resting over his heart, which is pounding through his jacket. This dance is miles apart from every other I have been a part of in my life.

Our bodies fit like puzzle pieces—a precise fit. His hold on me is tight but not suffocating. I can tell he’s strong and well built—the type of hard body that takes hours and dedication to earn and maintain. I wonder if his abs have that sexy V-cut leading down to…. As my mind drifts to areas it should not be, Mr. Black and Gold Mask dips me slowly from left to right. I didn’t know it was possible, but he coaxes me in even closer, yet still not too tight. This is heavenly. I can feel the stares of the gaggle of single women in the room who notice that he isn’t alone any longer. With my cheek resting on his chest, I hear his heart strumming through his jacket. His chin nestles softly on the crown of my head.

We never leave the dance floor. I spend hours in his arms through slow songs and dance jams. Our bodies move in sync despite the change in tempo. We maintain the hypnotic rhythm that we started with. When I feel his chest expand as he takes a deep breath, I slowly pull back to look into his eyes. They’re perfectly framed hazel eyes with expertly placed flecks of gold. His gaze settles on mine before he speaks.

Would you like to get a drink with me at the bar— He pauses, bringing his lips near my ear before finishing. —in my room?

My brain and my heart are screaming in opposite directions. A third voice creeps into my head. My libido wins the battle because it’s screaming the loudest, and it’s saying, Yes, yes, YES! We glide our way through the dancing crowd and hurry to the elevator. The snick of the door closes us in.

1

Peter

Most people, especially my sisters, define me as a player of epic proportions. I have no qualms about picking up a different woman every single night as long as she knows my rules and agrees to follow them. First, we don’t go to my place. Second, I don’t stay overnight. Third, no protection equals no sex. I don’t care if you tell me you’re on the pill or have an IUD. No condom, no sex. Fourth, there will be no repeat performances. Clear and concise.

I peel my eyes open to find that I’m sprawled out on a bearskin rug in the middle of a sparsely furnished loft. To my left lies a curvy, dark-haired woman whose name I don’t remember. I check the time. At least I didn’t break one of my rules; it’s still the wee hours of the morning. Typically, I don’t fall asleep, but she takes the cake. Raven, at least that’s what I’m going to call her, performed mind-numbing magic with her tongue twice in the last four hours. I rise and search for the pieces of my suit. I have just enough time to get home, clean up, and meet my sisters for breakfast.

Gen, my older sister, is married to her childhood sweetheart, Joseph. She lives nearby with his son, James, and their son, Jackson. She insists that we have a sibling meal once a month. Generally, I would skip out, but if I do, she will hound me. It’s much easier to have a sibling meal now that Maggie, my younger sister and a newlywed cop’s wife, moved near us recently. I get along better with Maggie than Gen.

I pull on my pants and throw on my dress shirt and jacket. I pocket my cufflinks and socks while stepping into my shoes.

Petey, Raven calls from the white furry rug. I don’t mind nicknames, but I loathe that one. I don’t have a particular reason; it just grates on me like nails on a chalkboard. Her eyes aren’t open, so I slip out the door without answering her. Despite her skillful mouth, I don’t break my rules. I’ll never break my rules—again. But looking back, I realize I never shared them with her in the first place, so did I break them?

Only one woman has ever made me think twice about my rules, but I have yet to run into her again, despite putting myself in every possible position to see her. I even tried to find her through the college she mentioned she attended. We met at a masquerade ball about eighteen months ago. It was by far the best night of my life. Not only she was witty, smart, and knew what she wanted out of life, but she was gorgeous and phenomenal in bed. Earth-shatteringly fantastic. For her, I would chuck my rules out the window and never look back.

I pull myself out of my thoughts as I race through my townhouse to get ready. I’m cutting it close to being late for breakfast. I buzz through the shower, thankful for the glorious hot water to soothe my achy muscles. I don’t recall any acrobatic movements with Raven last night, though it could have been the floor. Pushing that thought aside, I pull clothes out of my bureau and throw them on my king-size bed. Ironically, I sleep alone every single night in that huge bed. My sisters have no issues pointing it out to me every chance they get. Dressed in a Henley and jeans, I rush over the gleaming hardwood floors and out to my car.

Most women like name-brand shoes, handbags, or luxury lingerie. The ones I sleep with typically prefer all three. I’m sure that says something about my manhood and ego, but I don’t care. So does my car. I drive a top-of-the-line AMG S 63 Coupe. I’m in my mid-twenties, and unless the once-in-a-lifetime fairy knocks me on the head, I’m not settling down anytime soon. I plan to continue with my parade of stunningly gorgeous women while adhering to my rules. I open the door, slide into the buttery soft leather, and speed to my breakfast date with my sisters. Luckily, I arrive at Rick’s, a local breakfast spot, at the same time as my little sister.

Morning, she says as she closes her car door. Maggie falls into the loves handbags category. Shoes, not so much. I don’t know about the luxury lingerie, and I don’t want to know. I pull her into a big hug. Somehow, Maggie got the tiny genes in our family. I stand north of six feet while Maggie is pushing five foot two, so hugging her feels like I may suffocate her if I squeeze too tight.

When we enter the restaurant, we find Gen scowling in the corner. Her arms are crossed over her chest, and I imagine her foot is tapping a rhythm against the floor with her pricey shoes.

Nice of you to join me, guys. She stands, and I hug her as well.

What is your deal, Gen? We aren’t late, I reply, glancing at my watch.

Both of you are. We said 9:30 a.m.

In unison, we say, No, we agreed on ten.

She looks as though she wants to argue more but instead retakes her seat. Our server approaches with coffee pot in hand. Maggie and I flip our cups, and she happily fills them.

How are the boys? Maggie asks Gen.

Good. James is a great big brother. He’s helpful and loves to hang out on the floor with Jackson. I would love to say he’s sleeping through the night, but he isn’t. Joseph and I have been taking turns who gets up based on our work schedules.

That makes sense, but you could have taken more time off from work. Two weeks was barely enough time to get into a routine, Maggie says. I just sit here and listen to the banter, ready to dispel their barbs about my social life. I love my sisters, and I’m glad they’re happy, but I haven’t found the one for me yet.

Not even my friend Blaine, a private investigator, can find her. He can find a single grain of sand on a beach if he needs too. He’s that good. It’s as if the woman of my dreams fell into my arms for one spectacular night and then disappeared. I pull myself out of that delicious memory and force myself to listen to my sisters.

That may be true, but since we’re keeping him at home with us as long as possible, I felt it was necessary. Gen smiles and polishes off her coffee. I’m surprised we’re sitting here. Gen hasn’t accepted Grant, Maggie’s husband, as fully as she should. She constantly questions Maggie’s choices. She went so far as to tell Maggie she made a mistake getting married so quickly. It only took her a few months to marry Joseph after ten years apart. Who is she to judge? Then again, Gen is the judge and planner for all of us, now even more so since our mother has chosen to move on with her life without us. Emily, our server, promptly returns, refills our cups, and takes our order.

Have you considered having someone come in to watch him so you can work for a half day? Maybe Gwen might want to do it. She’s retired now, isn’t she? Maggie suggests. Gwen is James’s grandmother. James is Joseph’s son with Stacia. Stacia was killed by my uncle Leonard. While Joseph knew that Leonard was the drunk driver who killed Stacia, he learned along with Gen that he was also her biological father. That’s the main reason our mother is no longer involved in our lives—her affair with our uncle. Maggie tenses up, preparing herself for Gen’s harsh response.

A nanny service isn’t a horrid idea. Gwen has been traveling a lot since she retired. I haven’t asked her, but I’m sure it would be an imposition. Not too bad of a response. I see Maggie visibly relax.

What about you, Peter? How are things with you? Maggie asks to push the conversation in a new direction.

Work is great. Tommy and I are moving along well on our current project.

Gen nods and continues glancing around the room. It makes me wonder why she asked for this breakfast. Tommy is my coworker and friend. We were roommates at Fordham. Like me, he studied information science, but with a finance minor, and I minored in art history. We work in cybersecurity and data security based in Maine but travel at the beginning of each new job. Recently, he jumped onto the happily-ever-after train like my sisters. He and his fiancée, Bernadette, have been together for the last few years. They’re getting married late this summer.

My musings are short-lived as our delicious food arrives. The plates are heaping with goodness from Gen’s egg white omelet, Maggie’s huge stack of golden pancakes, and my house special, Rick’s Mess. Hopefully, we will not delve into my love life and I can enjoy this meal unscathed.

2

Billie

The shop is always quiet early in the morning, especially in the off-season. It’s early spring here. The weather is warming, and the beach and village aren’t overly busy yet. While I enjoy sitting in my ocean-view apartment sketching my designs, being surrounding by the amazing fabrics here at the shop is equally as exhilarating. I’m currently designing for two large events this summer, as well as maintaining the selection at the shop. First, a young woman named Penelope Anderson is getting married in Kennebunkport at the end of June. Kelsey, a new friend of mine, referred her to me.

Kelly Cavallaro owns So Elegant. She’s an amazing designer and boss. Plus, she didn’t press me for details on my past. She took my designs at face value and wasn’t concerned with the gap in my resume. When I applied here, I was ready to give up and tell my parents they were right, I couldn’t make it on my own. I tried several other shops and design houses, but no one was willing to take a chance on me. Kelly was the only person who saw me as a designer rather than a workhorse. My designs are modern and edgy, while hers are more classic and subdued. Our design profiles complement one another well. My designs bear my name, not Kelly’s or some other label. I get full credit. For that, I’m grateful.

My second bride this year is my best friend, Della Salvatore. She and I have been friends since grammar school. Our fathers have been business partners since we were infants. We planned our weddings to the last detail when we were young. By age eight, I had sketches and plans for each of us ready to go, right down to the napkin colors. While that design doesn’t work for Della now, the one I’m creating will be perfect. Her nuptials are also this summer, but they’re in New York. She didn’t flinch when I told her I needed to get away after the accident. She understands my need to find my own life. I love Della like a sister, but returning home for her wedding will be difficult for me. For her, though, I’ll do anything. She’s my oldest and dearest friend, and I won’t miss it.

I haven’t been home since telling my parents I needed to be on my own. Both were solidly against my decision after my accident. They wanted to lock me in their penthouse and throw away the key to keep me safe. Car accidents happen every single day regardless of economic status, health, or—as Mother adds—beauty. My parents felt I should have taken my injuries, memory loss, and surgeries as a sign to quit on my dreams. When I rebelled, they disowned me. The ultimate ultimatum—if you leave, we’ll cut you off.

I ignored their threats, left my cushy New York loft, and struck out on my own. At first, I had plenty of money to live it up in five-star hotels and Michelin-rated restaurants. That was until my parents cut me off, hoping it would spur my return. It didn’t work. While I changed where I was staying, I never planned on living the life they wanted for me post-accident, or pre-accident for that matter. Their plan was for me to stay in their penthouse, leave only if necessary, and never drive again. Deep down, I see their concerns, but accidents happen.

Mother saw the accident as a way to push me toward the lifestyle she wants me to have. While they allowed me to get my education, Margaux always wanted me to be the perfect corporate wife. Her goal was for me to keep a grand home, host posh parties, chair charity events, and carry a child each year for a few years in a row. Mother and I never agreed completely there. Her expectations of me were always beyond those she placed on my brothers.

My brothers have been fantastic through all of this. They know where I am and how to contact me. I don’t believe my parents know where I am. If they do, they haven’t tried to drag me back to New York. Sam and Cash have been checking in on me regularly. They plan to visit soon. Samson Warren Morgan, my oldest brother, is working in New York in insurance. Mostly, he monitors high-end art sales and claims. Cassius (Cash) Warren Morgan, my second older brother, works on Wall Street during the day and moonlights as a private pilot. They both understand my need to step away from the harsh spotlight of the Morgan household. My younger brother, August (Auggie) Warren Morgan, is finishing his studies at the Culinary Institute in New York. We have a running group text, and Sam checks on me at least every few days.

Morning, Billie, Kelly calls from the front of the store.

I’m back here swimming in fabric, I answer.

Kelly laughs as she enters the design area of the store. You’re here early. She hands me a cup of coffee from Kelsey’s coffee shop, Village Perk, which is right around the corner.

You wouldn’t think York Beach would be an ideal spot for a boutique because most of the foot traffic would be seasonal. That’s what makes the location ideal. We’re close to an airport, and the drive to Boston is just over an hour without traffic. For seven or so months out of the year, it’s quiet and walk-ins are sparse. For the most part, our clients are referrals. The storefront is great and holds upward of one hundred or more cocktail dresses. Design guides for wedding dresses are set out near plush white couches. Also, we’re equipped with two design stations that help clients narrow down their wish lists for the perfect dream gown.

Thank you. You’re the best. What time is it? I ask.

A little after ten, Kelly replies before savoring her dark roast.

Already? I stand to stretch a bit.

She peruses the sketches on the table. Gorgeous. Which client is this for?

"The top one is