Snapdragon: Gilded Love, #1

By Kilby Blades

From USA Today bestselling author Kilby Blades, the smoking-hot book that started it all…

The rules are simple: unattached companionship, toe-curling sex and a clean break whenever it ends. And either one of us can say the single word that will break it off: Snapdragon.

Falling in love is a luxury people like us don't have. He's at the top of his field and I'm at the top of mine. It's only a matter of time before ambition calls and one of us walks away.

But I can feel myself slipping, falling for him, every time he unchains me from my desk; every time he plots against my boss for making my life hell; with every tender touch in the dark of night.

I know I ought to be the one to say the word. I've already broken the rules. I know I ought to say it. But I can't.

"Fresh, with a reveal toward the end that is surprising!"
- Publisher's Weekly Booklife Critical Review

"A no-strings arrangement of companionship and sex turns into true love in Kilby Blades's highly original, genuinely unconventional, feminist and romantic debut. When Michael and Darby meet, the chemistry is palpable, but so is the mutual admiration and genuine respect."
- Book Riot The Best Books You've Never Heard Of (Summer 2020)

"Blades manages to ease feminism and equality into her novels, which is always a delight to see in a genre written and read by women."
- IndieReader Starred Review of The Art of Worship

Awards and Accolades for Snapdragon

• 2018 Publisher's Weekly BookLife Prize Semi-Finalist
• 2018 HOLT Medallion Award of Merit
• 2018 NECRWA Reader's Choice Award 1st Place Winner
• 2018 IPPY Award Bronze Medalist
• 2018 Foreword Indie Awards Honorable Mention
• 2018 Emma Award for Diversity in Romantic Literature Finalist
• 2018 Book Buyer's Best Contest 1st Place Winner
• 2017 National Reader's Choice Award 1st Place Winner

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kilby Blades
• Release date: Mar 1, 2017
• ISBN: 9780985798345

Book preview

Part One

The Arrangement

Chapter One

The Wedding

W ill you hand me my diaper bag, Darbs? I don’t think I can reach it.

Charlotte sits on the Chesterfield wearing nothing but Spanx and the frumpiest corset I’ve ever seen. The pale-pink garment sports heavy utilitarian zippers and a complex opening around the nipple. A yellow hospital-grade pump sucks and wheezes rhythmically from where it sits on the floor. Milk drips faintly into twin four-ounce bottles that jut out unnaturally from where collection shields are fastened into the corset. Her blonde hair is pulled back, so as not to interfere.

I set down my champagne. Two stylish totes sit near my feet.

Not the Petunia Picklebottom—the Storsak.

I look between the bags. Am I supposed to know the difference?

It’s the one that looks like a Longchamp, a heavily pregnant Jodi interjects as she waddles in from the other room. The Petunia Picklebottom is the one that looks like a messenger bag. She shoots a pointed look at Charlotte before jutting her chin at me. You’ve got to translate when you’re dealing with this one. She has no idea what any of this shit means.

At thirty-six weeks along, Jodi looks like she’d give her firstborn away if it meant the second one would come sooner. Her baby belly is comically large against her small frame. She’s spent the past five minutes complaining about cankles and the inferiority of pure vegetable dye she’s had to use during pregnancy to darken the brown of her hair.

I hand Charlotte the correct bag as Jodi steadies herself on the arm of the sofa before sinking down with a groan. A toilet flushing gets all three of our attention. Iris is past her first trimester, but her morning sickness is still more like all-day sickness. It shows no signs of letting up.

"I remember that," Charlotte commiserates, sharing a look with Jodi before flipping the pump off with her toes. She carefully extricates the milk bottles from the apparatus. Only when the lids are screwed on tightly and the bottles are safely set on the end table does she begin to disentangle herself.

Next time, I’m adopting, Iris grouses, looking wrung out as she walks back into the lounge. Her updo is disheveled, her freckled face is blotchy, and her green eyes look dazed.

I know it’s hard. Charlotte winces as she rubs some sort of salve on her nipples. "But experiencing pregnancy is part of being a woman. This is God’s work you’re doing."

To prevent an unfriendly retort, I take a long gulp of champagne. Morning sickness and sore nipples are among the many badges of motherhood I don’t envy.

We got you some more Canada Dry, sweetie. Jodi pats the cushion next to her. Iris sits down gingerly, taking a fresh hand towel from Charlotte’s pile.

Sounds from our friend Benji’s wedding reception can be heard from down the hall. My small friend group has taken over the posh ladies’ lounge next to the ballroom of a South Florida hotel. The staff brought in hand towels for Charlotte, cool compresses for Jodi’s swollen feet, ginger ale for Iris, and an ice bucket full of champagne. They even brought a tray of canapés, but the smell of smoked salmon and caviar is what set Iris off.

As the lone singleton among my high school friends, I’m used to the baby talk. I’ve surrendered to the idea that debates about sleep training and attachment parenting will play into many conversations. I treasure these reunions, but with each passing year, they leave me feeling out of place.

The wedding years were one thing—I didn’t mind admiring engagement rings with FL clarity, or bearing the mild insult of repeated insistence that life is so much better in the suburbs. I didn’t mind cooing over videos of fat-cheeked infants, and I quieted my judgments about how quickly the most brilliant women I knew gave up promising careers. I even learned to ignore the disinterest in their expressions when I talked about my clinical research.

But even I have my limit. The way Charlotte talks about pregnancy and motherhood makes me feel like I time warped to 1954. I try not to judge, but my steadfast aversion to marriage and children makes reunions ever harder to endure. Dear God, if I have to hear one more word about breastfeeding vs. formula or Montessori vs. Waldorf, someone is going to end up with a Sophie Giraffe shoved up her ass.

What the hell is this? I’ve just set down a fresh glass of champagne for Charlotte when I see the small white box on the end table.

What’s what? Charlotte doesn’t look away from rummaging through her diaper bag.

Milkscreen for breastfeeding, I read aloud. Detects alcohol in breast milk? I pick up the box and begin to read.

Charlotte finally looks up. Alcohol in breast milk stunts babies’ growth. If you’ve had too much, you just pump and dump.

This isn’t even FDA Approved, I observe. Do all of you use this? I look around at the others, curious now.

Jodi snorts derisively. Charlotte shoots her a withering glare, looking between her protruding stomach and her half-empty glass of champagne.

What? I’m at the end of my third trimester, Jodi comes back with an unrepentant look. My midwife told me I could have a glass of wine.

As a doctor, I can’t not mention the science. I turn to Charlotte.

You know, they’ve done studies on this, on women in France and Australia. They eat raw cheese, raw shellfish, and drink in moderation with no clinically proven adverse effects.

To each her own, I guess. Charlotte shrugs, plucking the box from my hand as reproach for Jodi melts into pity for me. You’ll understand when you’re a mother.

And there it is.

I was waiting for it. Charlotte has made comments like this before—patronizing insinuations like this.

What makes you think I want to be a mother?

Don’t you?

And miss out on all this awesomeness?

Her surprise is grating. Killing the tartness that threatens my voice with a sweet gulp of champagne, I lithely take my seat.

Frankly, no.

But all women do, Charlotte blurts before catching herself. You know, maybe not at first…but later. When their biological clocks start.

What are you basing that on? I ask for proof I know doesn’t exist.

History. Charlotte speaks with conviction.

History hasn’t given women much of a choice around their own reproduction, I say evenly. It earns a nod from Iris.

That’s unfortunate. Charlotte’s pitying expression reminds me of those old Save the Children commercials with Sally Struthers. But just because the when and the how of getting pregnant wasn’t on their terms doesn’t mean they didn’t want kids.

Wow.

I just blink, barely believing the direction of the conversation. Too many counterpoints flood my mind. I’m about to bring up how many women around the world still don’t have reproductive choices when she speaks again.

Tell me you at least want to get married. A glimmer of hope replaces the fight in her eyes. I think you could be really happy with the right guy.

Oh my God, Char. Leave the woman alone! Jodi finally cuts in, pausing to look pointedly at Charlotte before swinging her gaze over to me. Nobody’s judging you, Darbs. We sit at home on our fat asses, watching Netflix and folding laundry, peeing a little every time we laugh, and having sex the one day a week we’re not too tired.

Iris chuckles and shares an affirming look with Jodi. She seems to be on a roll.

Meanwhile, Darby still looks young and gorgeous, does whatever she wants, and has wild, unmarried sex.

Even Charlotte laughs at that, her eyes lighting and two dimples punctuating her crooked grin. My irritation fades. I rarely see these women, and it feels good to get together like this.

I’m the same age as all of you. You know that, right? I remind them.

You don’t look it, Iris admits ruefully. Your face has the youthful glow of someone who’s actually sleeping.

Mention of sleep leads to a conversation about how many hours of cartoons it’s okay to let your kids watch when you want to sleep in. When it devolves into a debate over whether Daniel Tiger or Peppa Pig does a better job of addressing sibling rivalry, and why Caillou is so whiny, I take that as my cue to leave.

I slip out of the ladies’ lounge but dismiss the idea of returning to the reception, eager to avoid awkward small talk with the other singletons at my table. Content to be outdoors, I wander to the elegant marble patio that encircles the grand ballroom. Leaning against the cool stone wall, I breathe away my last traces of annoyance with deep inhales of warm saline air.

I like old hotels, and secluded beaches, where blankets of stars twinkle more brightly than they ever do in the city. The ocean breeze stirs my dark-auburn hair until the ends float to tickle my lips. The sound of water hitting the shore is faint against animated party sounds coming from inside. It recalls similar evenings spent in the one place I’m always happy—my family’s house on Lake Geneva.

You look like you’re having about as much fun as I am.

The smooth masculine voice breaks me from my thoughts. My gaze falls from starry skies. Even in low light, I can see that the man who appeared next to me is uniquely handsome, his full lips and strong jaw belying an otherwise slender, heart-shaped face. His nose is uncommonly wide toward the middle, as if it were broken at some point, but it flatters him.

Oh, much, much more… I tease. Something about the sarcasm in his voice compels me to answer more acerbically than I normally would a total stranger. I angle myself toward him. What gave me away?

Staying as far away as physically possible from the wedding party is usually a clue. Taking a better look, I see that he is clean-shaven and tall, with a swimmer’s build and a buzz cut that hints at nearly black hair. His tanned skin offsets some of the most striking dark-blue eyes I’ve ever seen.

A smile hints at the corner of his mouth. The combination of full lips and slight laugh lines that will surely improve with age elevates his status to outright sexy. The world is full of beautiful men, but it isn’t every day I come face-to-face with one this good-looking.

"So I guess that’s what you’re doing out here?" I counter.

He nods, as if to admit he’s just as guilty. I take the last swig of my champagne, and for a moment we both look back toward the party.

Are you like this at all weddings or is there something about this one in particular? The question draws my gaze back to his. I’m glad to have an excuse to look at him again.

All weddings. I knew it was time to get some air when my friend started needling me about when I was going to meet a guy, buy a house with a white picket fence, and have two point five kids.

He nods. Getting some air was the right call.

She pulls the same shit on me every time, I complain lightly. I should have just said I had a boyfriend, or worn a decoy engagement ring.

The man weaves his head and lets hesitation paint his features. Yeah, but then you’d have to stage a fake wedding, dig up a fake fiancé, hire an actor to officiate…

I feign regret and murmur, More trouble than it’s worth.

We both chuckle.

If it’s any consolation, I was just groped.

I raise my eyebrows. Groped?

By a married woman, no less. She spent the first two courses with her hand on my knee, then my thigh, then…

My mouth falls open.

He nods in grave confirmation. And her husband was sitting right there. I feel so…violated. His eyes twinkle as I laugh.

You can’t go back in there. You know that, right?

If I can’t, neither can you.

Interesting.

Isn’t it rude to leave before the cake is cut? My protest is halfhearted.

Maybe we could go for a walk.

Five minutes later, we’re descending to the beach via ancient stone steps carved into the cliff walls. The steps are wide and steep and without a railing. Slight vertigo, plus the fact that I’m wearing tall heels, gives me a moment of pause. But the stranger beside me gallantly allows me to remain on the inside while offering a steady hand.

The humidity of south Florida makes the air balmy, and the breeze coming off of the ocean puts me at ease. As we float down in companionable silence, the sound of our steps is muffled by the rushing water. Why didn’t I think of this myself? A walk on the beach is the perfect antidote to a lackluster night. And I love the water. I see it every day, but Lake Michigan doesn’t compare to the ocean.

Before we left the party, my new friend slipped back inside the ballroom long enough to procure an unopened bottle of champagne and two fresh flutes. Moments after we reach the beach and take off our shoes, he pops the bottle open and pours. When he raises his glass in a brief, silent toast, I do the same. He motions in front of us, inviting me to walk first, as if he takes champagne walks on the beach with women he just met every day.

So, catch me up, I prod lightly. I take it you have a name. Give me the Cliff’s Notes version of things you tell people you meet at weddings.

I enjoy his voice and I want to hear him speak again.

Michael Blaine, thirty-one. Born and raised in Chicago. Architect with Dewey and Rowe. I have a twin sister, Bex, and a niece, Ella. When I’m not at work, which isn’t very often, I spend my time with them. His voice is calm and honest. You?

Darby Christensen, thirty-two. Also from Chicago. Psychopharmacologist at Northwestern Memorial. No siblings, but I do have a hermit crab named Consuela. My only other family is my dad, but I don’t see very much of him.

I watch him attentively. Will Michael make the connection to Frank Christensen, as so many others do? Will he ask about my father, about what it’s like to be a controversial senator’s daughter?

Are you a friend of the bride or the groom? he inquires instead.

Benji and I went to boarding school together. I’ve known him since the sixth grade.

Recognition dawns on Michael’s face, and he stops walking to turn toward me. "Wait, was there another Darby in your class, or are you the Darby?"

His question is a formality—Darby isn’t a common name and now I’m curious as to what he knows. "I’m guessing I’m the Darby."

Michael takes a sip of champagne, the narrow flute doing little to hide his knowing smile.

I take it Ben’s mentioned me before?

Once or twice. All good things. He says it in a way that guarantees he’s understating the truth.

I shake my head. Uh-uh. You gotta give me more than that.

His smile doesn’t disappear, only softens. I was his roommate all four years at Tufts.

"Wait, you’re Mickey Blue Eyes?"

Memories flood back to me as he lets out a short laugh. I forgot anyone ever called me that.

He always talked about how women fell all over you. I remember stories about girls leaving their underwear on your door and getting into catfights over you.

That’s an exaggeration.

But I’m not about to let him off the hook so easily. Girls breaking into your room to wait for you, naked, in bed was an exaggeration?

He casts his shaking head down, seeming embarrassed. That only happened twice.

I laugh openly.

Some of them were Ben’s admirers, Michael insists charitably.

Uh-huh. His modesty is endearing. I always thought he sounded a little jealous of you… And now I can see why.

I don’t know about that. Besides, he was too busy pining over you to be jealous of me. You have to know it took him a long time to get over you. Like, years.

My responding smile is bittersweet. He was my first love, I admit, the first boy I ever kissed, the first boy I ever…

By now we’ve reached the water’s edge. Michael frees one hand to place it on the small of my back and guides me to the left, his small gesture saving me from having to say more. He walks us along the shoreline as the moon shines brightly above and the breeze from the ocean fills my nose with his spicy scent, which holds delicious notes of citrus.

My first time was with a professor, he volunteers, perhaps compelled to disclose something personal about himself. It was junior year of college.

But I thought—

That’s exactly what I wanted them to think. I put on a good show of confidence back then, but I was actually pretty shy.

So, who was the professor?

She taught French Lit. Her name was Genevieve, but I called her Gigi.

Wistfulness colors his voice as he recounts the tale.

"She asked me to be her TA the semester after I’d taken her class. We were grading midterms one holiday weekend—at her house, of course. The campus buildings were closed, and we had thirty term papers spread out all over her dining room table. We were debating the significance of one of the final lines of Candide, which roughly translates to ‘we must cultivate our own garden’—"

"Il faut cultiver notre jardin," I translate. I was taught Candide in school. My well-honed accent earns me a smile.

"The debate got heated—in a good way—and the next thing I knew, I was spread out all over her dining room table."

Sounds hot.

The moon is bright enough to see his face clearly. His eyes mask nothing. It was.

A heat I haven’t felt in a very long time begins in my stomach and seems to work its way down. So how long did it last?

He looks out at the water for a second before swinging his gaze back to me. When he stops walking, I do the same.

Long enough for her to give me an education.

Chapter Two

The Agreement

Michael and I settle into a cabana nestled in a grove of palm trees a ways back from the ocean. Angled toward each other on terry-topped cushions, we have a view of moonlit water and clear night skies. Conversation is easy, as if we’ve known each other for years, instead of merely knowing about each other for years.

As we meander from topic to topic, the things Ben told me about Michael come back to mind, leaving me fairly certain that Michael is understating his accomplishments. I vaguely recall that he is a math prodigy and received some sort of important service award from the White House, but Michael mentions none of this, talking instead about humble beginnings on the South Side and a love of architecture that stems from his love of art.

He’s deeply involved in charitable work and tries to attend as many of Chicago’s summer food and music festivals as he can. He runs along the same stretch of Lake Shore Drive that I do when the weather is nice. I’m distracted by thoughts of how his torso might twist to and fro and how his legs might look as they work to propel him forward. I think of whether he runs with his shirt off and imagine his upper body bare, revealing a sheen of sweat as he runs.

Where have you visited? I ask, after he mentions taking weekend hops to neighboring countries whenever he works from his firm’s international offices. He’s a good storyteller, and I’m starting to like his smile.

From Australia, I’ve done New Zealand, Singapore, and Fiji… From Japan, I’ve done Taiwan and Vietnam. We have an Amsterdam office. I could’ve seen all of Europe by now, but I keep going back to Paris.

Alone? It’s my favorite city, but so unapologetically romantic that I can’t imagine going by myself.

Only after the words spill from my lips do I realize how much it sounds like a come-on. Given my current aversion to dating, it shouldn’t matter to me whether he travels alone or not.

He shrugs. It is what it is. Even without all the traveling, the seventy-hour work weeks pretty much kill my chances of anything serious.

His words ring so true that I could have been the one saying them. Amen to that.

He raises an eyebrow. You, too?

My schedule’s a beast, I commiserate. Night shifts. Weekends. Research on top of my shifts. And it changes every week.

His smile is self-deprecating. My sister keeps telling me to get a girlfriend. Or a boyfriend. I’m pretty sure she’d be happy with a mail-order bride by now.

So, what do you do…for company?

For the first time, he hesitates.

I lift my hands in a peaceful gesture. I don’t mean to pry. Really, I’m asking because I could use some advice myself.

But he hedges. "You could probably give me some pointers."

I nearly snort. Don’t take advice from me. I’m days away from paying for it.

And here I thought you were a nice girl, he kids.

Come on, Michael, we both know nice girls finish last.

He cocks his head and narrows his eyes in disbelief. You mean to tell me the good doctor doesn’t get what she wants? Somehow I find that hard to believe.

I can assure you; the woman-of-fortune-and-fame fantasy is much sexier than the reality.

So’s the one about the most eligible bachelor.

Touché. The quickening breeze blows my hair across my face, and I smooth it back. So what do you want that you can’t have?

Companionship. He says it as if the answer is obvious.

I quell my temptation to dismiss the sentiment, however improbable it sounds. I’ll bet you could find that if you wanted it. You recruited me easily enough.

Something in his gaze sobers. You want the truth?

I always want the truth.

Trepidation crosses his face. He takes a breath before he speaks again. The truth is, I like you. I think you’re the kind of girl I’d like to have dinner with and take to social functions. I think we’d have more good conversation, some fun times, and sizzling hot sex.

He pauses long enough to measure my reaction. In the dark, he can’t see the goose bumps that prickle my flesh.

I’d give a lot for a real shot at an uncomplicated relationship with an interesting, worldly woman. But I don’t need to start something with you to know how it’ll end. Not for lack of trying, I’ve stopped wanting what I can’t have and dating women who want what I can’t give. Sooner or later, smart women always want it all.

I let out a measured breath. Wow, that’s… Presumptuous, I want to say. Instead I settle on, Perplexing.

It’s not, Darby. His tone is disarming. It’s what happens when you’re a thirty-year-old guy who doesn’t want a twenty-year-old girl. Women our age want more. It’s a biological instinct.

The tops of my cheeks grow hot, and my eyebrows raise. Says the man who commiserated with me over my friend asking when I would find a husband.

But the repentant look I expect from having placed his foot solidly in his mouth never crosses his face.

Look, he continues. I get that not all women want huge diamond rings or white picket fences. But just because I know that projecting those expectations on people is wrong doesn’t mean I think women want to be alone.

And men do?

No. But companionship looks different to men than it does to women.

I shake my head and look out toward the water. He isn’t entirely wrong, but he isn’t right, either. The assertion that wanting unattached companionship is a guy thing is ludicrous.

I know my share of women who are obsessed with getting a man to commit, I admit.

But?

I swing my gaze back to his face. He smiles cautiously, seeming to sense an unfavorable reaction.

But your view of women is shortsighted. And borderline sexist. I bite my tongue again. Biological clocks and maternal instincts aren’t something all women have. If you think there aren’t plenty of single women who want to stay that way, you’re sorely mistaken. My parents’ marriage was a disaster. The career I love has me working just as many hours as you do, probably more. The last thing I need is to come home after a hard day to a man who’s biologically incapable of not needing his ego stroked.

The widening of his eyes shows he is without retort.

I go on, bent on driving home my point. "And because I can’t find a man who wants nothing more than to give me four toe-curling orgasms twice a week and then get the hell out of my house…" I trail off.

His Adam’s apple bobs. What other reactions have my words caused? His silence feels like victory, and I pull the champagne bottle from his loosened grip to pour out what’s left. It takes him a moment to remember to hold up his glass.

Mic drop.

Do you honestly expect me to believe that you can’t find a guy who only wants to have sex with you? he finally recovers. Because I don’t believe that. His voice turns low, nearly husky. It wipes out any doubt that the attraction is mutual.

I expect you to believe girls like me have only two options: one-night-stands and Romeos. I don’t do one-night stands because the world is full of psychopaths who like doing bad things to pretty girls. And I stay away from Romeos because I find it insulting to watch someone go through the pomp and circumstance of ‘dating’ me because he thinks that’s what it’ll take for me to sleep with him.

By the time I finish, his eyebrows knit into his first frown of the evening. Men can be fragile, especially the better-looking ones. What emotion did I trigger?

So, paint me a picture, he says, of someone who’s different. His voice has that huskiness again. It makes my body hum with the awareness of how quickly we’re leaving the realm of the hypothetical.

How would that someone come into your life? he prods when I don’t answer.

It’s complicated. My gaze wanders to the water again. For me, there can be no innocent