Second Chances: A Romance Writers of America Collection (Stark World 2.50)

"You saw nothing."

At the cold, hard words, Sofie glanced at Michael. He'd turned to face Lady Darbyon, and his expression ... his expression was terrifying.

Clearly uncowed, Lady Darbyon tutted. "My lord, I saw--"

"Nothing. You will not speak of my countess. You will return to the ballroom, and you will forget you ever saw us."

"I hardly think--"

"Lady Darbyon," Michael said. "Do not test me."

The lady blanched, her eyes wide, then she hurried from them.

Sofie watched Lady Darbyon's retreating back until she couldn't see her anymore. "The sky is green."

Obviously distracted, Michael glanced at her. "Pardon?"

"You said you could convince people the sky is green."

His expression changed, becoming heavy-lidded. "I'd rather convince you to come deeper in the garden."

"Why, Michael," she said mildly, her heart racing. "How scandalous."

A smile lit his face. "We've only got twelve more hours. Come, Sof." He held out his hand. "Let's cause a scandal."

Cassandra Dean is a best-selling, multipublished author of historical and fantasy romance and was a 2016 finalist in the Romance Writers of Australia's coveted RUBY Award. Her latest novel, Silk & Scholar, is book four of her popular Silk series featuring law-loving peeps and their happily ever afters. Her next novel will be the final book in the Silk series, Silk & Scarlet, and she is working on a new series featuring husband-hunting sisters in Regency England, as well as a novel where a thief meets his match in a determined lady. Cassandra is proud to call South Australia her home, where she regularly cheers on her AFL football team and creates her next tale.

Visit Cassandra's website at http://cassandradean.com, and join Cassandra's mailing list at http://cassandradean.com/extras/newsletter-postcard-mailing-list. Follow Cassandra on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/AuthorCassandraDean and on Twitter @authorCassDean.

"YOU'RE NOT SERIOUSLY GOING through with this, are you, Maddie?"

My best friend Linzee Holt's words felt warm on my neck as we inched our way down the stairwell. The final bell had sounded on the first Wednesday of the school year, and a cool thousand of us were making a break from Applewood High classrooms.

"You know I have to," I said over the tangle of dark hair on my shoulder. Even my clip couldn't keep that mess in place all day. "I promised."

"Sure, that." She paused at the first-floor landing, backing into an alcove to escape the press of students, leaving enough room for me. "But promises made under the influence of chlorine and sunblock are meant to be broken."

Linzee's gift of reasoning was among the things I adored about her. She could find a trap door, a silver lining, or something amusing in just about anything. She was my other half--my better half--and I appreciated her sparkle all the more these days, what with my in-the-toilet love life and the mounting tension at my house over bills.

Of course, that didn't mean Linzee was prophetic or always right. Take the black dye that turned her blonde hair green. Or the smells in her house since convincing her parents to keep their cat's entire litter of kittens. But her biggest goof, as far as she was concerned, was something she didn't do: talk me out of my crazy scheme last June to throw myself at my baseball-playing, hot-stuff neighbor, Hayes Townsend.

I'd been crushing on him since he moved in across the street with his dad and stepmom. His competitive streak had instantly tangled with mine, and our neighborhood's once-casual swimming pool games, like diving for coins and Marco Polo, had arced to epic levels. I'd become all about winning, all about him. All about winning him.

It had taken a solid two years and one big lie for me to cross that threshold, and even then, we'd gone on to crash and burn. I adored Linzee for trying to take responsibility for missing the danger signs, but the whole of that hot mess was on me. I was the one who had to live with his accusation that I'd used him for his body.

"I'd love to get out of that ridiculous club, believe me," I said, shifting my backpack to the other shoulder. "But I'm stuck. Apparently, I am the president."

All this had been the doing of English teacher Mrs. Puglisi and my mom. The Puglisi backyard pool was the neighborhood hang spot on summer days, partly because the Puglisi family believed in "the more, the merrier," and partly because they were the only ones in our subdivision with an in-ground pool. The two ladies had been sipping iced teas and commenting on the new rage of appreciation clubs at the high school--Italian, LGBT, African Heritage, and the like. The clubs were open to all and had been gaining popularity by selling hot lunch alternatives on Fridays and other creative fundraisers. Mom and Mrs. Puglisi had decided our upstate New York town of Applewood needed its own club.

Next thing I knew, Mrs. Puglisi was filling out paperwork and calling me prez. Which, I was certain, wa

s simply so I'd show up and, hopefully, to attract other members. Not that I was super popular or anything, but going into my senior year, I knew people. Nearly six-foot-tall girls had a tendency to get noticed.

Exactly what the club planned to highlight, however, was anyone's guess. That Main Street had as many pizzerias as traffic lights? That most of our local apples got squashed into applesauce? That our public library now had electronic books, too? I mean, our hometown was nice enough as far as these things go, but come on...

"That changes everything, Madame President." Linzee's eyes gleamed. "Down the road, when our own kids go to AHS, there'll probably be a plaque on a wall commemorating you as the club's trailblazer."

I shot her a look.