Falling in love is the ultimate faux pas. Anything can happen in a year! Unemployed, homeless, and left at the altar, Vivia Perpetua Grant could see her future as a flannel pajama wearing spinster—or worse, a bag lady shuffling around Golden Gate Park. But for a girl obsessed with rock music, Chinese take-out, and the color pink, misfortune is another word for opportunity. Vivia has found her niche as an international travel writer and the long-distance lover of Jean-Luc de Caumont, an über-hot French literature professor and competitive cyclist. Still, even with so much going right, Vivia can’t help but wonder if something isn’t missing. The long distance thing is taking its toll on a girl who didn’t have that many tokens to begin with. And fate seems to be tempting her at every turn, first with a hunky Scottish helicopter pilot, and then with a British celebrity bad boy...Will Vivia continue to keep it real or will she discover some old habits die hard? “Leah Marie Brown has a wily way of bringing her stories to life with sharp dialogue and drop-dead sexy characters.” —Cindy Miles, National Bestselling Author “Prepare to laugh, to sigh, to turn pages fast! I want a one-way ticket to Vivia's world.” —Kieran Kramer, USA Today Bestselling Author “A funny, romantic, fast-paced, all-expense-paid pleasure read through France and Tuscany you don't want to miss.”—Gretchen Galway, Bestselling Author on Faking It “When it comes to crafting clever, intelligent, wonderful escapist fiction with a heroine every woman wants to know, Leah Marie Brown is a new voice to watch. Prepare to fall in love!” —Renee Ryan, Daphne du Maurier Award-Winning Author “Audacious, adorable and addictive!” —Catherine Mann, USA Today bestselling author
Release date:
September 29, 2015
Publisher:
Lyrical Press
Print pages:
236
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Don’t believe the hype: Prince Harry is not a regular approachable bloke. #IAmNotAStalker #FreeVivia
8:22 AM
Vivia Perpetua Grant @PerpetuallyViv
Dear Buckingham Palace Guards: Well done, you! One less tourist with a tripod off the streets. #KeepingLondonSafe
8:34 AM
Vivia Perpetua Grant @PerpetuallyViv
I keep asking myself, “What would @wizkhalifa do?” #FreeVivia #TooPretty4ThePokey #PrisonCellfie
8:35
Vivia Perpetua Grant @PerpetuallyViv
If #GetArrested is on your London itinerary, head to the Westminster Borough. The cells in Belgravia Station are really quite comfortable. @MPSWestminster
10:41
“I am not stalking Prince Harry.”
Basil Rathbone ignores me and jots something in a slender notebook.
“I am not a stalker!” I wipe my sweaty palms on my jacket. “This is such…”
He looks up and raises an eyebrow.
Bullshit!
“This is ridiculous.”
Basil resumes writing in his notebook.
I cross my legs and wait. I have seen enough crime dramas to know that most perps incriminate themselves during questioning. I’m not bumping gums. I’m not going down like that. Not me, man.
Basil is still writing, his fine-tipped pen scratching against the paper.
Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.
He pauses, flicks his cool gaze in my direction, and resumes writing.
It’s been several hours since Buckingham Palace Guards and Westminster Police burst into my hotel room, slapped handcuffs on my wrists, and transported me to the Belgravia Station. The initial terror I felt over being arrested on suspicion of stalking a member of the royal family has been replaced with insolent outrage. I was raised to respect the badge, but the whole situation really is…ridiculous bullshit!
Our silent game of chicken continues. I shift positions, slouching in the cold metal chair and crossing my arms like a gangster, hands shoved in my armpits, chin lifted defiantly. You’re not gonna break me, Po-po.
The door opens. A uniformed officer pops his head in. “Call for you. Line seven.”
Basil stops scratching and closes his notebook. He tosses the notebook on the table between us before striding out of the questioning room.
I maintain my “Get back, muthafucka” pose until the door closes, and then my bravado fails. My arms and legs begin to tremble. Despite my Boyz in the Hood demeanor, I am no Ice Cube. I’ve never popped a cap in someone’s ass. I’ve never been in the pokey. I’ve never even gotten a speeding ticket!
Who cares if the stalking and harassing charges are totally bogus? I am going to have a record! An international rap sheet. I’ll never be able to make a run for the presidency, or get a top secret security clearance, or adopt a rescue poodle.
What will my parents say when they find out my new crib is Shawshank? My poor mum. She always hoped I would spend my life doing charity work, like collecting unused eyeglasses for the blind or doling out mosquito netting to malaria-plagued Africans. She even has a journal wherein she records her “Visions for Vivia.” I found the journal one day, in a lockbox, in the back of her closet. In her neat, tight script, she recorded her highest hopes for my future. The list would intimidate Mother Theresa.
1. I named you after Saint Vivia Perpetua, a blessed woman revered for her chastity and charity. Always conduct yourself in a manner that pays homage to your namesake. (Fail)
2. Attend Ivy League university, study medicine, graduate summa cum laude, and devote your life to caring for the ill. (Fail)
3. Never lie. (Fail)
4. Attend church twice per week. (Fail)
The list went on and on and on. I stopped reading when I reached number 132—“Think before you speak.” (Epic Fail). I am pretty sure “Go to prison and become some skanky crack ho’s bitch” wasn’t on my mum’s Visions for Vivia list. Maybe she could start a new journal and title it ”Dreams My Daughter Dashed.”
1. Audition for and win the part of the Virgin Mary in our church’s annual Nativity Play. Then, humiliate your mother in front of Father Escobar by dropping your woolen robe and marching around the stage in your Wonder Woman bathing suit. (Check)
2. Let your high school boyfriend feel you up in a movie theater. Get caught by your mother’s gossipy nemesis. (Check)
3. Fall in love with a handsome, wealthy man from an influential family. Tell him you are a virgin (when you are not) and then confess the truth on the eve of your wedding. Lose man of your mother’s dreams. (Check)
4. Get stupid drunk in Cannes, France, and let mega movie star talk you into getting a tattoo of a cartoon sushi roll on your ass. (Check)
5. End up in the pokey for stalking a member of the British royal family. (Check)
Basil’s notebook distracts me from thoughts about my disgraceful past and my bleak poodle-free future. It’s still lying on the table in front of me, close enough to touch.
I grab the notebook and flip through the pages until I come to the last page with writing on it.
I am trying to decipher Basil’s shockingly illegible script—but can only make out random words like barking, mad, colonial, media, and suspicious activities—when someone clears their throat. I spin around to find the detective leaning against the door, his eyebrows arched, a thick manila envelope in his hand.
“This is not what it looks like…”
“Really? Because you appear to have nicked my notebook.”
Basil’s clipped, posh accent is as intimidating as his piercing, accusatory gaze. He is staring at me as if he knows all of my deep, dark secrets, like I am a twisted puzzle he effortlessly solved. I am waiting for him to point his bony finger at me and say, “It’s elementary, my dear Miss Grant, when I eliminate all other factors, the one which remains is the truth, and the truth is, you are barking mad, a stalker of princes, a quibbler of truths, an imposter in a wretched Burberry knock-off.”
As so often happens when I am nervous, I begin blabbering ridiculousness, incriminating myself.
“Look,” I say, dropping the notebook on the table. “You got me. I was reading your notebook, but I wasn’t stalking Prince Harry.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
He drops the manila envelope on the table beside his notebook and perches himself on the edge of the desk, crosses his arms, and looks down his beak-like nose at me.
“I am a columnist with GoGirl! Magazine on assignment to cover the lifestyles of the rich and royal. I told my editor I could get an interview with a member of the royal family, that I have connections, but…”
“You lied.”
“Yes!” I toss my hands in the air. “I lied! I lied!”
I’m squealing like a jailhouse snitch. I draw a deep breath and try to channel 50 Cent, Eminem, and Snoop Dogg, but I think I am projecting more Vanilla Ice than hardcore hood rat.
“Listen Basil—”
“Basil?” The detective looks at me beneath knit brows. A second later, his brow relaxes and a reluctant smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. “Rathbone?”
“It was an obvious comparison,” I say, my own lips twitching. “You look a little like the actor.”
The detective rolls his eyes. “Why can’t Americans make British literary references beyond Sherlock or Shakespeare?”
“You mean like Austen, Dickens, Shelley, Byron. Brontë, Tolkien…” Now he’s pissed me off. It’s one thing to call me out on my cheap trench coat and my penchant for snooping, but don’t insult my knowledge of literature. “You might want to actually consider leaving your little island and crossing the pond. You would be amazed to discover most Americans possess a refinement beyond Real Housewives and Honey Boo Boo.”
“Have you taken any photographs?”
The abrupt change in conversation throws me off my game.
“Photographs? Yeah, I took a selfie in one of those red phone booths, another beneath the Harrods sign, one with the cab driver who picked me up at the airport...”
Basil releases a sigh “Out the window, madam. Did you take any photographs of the palace out your window?”
“No…but if Prince Harry happens by, I might take a snappie or two.” Shit! Why did I say that? “Kidding. I am just kidding. I haven’t taken any photographs of the palace, and I won’t be taking any of Harry.”
Old Basil frowns. If we moved through life with thought bubbles suspended over our heads, his would read: We are not amused.
“Right,” Basil says, retrieving his notebook. “Again, why did you have a tripod in your hotel window aimed at the palace?”
Although I explained the situation to the Buckingham Palace Guards who busted through my hotel room door and the uniformed officers who escorted me to the Westminster Borough Precinct, I take a deep breath and begin again.
“My editor texted me last week to ask if I would like to write a piece on rubbing elbows with royals. You know, an article detailing all the places the royals like to romp: über-swank restaurants, shops, clubs. Well, who wouldn’t want to rub elbows with Prince Hottie Harry, right?”
Basil’s stoic expression remains frozen in place.
“Did I mention I am a magazine columnist?”
“Go, Girl.”
“That’s right! You are paying attention.”
“Yes, well”—Basil sniffs—“attention to detail is rather a prerequisite of my occupation.”
I fiddle with my trench coat belt and try to remember Basil’s original question. The unflappable British detective has rattled my nerves like a coffee can filled with coins.
“The tripod?”
“Yes! The tripod,” I say, warming. “I might have exaggerated my connections to the royal family just a little.”
Basil smirks.
“Okay, a lot. I exaggerated a lot. But my mother has a cousin who shares a hair stylist with Fergie…”
Basil looks at me blankly.
“The Duchess of York, not the Black Eyed Peas singer.”
“I trust this pointless but scintillating information is but a prelude to the story of how you ended up stalking His Royal Highness, Prince Henry of Wales?”
“I am not a stalker!”
“I beg to differ, madam.” Basil flips through the pages of his notebook. “‘Suspect detained after Buckingham Palace Guards observed questionable movements in a hotel room window facing the palace. WMB officers questioning hotel staff learned suspect made numerous inquiries as to the movements of members of the royal family and possible ‘hidden’ access points into the palace.’”
“I was only joking.”
“Joking?”
“Yes.”
“About stealing into the palace?”
“I’m an American. I have a sense of humor. I realize it’s a foreign concept to the British, but humor is a common conversation starter in America.”
“Let us assume you are telling the truth, that your ill-conceived comments about ‘hunting down Hot Harry’ and sneaking into the palace ‘like a thirteen-year-old Belieber at a Justin Bieber concert’ were woeful attempts at humor...”
I knew I shouldn’t have made the Belieber comment.
“That still doesn’t explain what you were doing at the Rubens?”
“I was in the hotel because I am a paying guest.”
“Naturally,” says Basil in his easy good-cop voice. “And what made you choose that particular hotel?”
“Duh!” Though I try, I can’t keep the sarcasm from staining my tone. “It’s called Rubens at the Palace for a reason. It’s the closest hotel to Buckingham Palace. Proximity is everything in reporting. I thought staying close to the palace would increase my chances of running into a royal. Besides, I am writing a piece about London’s poshest places, and the Rubens is pretty posh.”
“How do you explain the tripod in the window?”
“I was hot.”
Basil frowns.
“The air conditioner at the Rubens is crap. I used the tripod to prop the window open so I could get a breeze. That’s it.”
“And your questionable movements?”
“Questionable movements? What questionable movements? I came back to my room, took off my clothes, jumped in the shower, and—” A horrifying thought suddenly occurs to me. “Hang on! How long were the palace guards watching me? Did they see me naked?”
Basil’s cheeks flush crimson, and he studies his notebook with a new intensity.
“Oh, yeah, and I’m the sick one! Does the queen know her palace is crawling with pervos?
Basil clears his throat. “According to the report, the guards witnessed suspicious movements.”
“Brilliant!” I clap my hands, humiliation fueling my petulant sarcasm. “They foiled my diabolical plot to dance naked in my room. Did they check to make sure my iPod wasn’t ticking? I would love to see their end of shift report. ‘Watched naked woman dance in her hotel room. That is all. God save the Queen.’”
“Yes, well…”
“Naked! I was naked in my hotel room! What kind of threat does a dancing naked woman pose to Prince Harry? Give me a freaking break! I have seen the photos of him partying naked at a Vegas rager, surrounded by naked girls. Where were your guards then, huh?” My boiling anger tempered only by my complete and utter mortification. “I was alone…in my hotel room…NAKED!”
Basil clears his throat. “We’ve established you were starkers. Now then, if we could-”
My cheeks grow hot. The word starkers paints a far more vivid picture than the word naked. Stark naked. Totally exposed.
Basil seizes the initiative. “And I suppose your appearance at the hospital was merely coincidental?”
“I was following Prince Harry.”
“Right.” Basil leans forward, his narrow nostrils flaring as if scenting prey. “Now we are getting somewhere.”
Poking a Mangina
“I think I have it now. First, you lied to your editor about your connection to the royal family because you thought your press credentials would get you close enough to rub elbows with ‘Prince Hottie Harry.’ Then, you followed the prince around London, hoping to get close enough to ask him which ‘über-swank’ club he prefers?” Basil shakes his head. “Brilliant! Crack reporting, Miss Grant.”
To hear the detective describe my farfetched plan makes me sound like a crap reporter. It doesn’t help that he speaks with a British accent. A British accent makes a person sound more intelligent.
“You must have been away with the fairies to believe you could approach Prince Harry as if he were P. Diddy,” Basil says. “Did you think you could just slip the Prince’s bodyguard a twenty and suddenly find yourself whisked through the palace gates? You made a right royal cock-up, Miss Grant. Next time, contact the appropriate channels, or you’ll find yourself living at Her Majesty’s pleasure.”
I don’t need Benedict Cumberbatch to translate the phrases “right royal cock-up” and “away with the fairies.” The detective is implying I am a lousy reporter with a tenuous grasp on reality, but I am having a little difficulty working out the phrase “living at Her Majesty’s pleasure.” The Queen lives in a blooming palace. She probably has Google Fiber, three thousand thread count Egyptian cotton sheets, and a small army of domestics to scrub her golden commodes and serve her raspberry crumpets in bed. If old Basil meant to frighten me, throwing down the phrase “living at Her Majesty’s pleasure” wasn’t the way to go.
“No, Miss Grant, living at Her Majesty’s pleasure does not mean invited to stay in the palace,” Basil says, correctly reading my confused expression. “Living at Her Majesty’s pleasure means thrown in prison.”
“Listen Basil—”
“Mangina.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I am Detective Inspector Harold Mangina, not Basil Rathbone.”
I can’t keep a bubble of laughter from rising up my throat. “Mangina? Are you serious?”
The detective presses his lips together.
“Mangina? Harold Mangina?” My laughter ricochets around the questioning room. I should show the detective the respect he deserves, but my pent-up fear and humiliation is spilling out in near-hysterical mirth. “Harry Mangina! Your name isn’t really Harry Mangina, is it?”
The detective reaches into his pocket, pulls out a business card, and hands it to me. I look at the words printed beside an embossed police badge.
DI Harold Mangina
Westminster Metropolitan Police
Special Branch
Belgravia Station
202-206 Buckingham Palace Road
Belgravia SW1W 9SX
I am laughing so hard now tears are spilling down my cheeks and my stomach feels like I’ve just completed Jillian Michaels’s ab-shredding Six-Pack Ab Workout. I keep hearing the name in my head—Mangina. Harold Mangina. Harry Mangina. The detective continues to stare at me, the “we are not amused” thought bubble hovering over his head.
“I’m sorry,” I say, dashing a tear from my cheek. “I’ve just never heard the name Mangina. Is that a British name?”
“Italian.”
I consider explaining what mangina means in American slang, but change my mind. I’ve already made some serious breaches of British etiquette; telling a staid detective that his surname is slang for a man who tucks his twigs and berries would be a right royal cock-up. Maybe cock-up isn’t the best choice of words, either.
“Just so you know, Inspector,” I say, omitting his surname, “I tried the usual avenues before following the prince. I contacted the Royal Communications offices at Clarence House and Buckingham Palace, but they didn’t respond to my request for an interview.”
“One wonders how they could have overlooked a request from a magazine as prestigious and thought-provoking as GoGirl! An egregious error, no doubt.”
Really? Trash talk from someone named Mangina?
I am tempted to tell Mister Twigs-and-Berries what I think of him and his Keystone Cops, but I just want to get out of the station, hop on a ferry to France, and put the snooty Rubens with their crap air conditioning behind me. A hot Frenchman is waiting for me in a hotel in Paris…a posh hotel with real working air conditioning.
“Look, if you would just call my editor—”
“Louanne Collins-London?”
“Yes! So you have at least done a rudimentary investigation of my background. Thank God. I was beginning to think MI-6 only existed in James Bond movies.”
“Tell me, Miss Grant, are you always so exuberantly candid?”
“Absolutely.” I grin. “It is rawther a prerequisite of my occupation.”
Accents aren’t really my forte, but I think I rawther nailed the detective’s clipped, snooty patois. From his pinched expression, I’d say he thinks I nailed it too.
“Now, if you would just call my editor.”
“I have spoken with Ms. Collins-London already. She corroborated your story and vouched for your mental fitness, though I have my reservations.”
“Then why am I still sitting here talking to you about my unfortunate penchant for dancing starkers?”
Now it’s the detective’s turn to wear a smug grin. “Call it an occupational prerogative.”
“In other words, you were pissed off when you saw me reading your notes and decided to have a little fun intimidating the barking mad colonial?”
“Indubitably.” He reaches for his notebook and slips it into his tweed coat pocket. “I would have been remiss in my duties had I released you without conducting a thorough interrogation.”
Nothing pisses me off more than a chauvinist abusing his power to subjugate the “lesser” sex. I would love to release a blistering barrage from my verbal arsenal, but I am afraid Detective Inspector Hairy Man Parts would throw me in some dank cell and withhold basic necessities, like my ionizing flat iron and iPhone. One week without my flat iron and I would look like Shaun White, or Carrot Top—I always get those two confused. Either way, my hair is not made for hard time.
“Are you satisfied?” I smile sweetly. “Maybe not as satisfied as those peeping pervos at Buckingham Palace, but satisfied enough to release me? I still have a job to do.”
“No, you don’t.”
My heart drops. “What do you mean I don’t?”
“Ms. Collins-London assured me you would remain a safe distance from the royal family. Your article has been terminated.”
I exhale. For a frightening second I thought Man Parts was going to say that Louanne Collins-London fired me.
“Right,” Man Parts says, sliding the manila envelope toward me. “You will find inside this envelope the personal artifacts we confiscated from you upon apprehension—your mobile, watch, passport, wallet...”
Man Parts is still speaking, but all I hear is Charlie Brown Teacher Speak—Wha wha whaaaa wha wha. I seize the envelope, tear it open, and retrieve my iPhone, stopping short of rubbing the device and murmuring, “My precious.”
“…after you sign the requisite paperwork, you are free to go.”
While Man Parts retrieves the paperwork to parole me from the pokey, I snap a few prison selfies for my Twitter Feed and check my texts.
Text from Jean-Luc:
See you at the train station, mon cœur.
My phone rings, and the words Big Boss Woman flash on the screen. I jab the volume button and wait for the call to go to voicemail. I don’t want to have a conversation with my editor with the po-po listening. Besides, I need a little time to do some damage control. Maybe if I think of a scathingly brilliant idea for a new story, Big Boss Lady won’t pull a Henry VIII and axe my ass.
I slip the phone into the pocket of my trench and wait for Man Parts to spring me from the pokey.
Petting a Bitch
Text from Camilla Grant:
It's Mum. News of your arrest is going epidemic. It’s all over the Facebook. Anna Johnson brought over a casserole and a business card of the lawyer who represented Amanda Knox. Is it as bad as all that, Luv?
Text to Camilla Grant:
By “‘that bad,” are you asking if I am accused of stabbing my roommate in a pot-and-porn-fueled frenzy? If so, I must plead the fifth on the grounds my answer might incriminate me.
Text from . . .
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