About Dante's Girl
Release: June 22nd by Lakehouse Press
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I have spent every summer since I was ten years old with my father in London. Every summer, since I was ten years old, has been uneventful and boring.
Until this year.
And this year, after a freak volcanic eruption strands me far from home, I have learned these things:
1. I can make do with one outfit for three days before I buy new clothes.
2. If I hear the phrase, "You're not in Kansas anymore, Toto," even one more time, I might become a homicidal maniac.
3. I am horribly and embarrassingly allergic to jellyfish.
4. I am in love with Dante Giliberti, who just happens to be the beautiful, sophisticated son of the Prime Minister of a Mediterranean paradise.
5. See number four above. Because it brings with it a whole slew of
problems and I've learned something from every one of them.
Let's start with the fact that Dante's world is five light-years away from mine. He goes to black-tie functions and knows the Prime Minister of England on a first name basis. I was born and raised on a farm in Kansas and wear cut-off jeans paired with cowboy boots. See the difference?
But hearts don't care about differences. Hearts want what they want. And mine just wants to be Dante's girl.
My heart just might be crazy.
About Courtney Cole
Website | Twitter | Facebook | Facebook Fan Page
Courtney Cole is a novelist who would eat mythology for breakfast if she could.
She has a degree in Business, but has since discovered that corporate America is not nearly as fun to live in as fictional worlds. Every Last Kiss is her debut novel and she followed it with the rest of The Bloodstone Saga (Every Last Kiss, Fated, With My Last Breath and My Tattered Bonds).
Courtney lives in quiet suburbia, close to Lake Michigan, with her real-life Prince Charming, her ornery kids (there is a small chance that they get their orneriness from their mother) and a small domestic zoo.
Dante’s
Girl
by Courtney Cole
Chapter
One
It
is impossible to look hot in the dingy fluorescent light of an airport
bathroom. Or as my best friend Becca would say, hawt.
At
this particular moment, I’m not hot or hawt. I make this revelation as I vigorously scrub
at my arms and face and then use a wet paper towel under my pits.
And
what is it about peeing in an airport toilet ten times in a day that makes you
feel so completely scummy? I glance
around at the crumpled tissues strewn about on the scuffed floor and the dirty
toilets peeking from behind half-closed doors and cringe. That answer is clearly ‘because of the
germs’. Ack.
Trying
not to think about it, I clean up the best I can. After running a brush through my hair, I
stick a piece of gum in my mouth, apply a thin layer of lip gloss and call it
good. I glance into the mirror and
cringe. It isn’t good enough, but it will have to do. Very soon, I’ll put this dreadful four hour
layover in Amsterdam behind me and before I even know it, I’ll be in London.
With
my father.
For
the summer.
It
would be torture.
Just
shoot me now.
And
it’s not because I don’t love him, because I do. My reluctance doesn’t stem from lack of
love. It comes from the deep-seeded fact
that Alexander Ellis doesn’t understand me.
He never has and he never will. It’s something that I’ve made my peace
with and I’m not angry about it.
I’m
his only child and he works his life away as some top-secret agent for the
NSA. His job is so secret that I don’t
even know what he does. In my head, I imagine him jumping from helicopters and
saving starving children in war torn areas.
But in reality, I know he probably sits behind a desk and analyzes
information from a satellite stream or a taped telephone conversation. I’m
pretty sure that’s what the NSA does, anyway.
They aren’t the cool kind of spies.
Also,
he isn’t exactly sure what to do with a daughter. I was supposed to have been a boy. Seventeen
years ago, sonograms apparently weren’t as absolute as they are today, because
the technician told my parents that she was 99.9% sure that I was a boy. They painted my nursery blue and picked out
my name and everything. I can only
imagine the shocked horror on my father’s face when I was born with lady parts.
Regardless,
I know he loves me. Even though he had
willingly given my mother full custody when they divorced years ago, I know he
only did it because he works overseas so much and he isn’t exactly sure how to
raise a girl. He does okay. But then again, I do have some reason to
believe that he still pretends that I’m a boy, just to make it easier on
himself. It’s fairly easy to do since I
still have the boy name that they originally picked out.
With
my head down, I trudge back out into the congested halls of Schiphol
airport. Weary travelers bustle around
me and I shift my bags so that I can pull the stubborn strap of my tank top
back over my shoulder where it belongs.
As I do, I crash into someone with enough force that my bags go flying
out of my hands and scatter onto the ground under people’s feet.
“Son
of a –“ I blurt before I even think.
“Buck?”
a male voice offers helpfully.
Looking
up, I stare into the most unique and beautiful shade of blue that a pair of
eyes has ever possessed. Of that I am certain.
Blue just shouldn’t be that multi-faceted and twinkling. There should be a law or something.
Or
at least a warning label:
Caution, these
eyes may cause female knees to tremble.
Before
I can help it, I scan the rest of him.
Sweet Mary. This guy had lucked
out in the gene department. Tall,
slender, beautiful. Honey colored hair
that had natural highlights that could even catch the crappy airport light,
broad shoulders, slim hips, long legs.
He is tan and golden with a bright, white smile.
I
am surely staring at Apollo, the god of the sun. Probably with my mouth hanging open, which
makes me realize that I must look like an idiot- the personification of what
foreigners think Americans to be. I snap
my mouth closed.
“I’m
sorry,” I say quickly, trying to still my racing heart. “Did I run into you?”
“Only
a bit,” Apollo says gentlemanly, with a shrug of his strong shoulders. I can tell he is strong even through his
shirt sleeves, which are snug across his toned biceps. Sweet baby monkeys.
“How
can someone run into someone else only by a bit?” I ask with a nervous smile as
I kneel to retrieve my stuff.
Please don’t
let him smell me right now, I silently pray to any god who cares to listen.
I am sure that at this point in my travels, I probably smell like soiled
hamster bedding.
He
bends next to me and picks up the contents of my spilled purse. He smells like
sunshine. And rain. And everything beautiful that I can think
of. I try not to cringe as his fingers
grasp a tampon and slide it back inside my bag.
He doesn’t even flinch, he just casually continues to pick up my things
like he’s used to handling feminine hygiene products.
“Oh,
it’s fairly easy, really,” he answers.
He has an exotic sounding accent that I can’t place. “At least, when you’re not looking where
you’re going.” My head snaps up and he
laughs.
“I’m
kidding,” he assures me as he extends an arm to me. Even his hand is graceful. I gulp as his fingers curl around mine. “You can bump into me any time you’d like.”
“Thanks,”
I mumble. “I think.”
“I’m
Dante,” he tells me, his impossibly blue eyes still twinkling.
“I’m
Reece,” I answer with a sigh, already anticipating his reaction. “Yes, I know
it’s a boy’s name.”
“You’re
not a boy,” Dante observes. “Most
definitely not a boy.”
Is
that a note of appreciation in his voice?
Surely not. I look like a bedraggled Shih Tzu.
“No,
I’m not,” I agree. “I just don’t know
that my dad ever got that memo.”
I
look past Dante and find that he is alone.
He seems to be about my age so that’s a little unusual in these
circumstances. My parents had flown me
as an ‘unaccompanied minor’ across the ocean for years, but other people’s parents
are usually a little squeamish about that.
“I’m
sure that fact hasn’t escaped him,” Dante tells me in amusement. Why do his eyes have to sparkle so much? I usually go for brown-eyed guys. But this boy is most certainly making me
re-think that stance.
“That’s
debatable,” I sigh. Realizing that we
are impeding the busy pedestrian traffic like a dam in a rushing river, I
smile.
“Thank
you very much for helping me pick up my things.
Safe travels!”
I
turn on my heel and pivot, walking quickly and what I hope is confidently in
the other direction. Hitching my heavy
purse up on my shoulder, I fight the urge to turn and look at him. Something about him is practically mesmerizing.
But
I don’t look. I keep walking, one foot
in front of the other. When I reach the
moving walkway, I hop on and focus ahead of me, eyes straight forward.
Don’t
look back.
Don’t
look back.
Don’t
look back.
Regardless
of my silent chanting, when I step from the walkway I discreetly check behind
me. Apollo is nowhere to be seen. With a sigh, I continue on to the British
Airways terminal. Only three short hours
left until take-off. Plugging my earbuds
into my ears, I settle into a seat and close my eyes.
* * *
“Excuse
me, Reece?”
Before
I even open my eyes, I know the sexy accent is coming from Apollo. I can feel his epic hotness emanating through
my eyelids. I only hope that I haven’t
been drooling in my sleep.
“Yes?”
I ask as nonchalantly as I can while my eyes pop open. I try to discreetly smooth my hair down. In
my head, I envision myself as Chewbacca from Star Wars and wince.
Dante
hands me my phone, which must’ve fallen from my lap as I napped.
“Are
you on the flight to London?” he grins.
“They’re boarding priority travelers now. I just thought you should know.”
Yikes.
I had slept for three hours? In a noisy
airport? I must have been super tired.
“Thank
you,” I reply quickly, gathering my things in a rush. “I didn’t mean to fall
asleep. I’m not a priority traveler, but
I probably would have slept through general boarding. Thank you for waking me.”
I
glance at him as I stand up and can’t help but do a double take. It isn’t easy to get used to his particular
brand of sexy. He is laid-back, handsome
and casual, which is a formula for utter female devastation. The impossible thing is that he doesn’t seem
to realize it. He’s effortlessly sophisticated and chic.
“Well,
you’re awake now and that’s the important thing. Have a nice trip, Reece,”
Dante grins once more before he joins a group of men who are apparently waiting
for him. I was wrong, I guess. He isn’t alone after all. The men close around him in a tight circle
and they board the plane with the other passengers with first class
tickets.
He’s
on my flight.
I
gulp and find a place in line with the other travelers flying coach.
As
the richer, better-dressed passengers file past us, I feel a little like a
bumpkin in rumpled clothing. Even though
I travel to London every summer to visit my dad, I live in rural America the
rest of the year. And all of a sudden, I feel like I am wearing a blinking neon
sign proclaiming that very fact. The
clothing that had seemed sophisticated to travel in this morning now seems like
it was hand-made in someone’s backwoods shed.
And
it so makes sense that Apollo is in
first class. He smells like a beautiful
sunrise in a wooded meadow. Oh, my gosh.
What is wrong with me? Where did that come from? I am totally being as corny as an erectile
dysfunction commercial.
I
roll my eyes at my own absurdity and hand my ticket to the heavily made-up
flight attendant who is waiting to take it.
She glances at it and then at me before she stamps my passport and hands
it back.
“Have
a nice flight, Miss Ellis,” she tells me before turning her attention to the
passenger behind me.
Yeah,
right.
I
like flying almost as much as I like having dental work. Or having my fingernails pulled out one by
one. Or having paper cuts sliced onto my
legs and then lemon juice poured onto them.
Just about that much.
Filing
down the narrow aisle through first class, I can’t help but search out
Apollo. It doesn’t take long to find
him. He is situated by the window in a
wide, leather first-class seat. He’s
already covered in a warm blanket and looks like he is settling in for the hour
long flight. As I move closer to him,
his eyes pop open and meet mine, the electric blue of his almost causing me to
gasp aloud.
He
smiles slightly as I pass and his gaze doesn’t waver from mine.
I
find myself wishing that I could sit next to him. Not only because of the lavish first class
seats, although those would be nice too.
But
rather, there is something in the air between Dante and me. I can feel it, an instant connection. I can practically reach out and touch
it. I’ve never experienced chemistry
like this in my life. It’s the kind that seems corny when you read about it in
books, but in real life, it is anything but. It is simply electrifying. Ripping my eyes from his, I continue down the
aisle and find my seat.
Taking
a deep breath, I stash my carry-on in the overhead bin and slump into the
window seat, trying not to hyperventilate as my fear of flying suddenly
overwhelms me while the cramped airplane closes in around me.
Deep
breath in.
Deep
breath out.
Repeat.
I
watch the flight crew below me loading the bags into the belly of the
plane. What if they dislodge the landing
gear while they are messing around down there?
What if they don’t check the systems well enough and we die in a fiery
crash? What if the metal holding the
plane together rips off in the air and peels away like tissue paper?
Deep
breath in.
Deep
breath out.
Repeat.
I
might die.
Seriously.
I
listen impatiently as the flight attendants give their safety spiel and motion
toward the exits like they are NFL referees with dumb tiny scarves around their
necks. I just need for them to get on
with it. Just let us taxi out and
take-off and then I will be perfectly fine once we are in the air. My hands get clammy and my ears start to
roar. Why am I such a freak?
Deep
breath in.
Deep
breath out.
Repeat.
You
freaking flight attendants.
Hurry.
Up.
I’m
just getting ready to shove my earbuds back in to distract myself when Dante
appears next to me like a savior or an angel or something of equal beauty and
importance.
“Is
this seat taken?” he smiles and I notice a dimple in his right cheek that I
hadn’t noticed before. How had I missed
a dimple?
“Um,
not that I know of,” I answer weakly, trying not to die from heart
palpations. “But the seat belt sign is
on. You’re not supposed to be out of your seat.”
Fabulous.
Now I sound like a hall monitor with a heart problem.
Dante
shrugs without seeming worried.
“I
think it will be okay,” he answers.
“We’re not even on the runway yet.”
“Good
point.”
“Can
I sit here? I’m bored up front.”
I
nod, my palms instantly clammier. “I
hope you brought your blanket. You won’t
get much back here except for a bag of peanuts.”
And
now I sound like a cheap hall monitor with a heart problem. I’m presenting
myself better and better by the moment.
Dante
smiles yet again and sits next to me. He
brings his charming accent with him and the scent of his amazing cologne. I take a deep breath. He smells far better than the stale airplane
air. Far
better. I fight the urge to jump into
his lap and inhale his neck, a maneuver that just might make me appear slightly
insane.
“You
look pretty pale,” he observes as he buckles up. “Are you afraid to fly?”
“Is
it that obvious?” I ask quietly. “As
much as I’ve flown in my lifetime, I should be used to it. But I’m afraid that’s never going to
happen. Once I’m in the air for awhile,
I’ll be fine, but until then… well, I’m terrified. I admit it.”
“Don’t
worry,” Dante tells me quietly, his voice calm and reassuring. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. You’re more likely to get into a--”
“Car
crash rather than die in a plane crash,” I interrupt. “Yes, I know. I’ve heard. Where are you from?” I ask curiously, half
out of genuine curiosity and half out of the need to distract myself. “You have the most interesting accent.”
He
smiles, his teeth brilliantly white. I
decide on the spot that I could watch him smile all day long.
“Caberra,”
he answers, reminding me that I had asked a question. “It’s an island near Greece. And you?”
“Like
you don’t know that I’m American,” I chuckle.
“I know it’s written all over me.
I’m sure you’re a fan, right?”
“Of
Americans?” he raises a golden eyebrow.
“Of course. I love them. I have
no reason not to. They bring a lot of
tourist dollars to Caberra.”
“Well,
we are a land of excess,” I admit. “But
that’s usually what foreigners seem to hate about us.”
Dante
stares at me for a moment and then smiles.
“Well, I can’t speak for all foreigners, but I don’t hate
Americans. And you’re not in America
right now, are you?”
I
shake my head. “No, I am most certainly
not.”
“Well,
then. You’re the foreigner now.” He grins and I can’t help but smile
back. He has a point.
The
pilot gets on the intercom and his nasally voice drones on and on, but I am
able to tune it out as I engage in conversation with a boy who is surely a
direct descendent of the gods. There is
no other plausible explanation for his good looks or charm. I barely even hear
the words that come out of Dante’s mouth, because I am so mesmerized by the
shape of his lips as he moves them.
Pathetic, I know, but true.
One
thing about me: I don’t lie to
myself. I might stretch the truth for my
parents from time to time when necessary, but never to myself. And I’m
pathetically fascinated by this boy.
Finally,
the aircraft shudders a bit and noses forward and I startle, gripping the arms
of my seat. My fingers turn white and I am certain that I am leaving permanent
indentions in the cracked vinyl arm-rests.
“Don’t
worry,” Dante says quietly, unpeeling one of my hands and grasping it within
his own. “It will be fine.”
The
feel of his hand distracts me. Strong
and warm, it cups my own carefully, like he is holding something very
fragile. I close my eyes and enjoy the
feeling. I only have a couple of minutes to soak it in, however.
As
the plane moves down the runway in preparation for take-off, something
happens. Something isn’t right.
Our
plane rocks a little, then quivers, like it is being moved by a strong gust of
wind. I feel it a brief moment before
Dante tightens his grip on my hand, a split second before light explodes from
outside of my eyelids. I open them to
discover fire tearing down the runway past my window. Before I can react or even scream, all hell
breaks loose.
