Sticking to the Script: Cipher Office Book #2 Read online

  Sticking to the Script

  Cipher Office Book #2

  Stella Weaver

  Smartypants Romance

  Copyright

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, rants, facts, contrivances, and incidents are either the product of the author’s questionable imagination or are used factitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead or undead, events, locales is entirely coincidental if not somewhat disturbing/concerning.

  Copyright © 2019 by Smartypants Romance; All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, photographed, instagrammed, tweeted, twittered, twatted, tumbled, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without explicit written permission from the author.

  Made in the United States of America

  eBook Edition

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Sneak Peek: Love in Due Time, Book #1 in the Green Valley Library Series

  Dedication

  To two incomparable TREASURES.

  Linda, without you, I would have never started writing.

  Brooke, without you, I would have never kept writing.

  Your love and encouragement made me believe this was possible. Thank you. XO

  Prologue

  *Steven*

  Tonight, was Do or Die.

  Make or Break.

  Ride or Get off the Horse.

  Even though I wasn’t sure that last one was a real idiom, I knew it was apt. I felt as if my entire future happiness hinged on how tonight played out.

  I wanted to roll my own eyes at the melodrama of it all, but really, it was warranted. Honestly. And unless you were a gay man looking for love in Chicago in the 21st century, you couldn’t comprehend the level of done I had reached.

  But, as dramatic as that all sounded, I was optimistic. I hadn’t lost all hope. I had exactly one fuck left to give. Figuratively. Well, maybe literally too. I didn’t know what the night would bring. I just hoped it was good. It didn’t even have to be great. All I needed was not terrible. Just. Not. Terrible.

  I had my cab driver drop me off a block from my destination, preferring to walk off the nervous energy coursing through me. I was in Boystown, in East Lakeview, heading down Halstead Street to meet my date, King.

  Two weeks ago, in another bar here in Boystown, he’d leaned into me, put his lips to my ear—presumably to be heard over the loud music, but probably it was just an excuse to generate sexy vibes—and said, “I’m King.” To which I replied—not so cleverly, “I’m sure you are, big stuff.”

  I’d been slightly drunk because my friends and I were smack dab in the middle of a bar crawl to celebrate Ernesto and Paulie’s bachelor party. I’d bumped into the stocky ginger and said something to him that I couldn’t remember now, but I’m positive was witty and cute in the moment. He’d been charmed enough to buy me a drink and chat me up the whole time we were there.

  When it came time for a change in venue, I said my farewell, gave him my number and left the beefcake behind. The night’s revelry had been about Ernesto and Paulie, not me. And besides, I was drunk and didn’t want to make an impaired decision that could backfire in my face.

  If there was one thing I had plenty of experience with, it was the backfire.

  Backfire? More like dumpster fire, I thought with a snort.

  The idea of doing the bar crawl and looking for a guy hadn’t occurred to me because I was already in the mindset of being off the horse, ready to hang up my lasso and call the rodeo finished.

  My year in the romance department had been so spectacularly bizarre and disheartening that I felt a break from the insanity was necessary.

  The nightmare had started with James, the choir singer. He was a tenor and had the voice of an angel. I met him at a holiday party where his choir performed, and their rendition of “Hallelujah” had given me goosebumps. When he winked at me from the first riser, I was smitten.

  But when we met up after the New Year, gone was the angel, replaced by Satan’s minion. He loudly and vulgarly berated the Uber driver and patrons in line for the movie we were seeing. I suspected he was high on something. I stuck it out through the film, but later at dinner, when he called our waitress a stupid cunt, I had to get the hell out of there.

  Next had been the other James—James the Second, as I referred to him. He had kept his left hand in his pants pocket almost the entire night, letting loose occasional, low, sex moans. The moans had been the majority of his contribution to the conversation. And, even then, would annoyingly interrupt my witty dialogue. I became fed up, confronted him about it and he admitted he had been tugging on his scrotum ring.

  Sure, that hadn’t been the worst thing a guy had done on a date with me, but I wasn’t looking for quick, kinky sex. Those days were fading fast. Sex was cheap and easy. I knew I could get on Grindr and have a face full of dick in a matter of minutes if I wanted. Cheap and easy wasn’t appealing. Honestly, it never really had been.

  Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t uninterested in getting laid. Oh, I wanted it, but I wanted more, so I kept trying the dating thing.

  I went out with Ben, who I dubbed Bennet the Bandit. Our date started with a lot of promise. He had been engaging, flirty, and he managed to lull me into a sense of false hope when he went in for a deep and heady kiss. His hands found their way to my ass, squeezed and kneaded. Then, hope was dashed suddenly when he broke off the kiss, snatched the wallet from my pants and took off at a breakneck run.

  That had really sucked.

  My most recent dating disaster had been Travis. Tragic, tragic Travis. An interesting thing about Travis was that he raised umbrella cockatoos.

  In general, I found animal lovers to be great people. I imagined anyone who loved large, loud, and ill-tempered cockatoos was probably a laid-back, kind person. Travis and I had two nice dates. No fireworks, but they were, by far, the best dates I’d had in a long time.

  However, before the third rolled around, he’d shown up at my apartment with four nearly bald birds crammed into an undersized cage. He’d demanded I take them as a gift. When I politely declined, stating I couldn’t be a responsible pet owner due to my work schedule, he flew off the handle and said he was going to go home and wring all their necks.

  All of them.

  He had fifteen birds at home!

  I calmed him down and listened to him complain about the noise and the dust and the droppings. I thought by the time he had left, I’d d
one a good job of convincing him to find a sanctuary for them, but I wasn’t positive. So, I called the ASPCA on him. To this day, I don’t know how it all ended, but I really hope those birds made it out of his house alive.

  July was fast approaching, and so far, all I had to show for my troubles was a new wallet and driver’s license. Thank you, Bennet.

  Sure, my tales of tragedy kept my friends entertained, but it was wearing me down. These situations I found myself in played out like scenes from slapstick rom-coms. Except from my vantage point, nothing was remotely romantic or comical. Not even a little bit.

  I didn’t want to go into work Monday morning and regale Janie with another failure. It was tiresome to pretend it didn’t matter, and it was getting harder to sell.

  Unless I was self-sabotaging—which I absolutely was not—a date eventually had to go well. There had to be someone in this city who clicked with me.

  The odds were in my favor. They had to be. No one could have the year I’d had and not see the tides change. I was long overdue for a date that wasn’t going down in Crazy Town.

  King seemed like he could be the one to bring my losing streak to an end. We’d been texting here and there and blessedly he hadn’t been pushy. He hadn’t sent any unsolicited dick pics or tried to engage me in sexting. What he had sent me was an intriguing picture of himself from the neck down, shirtless, tattooed, and kilted. He told me his interests were lifting and bagpiping.

  With all of that in his favor, he still managed to earn Strike One. He hadn’t wanted to meet for a daytime or early date. He wanted to meet at a bar. At eleven PM. It was an unholy hour to meet up and indicated to me that he didn’t want to get to know me too deeply. The sting of that was soothed a bit by his choice in venue.

  Rather than meeting at any number of loud and boisterous clubs along Halstead, he’d chosen Jimbo’s. Jimbo’s was a pub geared toward an older crowd who wanted to enjoy drinks and company without competing with ear-busting music. I reasoned that maybe he had a job where he worked late, that maybe this wasn’t going to be just about sex.

  Like I said, I was optimistic.

  But I was gun-shy enough to arrive slightly later than our agreed upon time so I could spy on him. I wanted this guy to ride the line between fascinating and ordinary—fun but not too fun. What I absolutely needed was to make sure he was fully dressed and not re-enacting scenes from Braveheart. I swore, if he so much as whispered the word freedom with even a slight hint of a Scottish accent, I was out.

  As I approached Jimbo’s I silently begged, Please, please, please, you pipe-playing hunk of ginger, don’t let me down.

  I peeked through the pub’s pristine window and let out a sigh of relief when I spotted him. Seated at the bar, dressed in well-fitting, casual clothes, he looked just as I remembered him from a couple of weeks back, if maybe a bit bigger, more muscular. His short sleeve was pulled tight around his bicep and a scrolling tattoo was visible, teasing. His short red hair, though receding, was gelled into a stylish sweep. At first glance, he seemed unapproachable, almost brutish. I continued to spy as he spoke to the barman and owner, Jim.

  Jim had been running his pub since the early nineties and he knew people. He knew how to deal with troublemakers, too. I watched as he laughed at something King said, then stuck his hand out for a shake.

  That sealed the deal for me. If Jim was cool with him, I was game.

  Steven Thompson was back in the saddle.

  Chapter One

  *Steven*

  “I promise we can leave as soon as Botstein cuts the cake,” Elizabeth whispered into my ear.

  I patted her hand reassuringly. “No worries, my little Belieber. We’ll stay as long as you need to be here.”

  When we arrived, Elizabeth had been dismayed to see that of the dozens of people in attendance, she only recognized a few. To top it off, the party was a definite yawner. I was sure it was going to wind down early.

  “Steven!” she hissed. “If you’re going to air my private shame, at least get it right. I don’t listen to Bieber.”

  I laughed at her faux outrage. She was too cute. I enjoyed spending time with Elizabeth. She had a sardonic wit and a forthright way of speaking that was at odds with her tiny stature, gorgeous face, and demonstrably affectionate and compassionate heart. Elizabeth was my kind of people.

  She also had a not-so-secret love of pubescent boys singing in harmony. Truly, it was endearing.

  Leaning down to whisper in her ear, I said with mock accusation, “I call bullshit. I heard it last Thursday when you pulled your earbuds out.” I straightened and shook my head. “You’re going to go deaf if you keep listening at such a high volume. Aren’t you a doctor? Shouldn’t you know this stuff?”

  Elizabeth was an emergency room physician and tonight was a party celebrating her mentor’s retirement. Apparently, he was an excellent doctor and was held in high regard. She hadn’t wanted to attend the party alone, so she begged me sweetly and I gracefully acquiesced—because that’s the kind of friend I was.

  Giving.

  Supportive.

  Available… Always available.

  She needed me to be her plus-one tonight because her husband, Nico Manganiello, aka Nico Moretti, the famous comedian, was working out of town and couldn’t make it home in time to join her.

  A few years ago, my co-worker, Janie Sullivan (or rather, Janie Morris, as she’d been back then), introduced me to Elizabeth and Nico when I moved into the East Randolph Street building our boss owned. I hit it off immediately with the couple and found they were no hardship to know. Nico was not only hot as hellfire, he was one of the most friendly people I’d ever met. Plus, the hand-delivered homemade apple fritters he brought to me on Sundays meant he had my undying devotion.

  Never underestimate the power of fried dough, folks. Never.

  “Thanks again for coming with me,” Elizabeth said for the fortieth time. “It shouldn’t be too much longer.”

  The party really was abysmally boring, but there was one true bright spot in the whole, dull shebang. Dr. Ken Miles.

  DKM, as I now referred to him, was by far the most entertaining person here. He was blond, blue-eyed, square-jawed, and dressed in a suit and tie, the cut of which accentuated his athletic build. The hue also paired nicely with his light coloring, which told me he knew how to dress himself for maximum effect. He was Handsome Level: Corn-Fed Meets Trust Fund.

  I smiled to myself at this label. I loved to assign people into arbitrary categories based on characteristics. It wasn’t a scientific or useful thing I did. It was simply fun. For instance, my boss at Cipher Systems, Quinn Sullivan, was Handsome Level: GQ Meets IQ. Once, in the early days, after a painful one-on-one limo ride, I assigned him a Personality Level: Mute Meets Rude. I respected the man, but after that display of moodiness, it was wholly deserved.

  Corn-Fed Meets Trust Fund was certainly appropriate for DKM. He had reached the level of handsome that was a turn-off. To the untrained eye, he appeared to be a calm and confident yuppie snob.

  But my eyes weren’t untrained. Oh no, I was a pro. I could spot a faker. I knew pretense when I saw it. He was only pretending to be relaxed. I could see it in the overly casual stance, the flashes of tightness around his mouth, the laugh that seemed forced.

  He glanced around the room, passing his gaze over me, only to clock back immediately when he noticed I was looking at him. I didn’t bother to avert my attention.

  His brows drew inward, and he acknowledged me with a brief lift of his chin. Then he immediately pulled his eyes away and rubbed the back of his neck.

  Just as I suspected. Totally uncomfortable.

  Everyone else was chatting quietly in little groups, but not him. He spent most of the time on the fringe, by himself until someone, an acquaintance or stranger, approached him with a handshake and a “how-do?” I noted that the only people he had deigned to approach so far were Elizabeth and Dr. Botstein. But that probably had more to do with the possibility that
there weren’t many recognizable faces for him, rather than any anti-social tendencies.

  Earlier, when Elizabeth had spied him walk through the door, she’d stepped up on her tiptoes, elongated her neck for a better view and said, “Oh, there’s Dr. Ken Miles!” She’d given him a wave when he noticed her, and he made his way toward us.

  “Good lord, I must be desperate to see a familiar face in here if I’m happy to see him.”

  “My, my,” I said, arching an eyebrow. “Isn’t he a pretty thing.” And he was. So very, very pretty.

  When he approached, he slid his left hand into his pocket and gave Elizabeth a smirk. His indolent, relaxed stance came off as completely affected. I was repulsed and intrigued. The conversation that followed did not disappoint.

  Without any greeting, he said, “Dr. Finney, let me guess, your husband’s conspicuously out of town again? You should probably get a private investigator to look in on that.”

  Oooh, I thought. Ass. Hole. His satisfied smile displayed a row of perfectly aligned teeth. Teeth so vibrantly white, I suspected they were professionally bleached.

  Bleached Asshole, I amended.