Reaching Lily. Vivacia Ahwen K
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Reaching Lily
Vivacia K. Ahwen
Mischief
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers
77–85 Fulham Palace Road,
Hammersmith, London W6 8JB
Copyright © Vivacia K. Ahwen 2014
Vivacia K. Ahwen asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novella is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Ebook Edition © NOVEMBER 2014 ISBN: 9780008124007
Version: 2014-11-24
‘Very whitely still
The lilies of our lives may reassure
Their blossoms from their roots, accessible
Alone to heavenly dews that drop not fewer;
Growing straight out of man’s reach, on the hill.
God only, who made us rich, can make us poor.’
Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Contents
Copyright
Prologue: Fear of Flying
Chapter One: Strangers On A Train
Chapter Two: Holder Tight
Chapter Three: Intern Flat
Chapter Four: Blackberry Curve
Chapter Five: The Other Side
Chapter Six: Metamorphosis
Chapter Seven: Raising the Bar
Chapter Eight: Run, Baby Run
Chapter Nine: Do Not Disturb
Chapter Ten: Just Desserts
Chapter Eleven: The Legend of Jerry Fitz
Chapter Twelve: Time and Tide
Chapter Thirteen: Save A Prayer
Chapter Fourteen: Oh! Pretty Woman
Chapter Fifteen: Naughty and Nice
Chapter Sixteen: Sleeping Beauty
Chapter Seventeen: Ripples and Waves
Chapter Eighteen: A Close Shave
Chapter Nineteen: Revere
More from Mischief
About the Publisher
I always carry too much baggage. Though I managed to cram a couple of weeks’ worth of sassy tropical vacation clothes into one gigantic carry-on, stuffing it into the small compartment over my seat proves well nigh impossible.
‘Dammit.’ I punch the pink canvas bulging out of the cubby.
‘Miss? Do you need help?’ asks a silky male voice.
Startled, I whip around to see who my concerned fellow passenger is, hoping his sonorous intonation is matched by an equally attractive face.
Alas, not a meet-cute. Just some retiree in golf duds, who looks like a plump version of Woody Allen and clearly has had some vocal training. His eyes drop to my chest.
‘Thanks.’ Though I try to keep my voice pleasant, three sleepless nightstend to affect one’s delivery. Sweet, complacent Lily Dewitt is still at a bitsy flat on Agassiz Street, curled up in an even bitsier ball on her futon, crying her eyes out about the man who never loved her back.
She can stay there.
‘I’m fine.’
Woody shoves horn-rimmed spectacles up the bridge of his nose, not even bothering to look up from my tits. ‘If you’re sure …’
Hands on hips, I ask, ‘Are you going to be sitting next to me this entire flight?’
‘No, though that would be delightful.’ He stops ogling long enough to meet my eyes. ‘Would you like me to join you?’
‘Wow, really?’
He looks away. ‘I could switch with someone.’
You have got to be fucking kidding me.
‘Seems you’re holding up the line.’ I give an encouraging, not so subtle shrug. ‘I got this.’
Several passengers waiting behind him nod and mumble their support to me. Thanks, team. He sighs, quite put out by my obvious lack of gratitude and snooty demeanour. I turn my back on him and go on shoving my bag into the reluctant overhead. But it’s like trying to squeeze my bum into skinny jeans halfway through winter. Ain’t gonna happen.
Well … perhaps my annual garment squish isn’t the greatest comparison, since my build has changed. My drawstring linen pants are hanging off my hips, and spring has only just sprung. This is the smallest I’ve been since high school, and it doesn’t suit me one bit. I’m supposed to be a curvy girl, no two ways about it. But a few weeks of stress, Olympic-athlete sex, a few ballet lessons, a lot of falling in love, topped with a dollop of utter devastation? Winning combo. Makes for a quick and simple crash diet.
Simple, but not easy.
I’ve got Dorian Holder to thank for my Doctor Oz non-approved weight-loss plan.
Thanks, Dorian.
He’s probably already got a patent on it already. The man owns fucking everything, and breaking