Good Men Are Like Unicorns

"My grandmother always said that good men are like unicorns," my friend Dallas said, as she took another sip of the Whiskey Sour in her hand. "They are magical, mythical creatures that only exist in dreams and fairy tales." "Amen," I said in agreement, raising a cold, frosty daiquiri in salute. I was practically an expert. I had married my unicorn, my high school sweetheart, and after a short, disastrous marriage, I had divorced him to follow my own dreams. I could say with absolute certainty that unicorns were really arrogant, controlling ogres in disguise. Unicorns don't exist. Not for me anyway. But the chemistry, THAT was real. And when I met Japheth again after five years apart, the sparks were still there. One slightly tipsy moment of indiscretion landed me right back in the arms of my ex, who seemed bound and determined to prove that good men DO exist. ------ Hello dear readers, I'm back again with a new love story for you! As always, please be aware that this book is rated 18+, and there WILL be s.ex and other adult themes. I do not believe in putting trigger warnings at the beginnings of my chapters, as it interrupts the flow of reading. So please, if you are sensitive and easily offended, this is not the book for you. If you are down for a wild ride, welcome, and read on! ********* Regina “And that concludes my presentation. I’m afraid our schedule doesn’t allow time for any Q and A, but if anyone has any questions, feel free to find me after the conference.” There was a polite smattering of applause from the floor as I closed my laptop and tucked it under my arm. I stepped down from the podium and someone raised the lights, causing me to blink in the sudden brightness. “There will be a fifteen-minute break before we continue,” the event organizer announced from his spot by the door. Immediately, the room began to hum and shift as people pushed back their chairs to head for the restrooms. Or maybe, like me, they were desperate to get to the bar for a drink. A few years ago, I would have eagerly sat through every speaker, teacher and presentation at the conference, but now, I just wanted to wrap it up and go home. If you could call my bland, furnished studio apartment a home. The bar at the Grand Hotel was almost empty. Not surprising considering it was only 2:00pm in the afternoon. Most self-respecting professionals wouldn’t be seen drinking alone in the middle of the day, but at that moment I was thinking, it’s 5:00 pm somewhere. I avoided the long counter, and instead went to a small table in a dim corner. I set my laptop beside my chair and immediately slipped off the high-heeled pumps that had been pinching my toes for the last four hours. A young waiter came over to take my drink order. He wore a black vest over a crisp white shirt, and carried a small silver tray the size of a dinner plate tucked under his elbow. “Good afternoon,” he said with a smooth, practiced smile, an obligatory curling up of the corners of his mouth that I was pretty sure got taught to every person in a tip orientated job. “What can I get for you?” I knew that accomplished businesswomen were supposed to drink sophisticated alcoholic beverages. Martinis, or cosmopolitans, or some twenty-year-old scotch on the rocks. But I smiled up at the young waiter as I placed my order. “I’ll take a piña colada,” I said tiredly, “and go easy on the rum, please.” He slipped away to give my order to the bartender, and I shifted in my seat so that I could see out one of the big windows that overlooked the snow-covered mountains. Other people might think it looked idyllic. The crisp white snow sparkling in the sunshine, some pine trees providing a smattering of green hues to the otherwise peacefully clean landscape, underneath a washed-out wintery blue sky. There was even frost edging the window, creating a sort of frame around the whole scene. God, I hated the snow. I hated everything cold, unless it happened to be an icy, fruity adult beverage. Or ice cream. Who doesn’t love ice cream? I accepted my drink from the waiter, taking a long draw from the straw before I set it down on the empty table in front of me. I felt the rum burn down my throat, and my eyes watered slightly. Instead of going easy on the rum, it tasted like the bartender had tripled it. The sweet coconut cream and tangy pineapple couldn’t mask the heavy amount of liquor in the chilled glass. I wrinkled my nose, but I took another sip anyway. I plucked off the wedge of pineapple that graced the edge of the cup and nibbled at it, enjoying the tartness of the fruit against my tongue. Far off on the slopes of the mountains I could see the little colored dots of skiers zig-zagging their way down the trails. I used to love this part of my job as a top executive editor at Triton Publishing. Traveling, staying at luxury hotels, attending conferences, the media blitzes and book signings. When had the excitement worn off? When did it all become such drudgery? When did I stop socializing with the elite of the publishing world, and start hanging out in the bar, drinking alone, wallowing in my own bitterness? Before I knew it I had finished off the first drink. I waved my empty glass at the waiter, indicating that there was nothing left in the cup except the little paper umbrella that had been holding the maraschino cherry on top of the pineapple slice. When it arrived, I held my second drink close to my chest and tried not to think too much about all the things I should be doing. I knew my email in-box would be piled up with urgent emails when I got back to the office on Monday. I had two author interviews scheduled for later in the week, and I hadn’t even glanced at their books yet. I had their manuscripts tucked in my briefcase, but I had left the briefcase upstairs in my hotel room. And then there was Dan Skirll, the Hollywood producer, who was still breathing down my neck for the movie rights to “Dark Beloved,” our latest best-seller. Yep, I had so much work to do. I let out an exhausted sigh and put my feet up on the empty chair across from me. I was tempted to go to the ladies' room just so I could peel off my nylons. I hated nylons almost as much as I hated the snow. The alcohol was starting to make my belly and my face feel a little warm. I hated to admit that a mere two piña coladas could make me a little bit tipsy, but I was always a lightweight when it came to alcohol. And besides, the bartender was being awfully heavy-handed with the rum. “Hello Regina.” I must have been a helluva lot drunker than I thought I was. That voice, that deep, slightly gravelly voice was like a ghost from my past. I hadn’t heard it in years, but I would know it anywhere. I dropped my feet from the other chair and sat up abruptly. The fruit fell off the side of my cup and dropped to the carpeted floor as I stared disbelievingly at the man before me. “Japheth,” I shook my head, wishing I could shake away the hazy feeling of the booze in my brain. I couldn’t think clearly. “What are you doing here?” I couldn’t even focus on him properly, because he was being silhouetted by the window and the blindingly white snowy landscape outside. It left an almost angelic halo around his head. But I didn’t even need to see his face. It was enough to see the shape of him, his tall, thick build, his strong shoulders, his long legs. He was wearing a suit, which was a little weird, but still, I would know the man anywhere. After all, I had been married to him.