Brazen & Burning

“…drank more than all the groomsmen put together. And I’m a little concerned that binge drinking may be your way of dealing with being the last single woman in your circle of friends.”

“Let me guess,” Sydney said, pulling out her own chair much more quietly, “the first class you’re taking at Tulane is Pop Psychology.” She had no intention of answering Cassie’s intrusive question. Besides, she didn’t have an answer. She didn’t want to accept that she’d drunk herself into oblivion last night all on account of a cliché.

Poor, unmarried me. No single friends left to hang with. No man in my life to make my world complete.

Blech.

“No, but I read Dr. Phil’s newest book on my plane ride home for the wedding,” Cassie answered. “Besides, I’m nineteen. That makes me a certifiable expert on everything, remember?”

Remember what? Nineteen? Sydney snorted. She couldn’t remember last night, much less something that had occurred over eleven years ago. Besides, she’d tried damned hard to suppress most memories from around ages ten to twenty. Those years were formative and filled with more mistakes, missteps and misery than she ever wanted to relive.

However, just around the time of her twenty-first birthday, Sydney had made a decision to buck the system of her New England upbringing and live without apologies. She did what she wanted, when she wanted. She spoke the truth, even when people didn’t want to listen. She played the stock market like a blackjack table—and won. She wrote widely popular, highly subversive historical romance novels where the women were strong and smart and could bring hulking knights and bloodthirsty warriors to their knees.

And whenever she could, she took lovers the way most men did—with emphasis on immediate physical payoff and avoiding commitment. For the past decade, Sydney’s carefree, unrepentant lifestyle had worked wonders. She’d graduated from college, made a successful career for herself as a novelist and collected a small but loyal group of friends who accepted her for who she really was. Not to mention that she had a love life that would make even the most sexually satisfied heroines in her books pea-green with envy.

And, yes, last night she’d become the last single woman in that loyal group of friends, excluding Cassie, who was too young to really count, though rumor had it her innocent young friend had recently met a college boy and was, officially, smitten. Who knew how long it would be before Sydney was throwing a wedding shower for a bride thirteen years her junior?

Oh, well. She’d throw one hell of a party. Sydney’d never planned to get married anyway. She hadn’t drank too much last night because she’d felt lonely or left out or any other weepy sentiment on the dark side of the emotional spectrum.

She’d drank too much last night because drinking too much was the only thing she could think to do since her life suddenly came to a stop. And not because of Devon’s wedding. She was genuinely happy for Devon. As Cassie’s legal guardian, Devon Michaels had spent most of her adult life caring for her niece at the expense of her own personal fulfillment. Sydney had toasted her friend and fellow writer with great gusto and premium poetic words. She liked to think she had a hand in the romance of her mystery novelist friend and Jake Tanner, the hunky former cop Devon had married. She’d encouraged their relationship from the start and had no regrets.

No, Sydney Colburn’s life had come to a stop at precisely five o’clock Wednesday afternoon—a full three days prior to the wedding—simply because she’d reached the pinnacle of her career. Her newest book, a hardcover historical set on the moors of Scotland, had debuted in the number one spot on the coveted New York Times bestseller list. She’d achieved her single most important dream, as evidenced by the newspaper Cassie had carried into the condo and was now spreading carefully over Sydney’s butcher-block tabletop.

“Congratulations. I hear you kicked some literary ass last week,” Cassie said, attempting to couch her understated tone with a wry grin.

“Apparently,” Sydney grumbled.

Sydney had dreamed about this day since she first learned there ever was such a thing as a bestseller list. These novels were in such demand by booksellers and readers across the country that the titles and authors’ names were printed in the country’s most prestigious newspaper.

“Aunt Dev said you’ve wanted this all your life.”

“Well, I don’t think I wanted it when I was four,” Sydney quipped. “My main ambition then would have been a Malibu Barbie with a cool Corvette convertible.”

“You drive a Corvette convertible,” Cassie pointed out. “There may be a connection.”

Sydney raised her eyebrows, wincing as the simple movement made her head throb all the more. “You think?”

Cassie sighed in the way only someone younger than twenty could. Sydney glanced at the refrigerator again, wondering if that “hair of the dog that bit you” saying was true. She owned at least one bottle of vodka or gin or rum or tequila. She vaguely remembered a fully stocked wet bar somewhere in the living room. She didn’t drink much, but when she did, she made it count. Only, she didn’t really want more alcohol. She wanted to get rid of the kid, so she could go back to wallowing in peace.

“When you set a goal, you set a goal,” Cassie continued, obviously intent on having this deep psychological conversation even if Sydney didn’t want to. Oh, well. Why fight it? She didn’t have anyone else to hash this out with.

Devon was on her honeymoon, and while the others in her circle were good for shopping excursions and beachside lunches, none of them were writers. They supported her career by buying her books and talking them up to anyone willing to listen to their pitch, but none of them would really understand the downside of her reaching her ultimate goal. Even though they knew her profession held little of the glamor the media hyped and they respected her hard work, they could see no negatives to her job. She made up stories for a living. She’d just reached a major accomplishment in popular fiction—her name above Clancy, Grisham and Roberts, for this week at least. So while she’d tried to talk to them about how lost she felt, they couldn’t get beyond excited congratulations.

She loved them for the support—she really did. But support or not, she still felt like a drifting boat on a wind-tossed sea.

She wasn’t even sure that Cassie, who’d grown up in Devon’s care and knew more about the publishing business than most literary agents, would truly understand. How could she when Sydney didn’t? She’d accomplished her dream years before she expected to, and still she wasn’t happy. Why wasn’t she flying off to New York to celebrate with her editor? Why wasn’t she searching out a ladder so she could shout her accomplishment from the top of her three-story condominium building?

God, her head hurt.

“I don’t want to talk about this, Cassie.”

“You sound like my mother.”

Sydney’s shoulders drooped. “Did you come here to help or to insult me?”

Cassie’s mother was the Grammy-award-winning rock ’n’ roll phenomenon, D’Arcy Wilde. Of all the sexy acts out there giving music lovers their MTV, only Darcy could make Madonna look like June Cleaver in a push-up bra. Madonna at least raised her own children. Darcy had pawned Cassie off on her sister Devon, and she continued to lead a wild life, trotting from one gig to the next, building a personal empire on a foundation of provocative videos and sold-out concert tours. Though Sydney and Darcy had been compared to each other many times because of their open attitudes toward sex and men, neither of them took the association as a compliment.

In short, they despised one another.

“You know, my mother likes you,” Cassie claimed.

“She also likes tearing strategic holes in her T-shirts and playing peek-a-boo with her nipples on stage. I should be flattered?”

Cassie laughed. “Darcy likes to shock people. So do you.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. In order to like shocking people, you actually have to care about what people think about you. I don’t give a damn.”

Clearing her throat, Cassie nodded. “But you gave a damn about making the Times list. So what’s next?”

“Sex on the beach,” Sydney concluded.

“Oh, yeah. Drinking more is the solution.”

“I wasn’t talking about the drink. I’m going to the beach to pick up some glistening hunk, and then I’m going to have sex.”

It had been a long time since Sydney had indulged in an anonymous affair. Too long. She searched her mind for a face—names were usually optional—and she couldn’t place one. Hmm. In fact, the first face that came to mind—rugged, handsome and highlighted by the most unusual almond-tinted eyes she’d ever seen—belonged to Adam Brody. God. Adam Brody. He’d literally disappeared out of her life over a year ago, though he still he managed to creep into her thoughts every so often. At weak moments.

“I shouldn’t be telling you about my love life,” Sydney said.

“You’re not ashamed of your free-love lifestyle, are you?” Cassie asked, her tone a tad too suspicious for Sydney’s liking.

“The fact that Sydney and shame start with the same letter is the only connection between me and that emotion,” she assured her. “On the other hand, I don’t want to corrupt you. My lifestyle is just that—my lifestyle. My choices aren’t for everyone.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” Cassie concluded. She scraped her chair back and headed toward the fridge, which Sydney noticed she’d left open.

As she watched Cassie rise on her tippy-toes to peer behind the carton of week-old skim milk, Sydney realized something.

The kid was wearing makeup.

In all the years she’d known her, from way back when Cassie’s main concern in life revolved around Beanie Babies, throughout childhood and her teen years, Cassie chose her clothes for comfort and brushed her hair only after her aunt threatened to withhold her allowance. She eschewed high school homecoming dances and proms in favor of opera night or a hockey game. So why did the levelheaded, giggle-free Cassie suddenly look like an ideal candidate for Temptation Island?

That rumor she’d heard about Cassie and a boyfriend must have been true. No wonder she was suddenly so concerned with the state of Sydney’s life. No one could be more meddling than a young woman in love.

Cassie retrieved a jug of orange juice and shut the door. “You can have your choices, Sydney. Thanks to you and my mother, I have lived a vicarious wild life I won’t ever need to experience for myself.”

Sydney raised an eyebrow, watching through bleary eyes as Cassie retrieved two glasses, filled them, and replaced the jug. She’d always known the kid was mature beyond her years and had had amazing insights since she was old enough to speak in sentences, but sometimes she still surprised Sydney. Mainly because Sydney constantly underestimated her young friend.

“You’re sure?” Sydney asked. “Most kids your age are just clamoring to live life on the edge.”