Loving Ruby: The Riverstone Series Book 2 - Standalone Read online

  Loving Ruby

  Roya Carmen

  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

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  More books by Roya Carmen:

  Excerpt: Loving Amber

  Excerpt: The Ground Rules Book 1 (Chapter 1)

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  LOVING RUBY

  Roya Carmen

  Loving Ruby © Roya Carmen, 2016

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976. Copyright property of the author. No part of this content may be reproduced or distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes without prior written permission from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters and locations are either the product of the author’s imagination, or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, events or locales, is purely coincidental.

  Sign-up for Roya Carmen’s newsletter for all the updates and upcoming releases at www.royacarmen.com

  “Love does not consist of gazing at each other, but in looking outward together in the same direction.” - Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

  Eric

  1986

  He pulls at her house robe, his small chubby hands full of terry cloth. “Tell me your story again, Mommy.”

  She looks into his sweet eyes – beautiful shades of green and blue. He has her eyes. Her smile too. He also has her wrapped around his little finger.

  “Are you sure you want to hear it again?” she asks with a smile. “You have tons of books here, sweetie… tons of stories I could read you. Why do you always want the same one?”

  “That’s the one you made up,” he says, flashing her a sweet gap-toothed smile. “The only one that’s from you. And I love it.”

  A grin stretches across her face. “Okay, one more time. And then you go straight to bed, okay?”

  He nods and leans back against his pillow.

  She settles in next to him, stroking her son’s dark hair. “There once was a boy who loved the sky. Cedric loved the birds and the clouds up high. He had a nice family. He had a mommy, a daddy, a little sister, and a dog named Charlie. They all loved him very much. He loved them too. Yet there was something he loved even more.”

  “He loved the sky and the clouds and birds more,” he cheers, stealing her words.

  She smiles. “Yes, he loved the birds and the clouds, and every day, he lay on the grass and stared at the sky. He desperately wanted to live on a cloud.” He snuggles against her, his eyes fixed on her as she carries on. “He’d stare at the sky in the spring, in the summer, in the fall, and in the winter too. He never looked in front of him. He always stared up at the heavens. When he was walking to school, when he was out with his friends, when he rode in his parents’ car.”

  “All the time,” he chimes in.

  She smiles again and continues. “He was so busy looking up at the sky, he didn’t see when his little sister skated for the first time. He never saw that fuzzy green caterpillar she found because he was too busy staring at the clouds. He missed it when his family spotted a mother and baby deer because he was too busy looking up at the birds. Over the years, he missed it all.”

  “He missed it all,” he echoes with a pout.

  She nods. “Yes. He missed it all. Then one day, when his little sister was all grown up and beautiful, she was to be married. And her marriage was to take place in Paris, France. Her big brother was still staring up at the sky, but she invited him anyway. He was very excited at the prospect of flying into the sky for the first time and finally seeing the clouds up close. He sat eagerly, looking out the small window, his heart beating fast in anticipation. And when the plane finally broke through the clouds, he saw the clouds were nothing. Just mist.”

  “It had all been an illusion,” they whisper in unison.

  She kisses him softly on the forehead. “Now you go to bed, sweetie.”

  “Mommy,” he says, “one day… I’ll tell stories like you.”

  She smiles. “I’m sure you will. But now you need to get to sleep. School tomorrow.”

  He closes his eyes and tucks his small hands under his chin. Before she turns off the lights, she steals one last look at him.

  Her sweet little boy.

  Ruby

  “Bitch!”

  Amber slowly lifts her gaze to mine, the cupcake in her hand still awaiting its frosting. Her bright green eyes are soft despite the fact that I just called her a bitch. That’s probably because I’ve done it before. Too many times. And so has she. That’s what sisters do. Okay, maybe that’s not what all sisters do. Just the two of us… because we’re a little messed up.

  She knows I’m mad at her. She also knows I love her to death. “I just want you to be happy, Ruby,” she says as she squeezes the icing bag. The icing glides almost poetically in circles topping one another to form a mini-masterpiece.

  Damn, she’s good at that. She’s good at everything. And me… well, I’m another story.

  “I am happy,” I argue, trying to mimic her gestures to make my cupcake look as fabulous as hers. I know mine won’t be fit for the guests and will most likely be eaten by little Trevor. He’s my adorable nephew.

  She lines the cupcakes in rows on the table as she always does, meticulous to a fault. “Are you really happy cleaning toilets, changing linens, waiting on our guests hand and foot?”

  I mull over her question for a beat. Since Amber, our brother Flynn, and I inherited this estate about a year ago, we’ve been managing okay, but it’s not been easy. “Well, this is fun right here.”

  She smiles, her eyes fixed on my cupcakes. I look down at them. They’re awful. They look like those cupcakes at the “decorate your own cupcake” event they held at Trevor’s class last year – a complete fail! My mind wanders to my numerous other failures: sloppy bed corners, streaky mirrors, and that horrible time when a client complained about a dirty toilet. Maybe she’s right. I’m just not cut out for this.

  I grab one of my cupcakes, and with pursed lips and a heart full of anger, I turn it over and flatten it on the table, making a total mess. “There… how’s that?”

  “Rubes…” Amber says softly.

  My throat pricks. I can’t believe I’m about to cry over this. “I’m such a fuckup.”

  “No, you’re not,” Amber says as she navigates around the kitchen table then wraps her arms around me. “You’re amazing. Amazingly sweet and caring, amazingly creative, and the most fun person I know.”

  “You have to say that. You’re my big sister.”

  “No, I mean it.” She squeezes me tighter. “You’re just… you’re just not suited for this job. And with Cathy here occasionally to help me out, I don�
��t really need you here anymore.”

  My sister hired someone to help her and do the job I can’t handle. “I can’t believe I’m getting fired by my own flesh and blood for a job I’m not even getting paid for, really.”

  “Exactly! You should be happy.”

  I want to throttle her, but that contagious smile of hers always gets to me. “Maybe you’re right. I’ve been pretty miserable.”

  “I know you. You’re a free spirit. You’re an artist. And you’re incredibly talented,” she says, full of conviction. “And I’m not just saying that because you’re my sister. I want you to take some time to get a job more suited to you and to work on that book of yours.”

  My heart is all warm and fuzzy when I smile at her – my big sis, always looking out for me.

  “And of course, you’re welcome to stay in your room here at the estate. This is your home.”

  “Well, it’s not like I can afford my own place anyway. I don’t even have a job.”

  “You will soon. And you know you’ll still get your share of the profits. You might not do as much as Flynn or me, but this estate is still yours too.”

  My chest aches when I think about our parents and this lovely estate. Mom left us a few years back when she lost her battle with cancer. When Dad passed away suddenly after a heart attack last year, the three of us couldn’t bear to sell the estate. Running it seemed like an insurmountable task, but I knew Flynn and Amber would be all over it. They’re both type-A personalities – nothing like me, thankfully.

  I’m the black sheep, the rebel, the fuckup. I’m the accident too. The “oops” baby… born six years after everyone else. My mother always told me that although I was a surprise, I was always wanted. Yeah, right. Of course my mother would tell me that. She was a beautiful person, always so loving and kind. I miss her every day.

  Amber wipes her hands on her apron; it was our mother’s vintage apron, bought in Paris. She checks her watch. “I need to go get Trevor at the bus stop.”

  “Can I come with?” I ask, even knowing it’s snowy and cold out there.

  Her face breaks into a smile. “I would love that. Someone to chat with while I wait.”

  Amber slips into her heavy winter jacket, tuque, and mittens while I put on my cute white bomber jacket with the fake-fur-trimmed hood. I slip on my matching pink beret and gloves.

  She laughs as she sinks into some serious-ass winter boots. “You’re going to freeze in that.”

  I shrug. “I know. Pain in the name of fashion, I guess. I can’t believe it’s still freezing at the end of March.”

  “Don’t you love being a Canuck?” She chuckles as we step outside and brave the elements. “Let’s do it.”

  It’s cold, and I’m relieved when we finally see the yellow bus approaching us. It slows to a stop, and a few seconds later, Trevor bounds down the stairs with a smile so big it practically splits his face in two. “Hi, Auntie Ruby!” He throws himself into my arms.

  I hug him tightly – it’s crazy how much I love that little guy. “Did you have a good day?”

  “It was awesome! How ‘bout you?”

  “I’ve had better. Your mom fired me today.” I scowl for good measure.

  He stares at his mom, wide-eyed. “Why did you do that?”

  Amber and I break into laughter.

  “Don’t worry about it,” I tell him. “It was for the best.”

  As we make our way back to the house, trudging up the long winding drive, I think about my future. I’ll go crazy without something to do. Yes, I can work on my children’s book. This is the perfect time to complete it. But I need something more. I’m a people person, and I need the energy of others around me. I can’t stay locked up in my room all day, hunched over my art table and playing make-believe.

  “I guess I’ll need to look for a job.”

  A cloud escapes Amber’s mouth when she says, “No hurry. You should take your time and find something you really love.”

  I smile in complete agreement. “Yes, something I really love.”

  August

  Millie stumbles into my office, red-cheeked and carrying a linen bag full of staples. “Hey, Boss! I managed to grab the things you asked for.” She dumps everything on my desk: printer paper, batteries, and a pack of yellow envelopes. “I had such a great time!”

  She’s her usual happy self. This is the real reason I need her in this house – she’s always so cheerful and brightens my day.

  “They have the best samples at Costco,” she says as I go over the list I gave her.

  “Where’s the printer ink?”

  “They had the most delicious wiener samples,” she carries on, oblivious to my question. Without ink, I can’t print my latest draft and I can’t do an edit on paper. “They were kind of spicy and sweet at the same time. I took the liberty of buying some.”

  “Sounds good.”

  She continues, her gaze on the ceiling, a dreamy look tracing her features. “And they had these fudge samples… mmm… so good. Of course, I bought those too.” She goes on and on.

  I’m the kind of man who interrupts people when they chatter. I have no patience for pointless ramblings that lead nowhere. Unfortunately, there is one exception – Millie. I cut her off once, and I might as well have ripped out her heart. Ever since, I’ve endured, for lack of a better word, her long-winded speeches.

  “And oh my goodness,” she adds, full of excitement, “they also had these chocolate-covered cranberries. They were to die for.”

  “Let me guess,” I venture with a smile, picturing my pantry filled with treats, “you purchased those too?”

  She smirks. “Of course.”

  I laugh a little. “So where is the ink?”

  Her face falls. She fixes me with wide eyes, apparently at a complete loss for words. “I’m so sorry, sir. I completely forgot all about the ink.”

  I don’t let my disappointment show. Millie is much too sensitive for such displays. As wonderful as she is, her biggest flaw is forgetfulness. “Too busy feasting on chocolate and such, I imagine.”

  “I’m so sorry. I can go out again. Right now.”

  I shake my head. “No, you don’t need to do that right now.”

  “I know you don’t like to venture out… um… yourself… especially on such a horrible day. I really don’t mind.”

  I shake my head. I can’t let a sixty-two-year-old woman brave the cold a second time to go and fetch my ink. And unfortunately, I can’t quite go get it myself.

  The day began with such great intentions. I had planned to be at my most productive today. I’ve been much too unfocused lately, and as a result, my work has suffered. I’m not a distracted person by nature. I’ve always considered myself a disciplined, focused person. However, my career has gotten completely out of hand lately, and I’m overwhelmed. Ever since my trilogy Her Heartless Master hit the New York Times best seller list, I’ve been inundated with correspondence: messages from fans, requests for interviews, interest from fellow authors, promotional opportunities, and so much work.

  “I know how busy you are. You seem so frazzled lately.”

  I laugh. “I am, but I’m certainly not in a position to complain.”

  I thought Millie could help more as I became busier. My dear Millie has been with me a long time. She likes to say she’s the temporary stand-in for my mother, whom I don’t get to see these days. And yes, in many ways, Millie is very much like a mother. She worries about me, fusses over me, presses my shirts, cooks my meals, and runs errands for me. Although she’s not the greatest driver. She’s banged up my Escalade three times now. The truth is there’s only so much she can do.

  When I hear a lull in her rambling, I take the opportunity to chime in, “You’re right, I have been frazzled. Too much to do…”

  I need help with so many aspects of the job: editing and research, office management, social media management, promotional development, errands, and marketing and design. And then there are the numerous onlin
e promotional events, blog tours and takeovers. It’s all getting to be too much.

  I’ve reached the moment of truth I don’t particularly wish to face. “I desperately need a personal assistant.”

  Ruby

  Workopolis is not my friend. I just want to throw my stupid laptop against the damn wall. These jobs sound so boring. All I’m really qualified for are clerical jobs: receptionist, administrative assistant, marketing assistant, and such. Unfortunately, the graphic design jobs, or any type of creative work, are few and far between.

  Ginger lies between my bare feet. Her body is soft and warm, and I love it. She’s my sister’s cat, but I’ve kind of stolen her. She loves me more; she always hangs out in my room and sleeps with me. We might even be soul mates.

  “I swear I might actually fall asleep just reading these job descriptions,” I tell her. “Snooze…”

  She tilts her head in acknowledgment and returns to her slumber. She’s not really interested, yet I keep talking to her as I browse through the job postings, my heart sinking a little deeper with each one. It’s dire out there.

  But my breath hitches when I spot it. The perfect job. The perfect job for me anyway.

  Novelist P.A.

  Personal assistant required for novelist. Creativity and discipline a must. Work in a home environment. Duties include manuscript editing, social media management, promotion coordination, graphic design, and administrative and office management duties. Must have a Bachelor in Arts or Communications and a valid driver’s license.

  It’s not unlike love at first sight. I know this is the perfect job for me. I can feel it in my bones. I glance at the specifics following the initial job description, my eyes not taking in the information fast enough. I’m on a high. I’m lit up. But when I catch the last sentence, my heart sinks. The deadline was yesterday.

  “Fuck.”

  Ginger turns to me with big round eyes, startled.