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  “This project is bigger, you know that. It’ll put me on track for a promotion.”

  Wiping tears away with one hand, Tori rests the other on her hip. “If you were a surgeon and lives were at stake, I’d understand. But you’re an engineer. This is just an excuse not to commit.”

  I look at Gavin’s face and see it’s not true. He loves her and feels caught between a rock and a hard place. It’s probably an expression I’ve often worn, because the hurt I see on Tori’s face is certainly a familiar sight on Noah’s.

  Taking a step toward them, I consider trying to run interference. Maybe I can reason with them, help them understand each other. But they don’t even notice me. It’s like I’ve become invisible. Looking down, I see why. While I’ve been watching them, snow has accumulated on my coat, my bare head. It’s weighing down my lashes, melting and mingling with my tears. My heart is breaking all over again with Gavin and Tori, but they only see each other and the fragile world they’re about to smash like a snow globe.

  I reach for the vial in my pocket and clutch it in one reddened, bare hand. The chances of my finding Noah in time and dosing him are slim now. There is no point in hoarding a few drops that will be powerless soon, but might help another couple now.

  Working the top off with stiff fingers, I take a couple of cautious steps closer before flinging the last bit of Wonder Glass at Tori and Gavin. The droplets arc in seeming slow motion, shining like a rainbow to my tired eyes. One drop lands on Tori’s nose, and she rubs it into her skin. Another lands on Gavin’s cheek, and glistens there.

  After a long moment, Tori and Gavin lunge forward at exactly the same time. Tori’s shoes give out and she falls into Gavin’s arms. Laughing, he grabs her, lifts her off the ground and spins her around. One stiletto catches me in the hand and leaves a gash, but neither one notices.

  “I’ll stay,” Gavin says. “There’s something almost as big coming up in Guelph. There are some beautiful views in farm country, baby.”

  Tori giggles as he lowers her to the ground. “I love cows.”

  They turn to go back into Cecile’s and I start my long slog up Bay Street. Once more, my shoes give way and I take a spectacular wipe out.

  Gavin comes running back and lifts me to my feet. “You okay, lady?”

  He’s about my age, but appears to be mistaking me for a homeless woman. “Yeah,” I say, trying to smile with frozen lips. “I’ll be fine.”

  “Hang on,” he says. Charging into the middle of Bay Street, he manages to flag a cab. He helps me inside and hands the driver a fifty. “Take her anywhere she wants to go.”

  The 20-minute drive to Noah’s house takes well over an hour. Finding the place dark, I sit on the snowy steps, checking my phone every few minutes. He hasn’t answered my calls or texts, and the twins have come up empty. I have a key but I don’t feel right using it tonight. So when the shivering gets too bad, I call another cab and head home.

  I tell the driver to let me off early so that his cab doesn’t get stuck on the side street. All the snow I wore earlier has melted, leaving me soaked. Peering up at my building, I wonder why I ever bought the place. It’s not a home, but a taupe-walled box in the sky. I guess I’ll be seeing a lot of it, now that I’m unemployed.

  As I fumble for the keys in my purse, the front door opens. Noah steps outside, carrying a huge pot of red hibiscus. Seeing my face, he sets the flowers in the snow and folds me into his warm, dry arms.

  At first, I sob so hard I can’t hear what he’s saying, and he stops trying to talk and just pats my head and rocks me. When I finally stop to catch my breath, we both chime at exactly the same moment, “I’m sorry.”

  Laughing, we gaze at each other until we again speak at exactly the same time:

  “I’ll come with you,” he says.

  “I quit,” I say.

  He waits a beat and says, “You can’t quit.”

  “I already did. It’s done.”

  “Well undo it. It’s your career.”

  I bury my face again in his warm coat. “You’re my life. I choose you.”

  I feel him shaking his head over mine. “No. You don’t have to choose. I’ll come with you to Ottawa, find a job there.”

  “Too late,” I say. “I’m happily unemployed. You can support me while I figure out what to do next.”

  He raises an eyebrow, smirking. “Does that give me priority in your calendar?”

  “Unlimited access, and free upgrades upon request. I’m thinking about starting a travel agency, by the way.”

  Pushing a strand of wet hair behind my ear, Noah leans down and kisses me. I feel myself warming from the inside out, thanks to the fire that starts somewhere south of my belly. With his mouth still on mine, Noah unbuttons my coat and slips warm hands inside. He yanks the bottom of my blouse out of my skirt and slides his hands under it. I close the small gap between us, trying to steal as much of his body heat as possible.

  My phone is buzzing in my purse at my feet, but I ignore it.

  Then the honking starts.

  And continues.

  Until it’s really annoying.

  Finally, Noah and I pull apart and turn to see what the ruckus is about. Scott’s ancient Jeep is sitting at the curb and two identical faces peer out at us.

  “Get a room,” Jaz calls.

  “Forget to pay your condo fees?” Scott shouts.

  Noah and I both laugh. I flip the guys the bird with one hand, and then, thinking better of it, blow a kiss instead. And a second one.

  They’re still heckling us as the Jeep pulls away.

  “Happy Valentine’s Day,” Noah murmurs into my neck.

  “Back at you,” I say, running my fingers through his hair.

  The phone starts buzzing again, and I reach into my purse, expecting more abuse from my brothers. Instead, I find an e-mail from Reuben. I take a second to read his backhanded apology, assurances that all will be forgotten, and request for “my terms.” Then I turn the phone off and drop it back in my purse.

  “Let’s get you inside and warmed up,” Noah says. “Got 20 minutes to spare for an old friend?”

  “Actually, I blocked off ‘forever’ for you. But first you’re going to help me paint this place.”

  “Let me guess: purple, like beach morning glories,” he says, smiling as he stoops to pick up the hibiscus.

  “Neutrals,” I say. “I want to sell as soon as possible and use the money to renovate your house.”

  “Wait a second...”

  “Get ready to part with that leather couch, my friend. I’m going shopping tomorrow. Right after I get my windshield replaced.”

  He unlocks the door and guides me inside. “What happened to your windshield?”

  “I chipped it coming home from your place the other night.”

  “You know there’s this serum now that seals up cracks.”

  I step into the elevator and wrap my arms around him again. “Yeah, I checked out every option. Sometimes, you just have to start fresh.”

  Yvonne Collins and Sandy Rideout met as teens while working in a public library. They became fast friends after discovering a shared fascination for relationships of any kind—a common theme in the 11 books they’ve written together. They live in Toronto, where Yvonne is a camera assistant in film and TV, and Sandy works in corporate communications.

  To learn more about Yvonne and Sandy and their books, please visit their websites:

  www.collinsrideout.com www.loveincbook.com

  Adult Fiction

  Speechless (Red Dress Ink, 2004)

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  Young Adult Fiction

  Torch (2012)

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  Trade Secrets – A Love Inc. Novel (2011)

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  Love, Inc. (Hyperion 2011)

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  The Black
Sheep (Hyperion, 2007)

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  Girl v. Boy (Hyperion, 2008)

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  ADULT BOOKS

  (Red Dress Ink, 2004)

  Libby McIssac is known for two things: catching bridal bouquets and having a way with words. Since the former isn't something that looks good on a resume, she's parlayed the latter into a new career as a political speechwriter. But just as she's making sure her boss looks as if she knows something about…well, anything, Libby's world is turned upside down.

  Enter a handsome British consultant who upsets the delicate chain of command around the office and somehow always gets what he wants. Including Libby?

  When a media leak of a big-time scandal sends everyone into a tailspin, Libby fears she may get caught in the crossfire. Cue the fake alliances, the secrets, the sex, the subterfuge and the hidden friendships.

  Welcome to the world of politics, where perception is everything, nothing is as it seems and the last thing you want is to be left speechless.

  Excerpt

  I have a little project underway that will simultaneously improve my profile while improving the Minister's speaking style. I've attended enough events by now to know the latter also needs work. The problem is two-pronged. First, the Minister only occasionally reviews her speeches prior to delivering them. Second, she won't wear her glasses. Instead, she demands that her remarks be formatted not in the standard speech font of 14 points, but in a 40-point font that wouldn't be out of place on a street sign. At this size, very few paragraphs fit on a page; even a brief greeting can run to twenty pages, while a keynote address rivals the phonebook in bulk. This does not faze the Minister. She simply heaves her portfolio onto the lectern and stumbles through the speech as fast as her long nails allow, grabbing a breath wherever there's an opportunity.

  This is ridiculous," I whisper to her assistant one day during a length page-flipper in a high school auditorium. "She has to wear her glasses. Her delivery is so disjointed people are tuning out."

  "You're exaggerating," Margo replies.

  "A teacher in the second row is snoring."

  "You'll need a lot more experience under you belt before taking this on," she advises.

  So I launch Project Diminishing Font. One day, I reduce the font to 38 points, with no discernible impact on the Minister's delivery. Then I try 36, after which I ease it down half a point at a time until I have the Minister reading a 28-point font with apparent comfort. Even this has made a big difference to the amount of text I can cram onto the page. Obviously, she never needed 40 points in the first place.

  The Minister slips a streamlined folder onto the lectern and starts into her speech. We're at a conference for teachers of children with disabilities sponsored by the Hearing Society and the National Institute for the Blind and she's tearing through the first page quite smoothly, considering she didn't read it in advance. By the second page, where the text is denser, she starts laboring. By the fifth, she is getting some of the words wrong and by the eighth, she keeps pausing to guess. After leaning in so close to the lectern that all we can see is the top of her head, she finally lifts the speech and holds it inches from her face, muttering into the page. Meanwhile, a teacher standing behind her struggles to simultaneously translate her remarks into sign language.

  Perhaps my decision to dip to a 26-point font was a little ambitious.

  At the end of the event, I scurry to the car and sink as low in the front seat as possible.

  "Ask her," the Minister says to Margo in the back seat, in an eerily calm voice.

  "What happened to today's speech, Libby?" Margo's voice is calm too.

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean, what size is the font?"

  "I'm not sure," I hedge.

  "Give us your best guess."

  "Well, it's pretty big. Maybe 32 points."

  "Did you reduce it deliberately?"

  Recognizing that evasion is futile, I confess. "Actually, I did. I couldn't understand why it's unusually so large. It's difficult to deliver a speech smoothly with so little text on a page. And besides…"

  "Yes?" Margo asks.

  "Well, flipping that many pages is very hard on a manicure."

  "Libby, when you're ready to think for yourself, we'll let you know. Let's return to a 40-point font, shall we?"

  Much later, the Minister says, "Margo, you don't suppose anyone thought I was mocking the people from the Institute for the Blind?"

  "Of course not, Minister. You could barely tell there was a problem."

  Margo, who is sitting behind me, hoofs the back of my seat.

  © Yvonne Collins & Sandy Rideout

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  YOUNG ADULT:

  (2012)

  Someone is setting fires in quaint, friendly Rosewood, where Torches and Floods have long lived in harmony despite being natural enemies.

  Meet Phoenix Forsythe, the new Torch in town. Once a competitive swimmer, she’s begun to start fires at random, without lifting a finger. The hard part is putting them out.

  Then there’s Kai Seaver, the gorgeous outsider Phoenix’s dad has forbidden her to see. With his ability to transform into water, however, Kai is a great ally in a firefight and the only one who seems to understand what Phee’s going through.

  Despite all the naysayers, fire and water mix beautifully at first. But when the arsons escalate, Phoenix may need to give up the guy she loves to preserve Rosewood’s fragile peace, and her own family.

  Excerpt

  Climbing onto the hood, I sit watching as the firefighters roll out their hoses and direct torrents of water at the church. The steeple is ablaze now, a brilliant streak against a dark sky. It's terrible... and beautiful. My heart, which has been racing since the moment I awoke from my dream, finally slows. I can relax now. The situation is being handled by experts. A fire this big will take hours to quell, so it won't hurt to linger for awhile.

  Crossing my legs, I stare down the hill, fascinated by the fire's ferocity. At the center of the church, it's white hot, but the flames turn to red above that, and then orange, and finally, at the top of the steeple, nearly yellow. How is it that I never noticed the color variations in fire until recently? It's incredible.

  "Enjoying the show?" someone asks.

  I'm so startled I slip off the hood of the car, ready to bolt. Fumbling with my iPhone, I hit the flashlight app and direct its feeble beam at Kai Seaver, who's standing a few yards away, dripping wet from head to foot. His white T-shirt clings to his chest, and his dark track pants are sodden.

  Squelching in wet sneakers, he comes toward me. "Did you set it?" he asks.

  I take a couple of steps backward, toward the driver's side. This guy is menacing, and with all the commotion below no one would hear me scream. "What?"

  "You heard me." He puts one hand on the hood and stares at me with eyes that look black in the dim light. "Did you set that fire?"

  "Of course not," I say. "Are you crazy?"

  He runs both hands through his hair and drops of water come flying off. Some of them land on my bare arm and tingle—or sting. I'm not sure which.

  "Well, you're here, aren't you?" he asks. "Watching a fire at three o'clock in the morning."

  "That makes me an arsonist?"

  "It puts you at the scene of a fire in suspicious circumstances."

  "Excuse me, Officer Rudeness. Is your being here any less suspicious?"

  "My father's fighting that fire," he says. "Where's your dad?"

  "At his security job," I say. "Like it's any of your business."

  "It is my business, because his truck is parked just down the hill. And he's watching the fire, just like you." He smiles at my reaction. "I know, weird, huh?"

  "It's not a crime to watch a fire, especially when you're a firefighter by training."


  Kai continues, as if I haven't spoken. "You know what's even weirder? Your dad's naked."

  "Naked!" I feel my face flush, and hope it's dark enough that Kai can't see that. "Well, he was getting dressed when I walked by."

  I remember my last dream, where my dad emerged from the fire carrying the security guard and wearing very little.

  "So what?" I say, trying to sound as if it were perfectly normal for my dad—or anyone—to be out on a hill in the middle of the night watching a fire naked.

  He laughs. "Okay, maybe I'm the only one who thinks it's strange that two Forsythes are so drawn to fire."

  "Maybe you should stop thinking about us."

  "I can't exactly turn my back on you, can I?" he says. "Not after seeing what you can do."