Chapter 10: Francesca with an "F"
I knew the Salvatores were wealthy, but when I caught my first glimpse of the tree-lined drive stretching beyond the iron gates, I knew my previous assumptions about their lifestyle were about to be swiftly and decisively annihilated.
The towering brick mansion with clean white columns and a high entry archway sits tucked among more trees, nestled like a modern castle in a secret garden. Twinkle lights wink expectantly from the trees despite dusk having barely begun to color the sky, lending an air of impending magic to the brisk, salty air. A large circular drive surrounds a stone fountain, looking like a charming Italian wishing well straight from the streets of Rome. For all I know, that's exactly what it is.
The house is clearly old, intimidating and austere yet somehow cozy and inviting at the very same time. Something about the heavy trunks of the trees and the expansive reach of their branches, the weathered stones that make up the drive, the way the greenery gentles the sides of the house. It looks very much like a place I could imagine living, if not affording.
The chauffeur opening my door snaps me out of my stunned state, and I go through the motions of exiting the vehicle despite not being completely ready to face what I'm seeing. My mind is racing with thoughts of how to place the men I know today being boys in a home like this, surrounded by money and privilege of this magnitude. I suddenly have a newfound respect for the two of them, the down-to-earth, functional adults they've managed to grow into.
I survey the scene, forcing my thoughts toward the wedding shower business at hand. There will be plenty of time to tease Stefan and Damon about all of this later.
The circular drive is still packed with florists and caterers and party furnishing companies, their various representatives moving up and down the garden paths on the sides of the house as they pack up what's left of their gear.
A valet is nodding eagerly next to a podium that's been set up near the entrance, his white-gloved hands folded respectfully in front of him as he receives instructions from a beautiful woman in a blush-colored chiffon gown. Instantly, I know I'm looking at Francesca. She is the only woman I can imagine inspiring such an enthusiastically acquiescent reaction from a grown man while looking so unintimidatingly lovely.
She catches sight of me and excuses herself from the valet with a curt nod. He bows awkwardly but she's already moved on, her eyes fixated on me and a warm welcoming smile brightening her perfectly made-up face. I feel the overwhelming urge to fidget and allow myself a quick swipe of my hair behind my ear before forcing my hands to my sides.
"And you must be Elena," she breathes, pulling me into a tight hug. She smells delightful, and although her caramel-colored locks are perfectly curled and waved into sexy/sweet submission, they are still soft to the touch when they brush my jaw. She pulls away and surprises me with an air kiss on either cheek that comes off as oddly genuine.
When she finally pulls away to look me over, I am blushing and flustered, and she looks as calm and cool as a mint leaf floating in ice water.
"So beautiful," she tells me, pulling the hair I had just tucked behind my ear out and smoothing it down my cheek. I feel like I've been both scolded and complimented at the same time.
In this moment, I think I have begun to understand the formidability of Francesca Salvatore. She sets you off balance at the exact same time that she dazzles you into wanting to impress her.
I smile my most winning smile. "Francesca," I say. "So glad to finally meet you."
"Oh, Elena, my darling, you as well! What a gorgeous dress!" she says, motioning to my emerald green satin strapless mini. "It looks positively enchanting with your complexion, dear." I'm about to thank her, but before I can get the words out she continues. "Is that how you're wearing your hair, or do you need me to direct you to one of our dressing rooms? There are plenty of supplies there for you if you forgot to bring them from your hotel!"
I resist the urge to run my hand down my hair and hold her gaze instead, getting an irrational flash of two lions battling for dominance I once saw on the Discovery Channel.
"No, but thank you, Francesca. I've always preferred my hair straight."
"Oh, of course darling, it looks lovely," she backpedals dismissively, but she breaks eye contact to glance back towards the house.
Point, Elena.
"Shall we?" she asks, stretching her arm out towards the house. "I can't wait for you to see how wonderfully everything turned out!"
"Yes, please," I say politely, taking one last glance into the car to get my things. The DVD, my clutch and my black cashmere wrap are sitting on the seat. I reach in to grab them before thanking the still-waiting chauffeur, who shuts the door with a pleasant smile and begins walking to the driver's side.
"Thank you so much for sending the town car, by the way. You really didn't need to do that."
"Oh, nonsense, of course," she says, waving my words away as she begins to lead me toward the house. "It was my pleasure. We can't have the Maid of Honor and the Best Man showing up in taxi cabs, now can we?"
My stomach flips and flutters tremulously at the mention of the Best Man. I had to miss our session last week to catch up on some things at work so it's almost been a whole week since I've seen him. I clutch my DVD tighter.
"Is Damon here yet?" I ask, even though I know the answer. He was supposed to show up early to work out all of the logistics for our "personal touches." He insisted I stay back at the hotel and relax, and it didn't take much for me to agree. As much as I have been looking forward to finally putting a face to Stefan and Damon's father, Giuseppe, the idea of meeting Francesca when she was bound to be in an ill-tempered mood over our additions to her shower did not sound appealing to me.
"Oh yes, of course," she says, attempting to sound breezy, but I can hear the strain behind her words. "He's at the rear of the estate, in the outdoor entertaining area. Shall I take you to him?"
"Yes, please," I say, just before I lose my breath.
The entrance hall we've just stepped into is a glittering spectacle of creamy marble and dark wood accents that mirrors the contrasting theme of the white trim and brick exterior of the house. A ginormous, intricately carved pedestal table topped in gleaming Carrera marble sits in the center of the hall. A flower arrangement in various shades of white and light pink sits atop it, with glimmering clusters of delicate golden butterflies fluttering out from between the blooms. A flawless touch, since Caroline's chosen colors for the wedding happen to be blush, cream and gold.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" Francesca asks, breaking me out of my trance. I didn't even realize I'd stopped walking and had been standing there staring like an artless hayseed.
Point, Francesca.
"Yes, it is," I breathe with a smile, not even bothering to try to hide my amazement.
"C'mon, darling. I'm sure Damon will give you the tour later. I'm anxious for you to meet up with him so you both can be sure your plans have been carried out to your…specifications." She hesitates, but her face is the picture of ease. "Guests will be arriving shortly!" She turns in a flourish of billowing chiffon, leading me further into the house. I follow close behind.
By the time we make it to the back of the house, I feel like I've just speed-walked through an in-person Architectural Digest home tour.
I pass through the apartment-sized kitchen, busy with a small army of caterers and servers prepping the food, before I'm distracted by the feel of a light breeze in my hair. I turn to see a pair of massive French doors swung wide open to the back yard.
I only stutter one step when I see the pool.
I take a deep breath of fresh evening air and force myself to focus on everything else, and there is plenty to focus on.
Flowering magnolia trees twinkling with more fairy-lights line the far side of a large stone patio. Tall cocktail tables draped in long white tablecloths are scattered across the smooth grey surface, each one adorned with smaller flower arrangements like the one in the entryway, complete with the shimmering butterflies. They look almost alive, trembling in the balmy ocean air. Small glass votives flicker gently beside the flowers, the cracked gold detail on each one making their light warmer and more complex than they would be in plain glass.
Thankfully, the pool is tucked off to the side rather than directly in the middle where it would be impossible to avoid. I should have plenty of room to skirt around it without appearing antisocial.
Beyond the patio is a lush lawn, which gives way to what appears to be a large garden that wraps all the way around the side of the house. It is enclosed by sculpted shrubbery and lit with more lights, made inviting by a stone path beckoning from an arched opening in the hedge.
I scan the space for Damon, following shiny hair and swirling pink as Francesca begins to make her way down the semi-circular stone steps to the main patio.
And then I see him, right by the pool I have been studiously avoiding looking at.
He is wearing a white dress shirt with black slacks, his sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms the way they always seem to be. An open tie hangs loose around his neck and his top button is undone. His hair looks only slightly more subdued than usual, though I'm guessing that given enough interesting conversation, his hand will make sure it looks like its usual messy self by the night's end. I smile at the thought.
He is standing in front of a giant projector and talking to a man with a headset microphone on his head—probably the sound technician. I gulp and feel my fingers tighten around the DVD I'm holding. I hope Caroline and Stefan like it.
We move closer. And then I realize to my horror that Francesca is leading me to the few feet of space between the tables and the water's edge. I'll be forced to walk right along the edge of the pool.
My brain starts to run frantically through scenarios. Could I break away and walk behind the tables instead of in front of them? That feels rude for some reason. Would she notice if I walked fast enough? Damon is standing so close to the water. I feel my heartbeat picking up with every step.
"Damon!" Francesca calls. I hang back as much as I can. It's just a pool, Elena. Just a small pool in a backyard.
Damon is still mid-conversation but he glances up and offers Francesca a polite, distracted smile and nod before his eyes slide back to the sound technician. But almost immediately they come up again, and when they do they are bright, burning with a focus that catches me off guard as they register the sight of me behind her.
The familiar blue of his eyes soothes me somehow, and I hold contact with them as I make my way towards him, willing them to give me strength.
His look turns questioning and then realization dawns on his face. He says something to the technician and begins jogging out to meet us, running past the pool so we stop short of having to pass beside it.
"Hey, Elena, you made it," he says, beaming though he is looking me over with a hint of something like worry playing around the edges of his eyes.
I want to cry with relief, even as I feel my heart swell with something else less ascribable.
He remembered.
"Francesca," he nods in a formal but not unfriendly way.
"I believe you told me to let you know as soon as Elena had arrived," she says warmly. "As you can see, I'm a woman of my word."
Why does it sound like she's flirting with him?
"Indeed you are, 'Cesca, dear. Thank you," he says with a smirk, taking her hand and brushing a kiss over the top of her knuckles. Something that might be green and definitely unsavory somersaults in my gut. I shuffle my feet awkwardly.
Francesca blushes and I catch the way she brushes her hair behind her shoulder discreetly. Francesca is not the kind of woman who fiddles with her hair.
Suddenly I feel sick because, watching her, I understand something that I hadn't really thought about before.
This is how everyone reacts to Damon.
The man is just undeniably gorgeous. Of course I am going to be struggling with a crush when I am spending so much time with him.
In truth, it's been surprisingly easy to forget my attraction to him during our sessions—much easier than I thought it would be. It's all the time together outside the office that is catching me off guard. Dinner and drinks with Jenna and Alaric at the Square every other week, chatting on the curb after every session since the night at Mama Dinna's. I've tried my best to keep my thoughts friendly, but then he'll say something funny or look at me with a flash of that rare vulnerability and I forget not to want him.
I feel pitiful and small, standing here in my dress that now seems a little too short, my hair too straight. All this time I've been secretly telling myself that I was different. That somehow, because I'm his friend or because I know his brother my attraction to him was less silly, less childish than a crush on an untouchable person always is.
But I see now. I'm just another woman in what must undoubtedly be a long line of Damon Salvatore's admirers.
"Elena, did you bring the DVD?" he asks, interrupting me from my thoughts.
"Yes," I say, not looking at him. I hold it out distractedly, but when I feel his fingers brush against mine I glance up at him. He could easily have grabbed it from me without touching me. He is looking at me like he is trying to see through my skin, his eyes questioning though his face is struggling to stay neutral. After a short pause, he speaks, looking reluctant to turn away from me.
"Francesca, I spoke to a member of the catering staff a few minutes ago about the timing for the circulation of the dessert trays, and she insisted the champagne was supposed to come afterwards, rather than before. I told her it didn't sound right to me, but she insisted she was following your direct orders." His expression of concern looks a shade shy of genuine, but I keep my face smooth just in case he actually cares about when champagne is served. "It might be worth double checking with the catering manager," he says, his eyes darting impatiently back to me.
"Of course, thank you, Damon. I'll deal with her immediately," Francesca says seriously, her chin lifting with renewed importance. "Oh and by the way, do you happen to know what time Stefan and Caroline are planning to arrive?"
"Right at six," I say, even though I'm sure she was asking Damon instead of me. "You know Caroline." I smile at Damon, who nods knowingly, a smirk tugging at his lips. "She can't stand showing up late to anything, least of all a wedding shower thrown in her honor." I glance back at Francesca who is watching Damon and me with a tight smile.
Point, Elena.
"Indeed," she says, touching her hair again. "Well, I'll leave you two to tend to your…contributions," she says, her nose wrinkling condescendingly. "Make sure they know what time it's scheduled to begin so they don't run late and backlog my time-table." She looks pointedly at the sound technician, and then turns on her heel to head back toward the house.
"Thank you, Francesca!" Damon calls after her, before the full force of his undeterred focus settles back on me. I fight the shiver that runs up my spine. It happens every single time, so I am becoming quite practiced at concealing it, if not fending it off.
"Hi," he says, and his voice sounds different, softer. The corners of my mouth quirk up into a smile of their own volition.
"Hi," I reply, and my voice sounds softer too. I clear my throat.
"Are you alright?" he asks.
"Yeah, why?" I say as casually as possible even though a feel a twinge of anxiety tighten in my chest. Dear God please don't let him have picked up on my jealousy earlier.
"The pool," he says seriously, jerking his head towards the water behind him.
It is all I can do not to breath an audible sigh of relief. "Oh, yeah. Thank you for that, by the way. I think I would've been okay, but I just…I don't know." I'm stuttering. Damon grins at me and I blow out a nervous laugh. "I'm fine. Thank you," I tell him, flashing a grateful smile.
"Anytime," he says. His eyes slide down over my body and then back up to my face. His expression is carefully casual. "You look beautiful," he says simply.
"You're not so bad yourself," I say, feeling color rising in my cheeks. "But I think you'll have to do something about that tie," I glare mischievously and dare to reach out and finger one end. "Unless you're trying to start a new trend or something."
Damon chuckles. "I wish. I hate these fucking things. Pardon my French," he says guiltily.
"No pardon necessary," I say. "So, was that the sound technician you were talking to?"
"Yup," he says. "Everything is in order. He already has the projector up and running, but they want to have a practice run with the DVD."
"Of course," I say. "Shall we?"
"Yeah, but hold on, let's go this way," he says, touching his hand to my waist before slipping it over the satin of my dress and settling it in the small of my back, guiding me gently away from the pool and around the back of the tables toward the projector screen. I do my best against the shiver, but I can't fight the goosebumps that break out over my arms at the tender steadiness of his touch.
His hands. God almighty I need to stop thinking about his hands. Suddenly, they're the only thing I can't not think about. The way they would feel cradling my face, running confidently over my skin, insistent but oh-so-patient, slipping slowly up my ankles, my calves, my thighs. I clear my throat, suddenly very aware of the feel of my legs rubbing together under my dress as I walk. Good Lord, Elena, get ahold of yourself.
Something about this place, the way he looks in those perfectly-fitted slacks, is setting me off my game.
I blame the twinkle lights. And Francesca. This whole place is too damn magical.
I swallow and try to distract myself by getting down to business.
"So how's everything else going? Did the kegs come?" My voice sounds a little huskier than usual. I hope he doesn't notice. I clear my throat discreetly, even as his hand makes my skin tingle beneath the satin.
"Yes they did, as a matter of fact," Damon says, looking disproportionately gleeful.
"What?" I ask, glaring at him suspiciously.
"Well, I just wish you could have been here to see the expression on Francesca's face when they started rolling them in here," Damon says. "The looks she was giving the deliveryman would have given a basilisk competition."
I can't help giggling, envisioning that lovely face of hers contorted into what was probably the prettiest iteration of deadly hatred ever conceived. That would definitely have been worth the awkwardness of showing up earlier.
"And the bartenders are all teed up for Caroline's drink?"
"Indeed. They made a sample for Francesca, and she declared it one of the best green apple martinis she's ever tasted, even though I doubt she has any idea what she's talking about." I can almost hear his eyes rolling. "I think she just liked how pretty it looked. The bartender put this swirly peeled apple thing in it. You know, the kind of thing you chicks can't seem to get enough of." He flashes me a teasingly smug look out of the corner of my eye.
"Oh, so now we're just 'you chicks'?" I say, only partially feigning outrage. "I wasn't aware people of education still held such broad views." I give him a teasing side-smile of my own.
He pretends to think it over. "Well I suppose I could make an exception for you, since you do seem to keep me on my toes more than the average chick," he smirks. "You can come join us men over here. Hope you like ignorant stereotyping and non-swirly drinks."
"Well unfortunately, I do happen to like swirly drinks," I say. "And to be honest, I don't think becoming a man simply so I could use phrases like 'you chicks' un-ironically would suit me any better than it suits you." I give him a pointed look, and his eyes are dancing with mirth. "Plus, I don't think masculinity goes with my dress." I motion offhandedly down my body.
Damon's eyes follow my hand, but his gaze lingers long after it is safely back at my side. His fingers flex against my back. This time, when he glances back up, I'm sure I see something there. Something that makes the air feel warm, my heart stutter in my chest.
"No. No it wouldn't," he says softly, his eyes burning though his expression remains unreadable. I've already forgotten what we were talking about. He looks ahead suddenly and drops his hand from my back, leaving me with a sense of both loss and relief. I think of Damon brushing his lips against Francesca's hand. It's like a bucket of cold, mint-flavored water.
Just another woman, nothing special.
Without him touching me, I just might have a chance of getting my imagination under control.
I clear my throat and square my shoulders as we approach the technician, who is crouched next to the projector screen. He is checking wires, writing notes on a clipboard as he refers to the tangle in front of him. It looks like barely-organized chaos to me, but he seems pleased with what he sees so I'm sure all is as it should be.
"Hey there, Daniel," Damon says. "This is my good friend Elena. We have the DVD here. Wanna give it a spin?"
Good friend.
Maybe I am a little different after all.
###
A half hour later, the staff and service members are gone and the grounds look expectant, all gussied up for their big date. Thankfully, the test run went off without a hitch, and now Damon is back inside the house somewhere, fixing his tie and locating his jacket. I sit at one of the tables farthest from the pool, enjoying the peaceful calm before the storm, savoring the stillness of the dusky evening air as it fades into darkness.
The band members sit on a stage behind a light-strung dance floor in the center of the lawn, joking with each other. Their instruments rest easily but readily in their hands as their laughter echoes over the expanse of the lawn, dissipating into the air. Mockingbirds are beginning their evening song, and I think of how lovely it is to hear real, non-pigeon birds singing real songs, how different the world sounds out here away from the city.
I'm interrupted from my silent observations by the sound of Caroline's excited voice coming from the house behind me. I turn and see her coming down the stone steps arm in arm with Francesca, her golden hair bouncing with excitement. I'm relieved to see that she is wearing a strapless mini dress too, but hers is cream chiffon with a single strap of rosettes that climbs across her exposed chest and over one shoulder like a delicate vine. She looks gorgeous, glowing and fluttering like the shimmering golden butterflies in the flower arrangements.
I stand, leaving my clutch and wrap on the table. I'm about to make my way over to her, when I see Stefan and Damon step through the French doors. Stefan looks dapper in his black suit and tie with a subtle white corsage pinned to his lapel. But it's the man beside him that nearly makes me forget how to walk. With his tie tied and his suit jacket on, he looks nothing short of arresting. I gulp and take a deep breath, gathering myself before making my way toward Caroline.
She catches sight of me midway down the steps and starts waving excitedly with her free hand. Francesca releases her and she practically runs the rest of the way.
"Elena!" she calls, beaming brighter than a streak of sunshine. I start giggling, catching her exultant mood, and then she is upon me, her arms wrapped around me and squeezing so tight I'm almost afraid she'll crack one of my ribs. She smells like honey and lavender and best friend. I squeeze her back.
"Oh my God, Elena look at thiiiiissssss!" she says, pulling back, but I don't even get a moment to recover before her fingers wrap around my shoulders in a bruising-tight grip and she starts jumping up and down like a fanatical tween at a One Direction concert. She lets go right before I'm about to lose my battle with the cry of pain working its way up my throat and gestures widely to the grand spectacle around us. "Isn't it beautiful?" she breathes before clutching her folded hands to her chest like a swooning princess in fairytale.
While she is busy admiring the scenery, I inhale a much-needed breath into my bruised lungs, throwing a rueful half-smile at Damon and Stefan, who are standing together at a safe distance behind Caroline. Damon is looking on with amusement and Stefan is trying and only partially succeeding to hold back a chuckle—at my reaction or Caroline's behavior, I can't tell. I offer him a good-natured eye roll in greeting, and he flares his eyes and grins in a way that reminds me of his brother. I smile.
"Caroline," I say, taking her hands and smiling at her. "You look absolutely gorgeous." I brush away a stray lock of golden hair from her face.
"Look who's talking, sexy lady!" Caroline says, taking a step back to look me up and down before growling theatrically and scratching the air with cat claws. "That color looks fantastic on you!"
"Thank you," I say, feeling shy with the boys looking on. "So, you got here okay, of course," I hurry on, changing the subject. "I still don't know why you decided to stay at a hotel last night when you could have stayed here," I say, motioning to the house behind them. I focus accusingly on Stefan. "Seriously, Stefan?" I ask him sarcastically. "This is your family's Hamptons home? You made it sound so casual, like it could have been a cottage or something. You forgot to mention it was, oh, I don't know, a palace."
Stefan holds his hands up as if to block my accusation. "I never specifically said anything that would have given you the impression of it being a cottage," he defends.
"Spoken like a true lawyer," Damon teases, crossing his arms and giving his brother a smug side look.
"Hey, you're not off the hook either, Mister," I say, pointing an accusing finger at Damon, who lifts his hands up in the same gesture of deflection his brother used a moment ago.
"Well, what was I supposed to say?" Stefan throws his hands up. "It's just my family's home," he shrugs. "It's like when you tell people about your 'apartment,'" he air quotes. "Everyone probably pictures you living in a rent-controlled walk-up with the kitchen in your bedroom like everybody else your age suffers with in the city. You don't specify that you live in a palace of your own, by Manhattan's standards."
Damon laughs, curiosity flickering behind his smile. I feel my cheeks getting hot, thinking of how tiny my home would feel to Damon, were he ever to visit it someday. And why would he? I blush even deeper. Mercifully, he looks away. But I don't miss how his cheeks are flushing the slightest bit brighter too.
"Hey now all you rich folks, there's nothing wrong with rent-control," Caroline says, sounding like a mother scolding her children. "Elena, you can heckle Stefan about the house later. Lord knows I did plenty," Caroline nudges a playful elbow against Stefan that turns into a snuggle. I smile.
"And as for why we didn't stay here," she looks behind her guiltily, as if to make sure no one is in hearing distance, and when she speaks again her voice is a stage whisper. "Let's just say it starts with an 'F' and ends with 'ranchesca.' No offense to her whatsoever, but we've learned from experience that being in the house the morning of one of her parties is more akin to being in a war zone than anything else."
"A horrific, bloody war zone…" Stefan specifies, eyes wide. "Barbed wire, reinforced trenches, groans of agony from the staff…"
"Yes, dear. We all know it's bad, thank you," Caroline concedes indulgently.
I look at Damon for confirmation and he raises his eyebrows before giving me a grave nod, leaning toward me. "I stayed in a hotel too," he whispers conspiratorially from behind his hand.
I glance behind them to where Francesca is chatting with one of the catering staff, a beautiful pink confection against the greenery and the starry lights. She looks so harmless from here. But at that exact moment, the server she was talking to scurries off with her head down and her tray cradled flat against her chest. I can't be positive, but it looks like she might be crying.
Francesca floats serenely away and heads to the bartender waiting behind the poolside bar station. I get a brief visual of a majestic hawk sailing effortlessly through the sky, moments before it dives down to crush an unsuspecting rodent between its beak. I make yet another mental note never to cross that woman.
"At any rate, we are all here now and this party is going to be amazing!" The last few words are an excited squeal.
"That's for sure," I agree. "I have to say, for all of my failed attempts to get through to Francesca, I sort of understand why she was blowing me off now that I've seen this place. The woman knows how to pull off a beautiful party. I really would have just gotten in her way."
"Hey, what ever happened with that?" Caroline asks, glancing between Damon and me. "Did you guys ever make any headway with her? I'm just curious. It's no big deal if not…obviously, tonight is going to be incredible no matter what."
I motion to Damon, indicating that he should fill them in.
"What?" he says, feigning innocence.
I put my hands on my hips. "Don't 'what' me!" I tell him. "Damon here is the one responsible for taming the beast. I think he should be the one to tell you about it."
Caroline's eyes light up. "Damon?" she says expectantly, bringing her hands to her chin to flutter-clap excitedly.
Damon raises his eyebrows at me, giving me one last chance to do the honors, but I just nod at him with a grin, giving him the "go ahead" to take the lead.
Damon clears his throat theatrically and rubs his hands together. "Alright, well first I think we'd better head over to the bar. We've gotta kick this party off right, don't we, Elena?" His eyes are dancing, filled with the joy of a secret shared just with me. My chest warms at the sight.
"Why yes, Damon, I believe we do," I say, flashing him a mischievous smile. "Lead the way."
Author's Note: This week I am fortunate enough to owe beta thanks to both Trogdor19 AND Goldnox, whose combined writing talent is so powerful, you can't look directly at it or you'll go blind.
Trogdor, m'lady, having you in my corner is like having a Muse Baby mojito. Your ideas are as refreshing as mint, your attitude, as cool as a cucumber (even when I'm panicking). And God bless you, you aren't afraid of a little lemon. ;) I'm so grateful for you and for all the work you do on this fic.
And Goldnox, what a gift it has been to have a taste of the sweet multicolored rainbow that is your encouraging, insightful, and unabashedly hyphen-friendly beta'ing. I am so grateful to have found someone to keep my email inbox warm and my needy, insecure ego fed while Trogdor is off burninating the rivers of the world. Thank you girl.
I just need to brag to everyone about the fact that TROGDOR19's HOT DELENA MASTERPIECE, THE DESPERATE LOVE TRILOGY BY MICHELLE HAZEN IS NUMBER ONE on Kindle Worlds. Not to say I told you so, but...you know. DOWNLOAD IT, PEOPLE.
AND, while you're at it DO NOT MAKE THE MISTAKE of not downloading Goldnox's, aka C.L. Marlene's, gorgeous stories, THE SOUNDS OF TOMORROW and RESONANCE OF REALITY both of which will make you weep at their beauty.
AS always PLEASE REVIEW and Follow/Favorite. You will not want to miss the next chapter...it is a sweet Delena smorgasbord and very dear to my heart. :)
XOXO, Nightlight