A STAND-ALONE ROMANCE

Rush Jensen, wolf shifter and failing hotel owner, has always lived in the shadow of his family’s sordid history. His entire life has been spent trying to regain what was lost: the family money and the prestigious name attached to it. When his flighty brother makes a shady deal with a loan shark, there is more than the crumbling family business to save. That is what he should focus on. Not the beautiful masked woman he meets at a masquerade – even if she is his mate.

Chantal Katz is an upcoming designer who can’t believe her luck when she gets invited to the year's shifter party. Not only is she human, but she isn’t a glamorous society lady. She just likes to design gowns. But her plan to leave the masquerade is ruined when she runs into a handsome masked stranger. She just didn’t expect the one-night stand to turn into anything – especially not love.

The attraction is undeniable. Especially when Rush finds Chantal after her morning-after disappearing act. They could be incredible together, Rush knows that. Too bad the past just won’t leave these destined mates alone.

Chapter 1

Chantal

The bar was packed way past capacity. If there were a fire emergency — or any kind of emergency, really — it would be a bloodbath to get to an exit. Chantal pulled at the hem of her sweater, the soft material suddenly itchy against her skin. There were too many people, all shouting over the already blasting noise of the music. Who knew the electronic dance music was terrible?

Chantal did.

She hadn’t picked the bar, though. That was all Margie. The model knew the city’s hot spots, and with a flip of her long, silky, black hair and a few eyelash bats, Margie could get in anywhere. Including Stink, which was the name of the trendy bar they were currently sitting in.

“Why is this place called Stink?” Chantal asked, sniffing the air. All she could smell was booze and sweat rolling off the dance floor. Not stinky, exactly, but not roses either.

“Because the DJ who owns it is DJ Stink.” The duh was implied.

Chantal grimaced. “I wouldn’t want to stand near a man who chooses to call himself something unpleasant.”

Margie giggled and rolled her eyes. “Don’t be like that. He is actually really hot. Talented? No. But he’s got a huge dick, and he knows how to fuck.”

“Margie!” Chantal gasped and looked around the crowded room to make sure no one had heard the crude words. “You can’t talk like that in public.”

“Sure I can.” Margie argued through peals of laughter. “There are people literally dry humping on the dance floor. I can talk about dicks and fucking all I want. Don’t be such a prude. Remember, I’ve known you for a while. I heard you and Paolo.” Margie wiggled her eyebrows suggestively.

“Can we please not bring my ex-boyfriend into this?” Chantal shuttered. Paolo had been a sexy Italian who was only in the United States for art school. He had gone back to his native country right after graduation, taking Chantal’s heart with him. He had been her first… well, her first and only everything.

Kiss.

Boyfriend.

Fuck.

It had been devastating to lose him, but not as much as it had been to learn that he had a sexy model girlfriend waiting for him back at home. After learning of the betrayal, Chantal had decided she was never going to date again. At least, not until she was an established designer. Then maybe she would give dating another go.

So long as the man she dated was tall, handsome, built like a quarterback, and behaved like Prince Charming.

Chantal knew her list of demands was hardly feasible, but she didn’t care. She wanted what she wanted, and if it meant she never got it? Well, at least she would never be disappointed or broken-hearted again.

It was a win-win.

“Keep them coming,” Margie told the bartender when he placed two enormous strawberry daiquiris in front of them.

“I don’t think that is a good idea.” Chantal was dead-set on keeping to her one drink maximum. She was a notorious lightweight. Booze had a startling effect on her. It was basically a gateway to dirty, flirty Chantal. That part of her needed to be locked down until she had her career all lined up like she wanted it to be.

“Nope, don’t be a stick in the mud. This is basically your big break.” Margie raised her cocktail high in the air, pink slush sloshing over the side.

“Don’t jinx me!” Chantal crossed her fingers as she jumped to her feet. She spun three times, softly chanting, “Unjinx, unjinx, unjinx.”

“You’re so weird,” Margie snorted before licking the edge of her glass. Her best friend had clearly been drinking before getting to the bar, which always spelled trouble for Chantal.

If anyone else was doing that, making a mess and being all drunkenly sloppy, it would have looked sad and desperate. The bartender would have kicked another woman out of the bar for being too drunk.

Not Margie, though.

Margaret was tall, rail-thin, with a rack that was all-natural and altogether too perky to be God-given. So, of course, it was. Chantal didn’t feel bad about her own body, but there was just no way to compete next to Margie. The woman was a model, for fuck’s sake. Her job was all about looking good. She was literally a pro at dripping class and sexiness out of her pores instead of sweat and blackheads.

Chantal’s job was making ladies like Margie look even better.

Not that Chantal was a schlub. She was of average height and average weight. Her hair was average brown. Basically: everything about her was average. The only exceptions were her eyes. They were the color of dark honey and always seemed to glow. Now, if only she could ditch the unfortunate talent for blushing, she would be just peachy.

“I’m not weird,” Chantal insisted. “I’m very aware this is not a big break. It’s a pure fluke.”

“Fluke, schmuke. There’s no such thing. You’ve been busting your cute little hiney for years. You deserve this.”

Chantal shook her head, taking a deep pull from her overly sweet strawberry daiquiri. The frozen drink went straight to her head, making her thoughts shatter through the pain of a brain freeze. “It has nothing to do with hard work. I totally cheated. If it wasn’t for Jeremy, I never would have gotten this opportunity.”

“It is your pure talent,” Margie argued. The strap of her slinky, sparkly tank top – one Chantal had designed — slipped off her shoulder. The whole looked screamed effortlessly beautiful and playful. Again, Chantal felt a stab of regret for her own clumsiness. 

Her bra strap was falling off her shoulder, but it didn’t show through the thick knit sweater she was wearing. And it would definitely not look good. It was her oldest bra, the one with the tear in the cup. It was comfortable and didn’t dig into her skin. It was not like anyone would see it, after all. Not through her long-sleeved sweater.

Chantal so wished she could be as carefree as Margie. She’d kill for an ounce of the confidence her best friend had. Sometimes, Chantal played the WWMD game. What would Margie do? The little game was only something Chantal did in her head, but she would be brave enough to take it out into the real world one day.

One day.

When she was an established designer.

When she got a better apartment. 

When she lost that last stubborn ten pounds. Maybe it was more like twenty. Okay, okay. It was thirty — but it was all tits, ass, and hips. That wasn’t so bad.

“I’m telling you, chacha, you’re so fucking good.” She pointed to her top. “It is only a matter of time before your career takes off. Don’t forget me then! Take me with you to the big leagues.”

Chantal rolled her eyes, slurping down more of her drink. “It is not pure talent. It is just pure luck that I know Jeremy.”

“Bitch, shut up. Don’t do that. Do you think for one second that Gwen Marsdale would have bought your gown if it was not amazing? That snob is good taste personified. She might have only looked at your designs because of Jerbear, but you know she had to love your pieces to actually wear one. To an honest to goodness masquerade.”

Chantal clacked her teeth together to keep her mind working. Did frozen drinks have to be so damn freezing? “You’re right,” she admitted. “It just feels dangerous to celebrate this. Nothing could come out of this.”

“Everything could come out of this,” Margie shot back. “Look, I know how this shit works, babe. It is just like me and getting jobs. You get one by luck, and then the right person sees you, and BOOM. You’re on the cover of Vogue or whatever. Maybe you get hired for Fashion Week. It is the same for designers. You have been spotted, chacha. Just have faith that this will snowball into something.” Margie grabbed her hand. “Come on. Have faith with me. Let’s have fun! Drink. Dance. Loosen up!”

As always, Margie’s positive attitude was infectious. Chantal smiled and sipped her drink. “We can dance one bad song, but then I need to go and get the dress started.”

“Come on, chacha!” Margie downed her drink, slammed the glass onto the bar top and cut through the crowd like a sexy female Moses.

Chantal muttered apologies as she tried to follow along. If it had been up to her, she would have stayed in tonight. To celebrate her accomplishment, she would have ordered a dozen egg rolls and enough Moo Shu pork to feed a small army. The Chinese food would have been paired with a binge of her favorite fashion reality television shows and a good vintage Cream Soda.

The music in the bar was somehow louder on the dance floor. Margie grabbed her hands and began to bop freely along to the tune. Chantal was rigid and uncomfortable as other bodies brushed against her.

It was fine. Really.

All that mattered was that she, Chantal Katz, had finally made some headway into the land of high fashion. She was designing a dress for Gwen Marsdale. The heiress was famous for her excellent taste and fashion-forward savviness. The gown would be photographed and splashed over tabloids and social media. Her gown, her design would be worn at a New Year’s Eve Masquerade. Already, Chantal’s head was filling with all kinds of ideas.

She barely had one month to get the dress done, but she would knock it out of the park.

That was what she was put on this earth to do.

Nothing could possibly go wrong. She’d make sure of it.