Me Tarzan — You Jane
Camelia Miron Skiba
Publication date: December 6th 2014
Genres: New Adult, Romance
2015 DREAMS Awards Finalist
2015 RONE Award Finalist
Moving on doesn’t always have to mean goodbye.
Widowed makeup artist Jane Sullivan is more comfortable keeping her husband’s memory alive than dating a pool full of sharks. Ella, her 4 year-old daughter, is her whole world.
When Jane meets Lucas Oliver, famous cover model, it’s hate at first sight. His playboy persona rubs her the wrong way.
Accustomed to every woman fawning over him, Lucas is drawn to the shy, uncompromising single mom and completely melts at the sight of Ella. He is determined to convince Jane that sometimes a second chance can mend a broken heart.
“This smells good,” he says when he sees me returning.
“Normal people don’t touch things that don’t belong to them.” I take the jar of face cream from his hand, put the lid back on and set it down on my table.
“Got up on the wrong side of the bed, I take it?”
“At least I got up in the right bed, my bed.” I immediately regret my words. Why would I say something like that? It’s none of my business where and with whom Lucas sleeps.
“You have a daughter.”
“Leave her alone. She’s out of your league.”
“You’re married.” Lucas’s voice sounds accusatory.
It’s not a question, so I don’t feel obligated to answer. I keep busy with my cell phone, reading emails I don’t understand and checking appointments I don’t recall scheduling.
“You don’t wear a ring.”
Instinctively I look at my left hand although I know there’s no wedding ring there, then resume staring at my phone.
“Now I know why you didn’t call.” Lucas’s tone claims my attention. There’s bitterness mixed with . . . disappointment I’d say, and when I look at him, those emotions shadow his face like clouds over a mountain’s peak. If confusion is what he expects to get out of me, then mission accomplished. Then it dawns on me that my refusal to have lunch with him must’ve hurt his über-inflated ego.
“That’s not why I didn’t call,” I mutter. “I threw your business card away.”
“Ah,” he chuckles. “Afraid of temptation.”
“No, genius. Not interested.”
Ella returns with Madame V, who wears a stunning golden strapless dress, a jewel in itself. While the bustier is sequin embellished, the bottom is made of feathers.
“What do you think?” Madame V poses like a true professional.
“Fabulous.” Lucas kisses her hand then twirls her. “Magnificent.” Another twirl now in the other direction. “Breathtaking.”
I can’t help but roll my eyes.
Ella pulls at Lucas’s jeans. “Mister sir Lucas, I helped her pick it.”
Lucas releases Madame V’s hand and crouches next to Ella. “You’re a true expert, Ella Rae, that’s a beautiful dress, ” Lucas says. “I might need help as well. You see, I need to be photographed with Viv and I don’t know what to wear. You wanna pick something for me?”
Ella nods, and the two of them walk away.
I can’t pay attention to what they do and finish Madame V’s makeup. I must focus on my task regardless of how I feel about Ella spending time with Lucas. Once again the man aggravates me—no doubt this time he does it intentionally. I told him to leave Ella alone and yet he asks her to help him pick clothes, which is as bogus as his smile. Who helps him dress usually, Santa Claus?
Ever since I began writing and publishing books I’ve been on the run, always trying to write the next page, the next chapter, the next book. Every story was another journey, another discovery of what I could do and another evolution. All these years my motto was it doesn’t matter who I am or where I come from, but what I leave behind is. I thought I have it all figured out.
Socrates, one of the biggest philosophers to ever grace humanity once said, “I am talking a crock of s***.” I had no idea this expression dated hundreds of years ago and belongs to him, but who am I to argue with him? Needless to say, after some soul searching I realized my motto was a . . . pot of smelly stuff. I had a meltdown because, if you think about it, why would what I leave behind matter more than who I am here and now in this very moment? How will I ever know if what I left behind mattered with no way of seeing it? How am I gonna enjoy it? Think Socrates; does he know how much he touched humankind? Does he know people still remember him centuries later? And if he knows, does it make a difference?
I’m not sure. Frankly I doubt with all my heart it makes any difference to him. He’s gone, like I’ll be gone one day and instead of beating myself up to leave something behind me, I’m going to learn how to live here, now and totally enjoy it. No more worrying about tomorrow, but live today. No more five-year plans, but rather let the sun soak my skin, the air fill my lungs and the grass touch my feet. After all, I only live once.