'Scene of the Crime' by Ashley Ladd

Chills struck Robyn Cattrall as she stepped onto the grounds of her alma mater. Memories good and bad blindsided her for several moments. She’d done a lot of soul-searching before accepting a post here as history professor.

But the burnished autumn leaves and chill in the air made her feel alive again. They brought the promise of soon-coming winter with its wonderland of glistening snow, something she’d missed living in south Florida for the past couple of decades.

She consoled herself that as a connoisseur of history, she had learned from past mistakes and knew better than to repeat them. Just because she was back at the scene of her first heartbreak didn’t mean she was doomed to repeat it. She’d make sure she didn’t. Forty-four now, she was a lot wiser than she’d been at twenty-two.

Funny, she felt young on a campus surrounded by twenty-year-olds, especially when a horde of students burst into the sunshine and several young studs eyed her appreciatively.

She did her best not to drool over what might be her future students, and tried hard to keep a pleasantly professional smile. But when she came face to face with the ghost of her first love, Phil Williams, her jaw dropped, her eyes widened and her heart stopped. Unabashedly, she stared.

Phil…

What was he doing here?

Phil’s glance slid over her without a hint of recognition, and he passed by without a falter in his step.

She hated herself, but she turned and stared at his retreating back as the sea of people parted around her, then swallowed him. How could he not turn to look at her? How could he forget? How could he look so damned good?

She gulped and licked her lips. When someone bumped her, she jolted awake. Embarrassed, she checked her campus map and hurried to her office.

'Singapore Sizzle' by KS Augustin

The invitation taunted Sophie when she got home. She had left it on the side table just inside the main door and, every evening, had to walk past its heavy cream card, embossed with the logo of one of Singapore’s most famous charities. Maybe she should have turned it upside down, so the heavy black letters couldn’t be seen, but she hadn’t thought of that when she’d first ripped open the thick envelope.

Your presence is requested…

The plastic shopping bags knocked against her shins as she walked the short distance to the kitchen. Lifting, she put them on the counter and patiently began unpacking the contents, moving each item to its designated place—fresh vegetables to the crisper, that brand of frozen wonton that she now considered her personal addiction to the freezer, various tinned goods to the overhead cupboard she’d designated as her mini-pantry.

Washing her hands afterwards, she pulled out a frypan and set it to heat on one of the stove’s gas rings.

It hadn’t always been like this. At one time, the most difficult decision to make was which restaurant to eat at. But that was when Tim was around. Ambitious, astute Tim. When he was playing at being an investment banker, he could charm the birds from the trees.

“You have to play the part, Sophie love,” he’d say in his deep baritone. “There’s nothing like success to attract success.”

And he was right. It had paid for a large black-and-white colonial house they’d rented in one of Singapore’s most exclusive eastern suburbs. It had also paid for a driver, and credit cards with unlimited spending. It had paid for photos in glossy social magazines, where she could always be seen in the latest fashion, direct from the catwalks in Paris or Milan. But what it hadn’t paid for was the prescience to know that it was all going to crumble into the ground when the economic crisis engulfed the small island-state like a paper tsunami, decimating careers with one broad stroke of red ink.

Even now, two years later, she still couldn’t believe how their lives, which had taken years—decades even—to build up, could be obliterated in the space of a few days.

'Melting Melinda' by Mia Watts

“What can I do to make you come?” Ethan asked, his voice low and teasing.

Melinda George rolled the stemmed water glass between her fingers. Moisture glistened like tempting diamonds on crystal. One clear drop slipped down and splattered on the web of skin between her finger and thumb.

She stared at it intently. So much easier than meeting Ethan’s gaze across the linen-laid table. She licked her lips, wishing she could twist his words into a flirtatious come-on, but she couldn’t. Not with Ethan Thompson. Not with her best friend’s son.

“Nothing,” she answered, finally. “Your mom already tried to talk me into going, but I just can’t.”

“You love the beach house.”

Melinda glanced around the restaurant, begging Karen to hurry up and get there. Waiting in the romantic setting, across from Ethan, tempted every womanly cell in her body.

Off limits, Mel. Way off limits. Hurry up, Karen, before I eat your boy alive.

She chanced a look at him and nearly groaned. “Uh, stuff. Just, you know, stuff to do and things.”

Ethan’s slow smile melted her insides. “Stuff and things? Sounds really important.”

“Ma’am? Are you and your son ready to order?”

Melinda tensed. Of course, the waitress thought Ethan was her son. She popped her mouth open to tell the blonde that they were waiting for someone when Ethan’s warm hand covered hers, his thumb swiping at the moisture on her skin.

“Melinda? Honey? You have a son?” he asked in mock surprise.

“Oh! I’m so sorry,” the blonde said.

Honey?

“Sweetheart?” he asked again. Ethan gently pried her fingers off the water glass. Cupping her hand in his, his traced her palm with the fingers on his free hand.

Lucky in Love by Catherine Chernow

“Oh, no, you’re not getting the best of me. Not this time.”

Maddie Summers aimed the knife at her rival.

“I’ve had just about all I’m going to take from you.”

She glanced across the kitchen table, then she licked her lips.

“Phil, you’re hard to resist,” she purred.

Maddie lowered the blade, intent on making the first cut.

“I’ll just eat the whole damned thing.” She sighed. “Mr Conroy won’t get a bite.”

She tossed the butter knife down on the table next to Phil, the nickname for her favourite bakery treat, a crumb-topped pound cake, Philly Cream Cheese Loaf.

An oldies song drifted by her ears, its familiar melody a signal that she had a cell phone call. She recognised the number immediately. It was her neighbour from the other end of the block.

“Hi, Lucille. What’s doing?”

“That’s what I want to know. Did you meet our new neighbour, Mr Conroy?”

“Just saw his car in the driveway. I figured I’d go over there now and bring him one of my welcome-to-the-neighbourhood goodie baskets.”

“Mmm... With that pound cake in it?”

Maddie imagined Lucille licking her lips. She grinned in response to the mental picture.

“You’re a good neighbour, Maddie.”

“Well, I hope Mr Conroy thinks so. You know, I can’t make sense of all those crazy hours he works.”

“Mr Conroy works at Republic Airport. He’s a pilot.”

Maddie glanced outside. Conroy’s car was still in the driveway. She looked over at Phil, sitting on her kitchen table. The urge to take a bite was strong.

“Gotta run. Otherwise, Mr Conroy’s basket will be light. I just may eat Phil.” Maddie grinned.

She finished packing Mr Conroy’s goodies.

Grabbing the basket, she walked outside into the bright, May sunshine, ready to do her neighbourly duty.

A few minutes later, Maddie stood outside Mr Conroy’s front door.

Ding dong!

'Something Within Him' by Elizabeth Coldwell

I only took him on as a favour to Suzanna. I knew when she called me she must want something. It was the way our phone conversations always went. She would let me know how her two boys, Damon and Charlie, were doing in their respective glittering careers in medicine and law, casually drop into the conversation the size of the advance she had received for her latest novel, then hit me with the request. So I was prepared.

Or I thought I was, until she said, “So you will help Stephen, won’t you, darling?”

“Stephen?” Somewhere along the line, I had missed something. I tended to filter out most of what she told me, only tuning in for what I thought were the relevant bits. And apparently Stephen, whoever he was, was one of them.

“Oh, you know. Stephen. Charlie’s friend. They went backpacking round the Far East together. I sent you the photos, remember?”

I didn’t. I had more than likely deleted them without even looking at them. But I just replied, “Of course. What about him?”

“Well, darling?” Suzanna paused to take a drag on the menthol cigarette that was never far from her lips. “He’s doing some kind of journalism course, and he needs to find a work experience placement. And when Charlie told me that, I immediately thought of you.”

I said nothing. I knew I was expected to help out, but I had an unbreakable rule: I never offered work placements to anyone. That hadn’t always been the case. In my first couple of years editing City Living, I’d had a stream of eager interns, doing a couple of weeks here and there with the aim of bulking out their CV. They would help to compile the music and theatre listings, write little news pieces about gallery openings and book launches, or help reorganise the filing system. It was an arrangement that suited both parties. They gained lots of valuable experience and I was able to employ someone who didn’t expect payment and, very occasionally, made a decent cup of coffee. One person had changed all that, and while I probably couldn’t tell you the name of any of those other interns, his was lodged in my memory banks forever. Jamie Pettifer.

'Something to be Thankful For' by Imari Jade

“When are you going to face the fact that you two idiots are made for each other?” Abigail Truman, Julianne Richmond’s assistant asked, sitting next to her in the V.I.P. viewer’s box at the Grammy Awards.

“What are you talking about?”

“You and Cam. The man is purely trying to seduce you with that song.”

Julianne turned her eyes back to the stage. Cameron Justice strummed the guitar sensually, like he would caress a woman’s body. His eyes were glued to hers. The Grammies would never be the same. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. It’s just a song.”

Even as she said the words, she knew they weren’t true. Cameron had been giving her signs for months now, which she chose to ignore. Just knowing it made her feel giddy inside, to think someone a young as he could be interested in an old broad like her. When had their relationship turned from singer and promoter to man and woman? She couldn’t deny it. There was something there.

“He’s just a kid.” This was a lie, too. Cameron wasn’t a kid anymore. He had grown into a very handsome man, with all that curly blonde hair and soulful blue eyes. His tall, muscular body was draped in his new stage costume....a pair of tight black pants that rode low on his hips and a skin-tight black athletic shirt that showcased his spectacular abs. He topped it all off with a black leather jacket to give him a bad-boy appearance.

The rest of the band was dressed in similar black and red costumes, but designed differently to fit their personality. They played their instruments behind Cameron, giving him the centre stage spotlight, so he could move around with the microphone and sing to the audience who shouted his name and flashed lighters in his honour. Normally, women would toss their underwear at him while he performed, but this was the Grammies and such shenanigans weren’t allowed.

Abigail rolled her green eyes from behind her glasses. Abigail was younger than her and far too pretty to hide behind the matronly spectacles. Julianne had tried numerous times to talk her into getting contacts, but Abigail refused because she couldn’t stand to put eye drops in her eyes, let alone lenses. She did look pretty, though, in the long black designer gown she chose to wear. It called attention to her curves, but didn’t expose enough cleavage for the paparazzi to call attention to. At least she had taken Julianne’s advice and visited the salon for a new hairdo. Long hair was out, and the hairdresser had given Abigail’s long brown hair a cute bob.

“Don’t give me that. He’s thirty-two and not the same little boy you discovered years ago.”

“What am I going to do with a thirty-two year old?” Turning forty-two had made her a realist.