Dear Prince Charming Read online

  “Valerie, I’m gay.”

  He’d just blurted it out in a rush. So fast, she couldn’t really absorb it. In fact, after she managed to close her mouth and put the phone back to her ear, she was certain she’d misheard him. “I’m sorry,” she said, forcing a light laugh. “It sounded like you just said you’re—”

  “Gay. I did. And I am. Dammit, I didn’t want to tell you this way!” There was a pause, which she had no earthly way of filling. She was as frozen as one of Andre’s ice sculptures.

  “I—can we please see each other?” he went on. “Now? Can you get out of this lunch? I’ll meet you anywhere. I—I know I should have told you sooner. I thought I could go through with this, but—”

  That snapped her out of it in a way nothing else could. “Excuse me? Go through with it? Of course you’re going to go through with it. You signed a contract.” She knew she sounded a little agitated. Okay, a lot agitated. But her whole brand-spanking-new career was flashing before her eyes. It didn’t take nearly long enough.

  “I know this comes as a shock.”

  “A shock? I’d say this is more than a shock. This is a freaking disaster!” She took a deep breath, tried desperately to recapture an ounce of inner calm. “Where are you? We obviously need to talk. I’ll meet you.”

  He sighed heavily. “Thank you.”

  Reality began to sink in. Prince Charming. The man who’d proved that a guy existed who saw women as human beings first, and sex objects second . . . was gay. She shook her head. Like we shouldn’t have seen that coming.

  “I just want you to know, I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he was saying. “Or anyone, really.”

  “For a guy who dispenses advice to women about men, you just spouted one of the all-time lamest excuses on the face of the planet.” She knew she shouldn’t lose her temper, but apparently her acting skills had limits after all.

  “I know, and you have every right to be upset. But truly, don’t worry. I’ll make it up to you. Somehow.”

  “Second lamest statement,” she hissed, making a passing waiter step around her a bit more gingerly. “Are you sure you’re the real Prince Charming?”

  There was a long pause, then he said, “I can barely hear you, too much noise. Call me when you leave the restaurant.”

  And then the line clicked off. She stared at the phone, thinking that if she just stood there long enough, she could will that entire conversation into some hallucinatory void, a stress-induced daydream. Except who in their right mind would dream up a nightmare like that?

  So many thoughts crowded her mind, she didn’t know where to begin. She started to move automatically toward the restaurant’s exit when she remembered her lunch companions. Shit, shit, and more shit. She couldn’t just walk out without giving an explanation, but what in the hell was she going to tell them? Oh, by the way—Prince Charming, the guy you just gave a half million bucks to, ensuring magazine launch history? The gorgeous hunk known to women all over the planet as proof positive that understanding, nurturing men did, indeed, exist? Well, as it happens, he’s more than just a guy deeply in touch with his feminine side.

  She grabbed a glass of something alcoholic off a passing tray and downed it before the waiter even knew it was missing. She looked down, half-expecting to see her blue Ann Taylor suit had turned into rags. And her red and white MINI out in the lot had probably turned into a pumpkin.

  She hadn’t even made it to midnight, dammit.

  Revelations

  In all relationships, secrets are kept and disclosures are made. The key to survival is how you handle things when the former becomes the latter.

  Chapter 2

  Jack Lambert was no Prince Charming. Just ask his ex-wife. Or, for that matter, any number of women dotting the globe. Charming, they might go for. Hell of a good time? Probably. But princely? That particular adjective wouldn’t make anyone’s list.

  “You sure you haven’t been self-medicating? I don’t know shit about giving advice to women.” Jack elbowed Eric in the gut and went in for the layup.

  Eric swung around, jumped up, and smacked the ball away before it could float over the rim. “I don’t want you to give advice,” he said, barely breathing hard as he chased the ball down, despite the summer sun beating down on them both. He dribbled the ball, moving slowly around the perimeter of the key as Jack shadowed his every move. “But trust me, this is going to be mutually beneficial. It’s a solution to both of our problems.”

  Jack’s current problem was unemployment. He was a sportswriter for an international news wire service, or had been until three days ago, when the service had been sold to the Reverend Yun Yun Yi, a right-wing religious zealot who made Reverend Moon come off looking like Mister Rogers. Jack had been stuck in Dubai at the time, writing about women’s tennis. It had taken him two days and four flights to get back to his small apartment in Alexandria. Virginia, not Egypt. Although since his divorce, it could have easily been either.

  Jack read Eric’s feint perfectly—not a surprise, considering they’d been shooting hoops one-on-one since they were both eleven—and blocked his shot, taking the ball out of the key, then dribbling, taking his time. Sweat had long since soaked through his T-shirt. He paused long enough to peel it off, mop his face, then tie it around his head, do-rag style, hoping to keep the sweat from stinging his eyes. “How did you even know I was back?” Jack asked, not really wanting to focus on the unemployment issue.

  Eric tossed his shirt to the side of the fenced-in court, removing any doubt that he’d let himself go in the nine months since they’d last seen each other. Bastard probably didn’t even have to work at it, Jack thought in disgust. Eric had always been such a natural jock, he still wondered how his best friend had ended up writing advice columns, of all things, instead of, say, playing in the NBA or the MLB. But then, God knew, he’d had enough women that if any guy could explain them, it would be Eric. Jack would just stick with writing about bocce ball and cliff-diving, thanks. Something he had a chance in hell of understanding.

  He bounce-passed the ball to Eric, who bounced it back and said, “I saw in the Times last week that StatsComm was being bought out by the venerable Triple Y. I gave you four days max to be back in D.C. job-hunting.”

  Well, he’d nailed that one. No point in letting the man gloat, though. “So, what makes you think I don’t already have another gig lined up?” He slapped the ball, then drove up the middle, taking a hard shoulder and an elbow in the ribs for the effort.

  “Maybe you do,” Eric said, laughing as he rebounded the rim shot, then slam-dunked it. “But really, Lambert”—he was grinning now—“how many wire services are looking for a guy to cover Ping-Pong?”

  “Hey.” Jack smacked the ball away, then went right up in his face, bodies colliding as he hit one off the backboard. “I’ve said it before, but it bears repeating. Anybody can cover basketball. It takes a real man to observe events like Paris to Dakaar, Australian-rules football, or the wild action of the Women’s World Ping-Pong Championships, and turn it into a no-holds-barred must-read.” Eric rebounded the ball and Jack followed him out of the key, covering him with his hands up. “Which leads me back to the obvious question: What, exactly, does my sports-god background bring to the advice-for-the-lovelorn table?”

  “My readers aren’t lovelorn,” Eric retorted, turning and backing them both up as he looked for his opening. “They’re intelligent, capable, caring women who are tired of being dicked around by the assholes of the world.” Despite the fact that Jack was all but lying on Eric’s sweaty back, he missed the feint and Eric beat him for a three-pointer that was nothing but net. Grinning, he wiped the sweat off his forehead as Jack retrieved the ball. “That would be you, in case you were wondering.”

  Smiling despite the heckling—they’d long since turned that into an art form—he shot the ball hard at Eric’s chest. “Hey, now. I never claimed to understand what women want. In fact, I willingly admit I have no idea. Hence my current marital stat
us. And more to the point, I don’t want to know. Frankly, the way women’s minds work scares me.”

  Eric slapped his palm on the ball, shot it back just as hard. “No, the way Shelby’s mind worked scared you. Not every woman’s a psycho.”

  “She wasn’t a psycho. And so much for intelligent, capable, and caring,” Jack said with a laugh.

  Eric rolled his eyes as he came in, covering Jack’s moves. “As I recall, she wasn’t much interested in anyone’s advice, either. To this day, I can’t understand why it took you almost two years to figure out her game.”

  “Temporary dementia and the lack of a good prenuptial agreement?” he shot back. It had been three years since he’d signed the divorce papers, and he tried not to think about his eighteen-month union to the former Shelby Lane . . . well, pretty much ever. “Word to the wise, man, never ever mix alcohol, South Pacific sunsets, and a woman wearing a bikini made out of dental floss.” He made his move, went in hard, and muscle slapped against muscle as they both grunted, scuffled, then jumped at the same time. Jack hooted as the ball swooshed past the rim.

  “Yeah, well, maybe you should have been reading my columns instead of the sports stats,” Eric shot back, finally breathing a bit more heavily. “Might have saved yourself some major heartache.”

  Jack stopped and bent over, propping his hands on his thighs as he took a moment to catch his breath. “Not to mention a substantial chunk of my now nonexistent income.”

  “Which brings me back to my offer.” But instead of getting right into it, Eric looked away, then down at the ball he was bouncing on automatic pilot, as his thoughts had definitely gone elsewhere.

  Jack straightened, squinting as clouds shifted and the sun caught him square in the face. “You in some kind of trouble or something?”

  “In a manner of speaking. But first . . . there’s something I have to tell you. Specifically about those women in bikinis—American Dental Association–approved or otherwise—and why they will never be a threat to yours truly.”

  Now it was Jack’s turn to pause. Eric was being his wry, amusing self, but if Jack didn’t know better, he’d swear that beneath the acerbic commentary, his friend sounded sort of . . . scared shitless. Then it hit him and he groaned. “Oh, no. Shit, no. Tell me you didn’t. Despite the fact that this will finally give me years of verbal payback possibilities, you mean too much to me to wish this on you. Tell me you did not finally let some woman talk her way into your wallet. Because you might think it’s your heart she’s got her claws into, buddy—and no disrespect to the future Mrs. Jermaine—but I’d get started on that prenup right now. Consider this friendly advice from the still-indebted.”

  Eric shot the ball at him, a little harder than necessary. “Jack, it’s not like that.”

  He caught it against his chest, then propped it under his arm. This was a momentous occasion. He couldn’t shoot hoops and enjoy every second of watching his friend finally admit to falling in love. “Damn, it sure took you long enough.” He laughed and shook his head. “Another icon shattered. You were my proof that single men can live happily ever after . . . and stay single.”

  Eric didn’t laugh. In fact, Jack had never seen him look so damn serious. “Did you ever stop to wonder why I’m still single? Why there’s never been a steady woman—any woman, really—in my life?”

  “Don’t pull that lonely shit on me. You write touchy-feely advice about understanding women’s needs, and you and I both know they’ve always been crawling out of the woodwork, wanting nothing more than to spend some time with Mr. I Understand Your Needs. Even if they don’t know who you really are. Hell, your motto in high school was Why Settle for One? It’s the greatest gig going; you’re a fucking genius.”

  Eric smiled briefly. “You’re still sore because I got Most Likely to Be a Calvin Klein Model in the senior yearbook.”

  Jack snorted, started dribbling the ball again. “Hardly. I’m above parading around like some kind of beauty-pageant contestant.”

  “Unless parading around meant scoring with Andrea Ralston.”

  Jack sighed in immediate and fond remembrance. “Andrea.” He pronounced it as she had, Ahn-DRAY-ah. “To this day I get a hard-on when I hear a woman with an Aussie accent.”

  “Must make covering Australian football a real interesting experience.”

  “True, true. Yet somehow I manage.” He took a shot, rebounded the ball. Eric didn’t join him. In fact, when he turned, he saw that Eric was still standing where he’d left him, looking all serious and upset. He shot him the ball, but Eric just caught it against his chest and held it. “What the hell’s up, man?”

  Eric surprised him by quietly asking, “Have you ever wondered, you know, about why I’m good at what I do?”

  “I think we’ve already covered the fucking genius factor, Calvin.”

  Eric didn’t laugh. “This is even harder than I thought it was going to be.” He swore under his breath. “Okay, you know what? I can’t find an easy way to tell you this. I’ve wanted to for years, but I was afraid it would, I don’t know, ruin everything between us. But I’m in a jam, a really serious one, and so—well, maybe things happen the way they do for a reason.” He looked up and held Jack’s gaze squarely. “I’m just going to say it straight out and trust you not to freak.”

  “Great, then we’ll both know what the hell you’re talking about.”

  Eric sighed. “There are no women, Jack. There won’t be any women. Ever. I’m gay.”

  Jack’s jaw dropped. “I’m sorry, did you just say you were—”

  “GAY!” Eric all but shouted. “Queer as the day is long. A raving homosexual.” He shot the ball hard at him. “Jesus, why does everyone have to make this so goddamn hard?”

  Jack caught it reflexively, but it might as well have been a foreign object. Hell, suddenly everything was foreign. He was staring at Eric, who was clearly not kidding around. His sweaty, macho, ripped, jock of a best friend, Eric. Gay. The guy he’d snapped towels at in the boys’ locker room. The guy who smacked him on the butt in football and pounded his ass routinely into the ground on the racquetball court. Gay. The guy he’d known since he was nine and was closer to than anyone walking this planet. Had talked trash with this guy, talked women with him. Talked life.

  Gay.

  Nope. It wasn’t computing.

  “Say something, man,” Eric said quietly.

  Jack took a deep breath, blew it out. Despite the riot of emotions and thoughts swirling through his mind, he did recognize the absolute importance of this moment, knew he had to handle it right. That despite his confusion . . . and whatever the hell he was feeling, first and foremost, he was Eric’s friend. Hell, they were all but family to each other. He couldn’t blow this.

  But he had no idea where to start. He bounced the ball back to Eric, like everything would make more sense if they just kept shooting hoops, kept things normal. Normal. He wanted to laugh. What the hell did that mean anymore? “What do you mean, everyone,” he said finally, latching on to the one piece of information he could process rationally. “Who have you told?”

  “You and Valerie.” Eric bounced an easy layup off the backboard, shot the ball back to Jack, apparently willing to let him steer the conversation. For now, anyway.

  Jack took a shot. Missed. “Who the hell is Valerie?”

  “The publicist for Glass Slipper magazine. I just signed a contract to be the spokesperson for their launch issue. I don’t know if you’ve heard of it, but it’s the new arm of their company, Glass Slipper, Incorporated, based out in Potomac. They specialize in makeovers—extreme, whole-life makeovers—mostly for women, but occasionally they handle other—”

  “Yeah, okay, got it.” Jack took another shot, missed, then gave up the pretense that he was even remotely handling this smoothly, and let the ball drop. He pulled his shirt off his head, wiped his face. “So . . .” He had nothing. His brain had locked up. He just kept seeing the past, their past, like a movie reel playing inside h
is head. Jack and Eric. Playing peewee football together at age eleven. Eric Jermaine. Star high-school quarterback. Six two, two hundred twenty pounds. Jock of the Year and total chick magnet from birth.

  A guy whose roof he’d lived under throughout high school. A guy he’d seen buck naked any number of times and vice versa. The only person he trusted one hundred percent. Would trust with his very life. And all this time he’d been keeping a huge secret?

  Stone-cold serious now, Jack said, “How long have you—you know? Known?”

  Eric sighed quietly. “I did the denial thing through school, but I’ve probably known most of my life.” He smiled faintly, tried for a laugh. “And if you’re thinking about . . . you know, well, don’t. You’re not my type.”

  Jack plainly saw the strained tension beneath the attempt at humor. Guilt immediately replaced disbelief. For Eric to carry such a huge burden for so many years and not feel he could trust Jack enough to tell him? Yes, that hurt. A lot, as it turned out. But, more important, it made him feel like he’d failed the one person who meant more to him than anyone. Who had done more for him than anyone. “So,” he said at length, struggling desperately not to let Eric down now. “I guess those summers we spent up in your tree house reading Playboy, you really were reading the articles?”

  Eric laughed, the tension lifted a little. “Pretty much.”

  Jack shook his head, willed the shock to subside . . . and all the myriad attendant questions that went with it. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner? And none of that bullshit about not trusting me. You know me better than anyone.”

  “Hell, Jack, I could barely admit it to myself.”

  He thought about that for a moment. “Did your mom know?”