Erica Orloff - Spanish Disco

is a transplanted New Yorker who now calls South Florida home. She is a writer and editor who has worked in publishing for over a decade. She is the coauthor of two books of humor writing, and the coauthor of The Sixty Second Commute about the home office phenomenon, as well as two books for children, including The Best Friends’ Handbook, aimed at empowering teen and preteen girls. As an editor and ghostwriter, she has worked behind the scenes on many publishing successes.

Erica despises the “c-word” (cooking) and likes to write on her laptop, poolside. She presides over a house of unruly pets, including a parrot who curses as avidly as she does. She loves playing poker, a game she was taught by her grandmother, and regularly enjoys trying to steal her crew of wonderful friends’ money playing five-card stud.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To my parents, Walter and Maryanne Orloff.

And to the memory of Robert and Irene Cunningham.

I would like to thank my wonderful, beloved agent, Jay Poynor, for always believing in me and my work. You are friend, cheering section, critic, confidant, and family.

To my father, Walter Orloff. I am a writer because, first and foremost, you are a terribly interesting character. Second, you are the father in chapter thirteen who challenged me to read well beyond my years. All I am is because you challenged me.

To my mother, Maryanne Orloff, who bears no resemblance to the mother in the pages herein. My love of reading stems from your love of reading. Thank you for taking me to the library in second grade, letting me sign out seven books on a Friday and taking me back on Monday to sign out new ones.

To my sisters, Stacey Groome and Jessica Stasinos, and to my girlfriends, Pammie, Cleo, Nancy, Kathy L., Kathy J., Lisa, JoAnn and Meredith…for your friendship and support. To Kathy Levinson, in particular, for tolerating my trips to New York (and giving me a place to stay) with my over-the-top fear of flying. You are my personal “flying shrink.” Thanks to Marc Levinson, as well—same reasons. And to Pam Morrell, especially, thanks for believing I am “winsome.”

To the members of Writer’s Cramp: Pam, Gina, Becky…and Josh.

To the members of my women’s book group, for your friendship (and great food once a month).

At Red Dress Ink, thank you to Margaret O’Neill Marbury, for your insight and wisdom and belief in this book. And to all the people at Red Dress who made this book possible.

To Alexa, Nicholas and Isabella. Thank you for giving me a reason to breathe.

To my godmother, Gloria, and to my cousin Joey D., because I always promised you I would mention you in my book.

To the late Viktor Frankl. I live because of your philosophy.

To anyone I’ve somehow left out. You know I’m not that organized, so please forgive me.

And finally, to J.D.

You know all my secrets, even the ones I share with no one else, and you know all my pain and joys. And though I often want to kill you, you make me laugh every day.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Book Group Questions

“H ello, Buttercup.”

Most people panic that a jangling phone at 4:09 in the morning is a death call—the one in which a cop is about to tell you he’s found your sibling or mother or father plastered like a bloody possum on the pavement of I-95. Instead, I uttered his name like a curse: “Michael!”

“Yes, darling, it’s me.”

I reached in vain for the lamp.

“I don’t suppose there’s any point in asking if you know what time it is.”

“What would David have for breakfast?”

“Breakfast?”

“Because I think eggs indicates a surprising lack of concern about his health. After all, his wife has been nagging him for years about his cholesterol. His smoking. And this could be his lone act of defiance. His way of telling the world to fuck off, as you, my dear, would so eloquently put it.”

“Or he could merely like sunny-side up and a side of bacon, Michael. Is it that important what your character eats for breakfast?”

My fingers found the little pull-chain on my bedside lamp. I squinted and reached for the glass of warm bourbon and water I keep on my nightstand for conversations precisely like this one.

“Vitally.”

“Michael, you know I am not at my best until a good, solid six hours from now. And that only after a pot of coffee. Can’t this wait?”

“Be a love,” he said, his English accent trying to charm me through the phone line. “Greet the dawn with me.”

“Greet the dawn? Michael, I don’t want to greet the dawn with you. I don’t want to greet noon with you.”

“Impossible! You don’t want to enjoy the splendor outside your balcony with me? Your favorite author?”

“Favorite is not—most definitely not—the word that comes to mind right now.” I sighed. “Those acknowledgments better drip with praise.”

“To my dream editor, the love of my life, Cassie Hayes, without whom this book would not be possible and without whom I would curl into a fetal position and remain there. For life without the beautiful and witty Miss Hayes would, in fact, be life not worth living at all.”

“That’s a start.”

“And she has a remarkable sense of the sublime and a true command of all dangling participles.”

“And?”

“And she’s simply charming before the dawn.”

Stretching, I sighed. “All right. Let me grab my robe and start a pot of coffee.”

“Are you naked, Cassie?”

Michael Pearton was, quite possibly, the best writer I had ever worked with or read. He was also faintly mysterious. His back cover head shots showed a man with black curly hair and a crooked smile offset by a long, ragged scar on his decidedly square chin. He was both movie-star handsome and bar-fight dangerous. We’d never met but indulged in flirtation bordering on phone sex. Because I wasn’t getting any other kind of sex, I tolerated his predawn ramblings.

“Why, yes, Michael, I am,” I murmured. “Stark, raving naked. My nipples are hard because you know I keep my house colder than a meat locker regardless of what the weather is outside. And I am now shoving said nipples into my robe and shuffling in my bare feet to the kitchen where I will start a pot of coffee.”