Sarina Bowen's Blog, page 12

The new covers for Him and Us are here! And they are everything

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I have been sitting on this for way too long, but they are finally live! Elle and I decided to put new covers on Him and Us! (And probably Epic, but it’s not ready yet.) This glorious design by Elle Maxwell has (finally) gone live at Amazon, but it’s still a little hard to find.

New paperbacks: 

https://geni.us/Him-paperback 

https://geni.us/Us-paperback 

FAQ about the new covers: 

Q: What about the old covers? I want them. 

A: Amazon doesn’t play nice with multiple versions. (Unless you are a big five publisher.) So we had to remove the old paperbacks from vendor sites. But there are still two options: 

The hardcovers still have the classic covers.

We are going to restock the “classic” paperbacks in my website store. When they are back in stock, we will let you know!

Q: Why do this? 

A: New covers are one way to reach new readers. That’s why we considered a change. And then when Elle Maxwell produced these hunky images of our favorite guys, we just had to have them. Besides—the original Him cover is a stock photograph and now it is on approximately 7,442 other books. But these new drawings of Wesmie are ours forever! 

Q: Can I get the new books signed? I am in the US. 

A: Yes you can. Now, recall that Elle and I do not live in the same country. So I have shipped her a box of the cutest HIM & US book plates ever printed. She has to sign them, which is not a quick process. Then they will come back to me. I will sign them. And then they will go to my local independent bookstore, where Allie the Bookseller will handle the sale. If you would like a nudge from us when those signed copies are ready, please drop your name and email here: https://forms.gle/hamqKh3B4vTRUEuV8 

Q: Can I get the new books signed? I am outside the US.

A: We aren’t ready to handle that yet. But in 2022 we may be able to make some double-signed bookplates available. Stay tuned! 

#sarinarecommends Role Model and Heated Rivalry by Rachel Reid

Role Model is on sale, so I moved it to the top of my #sarinarecommends pile!

Rachel Reid’s writing is gorgeous. That’s the reason I’ll keep reading Rachel Reid, no matter what. Her characters leap right off the page. I’m always bowled over when an author can do that.

Furthermore, this series has a fascinating series story arc. The books are interrelated but loosely. And still, there’s a bigger story at work. These books are all about hard-won love and self-acceptance.

Role Model at Amazon | Role Model at Apple Heated Rivalry: A Gay Sports Romance (Game Changers Book 2) By Reid, Rachel

Also: Book #2 in the series—Heated Rivalry—is just amazing. I’m hardly alone in calling out that one as her greatest achievement. The conflict between these two adversaries is so well drawn. It’s so much more than just another coming out story. There is a lot of power to these character arcs, and this book is just spectacular.

Heated Rivalry at Amazon | Heated Rivalry at Apple

Read this one. Read them all. You will not regret it!

Whoa! Amazon names Roommate one of the best books of 2021!

I don’t even know what to say! This is pretty exciting for a Wednesday! Amazon has named Roommate one of the best books of 2021.

This is deeply gratifying! Thank you, Amazon! If you want to see all the best books of 2021, you can find them right here: https://geni.us/AmazonBestOf2021

Cover Reveal Day! Wait until you see this one...

   The Best Men is coming In January!

Bestselling authors Sarina Bowen and Lauren Blakely team up for the first time in an enemies-to-lovers, opposites-attract, irresistibly sexy standalone romance between the best man and the other best man!

In my defense, I was left alone with a bottle of single-malt and a life-long penchant for protecting my baby sister. Still, that's no excuse to send ten drunk-texts on why her hasty marriage would be a mistake.

If only I had just texted my sister. But nope. I accidentally sent the message to her, her groom, and his super hot wingman.

I also used the phrase “super hot wingman,” so I’d like to die now.

Instead, I have to plan a wedding with the aforementioned hottie and share a too-small guesthouse in steamy Miami.

Three days in the sun with the cocky, charming former athlete who likes to push my buttons? Fine, two can play at that let’s-infuriate-each-other game.

Until Asher ups the stakes with one wildly sexy suggestion. A no-strings fling, then I go back to my single dad life in New York, and he returns to his star-studded one.

Sign me up.

But the more nights I spend with the other best man, the more I want days too, and that just can't happen. Especially when I find out the real reason why…

Contents Include: First times, a secret to-do list, champion-level flirting, fast cars, #eggplants, and two men who look good in formal wear.

Simultaneous audio with Teddy Hamilton and Jacob Morgan, too!

Amazon | Apple | Kobo | Nook | Google

First Chapter: Brooklynaire

“I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look, or the words, which laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun.”

—Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice

 

* * *

 

April 2, Brooklyn

 

Rebecca

 

It is a truth universally acknowledged that I am something of a badass.

For starters, I live in Brooklyn, where everyone can more or less handle herself. I drink my coffee black. And I work with professional athletes, holding my own in an office so full of testosterone that caffeine is almost beside the point.

I can do twenty-five push-ups in a set. Last year a hockey player bet against me on this and lost his hundred bucks. So, until twenty-four hours ago, I thought of myself as pretty darned tough.

And I’ll need to be. The Brooklyn Bruisers are closing in on the NHL playoffs for the first time in years. Once my team makes the playoffs, a flood of tasks will head my way. Travel arrangements. Publicity events. Ticket sales in distant venues. As the office manager, it’s my job to coordinate all this happy chaos.

But yesterday afternoon, in a moment of sheer stupidity, I walked out onto the gleaming ice of the practice rink to deliver a message to one of my coworkers.

For two years I’d worked for the hockey team without ever setting foot on the ice. But yesterday I thought…why not? It’s like working at a fine restaurant and never sampling the food.

The why not became obvious about sixty seconds later, when my Chuck Taylor low tops slipped on the slick surface. I went down so fast that I couldn’t even break my fall with my hands. Instead, I went down on one butt cheek. But that slipped, too! I continued falling sideways, my arm and head hitting the ground next. My head actually bounced off the ice before I finally came to rest on the cold, cold surface.

Immediately, I did what any self-respecting girl does after she takes a serious tumble—I dusted myself off and told the two coworkers who witnessed this ridiculousness that I was absolutely fine.

And I thought I was fine, unless we were counting the bruise on my butt, which is the size of the tri-state area.

The concussion I sustained wasn’t noticeable at first. I assumed that my disorientation was from sheer embarrassment. Feeling flushed and confused seemed perfectly rational at the time.

I went home, ate some leftovers out of my refrigerator, and went to bed early. But at two in the morning I woke up again suddenly. My headache had escalated, and I felt a little sick. So I got up and went into the bathroom looking for some aspirin. And when I flipped on the light, the room spun. I grabbed the towel bar so hard that it came off the wall.

For the second time that day, I fell down on my ass.

The crash woke up my sister in the other bedroom. When she found me blinking on the floor, she panicked. That’s how we ended up at the ER at Brooklyn Methodist in the middle of the night. If I think about the bill they’re going to send me, I’ll probably get nauseous again. They poked and prodded me in all the usual places, shining infernal lights in my eyes while I insisted they should let me go home.

They finally did, but not before giving me lengthy instructions on how to recover from a concussion.

So here I roost—on the world’s ugliest couch—in my tiny, overcrowded apartment, wondering what the hell I’m going to do. Meanwhile, tears of frustration are tracking down my face.

And I never cry. What the actual fuck?

Okay, it hurts, dammit. But the headache isn’t what’s got me so upset. The ER doctor said I can’t go back to work for two weeks. He told me to stay home and avoid screens, paperwork, stress, and all physically and intellectually taxing situations.

Another tear glides down my face while I try to get my head around this. I’ve just texted Hugh Major—the General Manager of the Brooklyn Bruisers—to tell him I need a few days off. And I had to squint just to make the letters on the screen stop swimming around.

And two weeks? That’s just crazy talk. The timing is terrible, and Hugh will not be pleased. Nor will Nate Kattenberger, the team’s owner.

Furthermore, I’m not okay with it. My boys are on the cusp of making the playoffs for the first time since I came to work with the team. I have to be there to see it. For two years the hockey team has been my whole life. Sitting out for two weeks? Impossible.

Powering down my phone, I take another shaky breath. My movements are stealthy because my four-month-old nephew is asleep in a basket at my feet. I can’t wake the baby. If he starts crying right now, my head won’t be able to take it.

I focus on his sleeping face and feel a little calmer, because babies know how to relax. Matthew’s dark eyelashes line his chubby cheeks, and the blanket lifts gently with each quiet breath.

Yesterday I thought my biggest problem was sharing an overcrowded apartment with my sister and her family. Oh, and the fact that I haven’t had sex in eleven months and three days. That used to seem like a big problem.

But now I know better.

Four people live in this apartment, but I’m the only one with a full-time job. Fine—the baby is unemployable. But two adults count on me, too. My sister is trying to finish up her associate’s degree, while working a few shifts as a barista. And her baby daddy—our apartment’s fourth occupant—does construction work whenever he can get it. But often he’s doing baby care instead.

That leaves me and my steady paycheck. And even though the team’s owner has known me for seven years, these last two years I’ve worried about my job security. My absence today won’t help.

So what the hell am I going to do now?

I must have said that out loud, because my nephew shifts in his sleep.

Ever since Matthew came to live with me, I’ve learned that babies have an uncanny knack for choosing the worst possible moment to wake up. I wipe my eyes with the heels of my hands and take a deep, calming breath.

Matthew rolls over and grunts softly. His little mouth moves as if to suckle.

Uh-oh.

Slowly, I lean over the Moses basket, where he’s sleeping, and fish the abandoned pacifier out of the blankets. Then, ever so stealthily, I slide the pacifier into his mouth. These are tricks I never thought I’d learn. But then my younger sister got pregnant at twenty-two. “I’m keeping the baby,” she’d announced immediately. “And Renny is going to go work on an oil rig in the Gulf to support us.”

Right.

Fast forward a few months, and I experience exactly zero surprise when Missy loses her Queens apartment for falling behind on the rent. And I experience only slightly more surprise when Renny lasts just a few months on the oil rig.

He came through my door a week ago, dropping to his knees on my rug in an overly dramatic gesture. “I just couldn’t stand another day without my family!” the twenty-one-year-old fool cried. (Yes, my sister fell for a younger man. I’d call him her child-groom, except they aren’t even married.)

Now we’re all one big happy family in the tiny Brooklyn apartment I used to share only with my best friend Georgia. I love my sister, but this apartment really isn’t big enough for so much melodrama.

I’ve been cast in the role of Spinster Auntie. And right now, behind the closed door of the bedroom my sister and Renny share, I can hear the hushed moans of their lovemaking and the rhythmic thump of the headboard rocking against the wall.

They think they’re so sneaky. Ever since Renny returned from Texas, they slip off once a day for a quickie while the baby naps. Any minute now they’ll emerge, flushed and happy, with their soft-eyed glances for one another, their hands lingering on each other’s bodies, as if it would cause them physical pain to let go of one another.

My sister is kind of an idiot. Always has been. And yet she snagged a man who truly loves her. Every time I think about them I want to throw up a little. And that was before I got a concussion.

At my feet, Baby Matthew stretches his short, little arms over his bald, little head. His eyes are still screwed shut, but it won’t last. The pacifier falls out again. Then he makes a breathy little complaint, and those blue eyes pop open.

No matter how shittastic my life is right now, one thing remains unshakably true: my nephew is completely adorable. “Hi,” I say softly, and his eyes find me. “Did you have a good sleep?”

He considers the question.

“Want to come hang out with me on the couch?” I lean over to fit my hands beneath his heavy warmth. I tug. And when I sit up again, my head gives a stab of pain so sharp I hiss with surprise.

The sound catches Matthew off guard, and he whimpers.

“S’okay,” I say, my eyes closed against the pain. “It’s going to be fine.”

It’s unclear which of us I’m comforting.

Matthew makes a few more fussy sounds. He’s working himself up to a full-blown cry. For once I don’t mind because it covers up the sound of the sex crescendo in the other room. But I’ve left the pacifier in the basket on the floor, damn it. Holding Matthew makes it doubly hard to bend over, but I manage it. Barely.

When we’re settled back again on the sofa, the room spins in a way that rooms really shouldn’t. The big brown roses on the ugly couch—The Beast, as Georgia and I call it—seem to swim in front of my eyes.

Trippy.

Matthew sucks a little desperately on the pacifier. It won’t hold him for long. He’s hungry. Sure enough, his whimpers become wails after a couple more minutes. I rock him in my arms, but two fat tears squeeze from the corners of his eyes. In sympathy, a couple of tears leak from my own eyes, too.

Then the bedroom door flies open. “Daddy is here!” Renny declares. He’s bare chested, and the top button of his jeans is still undone. But he runs around the sofa and scoops Matthew out of my arms. “My pumpkin muffin. My sweetie pie.” He lowers his scruffy face to Matthew’s velvety cheek and begins to kiss him.

That baby is hungry, and Renny does not have the plumbing he needs. But apparently a half-naked nutbar like Renny is just entertaining enough to distract Matthew from his empty belly. The baby puts his little starfish hand on daddy’s face, and they stare at each other like long-lost lovers.

“Who’s the best little pumpkin muffin in the world?” Renny babbles. He sits in the other corner of The Beast, and then my sister enters the room looking flushed and more sexually satisfied than any new mother has a right to look. “Mommy!” Renny calls out, sounding like a moron. “We need your luscious titties over here!”

“You know,” I grumble, although I’m positive nobody is listening. “In a couple of years, he’s going to repeat all the stuff you say.”

They don’t even hear me. Missy fits herself against her boy toy and lifts her shirt. Renny adjusts the baby in both their laps, so that the baby can reach my sister’s boob. Matthew latches on, while his two parents gaze at their baby while he feeds, occasionally making sickening little comments about what a great nurser he is.

This is my life.

I’ve never felt more like a third wheel. Or a fourth wheel. Whatever. But this is my couch, and I wouldn’t get up to leave even if I had somewhere else to go. Which I don’t. I will just sit here, stewing in my own misery, alone with my worried thoughts, even if nobody notices.

That’s when the doorbell buzzes. The sound is like a knife through my already achy skull. “Could somebody get that?”

The happiest little family in Brooklyn doesn’t move.

So I get up to answer the buzzer myself. “Hello?”

“Rebecca.” The man’s voice is low and firm. “Can I come up?”

He doesn’t even bother to identify himself. He really doesn’t have to. Nate Kattenberger is the kind of man who’s used to being recognized.

He isn’t, on the other hand, accustomed to stopping by his assistant’s Brooklyn apartment. I’ve worked for Nate for seven years, and never once has he set foot inside my home.

It takes me a moment to shake off my surprise. But then I gather my wits and press the button unlocking the front door downstairs.

I turn my gaze on my living room. The place looks like a bomb went off. “Renny, go put on a shirt! Missy? How much of this baby crap can we pick up in the next 15 seconds?”

“None of it? I’m nursing. Why?”

Because the most successful man in the tri-state area is walking up the staircase right now! I don’t even have time to panic. Nate Kattenberger taps on the door less than a minute later. He must have sprinted up two flights of stairs. Since there’s no cure for my embarrassment, I open the door.

“You should be in bed.” That’s Nate’s opener. He’s never one for small talk.

I don’t answer for a second, because my brain is slow today, and it takes a little longer than normal to get over the same little jolt of disbelief I have every time those intense light brown eyes first lock onto mine. Nate is about ten times more magnetic than an ordinary guy. You’d think after seven years I’d be used to him. But nope.

“Hey,” I point out a beat later. “You rang my doorbell. I can’t open it and sleep at the same time.”

“A fair point, Bec. Were you sleeping before I rang?”

I don’t answer; I just wave him in. As he steps through the door, he pulls something into my apartment with him. It’s the biggest arrangement of roses I have ever seen, outside of a funeral parlor.

“Jesus. I’m still breathing, you know.” The joke is supposed to cover my embarrassment at his generosity, but it comes out sounding snappish. And when I try to take the flowers from him, the basket is so big that I don’t even know where to put it.

“Maybe I overshot,” he says with a chuckle. “Here. You take this instead.” He hands me a shopping bag from Dean & DeLuca, and it’s full of gourmet food. “Can I put the flowers on the table by the window?”

“If they fit! Watch out for the…”

Nate trips on the baby swing because I don’t warn him in time. He almost goes down, but saves himself just in time by leaning on the wall.

“I’m so sorry about that,” my sister says from the sofa. She doesn’t, however, apologize for her half-naked boyfriend, who’s gaping at Brooklyn’s most famous billionaire.

Good lord. We are Brooklyn’s equivalent of a trailer park. And it ain’t pretty.

“Nate,” I say, as if I weren’t dying inside. “You remember my sister Missy.” They met about five years ago when I invited Missy to a benefit at a museum somewhere. I don’t even remember the occasion. “And this is her boyfriend, Renny.”

“How have you been?” Nate asks Missy. The tips of his ears go red, probably because my sister is basically topless. “Are you here to look after Rebecca while she heals?”

“Nope! We live here,” Renny says, swinging his feet up onto the coffee table.

I just want to die now. As long as it’s relatively painless.

“Renny,” I try. “Didn’t you tell me you were going to make a trip to the store? After the baby woke up, you said.” This isn’t even a lie. He did mention making a run for groceries. But that was before he distracted himself by jumping my sister.

“Sure,” he rubs his unshaven face. “I could do that.”

“I’ll come with you,” my sister says, bless her. “We’ll carry Matthew in the sling. He’ll be done feeding in a minute here.”

Praise Jesus.

Renny stands up, rubbing his bare chest. “Hey, is the library open? I finished that awesome book—with the parallel universe? But it ended on a cliffy. I need the sequel.”

Faster, Renny! I can see his shirt through the open doorway of Missy’s room. I mentally coach him toward it. The shirt, Renny. Get the shirt.

“Parallel universes are the best!” He wanders in the general direction of the shirt. “Like, there’s a parallel universe where I’m the quarterback for the Giants. And there’s a parallel universe where you’re the Queen of France.”

“There’s no monarchy in France,” I point out. Put on a shirt.

My sister waves her boobs around, then puts them back into her bra.

“But that’s the point!” Renny yells from the bedroom. Clothed now, he emerges to dance over to his son, scooping him out of Missy’s arms. “Anything can happen in a parallel universe. My little man can fly. Whee!” He supports the baby on his palms and flies Matthew around.

“Won’t that make him spit up?” I ask, preparing for the worst.

Missy takes the baby back from her goofball boyfriend. “Let’s roll. Good to see you, Nate. Go easy on my sister. She spent the whole morning freaking out about missing work. But she’s not supposed to touch a computer until…”

“Missy,” I warn.

“Well, you’re not!” Wisely, she opens the apartment door and disappears outside.

Renny grabs the baby’s sling, and then a blanket, too. Even if he’s kind of an idiot, he’s actually a good dad. “Later, Nate Kattenberger and Becca!”

The sound of the door shutting behind him is the best sound I’ve heard all day. My embarrassment factor lowers from 100 to, oh, a 97.

“Wow,” Nate says.

“They’re a little much,” I mumble.

“No…” He’s staring at the giant brown, velvet roses on The Beast. “Your sofa is really quite…”

“Hideous?”

He laughs.

“Would you believe that it’s super comfortable, though? Georgia and I thought about having it reupholstered, but we weren’t sure it would fit through the apartment door.” I plop down in one corner. “Sit. Try it for yourself.”

Nate drops into the other corner. He lifts his hands behind his head and stretches back. “Yeah, okay.”

“Not only is it comfortable, but when you’re sitting on it you don’t have to look at it.”

Nate laughs again, and I study his profile, as I’ve done a thousand times before. It’s objectively handsome. More than handsome, actually. Hot. Today he’s wearing his trademark black hoodie and a pair of four hundred dollar jeans.

These days he wears suits to his Manhattan office tower. But the hoodie used to be his uniform. Though he didn’t wear expensive jeans or designer sneakers back then. He didn’t have the office tower, either.

When I joined the company, there were 17 employees. Now there are more than 2000.

For five years I worked at Nate’s side as his personal assistant. Then, two years ago, he bought the Brooklyn Bruisers hockey team. That’s when he asked me to leave Kattenberger Tech and manage the team’s office instead. Another woman—the frosty Lauren—took my place as his assistant in Manhattan.

Nate said it wasn’t a demotion, and I didn’t take a pay cut. I actually gained some benefits, because the hockey team is a separate corporation, with a slightly different structure. And I still see Nate several times a week, at least during hockey season.

The move still bothers me, though. I wonder what I did to fall out of favor with Nate.

And now I realize I’m staring at him. But he’s staring at me too. “Are you really okay?” he asks, his face unreadable. Nate is famously stoic. The magazine profile pieces about him love to use the word “inscrutable.” The truth is that he’s actually a bit socially awkward.

“I will be okay.” I clear my throat. “God, it was the stupidest fall ever. I don’t think I even hit my head very hard. I’ll go into the office tomorrow morning, okay? I’ll just take it easy at work for a day or two…”

He’s already shaking his head. “No way. A concussion takes at least two weeks to heal.”

“Two weeks!” I squeak. “But I don’t need to play hockey, Nate. It’s a desk job.”

“Doesn’t matter.” He folds his hands like the CEO that he is, and then he drops a bomb. “For the next two weeks, Lauren is leaving her Manhattan seat to cover the Bruisers’ office. Until you’re really back on your feet. It’s already decided.”

My heart slides into my gut. “That’s really not necessary.” Not Lauren! It’s déjà vu all over again. “Lauren hates hockey, anyway.” She’d said so herself a dozen times.

Nate just smirks. Most men can’t pull off a smirk. But most men aren’t Nate Kattenberger. If you’re as smart and attractive as this guy, you can do pretty much anything. “Lauren will just have to deal.”

“Is there really no way I can talk you out of this? I’m just going to sit around this little apartment, bored.”

“You’re benched, Bec. It happens. The players bitch about the downtime, too. We need your brain, okay? We don’t fool around with concussions.”

I don’t point out the obvious difference—Nate’s hockey players get their head injuries while doing great things for the team. I got mine being an idiot.

Yay me.

“Thank you for the flowers, Nate.” My voice is so low I can’t be sure he heard it.

Our eyes meet, and the years fall away. I see the twenty-something guy I used to know, the one with a scrubby office and a big dream. Back then we worked late, eating leftover Chinese at our desks, and competing to see who could throw wadded-up napkins into the waste can from across the room. He was the guy with the knowing smirk and the big brain. And I took care of the little things so he had time to reinvent the way your mobile device connects to the internet.

Now Nate smiles at me, showing me his dimples. The dimples don’t fit the rest of the Nate Kattenberger package. They’re too boyish for such a serious face. They soften him. I smile back instinctively. And for that moment, everything is okay.

It’s a funny thing to be so familiar with this powerful man, and yet still aware that he holds my whole life in the palm of his hand. I trust him. But I also really can’t afford to let him down.

“Alternate universe theory is a thing,” he says suddenly.

“Wh-what?” As always, I’m a couple of paces behind Nate. Even when I don’t have a concussion.

“Alternate universes. The multiverse. It’s a legitimate theory in physics.”

“Pfft. Renny just reads science fiction.”

Nate’s eyes brighten. “Because science fiction is awesome. The multiverse theory posits that infinity is large enough to simultaneously encompass every parallel chance. Every non-choice. Every possibility.”

“Well, that’s just scary! Please don’t send me to a planet where my brother-in-law runs your company.”

Nate smirks.

“But I do like the idea that there’s a universe in which I did not step out onto the ice yesterday and then mess up our end-of-season workflow.”

His smile fades. “It’s going to be okay, Bec. What’s a little more chaos between friends?”

“Right?” I ask, but my voice cracks. I’m so tired of chaos. I’m just suddenly so…tired.

“Hey,” his voice is soft. He stretches a hand across the ugly brown roses on the sofa and squeezes my hand. “Would you tell me if you weren’t okay?”

“Yes.” No. Probably not. “In a few days I’ll probably feel great.”

“I hope so. Besides—the team still has to get us there. My model predicts we’ll clinch our playoffs spot a week from tonight.”

“In this universe, right?” I tease.

“Listen, bitch,” he says.

And then we both crack up, because “listen, bitch,” is from a B-movie we watched once on a jet to…Brussels? London? I don’t remember the destination. The flight was delayed, and we ended up watching two aliens fighting, and the purple one said “Listen, bitch!” to the green one.

It’s been a part of our shared vocabulary ever since. That and palindromes. With Nate it’s just all dork humor all the time.

“Clinching the playoffs next week, huh?” I poke his foot with my toe. “I’d better chill the champagne.”

“That’s more like it.” His glance travels around my cramped living room, where a giant package of disposable diapers is wedged under the coffee table, and three discarded pacifiers dot the floor. “Are you going to be able to get the peace and quiet here that you need to heal?”

“It’ll be fine,” I insist. “We’re usually not all home at the same time.” That’s true, but only because I’m the one who’s usually at work.

Nate stands up. “You’ll call me if you need anything?”

“Of course,” I lie, rising to my feet. Complaining to Nate isn’t my style. I wouldn’t want to ruin my Tough Girl cred. And he has enough to worry about right now.

He gives me a long look, and I try to smile. The man is observant as hell, and I don’t want him to know how scared I am. “Be well, Bec. Don’t try to do too much before the doctors say it’s okay.”

“All right. I promise.”

He gives me the world’s most awkward hug and then vanishes into the Brooklyn afternoon.

Get Brooklynaire at: Amazon | Apple | Nook | Kobo | Google or grab the audio

I finished my book! Which always feels like a miracle...

The first time you write a book, you feel like a first-time marathon runner. Everything hurts. It was harder than you thought. You weren’t sure you could do it. But you didn’t give up. And you are victorious.

Well, I’m just guessing it’s the same because I’m never running a marathon. But I have written more than thirty-five books. It does get easier. You learn to pace yourself.

That fear that you can’t do it, though, never goes away. Even that thirty-sixth book will throw up a new and unfamiliar challenge. And you will have a moment of panic. And thoughts of doom may swirl. This time I might not be able to land this plane.

It happens. A few years ago I threw away 27,000 words of Superfan and started over.

This time, it didn’t come to that. But I had to rewrite a lot of scenes. When I got to the end of Shenanigans, I’d figured out some important things about my characters. So I had to go back and reframe a lot of the earlier action through a new lens.

Twice.

But I kept the faith, because I knew I was making the book better. I gave Drake and Charli the book they deserve.

I turned it in yesterday morning—Sunday. And twenty minutes later a friend asked me to go for a hike with her. “It’s a new trail. I’ll send you the map,” she said.

“I’m in! I don’t care where it is!” was my answer. It’s disorienting to finish a book. You don’t know what to do with yourself. (Except you probably have to clean your house, because those last two weeks have been brutal.)

One of my goals for 2022 is to expect that difficult time at the end of the process. I want to anticipate that deep hole that I always fall into when a book is almost done. I’ll block it off. I’ll keep it free of appointments. I’ll be kind to myself.

Even after 35+ books, there are still tricks I can learn.

First Chapter: Firefly

Trevor

“Tell the truth. You’re going to miss it, aren’t you?”

“Not a chance, Rye.” I sip the Brooklyn Lager ale and sigh. The crisp malty flavor with a slightly bitter taste isn’t awful; it’s just not my usual Goldenpour favorite from the Gin Mill.

One more day, I mentally remind myself—one more day until I escape the confines of this city and return to Vermont. Hell, I’m even looking forward to shoveling the snow at my parents’ home too. 

“Seriously? You’d rather waste your time in the middle of nowhere around mountains and shit?”

Originally from New York, Rylan Gleason had taken part in an electrician apprenticeship program with me in Vermont. Due to the competitiveness of the ones in his state, it was his only option. We became friends and stayed in touch after finishing our licensures.

“Yup.” If I close my eyes, I can visualize my cozy cabin and the picturesque lake and trees in the background—not to mention the absolute quiet awaiting me. 

I’m not a city person. Never have been and never will be. Here, everyone is in a rush, politeness is nonexistent, and the smells …

God, I miss the fresh air.

“Man, I almost went insane from the boredom when I lived there.” Rye scrunches his face. “They don’t even have a good pizza place within walking distance.”

“True.” I rest my elbows against the back of the barstool. He signals the bartender for another drink. “But there are a shit ton of other things that make Vermont awesome.”

“Don’t you dare mention maple syrup.” He shivers. “Do you know how long it took me not to gag when I came across that aroma?”

“C’mon. It wasn’t that bad.”

“Okay, fine. And the beer was better too. Speaking of which, did you want another one?”

“No, thanks.” I take the fourth swig of my current beer, scanning the Henry Street Ale House crowd for reasons I’m not ready to admit to myself. “Live a little. It’s your last night.”

“Flying tomorrow,” is all I reply because it’s true. I could have one more, but I’m not in the mood. So, I finish the last of my beer and set it on the counter.

Usually, I’m a friendly guy, but living in Brooklyn these past few months has soured me on socialization. I’ve come here to work, not brunch every Sunday, or eat at the newest Asian Fusion restaurant—whatever that means.

Rye offering me a short-term contracting job in Brooklyn was surprising, not the standard procedure for hiring an electrician, especially since I’m from out of state. There’s a whole process for union members when working across state lines with other local groups. I suggested he ask one of his regulars, but he claimed they were busy on another site, and I was his first choice. In truth, I suspect he was throwing me a bone. Rye knows of my desire to run an independent contracting business and how I need the capital to support my goal.

Stupidly, I initially balked at the idea. Why would I want to leave Colebury anyway? The air is crisp, the people are friendly, and the food is organic. Then, I found out the pay, and I quickly changed my tune. After all, the more money I accumulate, the closer I’ll be to becoming my own boss.

My biggest worry was finding a place to live. My ever-helpful mother thought she had a line on a home through Zara Rossi, now Berenger. Unfortunately, it turns out her husband sold his Brooklyn condo to some celebrity. Luckily, Rye offered me his apartment in Dumbo at a cheap rate while staying with his girlfriend.

Rye breaks me from my thoughts by setting another lager down in front of me. I scowl at the bottle and then at him.

“Told you I didn’t want another one.” 

He shrugs. “I figure you need some liquid courage before you approach. You’re looking for her, aren’t you?” I stiffen at his truthful words.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.” I do.

Despite the numerous bars in Brooklyn and Manhattan, for that matter, I’ve frequented this establishment for one reason only.

Firefly.

She’s the attractive dark-haired woman who’s occupied my mind for the past several weeks. Her amber skin color with copper undertones radiated a beauty I’ve never experienced before. I hadn’t known her name, only the dazzling tattoo of a firefly on the underside of her left wrist at the base. Her flair bartending skills are what put the intricately designed inking on full display. It had practically danced with every arch of her hand and rotation of her wrist.

Before I even saw her face, I fixated on her delicate hands when she expertly twirled a napkin in the air, floating it in a way that allowed her to press it flat to the bar top in front of the patron. Then, my gaze followed the shaker as it rolled along her slender yet toned arms. I found myself moistening my lips at her bracing the bottle of alcohol between her neck and her shoulder because it made her plump lips stand out as she smiled. Damn, if that sultry as hell lip curl didn’t bring my lower half to attention.

When I finally caught a full glimpse of her, it nearly knocked all the breath out of my body. It wasn’t the pair of skinny jeans she wore that accentuated her curves, nor was it the skin-tight black tee that hugged her ample chest. No, it was her hazel eyes, the irises perfectly blending shades of green with flecks of gold, and her warm, beaming smile which brightened the dimly lit room. Everything about her radiated happiness, and I wanted to experience it firsthand.

Smiling, Rye flashes a “yeah, right,” expression before swallowing the last of his beer and moving on to the next. The bartender takes his and my empty.

“She walked in a couple of minutes ago while you were staring into space.”

“Whatever,” I mutter, leaning against the raised back of the barstool and doing my best to act nonchalant.

“Be right back. The ginger across the room is giving me sex eyes.” 

I grunt a response, watching as Rye makes his way to a woman with shoulder-length curly hair. He and his girlfriend have an open relationship, however that works. I could never consider sharing. I’m a one-woman kind of man, and I expect my partner to do the same.

I envy the ease with which he approaches her. Normally, I’d do the same with my mystery woman. Yet, for reasons unknown, I only watch her. While Rye romances his hookup for the night, I grab my phone from my pocket to check for any missed texts. 

My sister, Mabel, or Bunny, as we affectionately call her (due to her unending amount of energy as a baby), is the first message I come across. In it, she demands, Lunch tomorrow, Trev. Or else, ending it with a fist emoji. I grin at her insistence. My idealistic and extroverted sibling missed me. Sometimes, she hides her emotions behind the typical teenager traits of eye rolls and sarcasm. 

Outspoken since the age of three, Mabel has no problem telling you what she truly thinks, even if her observations are painfully accurate. She does her best to consider others’ feelings when sharing her opinions, but her open candor can sometimes get her in trouble. Conversely, she will go to bat for anyone she loves and fight tooth and nail for a cause she believes in. 

An avid environmentalist, Mabel is still trying to convince me to buy a hybrid car instead of keeping my Ford F-150. I reasoned needing space to fit all of my tools for my denial, but in reality, I could’ve found something that worked. I ended up silencing her by promising to install solar panels at our parents’ place in the spring. I planned on doing it anyway because they were way past due. Typical Vermont winter weather and their roof needing work delayed me for a season.

You’re paying, Bunny.

I reply to her text with a smirking emoji, and hers was a middle finger. She’s not a fan of her nickname and hasn’t been since the age of eleven.

Whoever my blond-haired, freckle-faced sister ends up with will have his hands full after I put the fear of God in him first, of course.

Moving on to my next notification, my buddy Darren confirms he’s picking me up from the Burlington airport at eleven thirty. I’m not sure he’s dragging Kolton along, but I don’t mind the extra company. 

Darren Reade and I have known each other since high school, he, a career day presenter, and me a teenager looking for direction. His presentation on working as a tradesman and the training it entails was intense. I wasn’t too keen on his specialization in stone masonry. I had more of a fascination with taking electronics apart and putting them back together again. Naturally, he steered me toward electrical engineering, connecting me with one of his contractor friends. By the time I was eighteen, I had some experience, which made me a shoo-in for the apprenticeship program. Throughout my schooling, Darren acted as my surrogate big brother, checking in on my progress. We remain close friends to this day. 

You have the Jacques Torres box of chocolate for Kolton, right? He’s been looking forward to these since you sent the last box.

I cringe at the prospect. Kolton is a sweet kid with some anxiety issues, and I’d never disappoint him on purpose. My family adores him, and they would kick my ass if I ever did anything to upset the little guy. I tap a reply.

Already packed.

Fantastic. Catch you tomorrow. 

I’m about to type in another response when a commotion brings me to attention. Slowly, I turn my head toward the end of the bar, shifting my body’s position. Now, facing the direction of the noise, I freeze when she comes into view.

“I’m not paying for this watered-down drink, sweetie,” the asshole slurs, his voice managing to project to my side of the bar. I was so into my phone that I hadn’t noticed her arrival at her station.

“Are we seriously doing this tonight, Todd?” She palms the curve of her hip. “Give a girl the chance to catch her bearings before dealing with the riffraff.”

“Don’t mock me, little girl.” He bangs his fist against the counter, but she doesn’t flinch. To my horror, she gets right in his face. 

“Look, I sympathize with you. Erectile dysfunction is a problem for some men but taking your frustrations out on me will land you banned from the bar. Pay your tab and leave.”

Standing, I ease my way toward her and the patron. The bouncer is on his way, but I’m closer.

“Listen, bitch. I don’t even allow my wife to speak to me that way.”

“Hmm. Must be why you’re here ninety percent of the time.” 

After slowly rising from his chair, he suddenly lunges forward. Before he has a chance to grab her by her tight black T-shirt, she takes two quick steps back. Due to his drunkenness, he stumbles forward, and that’s when she takes the opportunity to knee him in the nuts.

Ouch.

With him doubled over, I join in on the action, gripping him by the back of the neck and pulling him upright. 

“I believe the lady asked you to pay.” I grab his forearm to steady him.

“I got this, handsome.” She barely glances my way.

Reaching in his back pocket, she pulls out his wallet and snags a twenty. “Nice doing business with you.” She tosses the money to the pale and skinny bartender on the opposite side. “This is exactly why we don’t overpour, Bishop. Especially to that guy.”

“Sorry,” he murmurs, slinking away.

Once the slow bouncer finally arrives, she hands him the customer’s wallet. Then her coworker drags the disgruntled man out by his collar.

“Thanks for your help, but it wasn’t necessary.”

“Are you sure about that?” I say, “Because that guy was seconds away from slapping you in your pretty face.”

“Listen,” she sighs, slowly turning to face me, “I’ve already put one man in his pl—”

She stops speaking when her gaze lands on the center of my chest. It seems she didn’t expect the seven inches I’d have on her. 

At six foot three, I’m taller than my father and most of the men in my family. It was never much of a problem until I moved to New York. It feels like the city is made for short people seeing as I lost count of how many times I banged my head on doorways, not to mention the train’s metal railing. Once, I didn’t duck low enough before taking a seat and hit my forehead dead center. The resulting bruise took a minute to heal.

When the surprise of my height finally wears off, she tilts her head up until her eyes land on mine. She arches an assessing brow, and I counter her, doing the same. After a beat or four passes, the corners of her lips curl into one of her sultry smiles.

“Hmm. I guess you are handsome. In a Brawny paper towel mountain man kind of way,” she remarks, indicating my beard.

Typically, a five o’clock shadow covers the lower half of my face, but I chose to let my facial hair grow out into a full beard while in town.

“Is that supposed to be a good thing?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Oddly, I’m insulted,” I reply, my tone amused. She makes an affronted expression, but the delight flashing in her hazel eyes tells a different story.

“You should feel honored to be compared to a man with such prowess in paper product sales force. And you have that whole lumberjack vibe.” She motions to my green flannel and blue jeans. “Though, you’re not as bulky in the muscle department.”

“Wow.” I chuckle. “So, what you’re telling me is that I’m a cheap imitation of a fictional character.”

“Not cheap, per se.” She bites her bottom lip in contemplation. “More like a close second.” I open my mouth to respond, but I’m interrupted when she bursts into laughter, the carefree, soft tone with a musical quality that’s all her.

“I had you there for a second, didn’t I, handsome?”

“Not a chance. A woman as beautiful as yourself doesn’t have a mean bone in her body. For a second, you had me reconsidering my workout regimen.”

“You don’t need to. I’m Melody, by the way.” She extends her hand, and I take it. I consider placing a kiss on the back of her hand but decide it’s too forward. She might still be in a knee-a-guy-in-the-balls mood. 

“Great to meet you too, Melody. I’m Tre—”

“Mel,” someone shouts from a short distance, and she turns in that direction. “Bishop is drowning in customers. Get back there and work your magic, girl.”

“Be there in a sec, Edie.” Her gaze returns to mine. “You can let go of my hand now, handsome.” She grins.

“Sorry about that.” I’m not. I wanted to memorize the contours of each finger and the softness of her skin in case I don’t get another chance to touch her.

“I guess this is goodbye, for now.”

It doesn’t have to be. 

“It seems that way.” She frowns at my response.

Why in the ever-loving hell didn’t I say the first thing that came to my mind? 

Because I’m leaving.

The voice in my head confirms what I already knew. This is a mistake. I had weeks to approach her, but I watched. I watched while other men and women flirted and fawned over her. I saw the casual slip of a phone number in her hand and witnessed her politely decline each one. The possessive side of me liked to think that she did this for me, but the rational part knows she’s probably not the type of person to take a man home. 

Which leaves me to this colossal mistake, something I know I’ll regret in the months ahead.

Grabbing her hand again, the left one this time, I rotate it for a close-up view of the tattoo. The second we touch, all surrounding bar chatter falls away.

“Firefly,” I mumble, studying the design. She relaxes into my hold as I trace the translucent extended outer wings and skim my fingers along the opaque inner ones. Then I focus on the glowing yellow shade at the base of the insect. “Why did you choose this as a tattoo?” 

When my eyes meet hers, it’s then I notice them burning with some deep emotion I can’t quite read. Perhaps it’s the intensity of her stare and the strength I feel behind it, which throw me for a loop. Whatever the case, my question unintentionally drags her deep-rooted feelings to the surface, and she lays it bare for me to see.

“Whenever I’m feeling lost, I use its light as a beacon for guiding my way back.” Despite my earlier thought, the personal nature of her admission is still surprising. She seems like a woman who often has to hold it together and is used to handling things on her own. Admitting a vulnerability is a rarity at best. We’ve only shared a short conversation, and this is third-date material.

“Are you often lost, Firefly?” I stare at her intently, searching for a subtle clue as to what she’s feeling. It’s not as if I know her typical expressions, but I’d like to think I’m a semi-expert after observing her for so long.

“More than I should be.” She flashes a wry smile.

“Mel!” The shout from her coworker brings us back to the present. “Hurry up.”

“You have to go.” I point out the obvious as she pulls her hand out of my grasp.

“Listen, I’m on break in a couple of hours. Come find me if you’re still around.” Her hopeful expression guts me a little.

“I’ll be here,” I lie, knowing for certain I won’t. A woman who holds so much depth and passion in one gaze deserves more than one night. She deserves a lifetime. She nods her approval and saunters off, her feminine swagger nearly bringing me to my knees.

“So, I take it that went well?” Rye reappears arm in arm with the redhead.

“Yup.”

“Are you going to elaborate?”

“Nope.” Shoving my hands in my pockets, I return to watching her from a distance, inwardly pissed at the missed opportunity.

“You’re leaving, aren’t you?” Rye inquires, twirling a lock of the woman’s hair.

“I am.” I sigh, taking one last look before shrugging my coat on.

“I swear, you Vermont people are weird. If I had someone like that interested in a quick fuck from me, I’d be in there.”

“Rye,” his date scolds, elbowing him in the gut. “You’d hook up with her too, baby.”

“And on that note, I’ll see you later. Thanks for lending me your apartment.” I shake his hand.

“You’re welcome. If you ever need to escape your town and say, visit a certain bartender, you have a place to stay.”

“Appreciate it, man.” I wave at him and exit the bar, the chilly January air smacking me in the face. In less than twenty-four hours, I’ll be back home spending the rest of the winter, and possibly longer, forcing myself to forget about my Firefly.

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First Chapter: Showstopper

Adam

My first day at a new school, and I’m going to be late for class if this fucking line doesn’t start moving.

There’s two people behind the counter at the registrar’s office, not that that’s helping things move any faster. A girl with hair that’s somewhere between pink and purple and a guy who’s currently got his back to me. Work-study drones, probably. Neither one of them seems very happy. Not that I blame them. I wouldn’t be happy if I had to handle pissed-off students who want to change their fucked-up class schedules all day, like me. There’s no way work-study pays enough to deal with that kind of crap.

Thank fuck my athletic scholarship plus the money my parents set aside for my education means I don’t have to work, on campus or off. It’s hard enough keeping up with school and hockey without the extra added pressure of having to hold down a job.

The girl finishes with the student she’s assisting, and I step up to the counter, expecting it to be my turn. Finally. But instead, she disappears through a door to who knows where, meaning I’m stuck waiting for the guy to be done with the kid he’s helping and watching my chances of getting my schedule fixed in time for me to get to class vanish as fast as pink-haired girl. Or purple-haired girl.

Whatever. Either way, I’m screwed.

I clear my throat, hoping that will get Work-Study Guy to pick up the pace. I don’t want to, but I can’t help but ogle him a little on the sly. He’s tall, at least six feet, with shaggy rust-brown hair that brushes the collar of his slim-fit, floral button-down. I can’t see his face because he’s got his back turned to me, flipping through some papers on one of the desks behind the counter that separates the general public from the employees at the registrar’s office.

But what I do see, I like. Muscular shoulders. Trim hips. An ass that fills out his jeans nicely. And don’t get me started on his forearms. The way they ripple and flex as he riffles through the papers. Damn. He may not be jacked like my teammates, but he obviously spends some time in the gym.

In short, just my type.

I squash that thought like an opposing forward against the boards. The last thing my bisexual ass needs is to be lusting after one of my fellow students on day one at my new school. Especially when that’s what got me in trouble at my last one.

“Got it.” Work-Study Guy turns and hands a paper to the kid at the counter, and holy hot shit if the full frontal view isn’t as mouthwatering as the back. His face is like one of those Roman statues we studied in the art and archaeology class I took last semester to fill one of my gen ed requirements. High cheekbones. Full lips. Strong, square jawline.

But his eyes—no cold, marble statute could capture them. Wide and deep set and a color I can’t quite describe. Sort of a blue/gray/green.

They’re hard to look away from, but I manage—eventually—if only because I want to check out the rest of the package. The shirt doesn’t hide the fact that he’s sporting some seriously developed pecs and firm, flat abs—probably a six-pack, if not an eight. And if I thought the jeans hugged his backside perfectly, that’s got nothing on what they’re doing for his thighs and, uh, groin area.

Is it possible to be hot and cold at the same time? Because that’s how I feel now. My cheeks are flushed, my palms are clammy, and my ability to form a complete sentence—or even one intelligible word—has suddenly and magically disappeared.

“You’re all set,” he says to the kid next to me, who I’m guessing is a freshman from the baby face and the peach fuzz on his chin. “Just show that transfer slip to your psych professor.”

“Thanks, man. You’re a lifesaver. I don’t know what I was thinking signing up for organic chemistry first semester.”

“Anytime. That’s what we’re here for.”

The kid leaves, and Hot Work-Study Guy turns those eyes on me. “Can I help you?”

“I have a problem,” I say, trying to sound polite and professional, not hostile. Or horny. “With my class schedule.”

“That’s what they all say. But it’s almost always user error.” He leans against the counter and looks at me like I’m smoking something funny. “I need to see that if you want my help.”

He nods at my schedule, which I’m still clutching like it’s one of Willy Wonka’s goddamn golden tickets.

“Uh, right.”

I hand it over, and he studies it for a second before he turns to the computer on the counter next to him and starts two-finger typing.

“Nope,” he says after a minute, handing the schedule back to me. “No mistake.”

“There has to be. I never signed up for a class called—” I glance down at the paper that’s back in my hand. “Improv 101. I don’t even know what improv is.”

“It’s short for improvisation. It’s a form of live theater where the plot, characters, and dialogue are made up in the moment,” Hot Work-Study Guy explains.

“Okay, now I’m one hundred percent positive I didn’t register for that class.”

There’s no way in hell I’d voluntarily do any kind of theater, especially not something where I’m not sure what’s happening from one minute to the next. I’ll save my performing for the ice, where the only things that come flying at me are pucks and the occasional defenseman. Those I know how to handle.

Hot Work-Study Guy taps the computer screen, which apparently holds the secrets of the universe. “You got put in there because your first choice for your arts and humanities elective was full. As was your second choice. And your third.”

“Isn’t there anything else I can take? An English class, maybe? Or philosophy?” Hell, I’d even settle for public speaking. At least there I’d be reciting stuff I prepared in advance.

He taps a few more keys, then shakes his head. “Nope. The only other classes that would work with the rest of your schedule are filled up.”

“What about that psych class the guy who just left transferred into?”

“He got the last spot. Sorry,” Hot Work-Study Guy says, clearly not one fucking bit remorseful.

Fuck. Being a transfer student sucks. Not only do I have to try to fit in at a new school, on a new team, I get last pick of classes. Leaving me with crap like improv. I almost had the same problem with housing until a spot opened up for me in the hockey house, where most of the team lives.

“Fine. I’ll just drop it then.”

“You could do that,” Hot Work-Study Guy agrees. “But then you’d be three credits shy of full-time enrollment. Which means you can kiss any scholarships you’ve got goodbye.”

“Fuck.”

This time I say it out loud, making Hot Work-Study Guy smirk. Which, unfortunately, doesn’t make him any less attractive. He’s got the whole edgy bad boy thing going for him, a look that’s enhanced by the shiny silver hoop through the top of his left ear.

Dammit, why do I always go for the bad boys? Chase was a bad boy too. If fighting were allowed in college hockey, he’d have spent more time in the penalty box than on the ice. Once, just once, I wish my dick would stand at attention for a guy with a military-style haircut and wearing a V-neck sweater, perfectly pressed khakis, and Top-Siders.

“What have you got against improv?” Hot Work-Study Guy asks, snapping me back to my present problem.

“Nothing.” I shove my schedule back in my backpack. “For other people.”

“I get it.” Can a smirk get smirkier? If so, his does. “You’ve got performance anxiety.”

My dirty mind immediately goes to the bedroom, where I’m fairly confident in my abilities. “Performance anxiety?”

“You can’t stand the thought of getting up on stage in front of everyone.”

Oh, right. That kind of performance anxiety. Can’t argue with him there. So I do a 180 and dodge his implication. “I perform for crowds all the time. But when I do it, it’s on the ice.”

“Ah, you’re one of those.” He says the last word like it’s dog shit on the bottom of his shoe.

My familiar internal defenses slide into place like elevator doors. “One of what?”

“A hockey player.”

“Got something against hockey players?” I shoot his accusation right back at him.

“Depends.”

I take the bait. “On what?”

He leans across the counter and drops his voice to a whisper. “On whether they’re over me, under me, or trying to get me to change their class schedule even though there’s nothing available.”

Did he have to go there? Now I’m picturing us. Together. Naked. Which, I repeat, is not in the plan for this year. School and hockey. That’s all I’ve got room for.

I take a step back, needing to put some space between us even though we’re separated by four feet of Formica. “Is that psych class really full, or are you messing with me because I’m a jock?”

It wouldn’t be the first time someone’s held a grudge against me because I’m an athlete. People think we have it made, but we get our share of stereotyping and discrimination too. We’re not all dumb. We don’t only take gut classes like Mickey Mouse Math and Needlepoint 101. And most of us work our asses off, in class and on the ice. Or the field or the court or wherever.

He shrugs. “Believe what you want to believe, but I can’t change your schedule.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Does it matter? End result’s the same.”

I glare at him, although the heat in my gaze is probably equal parts annoyance and attraction. “So you’re saying my options are drop the class and lose my scholarship or stick it out and risk public humiliation?”

“That about sums it up, Puck Boy.”

“Thanks for nothing,” I grumble, hiking my backpack up on my shoulder and heading for the door. I’m wasting my time here with Hot Work-Study Guy. He may be hot, but he’s also a jock-hating jerk. Maybe I’ll have better luck talking to Coach. I know he’s helped a couple of guys in the hockey house with schedule problems.

“Wait.”

I turn to see Hot Work-Study Guy vaulting over the counter. That can’t be in the employee manual. But I have to admit, it’s damned sexy. Like Channing Tatum and Jonah Hill doing that sick double slide across the hood of a limo in 21 Jump Street.

“What?”

For a split second, I get the feeling he’s going to ask me out. Which is ridiculous. No one at Moo U—what the students and locals call Burlington University—knows I’m bi. Although that didn’t stop him from flirting with me. He’s definitely been giving off mixed signals. One minute, I swear he can’t stand me. The next, he’s acting like he wants to take me behind the counter and fuck me. Maybe it’s both, and he’s looking for a good hate fuck. Something past me would sign right up for. But present me knows better.

I think.

He sticks his thumbs in the pockets of his painted-on jeans and rocks back and forth on the heels of his oxfords. “If you really want to switch to another class, keep checking back with us. People drop all the time. Maybe something else will open up.”

Okay, so not looking to hate fuck me, then. I may be at a new school, but clearly I’m the same old Adam. Misreading the signs. Again. Different day, same shit.

“Thanks,” I say, my emotions bouncing between disappointment and relief. Disappointed in myself for falling into the same, familiar patterns. In Hot Work-Study Guy for not feeling whatever it is I’m feeling. And at the same time, I’m relieved he’s not. No temptation for me to fuck up even further. “I’ll do that.”

“But I hope you’ll change your mind and give improv a chance,” he continues. “You might even be good at it. Hockey’s a pretty fast game, and players have to think on their feet, right? That’s what improvisation is all about.”

“You seem to know a lot about improv.” And a little about hockey, too. Wonder how that happened. Maybe a hockey player broke his heart, and that’s why he’s got it in for jocks.

He shrugs. “Some.”

“Let me guess. You’re a theater major.”

Moo U has one of the best theater departments in the Northeast. Not that that was a factor in my decision to transfer. It also has one of the top hockey teams in the country. And a pretty good business department too. That’s my major. A little on the dry side, but I figure it’ll come in handy when I’m making the big bucks in the NHL.

That’s not false pride talking. I’ve already been drafted by the Brooklyn Barons. And I want to be able to handle my own finances. Or at least know when someone’s trying to screw me over. I’ve heard too many stories about professional athletes being taken advantage of by shady agents and advisors.

Hot Work-Study Guy winks and shoots finger guns at me. “Got it in one. Brains and brawn. The total package.”

My pulse skitters. Is he flirting with me again? Or am I imagining things?

I decide it’s safest not to stick around and find out. 

“I’ll think about the class,” I lie, giving him a polite nod before I turn my back on him and sprint for the door. It’s almost three. I’m already late for my accounting class, but if I hurry, I might catch Coach in his office at the arena before practice.

“You do that, Puck Boy,” Hot Work-Study Guy calls after me. “See you around.”

I shake my head as the door swings shut behind me. He’s not wrong. It’s a small campus. There’s a good chance our paths will cross on occasion. But when they do, I’ll be running the other way. Chicken? Maybe. I prefer to think of it as self-preservation. 

School and skating. No room for anything—or anyone—else.

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First Chapter: Sideways

Tracy

“Get out of town.”

Tracy Thayer fumbled with her cell phone, staring blearily at the time. It was six a.m. 

“Who is this?” Her voice was raspy. She didn’t typically get up this early. Who the hell was calling her this early in the morning?

“It’s Bernie.” Bernie Montague was the communications director for her father’s congressional office. And her boss.

Her boss?

Tracy rolled onto her back and sank into the luxurious thousand-count Egyptian cotton sheets while she tried to make sense of what he was saying. “You want to repeat that?”

“Not particularly.” He sounded pissed.

Tracy tended to wake up slowly. A morning person she was not. Especially since she’d been up late consoling her brother over his broken engagement. “What’s wrong?”

“Reporters got ahold of a news story about you.”

“Me?” She was the picture of responsibility. She never did anything to jeopardize her family’s standing.

“A dating app, Tracy? Really?”

Oh shit. Except for that. Shock rendered her mute. No one was supposed to know about the app. No one. Even her best friends—with the exception of Pete Nguyen and his girlfriend, Britt, who had worked on the technical details—had no idea she’d developed a dating app. Her heart began a rapid tattoo.

Her family didn’t know. Her father was a politician, long-standing in the House of Representatives, like his father before him. And her brother was currently running for state office.

She knew enough about the media to know this wasn’t a good thing. No reason to pretend ignorance. “How did they find out?”

“We don’t have time for this.”

She wasn’t sure why it was so urgent.

Bernie began to rant. “A secret? You of all people know how damaging a secret can be.”

“I was trying to protect everyone. You’ll be able to spin this.”

“If I had known about it and had a month or two to plan, with a detailed talking points memo, but right now we’re in strict damage-control mode. You need to get out of town before the vultures start circling. Luckily I got a heads-up from a friend at the Globe.”

Tracy shoved to sitting and swung her feet to the floor. “Why do I need to leave?”

She had media training. She worked part time in her father’s office in Boston doing marketing and social media. She could help.

“We need to craft a statement and get the messaging exactly correct,” Bernie said. “Right now, we need you inaccessible. No comment until we nail it down.”

She couldn’t do that from her condo?

“Just take off for the weekend. Jesus Christ. I still have to break this to your father.”

Her father got up early every morning and took a long walk on the grounds of their family estate in Wellesley. He should be having his morning breakfast, oatmeal with cinnamon and dried cranberries and walnuts, and a single hard-boiled egg, right now. If he had the television on, he was about to be shocked.

“It’s not like I killed someone.” As she woke up more, she was starting to get more pissed.

“Damage control, babe.” Bernie sighed. He sounded tired.

“Where do you want me to go?”

“Someplace no one will think to look for you.” She could hear Bernie pacing his home office. “Rent a car under an alias and lie low. Turn off your cell. Call me on Monday from one of your burners.”

He was taking this pretty seriously.

Her throat closed and she curled into a ball. What would her father think about it all? He was up for reelection and his opponent had been trying to make something dirty stick to her father for months.

She had the means to deliver a blockbuster exposé about her well-known political family. Not that she ever would.

The irony wasn’t lost on her.

But that would have to wait for later. Right now, she needed to get the hell out of Dodge.

She threw a couple pairs of khaki crop pants and washable silk button-up blouses into her traveler suitcase. Ballet flats, a small case of Tiffany casual jewelry, and her overnight cosmetic case. She grabbed her small emergency wallet which included a thousand dollars cash, a debit card, a burner phone, and a fake ID.

She thought about the situation and went to her safe. She pulled out an ID she’d never used before. Cee-Cee. Her imaginary persona. The one she’d created when she was a teenager and wished for a different life.

Some kids had imaginary friends.

Tracy had created an imaginary identity.

She’d never used Cee-Cee before but instinctively she tossed it in her Balenciaga bag—having her secret come out without the benefit of spin ahead of time could be the catalyst to finally bring Cee-Cee to life. She’d always hesitated but the alarm in Bernie’s voice had been surprising. He was usually unflappable. His brain worked in twenty directions at once, always coming up with the perfect spin, so him freaking out about this was a big fat clue that it was bigger than she expected.

Being the daughter of a politician, she’d gotten used to traveling under aliases when the occasion demanded it. Perhaps this time she could become Cee-Cee.

Her doorbell buzzed.

Tracy frowned. She lived in a building with high security. She peered through the security hole. Shit.

A reporter she’d had drinks with a few months ago was on her doorstep. He’d dropped her home after their date. She didn’t even know why she’d gone out with the guy. Reporters were necessary tools in the political world but having a relationship with one was a bad idea. Although she didn’t think that was why he’d asked her out, she also knew that he’d use their connection to his advantage if the opportunity presented itself.

Only one dating option was worse than a reporter. Someone high profile and sought after by the press.

Too many opportunities for conflicts of interest. Too many possibilities that reporters would follow them and inadvertently reveal something about Tracy or her family. Some politicians courted the press but not the Thayers.

And she had a secret that would surprise everyone.

Fortunately, thinking on her feet was a strength. She dialed quickly then winced when the phone was answered groggily. It wasn’t even seven a.m.

“Hey, I need a favor.”

“Whatever you need.” Britt Jones, who had started out as her pal Pete’s girlfriend but was now her friend too, didn’t even hesitate.

“That fast?” Tracy was overwhelmed with emotion.

“I just got a check from the profit sharing.” Britt laughed huskily. “Who knew digital dating was so profitable.”

Tracy had built a multimillion dollar dating empire, but she hadn’t gone on a third date in years. Too afraid of the consequences of falling in love with someone and too much longing for a partner who she could never be truly honest with.

“Well, enjoy, because apparently it’s out that Fairy Tale Beginnings is mine.” Tracy fiddled with her Tiffany charm bracelet, fingering the princess crown. A gift from her mother. “New Wins may be getting some media calls.”

She wouldn’t think that the information that she was the owner would be bad. After all, she had a kickass CEO, and the programming behind the app was top-notch.

“We didn’t have anything to do with a breach.”

“I know that.” Pete had had an employee theft issue last summer, but he’d been quick to fix the problem without too much fanfare and as far as she knew there hadn’t been any recent issues.

There was a pause on the other end. “You didn’t think it could stay private forever, did you?”

She’d actually hoped she could keep it a secret forever. “No, but I would have preferred to control the rollout and the message.” She should have had a plan in place for when the information got out. That was on her. She had a few talking points available but that was it. Instead of being proactive, she had hidden her head in the sand and pretended that it wouldn’t get out, and if it did it wouldn’t be a big deal.

“What happened?”

“Still not sure. But I’ve been ordered to get out of town for a few days.”

“Get out of town?” Britt paused. Tracy could practically hear her shaking her head. “Rich people.”

Tracy laughed. “Political people.”

“What do you need?”

“Can you rent a car and drive it to my building? I’ll meet you in the parking garage on the second floor.”

When she’d bought her condo, she’d picked a unit that had a back access to the service elevators. That would certainly come in handy today.

“Done. See you in a few minutes.”

“You’re a lifesaver!”

Britt showed up half an hour later with Pete. Peter Nguyen was one of her close-knit group of friends who’d met when they were in their late teens and formed an oddball group of people with nothing in common except the ambition to become billionaires.

What started out as an incongruous group of diversely different people had developed into a friendship bond that grew stronger every year.

Pete and Britt were old high school friends who had reconnected last summer. They’d fallen in love while doing the software development of Tracy’s app. Maybe she, and Fairy Tale Beginnings, had had a slight hand in getting them together. Unless Pete had cheated and programmed the app to match him with Britt. Tracy was never sure if that was the case.

They had just gotten engaged and were deliriously happy, as evidenced by the fact that he’d come with Britt this morning.

Pete said, “Do you need anything else from us?”

“I’m going to hole up somewhere and figure out where the leak came from.”

“You’ve got me on speed dial.” Pete was clearly lost in details as he rattled off his next moves. “I’ll run a diagnostic and make sure we didn’t have a security breach. Although if we did, my threat detection program should have caught someone trying to hack the system.”

“My guess is that someone somewhere figured it out.”

She needed to call her CEO, Yolanda Sanchez, and get a statement crafted. She’d wait until Bernie released his, so that there weren’t any contradictions between the two. But they should at the very least have a draft ready to go.

Yolanda had been with Tracy since the beginning. She was one of the few people who knew that Tracy was the owner and creator of Fairy Tale Beginnings. They’d become friends over the past year.

Tracy had set up a shell company, legally, that owned Fairy Tale Beginnings. So someone would have had to find the filing documents for her shell company. She’d used a different lawyer, not her family attorney, to set it up and the ownership filings were secret. The laws had just changed so the information was going to come out sooner or later. 

She just wished it had been later.

Up until now she’d been able to keep her identity private. She was just about ready to file paperwork for two new businesses, offshoots spawned by the original company. The largest was an engagement-planning business that helped clients design spectacular announcements and over-the-top proposals worthy of Instagram and TikTok. They helped their clients plan amazing events.

Something weird that she’d never really anticipated. She’d always thought that such an intimate moment should be just that, intimate. But plenty of people craved the spotlight, wanting their fifteen minutes of fame and the possibility of going viral. And she and her company knew how to deliver.

Now she had an Instagram feed just for proposals from people who were matched using her app. And another Instagram account strictly for wedding photos of Fairy Tale marriages.

She needed to check in with Yolanda and see if there was any backlash from the users of the app. She could also do a search online. But all that would have to wait until she got away from the reporters congregated outside her building.

“Thanks for your help.” Tracy squeezed Pete and then Britt in tight hugs. “Can you tell the BBC?” Yes, she was a chickenshit.

Her friends from the Billionaire Breakfast Club—that silly name they had coined all those years ago—were going to be annoyed with her.

She’d kept things from them. Kind of big things. But she’d had reasons. Namely protecting her family. And they’d think the app was silly.

Even her brother, who’d used the app to find Esme, his ex-fiancée, thought it was dumb. But he’d been tired of women who’d been attracted to him strictly because of his family name. He’d been searching for a woman of a certain background who was ready to be in the spotlight. Tracy had been the one to suggest he try it. He was going to be doubly pissed since Esme had broken it off yesterday.

She wore sunglasses and her floppy beach hat. Her hands gripped the steering wheel hard. Tracy drove out of the garage past the small circle of reporters waiting outside. Fortunately, they were so intent on the front door, that they missed her leaving.

So cray. Hopefully this would all blow over in a day or two and she’d be back in the city. But where to escape for a few days? She hopped on the Mass Pike and headed inland. Away from the city. Away from her life. Away from her problems.

She stopped in a large suburban town with a plethora of strip malls and picked up a new smart phone. She’d set it up later. Her go bag would hold her over for the next few days but she needed access to the internet.

Hours later, after wandering the backroads, she’d traveled into Vermont.

She was a city girl. She must have been to Vermont at some point in her twenty-nine years, but she couldn’t recall when.

Which meant no one would think to look for her here.

An hour later, she pulled off the road and went in search of some lunch. After a bit, she happened upon a sign for the Speakeasy Taproom.

The name conjured up visions of an illicit underground bar. 

She loved the symbolism—hiding out in a den of ill repute where no one would think to look for Boston heiress Tracy Thayer.

She’d stop here.

The old mill building had been restored. Giant, leaded glass windows broke up the brick exterior giving her a glimpse inside. Tracy paused near the door and changed course, heading to the little area to the left of the entrance. Around the back was an outdoor patio that bordered the rushing river. The birds twittering and the swishing of wind through the trees were unfamiliar pastoral sounds. She was more used to honking horns and the chatter of thousands of people hurrying to get on with their day.

Even with the sounds of nature, there was a hushed quality to the air, an expectant energy but without that crisp intensity of the city, more blurred like a watercolor scene. She paced the grassy area as her brain went over the events of this morning. She’d had nothing but time to think on her drive, and she was no closer to grasping what had happened and what was going on than when she’d been abruptly awoken this morning.

Tracy couldn’t stand it any longer. She pulled out her burner flip phone and dialed her brother, Thomas. He didn’t answer. Ugh. He wouldn’t recognize the number. She left a message anyway. “Hey, what’s going on? Call me back at this number.”

She tried Bernie. But he didn’t answer either.

She called her father. His personal assistant, Ashley, answered. “Congressman Thayer has no comment at this time.”

“Wait, Ashley. It’s Tracy.”

“Oh my God. You were behind the Fairy Tale Beginnings? I used that app! I had to put the ten grand registration fee on a new credit card.”

She wondered randomly why Ashley didn’t pay cash for her registration fee. But she didn’t have the time to ask. “Can you put me through to my father?” She needed information and she hated feeling out of the loop.

“Uh, he’s in a strategy meeting right now. Can I take a message? Where are you?”

“Not important.” Bernie’s lessons followed her. “What about my brother? Is he around?”

“Also in the meeting since it involves him.”

It involved her brother? Now she was totally confused.

“Pretty much everyone who needs damage control is in your father’s office.” Ashley sighed. “But it’s closed-door so I have no idea what’s going on.”

“Give me the Cliff’s Note version of the problem.”

“Your brother’s fiancée just left him – via tabloid – and said that the app lied about him and his values. And then she outed you.”

How in the world had Esme, short for Esmerelda, found out Tracy was behind Fairy Tale Beginnings? Even her family didn’t know. And what was her end game with outing her? Was she strictly a disgruntled ex or was there more going on here?

Esme had attacked her brother’s values. Had Thomas told her about their family secret? 

She had so many questions.

She hadn’t like Esme from the get-go. There had been a calculated hardness in her gaze when they’d first met. But Tracy had let her reservations slide—she was naturally suspicious—because Fairy Tale Beginnings had matched them. And she had complete faith in her app.

She paced the uneven dirt area, her Tiffany bracelet sliding over her arm, charms tinkling against each other as she fought the urge to run her fingers through her hair.

“Can I have them call you back at this number?” A note in Ashley’s voice set Tracy’s alarm sensors blaring. Leaks weren’t unheard of and while this was only the beginnings of a scandal, a dumb one at that, Ashley wouldn’t be the first aide to try to cash in with the tabloids. Her father vetted his staff very carefully but sometimes his employees couldn’t resist the lure of making money by selling Thayer family details.

Her family had been a subject of media interest for years. It was tiring—but an inexorable fact of her life.

A Help Wanted sign in fancy script rested in the front window. Waitressing in rural Vermont. She sighed. That would certainly be an easier life than her complicated tangle right now.

“I’ll call back later.”

She jabbed the button on her phone to hang up and then swore creatively. “Dammit. You should have known this would happen. You big dummy.”

She mentally took it back. That wasn’t her. She was always positive and upbeat, even when the world was on fire.

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