Mary Frame's Blog

Another Fox Bites the Dust – Chapter One Preview

It’s here!!! Out now, download Another Fox Bites the Dust – book three in the Fox Family series.

I loved writing Mindy and Luke’s story, and I hope everyone who reads it enjoys it just as much!

When I first set out to write this series, I started with the idea that each character would represent one of the stages of grief–and I planned for each of their stories with those feelings in mind.

Mindy is anger (and a lot of her fury ends up targeted at one of her sisters, Taylor, whose book is coming up next!).

In some ways, it was difficult for me to write Mindy’s perspective, because I tend toward (extremely annoying) sunshiny cheerfulness, and I don’t feel anger frequently. But at the same time, having lost people close to me, I understand how grief can force that particular emotion to bubble to the surface.

Examining grief in all its various forms has been an interesting experience as I move along in the Fox Family series. Grief is something we all experience at one point or another, and yet it can also extremely lonely–after all, when you lose a loved one, no one experiences the loss in the same way, or has the same relationship with the departed. Which is one of the things I explore in this series, how a group of siblings, all raised together and all experiencing the same loss are impacted in different ways.

It’s a little deeper and darker than my other series, but THERE IS STILL HUMOR, too, because life is messy, but it’s also funny. Anyway, enjoy this sneak peek of Another Fox Bites the Dust and download today at a retailer near you to keep reading!

Chapter One

Mindy

“Jeanette’s pregnant.” Blake’s voice is a deep rumble, a timbre that’s launched five platinum albums and over a dozen top-10 singles.

At first, the words don’t register. Once they do, they sink into my skin, reverberating through my bones.

But the logic still doesn’t quickly click.

“But you haven’t been together in—” 

My mouth snaps shut. 

Of course they’ve been together. 

I’m an idiot.

He winces, his eyes darting away from mine.

The sun is rising over Turtle Pond, spread out in front of us. The stillness of the water and the quiet tranquility of the park are a stark contrast to the storm taking place inside my mind.

The park bench is cold underneath me. Even though it’s midsummer, the morning air is cool and damp. I take a slow breath, trying to calm my pounding heart. 

My hands clench into fists in my lap, tightening so hard my nails dig sharp points into my palms. 

“I wanted to tell you before it leaks to the press. I wanted you to hear it from me, because I care about you, Mindy. I am torn up about all of this.” His soft hand covers mine where it’s clenched in my lap.

His fingers are icy.

I wrench away. “Wow. Thanks.” Sarcasm drips from the words. 

“I would never do anything to hurt you.”

“It’s a little late for that, don’t you think?”

He doesn’t reply.

A sharp pain lances through my chest, but it’s over in a second, the slender thread becoming encased in a much larger, thicker pipe of steely anger. I wrap my arms around my middle like the action might contain the fury burning a scorching path through my veins.

“How far along is she?” I angle my head to stare at his profile.

His head dips, his throat bobbing as he swallows.

Blake is not conventionally attractive. 

His nose is slightly too large for his face, his dark hair flirts with his chin, his eyes are a touch too small, and his mouth a little too wide. None of it should fit together, and yet he commands attention. He’s tall, over six feet, and as broad as a tank. On top of that, he plays the guitar like the instrument is part of his body. When he sings, he can bring a stadium full of people to their knees. He’s the reason that his band, Vacation Mustache, is Rebel Records’ largest client. My client.

I dismissed his flirting and ignored his flattery for years. Until I didn’t. Then I fell. Hard. But I didn’t fall alone . . . at least, I didn’t think I did. 

We’ve lived in our little bubble of sex and romance for nearly a month. It was like no one else existed. He overwhelmed me with his sheer presence. With his relentless persistence. With the way he would simply watch me like I was everything. 

Maybe he looks at everyone that way. Maybe I saw what I wanted to see.

The past two weeks have been hell. I’ve barely slept. Giant gray bags have taken up residence under my eyes. Airlines would charge me extra to fly with these things. I’ve lost 5 pounds. 

Blake looks fine. Great, even. He ran here, under the pretense of taking a jog, apparently, sporting a fashionable athletic tracksuit and the most expensive Nikes money can buy. 

He’s bright, alert, and well rested. 

I look like I’ve been run over by ten dump trucks, set on fire, then left in a pile of molding sandwiches. 

“Eight weeks,” he finally answers. 

We were together for three weeks. It’s been two weeks since the press dropped the bomb on our fledgling relationship. When did Jeanette conceive? Before or after he told me he was devastated by me?

Devasted. That’s the verb he used the last time we were together. He was devastated by me, by what we had together.

“You don’t want children.” 

He told me he didn’t want kids. He also told me he and Jeanette weren’t together and that they hadn’t been a true couple for years. 

One broad shoulder lifts in an approximation of a shrug. “It was a surprise.”

Finding a twenty dollar bill on the side of the road is a surprise. Getting a curly fry mixed in with an order of regular fries is a surprise. A baby is a life-changing event. 

They were about to separate publicly. Then, when a reasonable amount of time had passed, Blake and I could stop hiding our relationship. We had plans. I couldn’t wait to share my joy with everyone, including my friends and my family, announce it to the world, and maybe even go on an actual date with Blake that went beyond my bedroom.

“You were never going to leave her.” I don’t bother making it a question. It’s an unequivocal fact that I couldn’t comprehend before now because I was too busy being dazzled by Blake and everything he is. 

He was devasted. I was dazzled. Clearly a recipe for disaster. 

He drapes an arm behind me on the bench. “I can’t leave Jeanette now. Splitting from her when she’s pregnant?” He shakes his head. “I can’t do that. What would people say? We’ve both agreed that we have to do what’s best for our careers. I know that you of all people can understand that.”

I don’t understand. It’s true that I’ve been single-minded when it comes to work, which is the main reason I was able to resist him for so long, but this is . . . beyond even my greatest flaws and ambitions. He’s talking about having a baby for his career and staying in a loveless marriage for show. 

The real ass-kicker is that none of this is a surprise. I’ve always seen him clearly, and despite his obvious self-absorption, despite the anger churning in my gut, even now if he said he would give it all up to be with me, I . . . I don’t think I could resist him. 

I’m such a fool. 

“I already have three songs written about what I’ve been going through. All of this press stuff,” he waves a hand, “even though it’s a little hard right now, think about how much interest it will generate in my music.”

Blake keeps talking in soothing tones, low and intimate, but the words are lost over the roaring in my ears.

I doubt he’ll notice I’m not listening and responding. He can’t comprehend a world where people don’t hang on his every syllable. I’ve never had blinders on when it came to Blake’s flaws, but I loved him anyway. I’m not sure he could say the same about me. I’m not sure he loves anyone, really, except himself. 

On the one hand, I miss him. On the other hand, he’s being a total self-absorbed asshat and I hate him, and I hate myself for wanting him still.

“Maybe after the baby is born and things calm down, we can try again?”

The steely anger burns a path through my veins. “Are you kidding me?”

He frowns, a crease forming between his brow. “Is that a no?”

“It’s a hell no.”

His mouth pops open in surprise. 

Before I have a chance to enjoy his astonishment at being rejected, my phone rings, the jarring, musical sound filling the space between us. I pull it from my pocket and stare at the number on the screen.

It’s the executive VP of Rebel Records.

“Hey, Sonya.” Mouth dry, I stand, taking a few steps away from the bench, putting my back to Blake and his words and this entire conversation.

“Hi, Mindy. Can you come in sometime today so we can chat?”

I’ve been on administrative leave, waiting to hear from them about the status of my position for weeks. “Absolutely. I can be there in twenty minutes.”

This has to be good news. They can’t fire me, not without firing Blake, too. They would never do that—he’s worth too much. 

So am I. 

I turn back toward Blake. “I have to go.” And then I walk away.

He doesn’t stop me. 

* * *

Twenty minutes and an Uber ride later, I walk through the glass doors of Rebel Records, offering a tight smile to Skip at the security desk. He nods and waves me through.

I make a beeline for Sonya’s office, crossing paths with a few employees along the way. One woman talking into a headset about a mechanical license stops the conversation midsentence and then rushes quickly past me, her voice continuing in hushed tones. 

I keep moving.

At Sonya’s office door, her receptionist stands to greet me. 

“They’re all waiting for you in the conference room,” Arthur says, not quite meeting my eyes.

My career has been my whole life for the past decade. They have to recognize how valuable all my contributions have been. I can’t have my whole life derailed over one poor decision.  

I round the corner and stare at the conference room door. They can’t get rid of me. They need me. Don’t they? 

I slip inside, shutting the door.

“Mindy.” Sonya’s smile is strained. “Thanks for coming in so quickly.”

She’s not alone. Peter from legal and Amy from HR flank her on the opposite side of the gleaming mahogany table that spans the length of the room.

I swallow. Today is the day for awful conversations, apparently. “I see they’ve sent in the triumvirate of terror.” 

Amy coughs a laugh into her palm.

“Please, sit.” Sonya gestures to the chair opposite them. 

I sit, folding my hands in my lap and keeping my head high. “Give it to me straight.” 

Sonya nods. “I’m afraid it’s not the best news.”

My teeth clench. I can’t believe this.

“You’re letting me go.” It’s not a question.

“We have to mitigate the damage. What happened, it wasn’t good for the label’s image of professionalism, not to mention our reputation in general.”

What happened. 

I have to press my lips together to avoid a snarky retort, definitely the opposite of professionalism. What happened was my fault, and I can’t take it back. I slept with Blake. I agreed to a sexual relationship with him, gave in to his advances and entreaties despite my initial misgivings.

“I’ve made this label millions. I’ve dedicated my life to this job.”

Sonya’s eyes are pitying. “Mindy. He’s married.”

“Yes. He is. I, however, am single. Maybe this is a conversation to have with him.”

“Unfortunately, that’s not how it works and you know it. He was your client.”

Was.

All the fight bleeds out of me. 

Peter won’t meet my eyes. Amy’s face is nearly green with misery, like she might throw up at any moment. 

Of course. He’ll be fine. I’m the other woman. The slut, the homewrecker, the bad guy. It’s not only because Blake is a man, although that’s a big part of it. 

His wife though . . . .

Jeanette Adams is one of those America’s sweetheart–type actresses. Everyone loves her. She’s charming in late-night interviews, witty, quirky, and self-deprecating. 

She and Blake were, I mean, they are, a media-darling couple. They’ve been able to use their relationship as fodder over the years to help fuel both of their careers. 

He was going to leave her for me.

They were waiting until she wrapped up her next film, then they planned to publicly split, and she could have used the tabloid fodder when she had her press tour.

Terrible but true: There’s no such thing as bad press.

Except now she’s pregnant. Maybe they were never going to split. Maybe it was all a lie. 

Blake and I are completely, unequivocally over.

And I’m being fired. 

“Peter has some paperwork for you to sign. Skip will escort you to your office to grab your things.”

“Right.” I won’t crumble. I won’t let this be the end, be my end. I will find another job. Perhaps even a better job.

Brave thoughts, but my stomach is shredding and my heart, what’s left of it, is shattering all over again. 

I stand up, hold my head high, and walk out.

Skip is waiting for me right outside the door, holding an empty box. “Sorry about this, Miss Fox,” he murmurs.

“Not your fault.”

He hands me the box and waits outside my office.

I was so proud when I moved in here. The hard work and sacrifice over the years had finally paid off, or so I thought. I had made it. I had a corner office in Manhattan. I had walls lined with my accomplishments and awards. Now they are worth nothing.

When I’m done, I stand in the center of the room, taking in the space that used to be mine for the last time.

I pick up the small box of my things and follow Skip out.

I’ve lost my job and my boyfriend. At least things can’t possibly get worse. 

I’ll find another job. I’ll pick myself back up and move on to something even better. I built my career from nothing, and I will rise from the ashes like a phoenix.

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The Fox and the Rebound – Chapter One Sneak Peek!

ONLY ONE MORE DAY!

I can’t believe tomorrow is finally the release day for Oliver and Piper’s story. If you’ve read the Imperfect Series, you know that we first met Oliver in Imperfectly Delicious, and he wasn’t exactly likable (at least from Scarlett and Guy’s perspective!). But I knew there was something unexpected under the surface of his prickly exterior, and I wanted to write his story. I just didn’t have the perfect heroine–yet! It wasn’t until over a year later, when I started fleshing out the Fox Family siblings that I found his match, the exact person with the right rough edges to slot into his life and soften the sharp points of his personality.

And now it’s nearly here! Keep reading for a sneak peek and click here to check out book two in the Fox Family Series: The Fox and the Rebound

She made a deal with the devil and he’s determined to collect. But when passionate sparks fly, all bets are off.

Piper Fox hates clocks. With her confidence shattered by a bad break-up, the creative welder can’t stand another minute of her debilitating artist’s block. So with time running out on her deadline, she tests a wild theory that the best way to get over a jerk is to get it on rebound-style with crazy-rich and broodingly handsome Oliver Nichols.

Oliver Nichols curates a cool facade. So when sparks fly with the stunning artist he has under contract, the eccentric billionaire does his best to stifle his reactions. And though he’s convinced love isn’t in the cards for him, ever, the lonely philanthropist can’t stay away.

Not sure how to make the next move after chickening out once before, Piper struggles to ignore her stalkery ex and keep her nose to the grindstone. While Oliver fools himself that keeping a close eye on the vulnerable metalworker is just a matter of good business, only to discover she’s somehow snared his heart.

Will the thrill of danger push them into a forever embrace?

The Fox and the Rebound Chapter One

Oliver

The intercom on the corner of the desk beeps. “Mr. Nichols, Miss Fox wishes to speak with you.” 

I lift my bored gaze from the steady stream of numbers flowing across the screen and frown. “I already spoke with Finley this morning. What does she want now?”

The last conversation we had was pointless. Finley  updated me on how the cabins for the camp instructors were nearly complete, contracts for the rest of the renovations confirmed, interviews in progress, and the student quarters were on track to be finished by the end of summer—all of which I knew and I didn’t care about anyway. The worst part of the interaction was when Archer, my childhood acquaintance and business associate who now lives with Finley, thrust his way into the conversation between me and Finley to “see how things are going.” Things being code for my emotional well-being. 

“Fine,” I said, the best answer I could muster. 

He then proceeded to update me ad nauseam on the status of all his personal and professional accomplishments of late. By all appearances, and by his own declarations, Archer is happy living in a run-down house in the middle of nowhere with Finley Fox and her chaotic family. A fact I find both annoying and mystifying.

“It’s not Finley,” Carson says. “It’s Piper. Can I send her in?”

My surroundings brighten subtly, the world coming into sharp focus. 

This morning started like every other Tuesday. I got out of bed at five. Drank a high-protein smoothie before running on the treadmill for an hour. Showered. Went down to the third floor to work by precisely seven a.m. Ate avocado toast and egg whites prepared by my chef at nine a.m. It was all typical. Normal. Expected. Ordinary. Gray. Boring. 

My whole life has become a series of incremental steps and chores that don’t have any meaning and do nothing to hold my attention, yet at just the mention of Piper Fox’s name, suddenly I’m off the hamster wheel, where I’ve been running in a dark room, going nowhere, and am thrust out into the sunshine with the breeze and the trees and limitless possibilities. 

Foolish. Ridiculous. Irrational. 

Why is she here? We had a tacit understanding to avoid each other after the last time.

I shove the thought away. I can’t think of that now, not when I’m about to be confronted with her presence for the first time in three months and eleven days.

“Should I tell her you’re busy?” Carson asks.

Piper is out there, listening to the entire conversation, so I resist the urge to snap at Carson. To anyone else, he would sound professional and uninterested, but he’s teasing me. I appreciate that he doesn’t grovel or behave obsequiously, and I enjoy his brash honesty, annoying as it may be. It’s one of the reasons I stole him from his last employer and paid him extensively for the defection. 

“Send her in.” I glance around my office. 

This won’t do at all. The room is cold, sparse. No personal photos, all business. The desk is devoid of paperwork and has only a laptop. The whole setup—the stark colors, the size, the raised podium where my desk is, the way my chair is slightly elevated—is arranged to put me in a position of power, not in an obvious way but just enough that the guest subconsciously knows I’m the one in charge. 

But using these kinds of nonverbal cues on Piper rubs me the wrong way. It doesn’t give me the pleasure it would with anyone else. Quickly, I move out from behind the massive black desk to the sitting area closer to the door. I reposition a file from the table to the chair, and just in time, I sit on the couch, leaving the spot next to me as the only reasonable seat left. 

Piper enters, the door shutting behind her. I take a moment to drink her in, keeping my face impassive. I’ve been a fan of her artwork for many years, and my admiration has leaked into our acquaintanceship. She is petite with delicate sprite-like features. Dark hair frames her oval face, and her eyes are large and expressive. On the surface, she isn’t out of the ordinary, but her work has absorbed my interest since the very beginning. She sees things in a way that that tugs at all the emotions I’ve managed to eliminate to get to where I am today.

I want her in a way that I can’t define. It’s a pointless, impractical, annoying desire. I built her up in my mind before we even met, when I had seen her art. That must be the reason for these feelings: artistic respect, nothing more.

“Mr. Nichols. Thank you for seeing me. I’m sorry to drop in unexpectedly like this.” 

Mr. Nichols? She spent almost an entire night wrapped in my arms, and she calls me Mr. Nichols? 

“You cut your hair,” I say.

She fingers the dark strands, which now fall slightly below her shoulders. “I’ve wanted to for a while, but I couldn’t before because…” She falters, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Well, I just couldn’t.” She glances away.

My mind takes her words and body language apart and turns them over, examining their deeper meaning. Ben, her controlling ex-boyfriend, likely has something to do with her new hair preference and why she didn’t change it when she wanted to. 

“Please. Have a seat.” I gesture to the couch next to me.  

She walks over and perches on the edge of the seat, a white-knuckled grip on the strap of her purse. 

My gaze sharpens on the delicate shadows under her eyes. “You haven’t been sleeping well.”

The corner of her mouth twitches. “Have you?”

I’ve never slept well, a fact I inexplicably shared with Piper Fox three months and eleven days ago, in the dark of night, under the watchful glow of an ancient lamp in the Fox living room. I have been trying to erase that night from my mind, mostly by avoiding the woman sitting next to me.

I incline my head. “Touché.” 

She shifts on the seat. “Have you heard anything from—” She clears her throat. “Have they shipped any of my pieces yet?”

“I received confirmation that the scheduled pickup is Monday. They should arrive at the gallery by next week—Thursday, most likely.”

Her shoulders relax a notch. “You don’t think he’ll try anything else—delay further?”

“He can try all he likes. No one breaks a contract with me without severe consequences.” The words emerge like the slice of a knife, fast and clipped.

She blinks, flinching. 

For the best, I tell myself even as an uncomfortable thorn twists in my stomach.

She doesn’t need to say his name for me to know who she’s asking about. Ben—the aforementioned ex-boyfriend who is also her ex-manager. The man is the epitome of a weak-minded, idiotic tool. 

“Has he been bothering you?”

“No.” She opens her mouth, pauses for a second, then shuts it. 

“But?”

One slim shoulder lifts. “At first, he called me every day, multiple times a day. I blocked him. Then he would use random phones. I changed my number, and he spammed all my social media and emails. Then it stopped all of a sudden. Until last week.”

My jaw tightens. “What happened last week?”

“He sent a package.”

“To Mindy’s?” Last I knew, Piper intended to stay with her sister in the city.

She nods. “The texts have started again, from a number I don’t recognize. They’re generic—just hi, how are you kind of things—but I know it’s him.” Her shoulders droop. “I don’t know how he found me or my number. I changed it.”

A whisper of unease slithers through me. “What did he send you?” 

Pink tints her cheeks. “Jewelry and clothing, a note about how he still loves me and he’s changed and wants to make it up to me. I sent it back. He’ll give up eventually if I keep ignoring him. It’s probably nothing to worry about. I tend to overreact lately, and Ben knows how to get under my skin.”

The more she speaks, the more my spine stiffens. “You are not overreacting. You should always listen to your instincts.” Concern loosens my tongue. “Mindy’s apartment—is there a doorman? Some kind of security?”

“No.”

I frown. “You could stay here.”

“No.” The refusal is immediate. “I can’t do that.”

I switch tactics. “I can hire a bodyguard. Someone could be with you at all times.”

She grimaces. “Oh, no. That’s not necessary. It’s fine. Ben’s all the way across the country. Besides, I rarely leave the apartment without Mindy. Please don’t worry about it. I shouldn’t have mentioned it.” 

The urge to press the issue shoves at me, but I swallow my arguments and counterpoints. “Is that why you came here?” 

Her visit doesn’t quite track. She could have called or gotten this information from Carson. Why stop by unexpectedly only for this after months of silence?

She bites her lip, and I home in on her mouth. Her lips are perfect, pink, and heart shaped. 

“Um. Well, partly. There is one other thing I needed to… ask.” She swallows. 

I track the motion, noting the fluttering pulse in her neck, the hitch in her breath. 

She inhales and then meets my gaze, her spine straightening, her chin lifting. “I want you.”

My heart, the fractured organ long silent, thumps in my chest.

Click here to download! Releasing Friday 11/11/22!

Between a Fox and a Hard Place – Chapter One Sneak Peek!

Only three more days until the first book in the Fox Family series goes live! I am unbelievably excited to share Finley and Archer’s story and I can’t wait for people to read and fall in love with the Fox siblings

Download at your favorite retailer here: Between a Fox and a Hard Place

Summary:

She’s determined to keep her family home. He won’t let his friend down. Will conflicting interests shatter their chances of happily ever after?

Finley Fox refuses to give up her life’s work. With her family’s cabin rental business at risk of going under, the eldest of five has been laboring for years to care for the property, not to mention her now grown siblings. But when a New York billionaire makes a play for the ailing resort, Finley struggles to resist her attraction to the handsome man sent to secure the deal.

Archer Weston craves stability. With his best buddy since childhood in need of a favor, the lonely businessman heads to the mountains to convince the owner to sell. But his mission hits a hurdle when his heart melts in the presence of the hardworking, beautiful woman.

With debt and sibling drama piling high, Finley fears that leaning on her irresistible guest for support could end in her own heartbreak. But as their relationship grows and intensifies, Archer is caught between his long-term loyalty and his one shot at finding his forever…

Can this unexpected couple keep both their dreams alive?

Chapter One

Finley

Happy hour. The unhappiest of all the hours.

“Where is he?” I stop on the other side of the bar, across from Veronica.

The restaurant is nearly empty. There are only a half dozen patrons in the whole place.

Jimmy and Paul are at the opposite end of the bar, grumbling at the hockey game on the flat-screen TV and sipping pints of amber liquid. Reed sits in a corner booth with Stacey. They both work in the county tax assessor’s office—a number I have memorized at this point. He nods in my direction, and Stacey waves. I manage a distracted smile.

At a table near the front entrance, an unfamiliar man is nursing a half-full beer.

My eyes linger for a second on the stranger, mostly because it’s odd to see an unfamiliar face mid-March, which is not anywhere near tourist season but also because damn. He has broad shoulders covered in a thick woolen blue flannel. His jawline is stubbled as if it hasn’t seen a razor in three days. I’ve only caught a quick glimpse of his strong features and dark hair, but I liked what I saw. His nose is slightly too big for his face, and a small scar bisects one eyebrow, but the imperfections only make the whole package more compelling and also slightly dangerous. He’s like a lumberjack: strong, beefy, possibly able to lift me with a single arm or exact vengeance on all my enemies.

If I wasn’t exhausted, teeming with frustration, and ready to murder my little brother, I might be tempted to introduce myself. Except I’m currently wearing dirty overalls, muddy boots, and probably resting bitch face.

Might not be the best idea.

“Hey, Finley. He’s out back. Rough week, huh?” Veronica winces in sympathy.

“Every week,” I murmur.

“Thanks for coming so quick. I don’t want to leave him out there to freeze his bits off when the sun sets.” She shakes her head, her long silvery-gray hair swinging with the motion. Veronica went to high school with my dad. I often hoped he would date her, since she’s a pretty sixtysomething woman, and she’s single. But it wasn’t meant to be.

I put my elbows on the scuffed wooden bar top and clasp my hands together tight, resisting the urge to bang my head against the solid surface. “The bathtub again?”

She picks up a rag, wiping off the counter to my left. “It’s his favorite resting place.”

It’s where he goes to pass out when he’s next-level drunk.

I didn’t want to deal with this today. Raccoons digging through our trash woke me up last night because Jacob didn’t close the bin all the way. I spent my morning cleaning up the mess and then the afternoon digging drainage routes through freezing dirt—which is what I was doing when Veronica called. I haven’t eaten since breakfast, and we have a few guests checked in today. I don’t have time for any of this.

When I remain silent, she adds, “Do you need help getting him out?”

I blow out a breath. “No. I’ll get him. You have customers. I just need a minute to prepare myself.”

She grimaces and leans closer, lowering her voice. “This might be a bad time, but I’m not sure there will ever be a good one.” She pauses, her gaze dipping to where my hands are still clenched before she meets my eyes. “Bernie was in here earlier with Estelle. They’re selling.”

My stomach drops. All the air is sucked out of the room. The world tilts. “No.” My mouth forms the word, but no sound emerges.

She nods, tossing the bar rag out of sight below the bar. “They want to retire next year, and they got an offer they couldn’t refuse.”

My back teeth clench. Dammit.

Bernie and Estelle have been our neighbors for as long as I’ve been alive—all thirty-two years.

If they’ve sold, this means every parcel around Fox Cottages, my family’s property, has now been acquired by the evil overlord of doom.

My fists clench against the bar. “Damn him.”

Veronica nods and clucks in sympathy. Everyone knows who he is—Oliver Nichols—some rich prick who’s been flinging his lackeys in my direction every other month to pressure me into selling my land. Lord knows why he wants to buy rural property in East Bumfuck, New York, but I will fight it to the bitter end. I have to. My home is all I have left.

A familiar surge of fury and indignation flows through me along with a healthy dose of despair.

I might not have a choice soon. Especially if my damn brother keeps drinking our nonexistent profits.

Misery leaks into the air around me, and Veronica taps my hand with a gentle finger. “You need a little something?”

I glance over at the hottie lumberjack. Yes. Yes, I do need something.

But I’ll settle for what’s realistic.

“Yes. Please.”

She grabs a glass from under the bar and pours a couple fingers of good bourbon into it. “This one’s on the house. You enjoy that before you have to deal with that man out there. He was on one today.” She chuckles.

He’s on one every day. “Thanks, Veronica.”

I’m grateful she called me. Even though I wish she would refuse Jacob service, I can’t put her in that kind of awkward position.

I take a little sip of my drink, enjoying the burn.

After a minute, Veronica walks out from behind the bar, talking to the lumberjack in a murmur, giving him his check. I strain my ears to interpret his rumbling response, but it’s too low for me to catch.

She heads back to the bar, and he tosses some bills on the table, leaving without so much as a glance in my direction.

I’m not sure if I should be disappointed that I’m invisible or relieved, considering my current appearance. There is no way I could snag a man that lickable without a few more hours of sleep and, at the very least, a half-hearted attempt at making myself presentable.

It’s been a long time. I need to get laid.

Shoving the inconvenient thoughts of my neglected libido aside, I fling back the rest of the bourbon. I have bigger fish to fry. A brother to carry home. Or at least to the truck.

Once the heat from the drink has warmed my insides, and I feel less murdery, I gird my loins and head out the back door.

The air bites at my cheeks. The sun is descending, and the trees lining the property cast gloomy silhouettes.

About thirty feet away, resting in the corner of the property under a bony maple, sits an abandoned bathtub. Jacob’s tawny-brown hair flicks in the breeze just above the lip of the tub.

I pick my way over the gravel and dead grass, skirting patches of snow lingering in the shadows, refusing to melt.

Perching on an old stump next to him, I wait.

He’s been worse since his birthday—he just turned twenty-five. I wish it was your typical quarter-life crisis, but it’s more than that.

His face is serene in slumber, not at all like that of a man who lost his twin sister at fifteen and hasn’t fully recovered. He looks so young and so much like Aria it nearly takes my breath away. He has the same stubborn chin, aquiline nose, and thin lips they inherited from Dad.

A loud snore rips out of him, echoing around us.

Just perfect.

Time to wake up Sleeping Beauty.

I push on his shoulder.

The snore cuts off, and his eyes blink open. A sleepy grin takes over his face. “Hey, Fin.”

“Hey, Jake.”

His smile droops, his glazed eyes shuttering.

And then he’s snoring again.

I smack his cheek. “Jacob. Wake up. We need to get to the truck, and I can’t carry your heavy ass.”

He groans.

I stand, lean over him, grab both of his hands, and yank him upward. He barely shifts. “C’mon.”

He glares up at me. “I’m tired, Finley.”

“Stop whining and get up. You can sleep when we get home.”

“I don’t want to go home.” It’s like he’s five. All the thoughts about how sweet he looked as he slept die a quick and painful death.

“You can’t sleep here.”

“Why not?”

“Uh, because it’s cold and uncomfortable and because I said so.”

He moans again but at least makes a half-hearted effort to stand. It takes a few minutes of tugging and cajoling, but eventually, I’ve got him out of the tub and on his feet—wobbly feet—but progress is progress.

We shuffle around the side of the squat wood building, Jacob’s arm around my neck.

I keep my gaze focused on our faded-green pickup truck while he drags his feet, his weight heavy across my back, his boots running into mine as he stumbles next to me.

We’re crossing the entrance from the main road when he comes to an abrupt halt.

“Wait.” The word slurs out of his mouth. Then he bends over, dragging me down with him, and throws up all over both our shoes. He sinks the rest of the way to the ground.

“Shit.” This is not happening. I tug on him, holding my breath. “Jacob, get up.”

He doesn’t move, lying on the asphalt, a boneless lump of stank.

I glance around. At least there aren’t any witnesses to this humiliation.

I grab his arm again and yank. “Come on, we have to move out of the way. We’re blocking the entrance.”

“It’s fine.” He relaxes even more against the hard ground. “Comfy here.”

“It’s not fine. Jacob. If you don’t move your ass, I’m going to kick it.”

No response.

“I’ll tell the whole town about that time you microwaved your pee.”

“No, you won’t,” he murmurs, eyes still shut.

I don’t know whether to cry, scream, stomp him with my vomit-covered shoe, or all three.

A car pulls halfway into the lot, coming to a halt a few feet away—the tail end of the vehicle sticking out onto the main road.

“Just perfect,” I mutter. “Jake, get up!” I yell directly into his ear.

He doesn’t even flinch.

Standing, I turn toward the driver of the vehicle and lift my arms in the universal symbol for “I don’t know.”

They honk.

I lift my arms again. “You want to come out here and help me?” I call out, but their windows are rolled up, so I’m not sure if they can hear me or if they care.

They honk again.

Nope. They don’t care.

Why me? Why can’t I have a normal life where things go right once in a while instead of everything always going from bad to worse to absolute hell?

I’m so sick of the constant anxiety and tension and stress—I don’t think I can take it anymore.

As if summoned by my defeatist thoughts, another car pulls up behind the first, and they both start honking, one after the other, a chorus of impatience.

Hysterical laughter gurgles up and bursts out of me.

If I Could Turn Back Time – Chapter One

I can’t believe this book is coming TOMORROW!!! Where does the time go?

I’m so excited to share a sneak peek of chapter one. This is the PERFECT book for this time of year and spooOoOky Halloween!! It’s set in October, it’s sort of creepy (but not really), it’s full of mystery, steamy romance, a ferocious feline named Bob, and time traveling shenanigans!

Available at all retailers here!: If I Could Turn Back Time

Summary:

She’s a spectral cynic. He’s a time traveler racing the clock. 

Amelia Peters doesn’t believe in ghosts. After outing her late paranormal investigator parents as con artists, the natural skeptic wants nothing to do with anything even supposedly spooky. But her long-held disbelief in the supernatural crumbles when she inherits a small-town cabin… and keeps bumping into a handsome specter in the night.

Shaken by the mysterious hunk’s disturbing ability to vanish into thin air, Amelia is stunned to discover he’s no ghost, but a traveler who has slipped through time… and is destined to die within days. When their relationship takes an intimate turn, she vows to save his skin. But altering history means confronting her own guilty secrets first.

Can they undo the mystical mayhem scaring away their happily ever after, or will the time-space continuum keep them apart forever?

Chapter One

“What if I have family?” I glance over at Bob, lounging in the passenger seat like the lazy dictator she is. She flicks her orange striped tail with annoyance. 

“Can you imagine? Aunts, uncles, maybe even cousins my age.”

She yawns, baring her tiny feline teeth in my direction. 

“Then I could have conversations that are reciprocal instead of me talking to you, and you thinking you’re better than me.” 

She stretches, flopping back against the seat. 

“You’re right. You are better than me. You might be my pet, but I am your obedient servant.” I slow the truck, removing my foot from the gas as we enter town limits. “We’re almost there.” 

I swallow, palms slick on the steering wheel. The nerves thundering through me are a direct contrast to the quaint, wholesome, all-American small town surrounding us. 

The estate attorney’s office is at the other end of town, according to my GPS. I gaze out the front window of the truck, one eye on the road in front of me, the other taking in downtown Mystic Falls. It’s like driving through a movie set. One of those heart-warming dramedies with B-list actors, kids on bikes delivering newspapers every morning, and tree lined streets.

The brick storefronts are stacked closely together, wooden walkways running in a long line in front of them.  Red and yellow trees march in a colorful procession down the street. Halloween decorations pepper windows, skeletons and mummies. The occasional witch and giant black spider perches on stretched cotton webbing. 

A mountain rises in the distance, fat, fluffy clouds hanging above it in the bright blue sky.

I park behind a sleek black BMW, my ancient red pickup belching to a stop and clashing with the surroundings like a wart-covered troll in the middle of a picturesque meadow.

I take a deep breath. 

Focus on the next steps. One thing at a time. 

Restored Victorian-style homes line the street, all of them remodeled into businesses for a salon and spa, a coffee and tea shop, and a real estate office. A bronze placard reading Stone & Stone hangs on a home with blue and white trim. 

“Time to get into the carrier, Bob.” My voice wobbles with rising anxiety.

 What if I do have family, and they hate me? After all, Mr. Stone, the attorney, wasn’t surprised when I told him Dad never talked about my grandfather.

Your father and grandfather had a strained relationship, he’d said in apologetic, soothing tones. 

Ha. Strained relationship. That implies there was some kind of connection. Communication. Not complete silence. There was no relationship. Dad never mentioned his family. Neither did Mom. Ever. And when I asked, I would get the brush off or they would change the subject. Maybe I should have pushed harder, but, well, it’s too late now. 

I glance at the clock. It’s only two, and the appointment is at three. I’m early. But maybe I can get this over with and get up to the cabin before dark. 

I pull the carrier from the narrow backseat of the pickup, taking a moment to glance over the boxes stuffed in the bed of the truck. They hardly shifted the entire drive from LA to Northern California. I packed everything I own—which isn’t much—along with what’s left of my parents’ belongings, mostly notebooks and trinkets and things they collected over many years of traveling. 

I’m used to being a minimalist. We moved around a lot when I was growing up and nomadic lifestyles do not lend themselves to accumulating anything but the bare necessities.

Bob meows at me a few times in protest before climbing in. “Sorry. You know it’s better than the alternative.”

The alternative would be leaving her in the truck. And while the weather is mild enough that it wouldn’t be a safety issue, Bob goes a little berserk if I leave her in a confined space and I’m not within her line of sight. She’s a tad protective. 

I take just a second to glance at myself in the rearview mirror. My long dark hair is greasy and yet somehow also frizzy. My hazel eyes are puffy, outlined by gray smudges from a lack of sleep, but there’s no helping it now. 

Here we go.

A bell jangles overhead when I step inside.

Dark green wallpaper and mahogany trim greet me as soon as I enter the foyer. A narrow staircase on the left leads up to the second story, but the stairs are closed off with a thick burgundy rope. To the right is a closed door, to my left an open office space.

A woman with a bright and friendly smile pops out from behind a large maple desk to greet me.

She’s petite and dressed in an impeccably pressed bright blue pantsuit. She’s probably close to my age, mid to late twenties max. Her curly hair is pulled back, a few dark chocolate strands popping out to frame her face. 

“Hello. You must be Amelia Peters.”

“Yes.”

“Lexi Stone.” I shake her outstretched hand, hoping my palm isn’t sweaty as she gives me a firm and quick handshake. “Did you drive up from L.A. today?” 

I nod. “I left this morning.”

Her dark brows lift. “That’s a long drive.”

I shrug. “Nine hours.”

Her eyes dip to the carrier in my hand and she bends down. “And who is this?”

“This is Bob.” 

At the sound of her name, Bob yowls. 

Lexi laughs and reaches toward the crate door. “Hi, Bob.”

Bob hisses and swipes fully extended claws in her direction.

“Oh, I’m so sorry.” I yank the carrier away even as Lexi backs up a step. “Bob isn’t great at first impressions.”

But Lexi just waves me off. “I need a cat like that. Where did you get him?”

“Her. I rescued her from a trash can in Iowa when she was just a kitten.”

It was the first time I really fought with my parents. Animals aren’t easy to take care of when you spend your life on the road, but Bob had no one else. I couldn’t leave her.

“Bob is a girl, huh? I like that.” She grins. “You can bring her in here while you wait. Dad should be ready in just a few minutes.”

“It’s fine. I know I’m a little early.” I follow Lexi into her office. 

“Sit wherever you like. Would you like some coffee or something?”

“Coffee would be great.” I perch on the couch across from her desk and put Bob on the seat next to me.

While she gets the coffee from a side table, I take in the space. It’s mostly neat, some stacks of papers and files on the desk. A couple of framed diplomas line the wall. One photo is angled on the corner of the desk. It’s a close-up selfie of Lexi with a man. Their cheeks are squished together, their mouths open in laughter, their eyes crinkled shut. It’s goofy and a contrast to the professional surroundings. Funny. Lexi is pretty and she seems nice. It tracks that she would have a hot boyfriend or husband or something. 

And I’m alone. All alone.

Stop being melodramatic, Amelia. 

Bob grumbles next to me as she settles, like she can sense my thoughts.

I do have Bob. That’s something, I guess.

But maybe it’s all about to change. Maybe I do have family. Maybe they’re just not here yet. 

I open my mouth to ask but Lexi speaks. “Cream or sugar?”

“Uh, both. Please.”

It’s silent except for the faint jingle of the spoon in the ceramic mug. 

My heart pounds as I clear my throat and ask the question that’s been circling in my mind all day. “Are we waiting on anyone else?” 

She hands me the mug and then shakes her head with a smile. “Nope. Just you. You’re the sole heir.”

The words drop like stones, piling in my stomach.

Other people might be happy to be the sole heir, to not have to share their inheritance. Not me. I wish this room were full of people vying for a fortune. I’d take anyone. Nefarious aunts, creepy cousins, uncles who embellish family stories and hug you just a little too long. Well, maybe not that last one.

“I mean, I guess you aren’t the sole heir. The historical society and a representative from the church were both here the other day for their portion. But the rest is yours. Not that you need it. I heard they’re making a movie from your life.” She flashes a quick, bright grin. quick grin is bright and curious. “Congratulations on all your success.”

“Yeah. Thank you.” I attempt to muster a pleased expression. A book deal. Movie rights. It’s the dream, right? My happy act must not be convincing because Lexi’s smile falters.

Ill-gotten gains. The phrase lives rent-free in my head, circling like a vulture over a carcass, periodically taking bites. 

My parents were world-renowned paranormal investigators before they died. I published a story about one of their cases from when I was a kid. I’d wrote it in a moment of guilt, trying to work through my pain, not thinking anything of it beyond that. I’ve written hundreds of other articles about random things as a freelance writer, and not once did I have anything go viral.

Until that damn story.

The door by the entrance swings open. 

“I’m sorry I can’t be of more help.” Mr. Stone’s voice is rough with age and experience. 

He has white hair, a friendly lined face, and gold-rimmed glasses. His dark suit and blue tie matches Lexi’s pantsuit.

Cute. 

“Your three o’clock is here, Dad,” Lexi tells him. 

I stand and move toward him to shake his hand. 

“Ms. Peters. Thank you for making it today.”

“Are you Gregory’s granddaughter?” the woman standing next to him asks. She’s probably about the same age as Mr. Stone, maybe early to mid-seventies. Her hair is white, pulled back into a soft bun exposing luminous pearl earrings and a matching necklace. She holds a cane in one hand, dark wood, delicately carved but sturdy and thick, the head of some kind of animal with jeweled eyes. Old money might as well be tattooed on her forehead.

“I guess I am.”

Her eyes soften even as her smile widens. “I knew him well. My husband’s family sold the cabin’s property to your grandfather when your father was just a baby. Oh, I’m forgetting my manners. I’m Claire Blake.”

She reaches out her hand for me to shake and her grip is as delicate as a hummingbird, a contrast to the forcefulness of Lexi and Mr. Stone. 

“It’s nice to meet you.”

“Your grandmother was a friend as well. She’s been gone now nearly twenty years, you know, God rest her soul. If you ever want to join me for coffee and pie to hear stories of your family, my house is open.”

“You definitely don’t want to turn down Claire’s famous strawberry rhubarb.” Mr. Stone pats his stomach and grins.

“I make them from scratch using fruit from my garden.” 

I cling to the idea–stories of my family, making friends. It’s better than the nothing I’ve got now. Maybe we’ll start a smutty book club or something. “Thank you so much. I would really appreciate that.”

One-handed, she smoothly retrieves a business card from her clutch and hands it to me. It’s heavy, cream, expensive paper with her name and phone number. 

“Any time, my dear.” She pats my arm. 

“Would you like help out to your car, Claire?” Lexi offers.

“Yes please,” she says before turning back to me. “My son is waiting for me. It was a pleasure to meet you.”

“You, too.”

I grab Bob and then follow Mr. Stone into his office, the ambience a continuation from the entry, all masculine colors and chunky furniture.

Bookshelves take up the entire wall behind his desk, the leather-bound tomes lending everything an authentic, rich, antique vibe. Everything is pristine and yet somehow also well worn, like it has some sort of history. Multiple pictures of family sits on his desk, Lexi, and what must be his wife. A family photo features a large group of people in matching shirts like it’s a reunion. People don’t know how lucky they are. 

I sit in a leather seat across from him and try to pay attention while he reads the details of the inheritance. 

My grandfather left his main property, which was within the town’s historic district, to the city. Money and most of his other assets went to the church.

My portion is a small cabin just outside of town, up an unmarked road in the woods sitting on fourteen acres. 

The only stipulation is that I have to live in it for one year. It’s completely paid off. I only have to cover property taxes, insurance, utilities, and general maintenance and upkeep. 

“You can stay for the year?” 

I nod quickly. “Yes.” Hopefully longer. Hopefully forever. 

So I don’t have any family. So what? I’ve been alone for years now. Maybe this small town is where I can find my family. Establish roots. LA never felt like home. It felt like a city full of individuals who cared only about themselves and how things appeared, not how they were. 

Once he’s finished listing all the legal details, I sign the paperwork. 

“Lexi has the directions and all the keys. She’ll let you know exactly what to expect when you get up there.”

“Thank you.” 

“There is one other thing you should be aware of.” His expression is somber. “Not because it’s a problem, but because in a town this small a lot of people like to talk, and it’s not always accurate.”

“Okay.” I brace myself. What could this be about? 

“Your grandfather used the property as a rental for a short time.” He pauses, his mouth turning down.

“Is someone still living there?” Or were they, and then they got evicted because of me? That’s a lovely way to make a fresh start in a new place, by getting people kicked out of their homes.

“No, no, nothing like that. It’s been vacant for going on three years now. Your grandfather had a hard time leasing it after the last renter—” He clears his throat, takes off his glasses, and sets them on the desk before meeting my eyes. “There’s no easy way to say this, but he died there on the property.” 

Keep reading here! Releasing 10/29/2021

Time of My Life – Chapter One

I can’t believe there are less than two weeks until Time of My Life is released! Eeeeeeek!

As per usual, sneak peek of chapter one below for those who are interested

Summary:

Today is the worst day of Jane Stewart’s life. And she’s reliving it over and over (and over and over) again.

She’s late to the same make-or-break meeting.

She’s fired from the same soul-crushing job.

And—the cherry on top—she’s dumped by the same lying, selfish dirtbag.

But no matter how many times she relives the same disasters and no matter what she tries to change them, it all ends in the same abysmal mess. Because, apparently, being stuck in a time loop on the worst day of her life hasn’t cured her crippling social anxiety. Go figure.

The one bright spot? Her long-time crush wants to be more than friends . . . if only she can get them past their first date. And so her happily ever is doomed before it can even begin unless she can find a way to save her job, her heart, and, oh yeah, the space-time continuum.

Purchase here! http://www.books2read.com/Time-of-My-Life

So we are all prepared, this story has:

A main character with social anxiety having a terrible dayA Groundhog’s Day-esque time loopA magic closetLots of laughs and awkward situationsDrag queensA happy ending!

Enjoy

Belching. Someone is belching. Ugh, why is it so loud? 

I roll over, pulling a pillow over my head. Pounding bass vibrates into my skull, shaking the walls. My pillow is not an effective barrier. 

What is that? 

Did he say hocus-pocus?

Is someone in my apartment? They broke in just to pass gas and play music at excessive levels? 

Is it my alarm? Oh no, it’s Monday.

I jerk up, already reaching for my phone to kill the noise, plucking it from the charging cord. 

Wakefulness weaves its fingers through my sleepy mind. My heart thumps along with the music.

I stare at the blank screen. I barely slept last night. It took me forever to fall asleep, worrying over my meeting today, trying to think through every potential response and outcome. My dreams were full of everything that might possibly go wrong, from missing my notes to arriving late to showing up naked.

The memories fade as reality rushes in to take its place.

My phone is dead.

“That’s not my alarm. My alarm didn’t go off,” I croak to the empty room. 

The music is still thumping. 

I stare at the dark phone screen. I always leave it charging to avoid this exact scenario.

“Oh, no. No no no no no.” I rush out of bed, forgetting the cell phone mystery, skidding into the kitchen to stare at the clock on the oven.

It’s nearly eight.

“This isn’t possible.”

Someone bangs on the door. Maybe the world is ending. That would be good. If there’s some kind of disaster situation—a building fire, a tsunami incoming, aliens invading the planet, maybe—that would be the perfect excuse for being late for the most important meeting of my existence.

I swing open the door, but no one’s there.

“Hugo! Come on, man, it can’t be that bad.”

I peek around my doorjamb. I don’t want anyone to witness me in this state, no makeup, my hair a dark mass of chaos, not to mention the bright blue ducky pajamas, a gift from my sister, Eloise. But I can’t help staying to witness . . . whatever this is.

A portly middle-aged man with thinning hair in a bright red robe stands in front of the door next to mine. I don’t know his name, only that he resides in the apartment across the hall from mine.

I generally avert my gaze to avoid small talk when I pass any of the other residents in my building, so I don’t know much about any of them. Based on the masculine laughter—and other noises that sometimes penetrate the thin walls—I know my next-door neighbor is gay. But that’s as far as it goes. I’m not good at small talk. Or any talk. 

But now I unwittingly know my next-door neighbor’s name.

Hugo.

It’s fitting, considering his huge size. He’s a goliath of a man, wide and tall. Body builder maybe. Football player. Possible assassin. Fearful, by all accounts. Except in his choice in music. While loud and pounding, “sparkle me” rapped over and over doesn’t exactly inspire fear. 

As the music hammers through the air with no response to the knocking, red-robe man pounds harder. 

“It’s Monday! I have a call in thirty minutes. Help me out here, huh?”

Monday. Meeting.

Oh, crap. 

I slam the door and rush to the bathroom, racing through my morning ablutions, pitching my ducky pajamas into the hamper. No time for anything more than peeing and scrambling into the clothes I set out the night before, a sensible pale pink blouse and slimming black slacks. I toss a small bag of makeup into my briefcase on top of my proposal. Then I’m out the door, running to the BART station on the corner to catch the next train.

I barely make it in time, the doors shutting behind me as I squish in between a redheaded woman in a hot pink T-shirt and bright yellow pants and a man in an Armani suit on his cell phone, one of his hands clutching the pole in the center of the car. 

Once the train is in motion, I grab my phone from my bag and hold down the power button. Maybe it needs a reset or something. If I can call the office, let them know I’m going to be late, make some excuse, maybe I won’t have a panic attack on the train surrounded on all sides by strangers. 

I shake my head and take a breath.

Focus, Jane. Phone. Work. Important meeting. But thinking about the upcoming meeting doesn’t calm me. Instead, my heart races, my stomach twists into knots, black spots crowd the corners of my eyes, and my hands shake.

I breathe and stare at my phone until my vision clears and I can focus on pressing the power button down. It’s not working. I take a deep, calming breath—and choke on the fumes from the cologne of the businessman next to me, earning me dirty looks from the rest of the passengers.

“Sorry,” I cough into my hand.

I spend the rest of the train ride using a compact to try and fix my face and hair, but in the cramped train car it’s an exercise in futility. Business man is on the phone the entire time, yelling about assets and liabilities and bitcoins, all while waving his free hand and smacking into my elbow while I’m attempting to put mascara on. I end up swiping a thick line of black under my cheek and poking myself in the eye three times. Finally, I give up. 

The train jerks to a stop, forcing me to grab on to the pole under business man’s hand and . . . ick. There’s something on there. It’s wet. I lift my hand. And it’s brown. 

Please, universe, let that be chocolate.

I sprint through the train station and up the stairs, wincing at the waft of sewer stench as I reach the street, dodging people and holding my dirty hand away from my body. I have nowhere to wipe it. Ugh. Why is my nicest, most professional blouse also pale pink?

Mother. That’s why.

The office is a block from the station and I jog down the cracked sidewalk, my hair working itself into a truly remarkable frizzed-out halo surrounding my head. Of course I forgot to grab a hair clip.

When the glass-front entrance of the building comes into view, I nearly sob in relief. Almost there.

I’ve worked with Blue Wave Marketing for nearly four years. This meeting is going to determine whether I can be a senior marketer. It’s what I’ve been working toward, handling my own accounts, running my own campaigns. I can’t let one broken phone ruin everything. 

I’m ten minutes late. What if they use this as a reason to reject my proposal? What if they decide they can’t have a senior marketer who arrives late to important meetings? What if they laugh at me and call me a ridiculous waste of space? What if—

Stop it, Jane. 

I push through the front door and immediately get a disgusted look from Hannah, the front desk executive. She flips a sleek length of blonde hair behind her shoulder and avoids my eyes.

Blue Wave is all about giving people advanced titles, and “receptionist” is much too demeaning. So front desk executive it is. 

The entire office space exemplifies feng shui, open, airy, light, except for a cramped coffee station in the back that’s cluttered with ten different espresso machines Brandon keeps ordering for reasons I still don’t understand. There are two hallways on either side of the employee area, one that leads to a storeroom and bathroom, and on the other side, the conference room where I’m sure management is waiting for me.

Directly behind Hannah, all of the employees are spread out, no cubicles, all open space with individual desks. Even the team leaders sit among the rest of the crew because they believe in putting everyone on equal footing, regardless of title. 

I’m not a junior marketer, I’m a “student” marketer. Because according to Blade, we are all learning. It’s crap, but whatever.

“Hannah, please.” I don’t want to beg, but I have no other choice. “Can you tell the team that I’m here and I’ll be in shortly?”

She purses her enhanced lips, nose wrinkling in disdain.

Oh no, does my hand . . . smell? I sniff the brown gook and she glares at me like I’ve started licking the desk in front of her.

“I’m not your secretary. Tell them yourself.”

Hannah has never been my biggest fan, but she’s been especially rude for the past few months. I’ve racked my brain to figure out what I did, what stupid thing I might have said, and while there are many options, I still don’t know what her deal is and I haven’t asked. I hate confrontation with anyone, but with Hannah, who’s naturally aggressive? I would rather rub naked against splintered wood.

Presley, another student marketer who has only been here a few months, pipes up from behind her. “I got it, Jane. You look like you need a sec.”

Relief and nerves make my voice quiver. “Thank you, Presley.”

She nods and strides away toward the hall to the conference room, her dark ponytail swinging behind her.

In the bullpen, Mark is tossing a stress ball back and forth with Brandon, brainstorming ideas for a campaign. He catches my eye and gives me a wink.

Face heating, I force out a weak smile, then race to the restrooms, running through a list in my head of what I need to do. Wash my hands first and foremost, fix my hair, take some deep breaths—“Oh!” I collide with someone coming around the corner. My hand lifts during the impact, which means—the brown gunk on my hand is now on whoever I just ran into. 

“Oh no.”

Alex. It had to be Alex.

Strong hands grip my arms in a steadying hold. “Jane. Oh. What is this?” He’s eyeing the brown spot on his worn-out Led Zeppelin T-shirt with a mixture of confusion and revulsion.

“BART incident.”

His bright green eyes meet mine, filling with amusement, and then he smiles. The world spins to a stop and my heart flip-flops in my chest. 

Alex is my not-so-secret crush, a fact that has me turning bright red every time he comes within a sixty-foot radius. 

And now, he’s touching me.

“Ah. You were on your way to mitigate the situation.” He releases me, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jeans and inclining his head in the direction of the bathrooms. 

“Think of yourself as collateral damage.” I smile and heat floods my face. I managed to say something without sounding like a total dork, so of course I’m going to turn bright red. 

Despite the fact that Alex and I have worked closely together for months, I still can’t keep my shit together around him. And it’s worse now, after what happened in the storage closet right behind him.

Don’t think about it, Jane. Don’t remember or you’ll make it worse.

It’s not apparent at first glance, but Alex is kind of a big deal. He started developing gaming apps as a teenager and made his first million just this past year.

About six months ago, he hired Blue Wave to help him market his newest releases. I was on his team initially, but then, of course, I screwed it up and was transferred off his team two months ago. Since then, I only see him when he stops by the office for meetings or to drop things off or whatever business he has now.

It’s for the best, really. If I don’t see him every day, then I can’t waste my time imagining running my hands through his shaggy hair, which is eternally a week away from needing a haircut. I also can’t think about what it would be like to bite that spot at the side of his jaw, just under his ear, or what his perfectly symmetrical lips would feel like against mine.

Nope. Can’t spend time on any of that, because it’s like wishing on a star, or buying a lotto ticket, or forwarding a chain email to obtain true happiness. Nice in theory, but impossible in reality. 

“I get it, I’m damaged goods,” he says with a grin.

I chuckle and try to rein in my galloping heart rate. “Yeah, you’re a hot mess.” I wave a hand. “I-I’m kidding. I’m just giving you a hard-on.” The world freezes to a halt.

Our eyes lock.

His brows lift.

I replay the words in my head. Nope. “Hard time!” And now I’m yelling at him. “Hard time. Not hard-on.” The heat in my face is an inferno. A volcano. My head might erupt.

Alex is laughing his ass off while I die inside slowly. I try to force out a laugh. I can laugh at myself, it’s why I’m still somewhat functional, but really, I would rather cry.

Why is it so hard for me to talk to him without making a fool of myself?

“Oh, Jane.” He wipes his eyes. “I miss talking to you.”

My heart leaps in my chest before making a crash landing. He’s the one who asked for me to be removed from his team. 

I liked Alex in a more than professional way, and I’m sure that’s why I was taken off of his team. He would never say so, of course. He’s too nice to tell me to my face how much I embarrassed myself.

My face burns even hotter.

It doesn’t matter. I have a boyfriend now. Mark. Even though we’ve never gone on an actual date, we’re sort of together—I mean, we’ve been sleeping together for the past two months, so we’re something. Definitely something. Even though I’m not sure I like Mark.

Ugh.

I kick thoughts of Mark away.

Alex smiles at me when the laughter dies down. “I won’t keep you. You have a pitch or something today, right? For the senior marketing job?”

“Oh, yes. And unfortunately, I’m late.”

“I’m sure you’ll do great.”

“Thanks, Alex. You’re a good friend.”

And that’s all he’ll ever be. Guys like him don’t go for women like me. Especially after I smeared what may or may not be excrement all over him.

His smile slips a little, or I imagine it does, because it’s just a second and then it’s as bright as ever. “Good luck.” He has dimples. 

Ugh, so cute.

Washing up in the bathroom, I glance in the mirror and groan. I look like I went through a typhoon to get here. I can’t believe Alex saw me like this. I attempt to straighten my crazy hair and clean the mascara off my cheek. 

And then I take one final, deep breath before picking up my briefcase and heading out the door.

Nerdelicious – Chapter One

MY FRIENDS!

Nerdelicious is coming! A little sooner than anticipated even!

I updated the release to 10/30/2020 and that has gone through ALMOST everywhere (only Barnes and Noble has not updated, but they have been having some issues lately–hopefully it will update there soon, but I cannot say for sure if it will in time for release). To pre-order, click here!

As is customary, the first chapter is available here and now

Imperfectly Delicious – Only one more day!

Hello hello!

Book SIX in the Imperfect Series is coming at you within the next 24 hours!

I can’t believe it. I normally post the first chapter in advance, and I’m cutting it close this time. Things are bananas and my brain is like mushed bananas. With peanut butter and a hint of bacon

Geektastic – Chapter One Sneak Peek!

**TWO DAYS!**

I can’t believe this book is coming out in TWO DAYS! Insanity! I’m normally way more on top of things and would have posted this like a week ago, but … never too late, right?

Anyway, here is a sneak peak of my upcoming release, book two in the Dorky Duet, GEEKTASTIC! This book will be moving into Kindle Unlimited shortly after release, at which point the ebook will be exclusive to Amazon, so if you order from an alternate retailer (i.e. Apple, B&N, Google, etc.) preorder now so you don’t miss out!

Preorder Geektastic

Chapter One

The more I know of the world, the more I am convinced that I shall never see a man whom I can really love. I require so much!

—Jane Austen, Sense and Sensibility

Annabel

Every time I go out of my way to avoid someone, they appear. Like magic.

Like dark magic from hell. Or in this particular case, like the devil incarnate.

Jude Parker.

Our gazes clash and then my eyes skitter away like they’ve been scalded, but his image is burned on the back of my retinas.

He’s wearing a suit. Black jacket, stark white shirt, black bow tie. Which maybe wouldn’t be remarkable, except this isn’t a fancy restaurant or a wedding. It’s a township meeting in rural Texas.

The Blue Falls High School cafeteria was an unlikely hellscape, but the city hall was unavailable because someone had flushed their dentures down one of the public toilets and they had to close for water damage. This was the largest available public space, equipped with plenty of uncomfortable seats, glaring overhead lights, and squeaky linoleum.

Jude should look ridiculous amid the rest of the over-sixties currently occupying the room in their beige and pastel shirts and slacks—they don’t even seem to notice he’s there—but instead he looks like he always does.

Relaxed. Unconcerned. Delicious.

The outfit is a stark contrast to his scruffy beard and long hair. The brief glimpse of his intense, bright blue eyes has my stomach twisting with nerves.

My first instinct is to run, but I can’t. There’s no getting out of this. The town council meeting every month is one of my only bylines.

“Annabel.” I yank my gaze from the blue-eyed devil in the room. Rudy Quinn stands near the head table where the town council convenes, dressed in his perfectly pressed police uniform, the badge on his chest glinting under the fluorescent lights.

“Heya, Rudy.” Everyone knows Rudy. His daddy is the district attorney. Plus we went to Blue Falls High near about the same time. He’s at almost every event I have to cover for the paper. He’s a bit on the awkward side, and on the round side, and pleasant enough, but it’s hard to exit a conversation with him once it gets going. He’s like sweet tea in the South: abundant and always available and too much makes your teeth ache.

“Covering the meeting for the paper?” His accompanying smile is wide and friendly.

I nod. “As I do. Anything good on the docket tonight?”

“Oh, you know how it is. We’ve had increased calls to the station about unidentified vehicles around town. Chief wants me here because we know it’s gonna be a topic. He wanted me on hand to help reduce the paranoia and assure the public that there have been no increases in crime in conjunction with the sightings, no reports of any theft or the like, and we have things under control. We’ve increased units patrolling through town and are on the lookout for anything suspicious. He knows I’m the best person for the job, the voice of reason, so he’s been sending me out on overtime almost every night this week. I’m really the best at—”

“Right. Yes. Of course you are.” It’s so rude, but I have to nip it in the bud or I could be stuck up here all night. He opens his mouth but I speak before he can. “Good luck. I’d better find my spot. Catch you later.”

“Yeah, I’ll catch you later,” he calls after me. “Maybe we can get a drink or something after.”

I step lightly through the senior citizens crowded around the front.

All the regulars are here. Mr. Gepson with his toupee and spiral notebook, pencil worn down to the nub. Elaine Kilgarriff dressed in her pastel pink summer dress and hat even though it’s November. Mrs. Johnson with her ancient tape recorder—which is so old I don’t think it even works anymore and yet she brings it every time.

I make my way toward the back of the room, avoiding where Mr. Jude Parker was last spotted.

Which is a mistake because he’s moved. He’s now standing at the back, against the wall, right next to my regular spot.

It’s like he knew where I would be setting up. But how?

I almost turn around and find somewhere else to stand. But no. Righteous indignation fills me. This is my town. I’m not going to let him intimidate me. I don’t care what he does.

I continue to the back of the room, giving myself a silent pep talk as I make my approach.

He’s just a guy. No one important. Act natural.

“Annabel,” he acknowledges, his voice low.

“Good, thanks.”

As soon as the words leave my mouth, I want to snatch them back and swallow them down.

Jude is grinning and clearly enjoying every tortuous second.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, trying for a brisk professional tone that sounds more jittery than I would like.

I catch a whiff of his cologne—something manly and hot and a contrast to the cafeteria stench of old pizza and teenage angst. The citrusy smell ignites a flicker of a memory. Of being in his bed, curled up against him . . . but I ruthlessly quell the image.

His bright blue eyes burn into mine like he can read every lascivious daydream I’ve ever had about him along with ones I haven’t thought of yet.

“I’m surprised you have to ask,” he says.

Crap. What did I ask?

“As you know,” he continues, “I take my civic responsibilities very seriously.”

Oh, right. His moustache twitches and I know he’s smiling underneath it even as he talks about being serious. As ever, he’s taking amusement from everyone and everything.

It doesn’t escape my attention he didn’t actually answer my question.

“Right. Whatever.” I shrug my bag up higher on my shoulder and consider my options. I can’t stand right here next to him.

Space. I need space.

“Enjoy the show,” I murmur and walk on, continuing my path along the back wall a good fifteen feet away from where he’s standing. His eyes burn into my back and I’m glad I wore the dark blue skinny jeans that make my butt look awesome.

Not that I care what he thinks about my butt. Not. At. All.

I pull out my phone and small notepad and set my purse on the floor and pretend to not watch Jude out of the corner of my eye when he moves to a table right in my eyeline.

He doesn’t do something as simple as sit, either. He lounges, arranging his body like he’s relaxing on a chaise longue instead of the hard plastic bench attached to the scratched and battered orange table that’s been in this room since at least 1947. I’m pretty sure there’s a carving of my name on the underside of that very table, next to where I drew a little heart with Chad’s initials.

The town council members trickle in from a side door. The mayor, the city manager, and the secretary with her small typewriter all take their places at the table up at the front of the room.

The mayor calls the room to order, and it begins as it always does with a prayer to bless the meeting, followed by the pledge of allegiance.

Shifting from one foot to the other, I try my best to focus on Mayor Adams.

“As the Texas Open Meetings Act does not allow the council to respond to items not listed on the agenda, your comments will be duly noted by the council and forwarded to the appropriate department for prompt consideration.”

Which means they will listen and likely do nothing.

Almost immediately, Eldon Dunbar gets up to discuss the installation of a stop sign “over by where the aliens were spotted at Gary Johnson’s farm.” Riveting.

My eyes, the traitorous bastards, linger on the back of Jude’s head, trailing over the line of his shoulders in his dark suit. It fits impeccably, hugging his broad back like a perfectly wrapped present. A present should be opened. Presents can’t lie around, wrapped for all eternity. It’s like they’re asking for it.

I glance down at my phone. It’s not on. I forgot to turn on my recorder. Smashing a finger over the button, I burn a hole into the back of Jude’s head with my eyes.

It’s not my fault he’s got this thing, this sexy-vibe thing. It doesn’t matter that he’s hairier than a komondor and somewhat resembles a yeti. Even with all that hair covering ninety percent of his face, he’s still got this crazy, all-enveloping presence. It’s like pheromones or . . . I don’t know, invisible lust tentacles.

I’ve never seen him at any of the other meetings, and this definitely isn’t his type of deal. He’s all about parties and bets and making money off his “babies,” as he so affectionately refers to the college kids he uses to supplement his income.

As far as I’m aware, he’s lived in Blue Falls for about six months, but even in that short time, he’s become something of a legend. A master of games and wagers, a purveyor of parties and shenanigans, and also my brother’s former roommate.

“I would like to talk about the government listening to my phone calls every Sunday.” We’ve got a new commenter. Elaine Kilgarriff.

I suppress a smile.

The NSA isn’t really interested in the secret ingredient for your fried chicken, Elaine.

“They park down the street in their van. They’re trying to listen to my conversations and they’ve been walking around behind my house late at night. One of them snuck in through my doggy door and used my shower.”

Mayor Adams coughs.

“And then they made a sandwich. I know it wasn’t my Eugene that did it because they cleaned the utensils and wiped off the counter after, and he ain’t never done that.”

Mayor Adams tilts her head toward Rudy, who clears his throat from his position to the side of the committee.

“Ma’am, we’ve been alerted to the potential presence of suspicious vehicles and we’re working tirelessly day and night to ensure they don’t pose any kind of threat.”

Jude shifts in his seat, once again drawing my attention.

Is he sitting slightly straighter? Leaning forward a smidge?

Rudy continues, “We do have more people residing in Blue Falls than ever before due to the new mining ventures outside town. A lot of them have families visiting for the upcoming holidays and the parades, which Blue Falls is renowned for. I would like to personally assure you that no one will be listening to your calls or harassing anyone in this town on my watch. Or, you know, attempting to burgle your sandwich materials.”

Elaine nods and toddles back to her seat and the next Blue Falls resident gets up to talk about something inane.

I take notes for another thirty minutes while John Nottingham complains about his neighbor’s tree overgrowing his fence and Mr. Gardiner talks about the drainage problems on the city side of his property, but my gaze continually finds its way to the back of Jude’s head.

His stupid, attractive, hairy head.

Eventually, thankfully, Mayor Adams ends the meeting. I bend over for my purse, packing up my notes and tape recorder. When I glance around again, my eyes automatically locate Jude. Now he’s near the door.

The fact that I’m so aware of him makes my jaw clench.

He stops to empty something from his jacket pocket into the trash and then, after a quick glance around, slides out the door.

It’s an innocuous enough move, but something about it sends curiosity thrumming through me.

Just what did he throw away?

I stop by the exit and peer down into the receptacle. There’s nothing obvious in view, but it’s a narrow opening and the bag is black and dark.

God dammit, I’m even getting fixated on his trash? This is why I need to stay away from Jude Parker. He’s dangerous to my sanity.

Doesn’t change the fact that I’m ten seconds from becoming a full-fledged Dumpster diver.

“Do you want to go have a drink at Bodean’s?”

I jump damn near a mile.

“My treat?” The overly enthusiastic question comes from Rudy.

“Aw, I wish I could but I’m meeting Fitz for supper. Sorry.”

This isn’t the first time Rudy has asked me out. He asks everyone out. It’s what he does. I’ve never said yes and a twinge of guilt slips through me at his hangdog expression.

“It’s okay.” His shoulders droop. “Maybe next time.” He walks out the door.

It’s not that he’s a bad guy, it’s that I would rather not hear him talk about himself for two hours.

The bite in the air is a brief shock to my senses, as is the darkening night. The days are getting shorter as winter settles in and brushes its gentle fingers across this side of Texas.

I shrug on my sweater and focus on my next step and not on Jude Parker.

The excuse I gave Rudy wasn’t a lie. Fitz and Reese, my brother and his girlfriend, are home waiting on me. Well, they saved me leftover pizza. That totally counts.

I’m living with Fitz, but she’s there a lot. I don’t mind. I love Reese. She’s awkward and smart and sweet . . . but I think I might keel over from all the PDA going on around our apartment. It’s like a never-ending puke fest of love.

If I had known moving in with Fitz would turn into watching them spew sweetness on each other twenty-four seven, I would have lived in a box next to the H-E-B with ol’ Roy.

I would charge her rent if she weren’t already renting a room from . . . Jude.

And there he is again, my mind running back to him like a pulled tooth you keep tonguing even when you don’t want to. And since I do want to tongue him, it’s a terrible, terrible metaphor.

I turn the corner to the school and run into another wall.

One that wasn’t here before.

A tall, muscly, man wall.

Jude. I know it’s him because his hands on my shoulders transmit a signal through my body like I’m fiber optics and he’s sex moving at the speed of light. My entire being focuses on the heat of his fingers touching me.

I jump back and throw up a wall of indifference, something that will protect me from Jude and his magic lust tentacles.

His sleepy eyes smile at me, the cool blue belying the heat in his gaze.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“I wanted to offer my services as an escort to see you safely home,” he drawls, emphasizing the word escort.

I smirk in an effort to appear unaffected, but I’m afraid the effect is more of a lumpy grimace. “I’m just fine on my own but I thank you for your concern.” I walk past him, setting a brisk pace.

His lengthy strides have no problem keeping up with my shorter gait. “I would like to express my apprehension, despite your obvious ability to care for yourself, as there are mercenaries about as per Ms. Kilgarriff’s testimony. Safety in numbers. I have thoughts only for your welfare, being a gentleman and all.”

“Well, shouldn’t you be walking her home then?”

“Maybe I should. I could check on her if you like, but I don’t think I have the address of her residence.”

I snort. “Right. A gentleman and a civic leader. I’m not buying it. Why were you really here?”

“If I recall correctly, I asked you that very same question.”

He did. The first night we met, at his house.

I was there at the behest of my editor, who wanted to do a story on illegal gambling on campus. Jude’s games.

“I told you why I was there. To check on Fitz.” My brother, who had gotten himself embroiled in one of Jude’s little betting schemes. Fitz had gotten kicked out of his friend’s house, and Jude had lured him into a competition to rent a room.

Jude tsks. “A lie that doesn’t improve itself upon repetition.”

“If you’re so certain you know why I was there, why do you bother asking?”

“Because I don’t know why you were there. If I knew why, I wouldn’t ask. I know you had reasons other than those you alluded to.”

“Maybe I’ll answer your question if you tell me what business you had at the township meeting. You didn’t speak on anything.”

He grins down at me. “Darlin’, were you watching me?”

“Don’t call me that.”

He called me that before. In his bedroom. The lights down low, his hands wrapped around my ribcage, holding me tight, his voice in my ear, his lips running over the sensitive lobe.

He smirks, as if he knows the affect he has on me and enjoys it a little too much.

I’m not going to get any clear answers from him so I continue walking. He keeps up and we move in silence down a side street that will take me to my apartment—the opposite direction of Jude’s house near the university.

We sidestep a youngish couple taking their dog out for a walk. They wave and exclaim, “Beautiful night, isn’t it?” as they pass, holding hands in domestic bliss.

“They seem nice,” Jude says once we’re out of earshot.

I snort.

“We could have a dog together one day,” he continues.

I hold back a laugh. “I would not purchase any kind of canine with you. Ever.”

“You’re right. Felines are definitely better, and I’m not sure Mr. Bojangles would appreciate having to compete for my affections.”

“No competition here.”

“So I take it you haven’t reconsidered my offer of dinner?”

“Answer is still thanks but no thanks.”

“Just checking. I had thought all of the hostility and avoidance of my general person might indicate a rekindling of your prior interest.” Humor tinges his voice.

I stop walking and turn to face him. “I’m not going to change my mind. I’m not interested in a relationship. If you want to pursue a physical relationship . . .” I run my eyes down the suit. Dammit, he’s even hotter up close. It doesn’t help that I know what’s underneath. I take a step closer. “Those are terms I might be amenable to.”

A relationship with Jude would be a threat to my sanity. But a nice roll in the hay? That I could handle.

My bravado falters.

Maybe.

I hope he says no.

Because the truth . . . the truth is Jude probably wouldn’t want anything serious with me. Not if he knew the real me. I’m an unworthy imposter, undeserving of his regard, but I tuck the thought away like a secret diary slipped beneath the mattress. Or porn.

He searches my eyes, his mouth set in a line until one corner pops up. “I’ll keep waiting for you to come around to my way of thinking.”

“It’s gonna be a long wait.” I spin on my heel and march away.

I need to breathe in air he doesn’t penetrate, but he follows, keeping up the pace until I’ve reached the corner where the sidewalk turns into my apartment building.

“Y’all take care now, ya hear?” I say in the best, politest, stickiest-sweet voice I can muster, the one I learned to use on cranky teachers and customers, and turn to go, but he stops me with a word.

“Annabel.”

His voice is deep and rough and I turn and face him, like I can’t even control it. He’s standing there, hands in his pockets, eyes bright even in the dying light, and as inscrutable as ever.

He opens his mouth, shuts it. Opens it again.

It’s a move so unlike the self-assured and confident Jude I’ve come to know that I’m momentarily shocked.

“Be careful,” he finally says.

I blink. What is he warning me of? But then he turns and walks away.

I stand there, staring after him for a few long seconds before turning on my heel and huffing down the sidewalk.

Jude is a mystery I’ve long wanted to unravel. He’s hiding something. I know he is.

But more disturbing to me is how much I want to spend time with him. How much I actually enjoy the banter.

He’s dangerous to the safe little bubble I’ve built. One poke, and it could pop.

Ridorkulous Sneak Peek!

Holyyy shnikes, only TWO MORE WEEKS until Ridorkulous comes out! I cannot wait for y’all to read this nerdelicious romance. I really love these characters and I hope you do too!

Available for pre-order right meow! Click here to order and continue below for an excerpt of chapter one!

Sneak peek! Imperfect Strangers!

Hello lovely friends!! The next book in the Imperfect Series is coming 11/7/18! I’m hard at work on editing, and I’m so excited that I decided to share a little excerpt. I hope you enjoy!

Chapter One

Stay focused. Your start does not determine how you’re going to finish.

–Herm Edwards

Bethany

I wake up in a strange bed with an arm around my waist.

Not this again.

It’s a nice arm. Solid. Muscular. Strong, clean fingers.

I’ve done worse.

It may not be the first time I’ve woken up in someone else’s bed, but it’s the first time I don’t remember who someone else is.

Disappointment wraps its cold fingers around my neck while my mind rifles through memories of the night before and my body absorbs the heat of the man cuddled around me like he belongs there.

I don’t deserve the comforting heat at my back or the soothing sounds of breathing. Whoever he is, he’s good. I’m an expert cuddler and this guy isn’t even trying to press his morning boner in my back. That’s like tenth level snuggling.

Reality blinks to life and slaps me in the face.

I went to bed last night alone. At Marc and Gwen’s. I’ve been checking in on their apartment occasionally ever since they left the country weeks ago.

So who’s the hottie draped over my midsection like he’s got the right?

Muted grey light filters into the room as the sun forces its way through the concrete jungle outside. I turn my head to get a close up look at my bedfellow and my heart stops.

I know him.

Well, I know of him.

Brent Crawford.

I’m snuggling with the tight end for the New York Sharks? The famous athlete? The gossip rag favorite? New York’s sexiest bachelor?

Technically, this is his bed. He’s Marc’s brother and he does live here but he’s been MIA for months. Where did he come from? And why the hell is he spooning me?

For a few long seconds I don’t move, I just watch him breathe and take in his nearness and slumbering good looks. My eyes linger over the defined angle of his jaw, and the criminally long lashes that women pay hundreds to emulate. I turn my head forward and take in the corded muscles of the arms around me, apparent even in a relaxed state.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that any man in possession of such attractions is acutely aware of his own appeal and will use it to his advantage. Over and over and over again. With many, many women.

I used to be one of those women who didn’t mind the game. Hell I loved the game, but I’ve grown up. Men like this . . . they never really do.

I gotta get out of here before I do something dumb.

Oh so carefully, I wiggle to gauge his wakefulness. His grip tightens and he murmurs something unintelligible. Heart pounding, I shift and twist, taking my time and doing moves a contortionist would envy. Eventually I disentangle myself from his arms and slide from the bed. He’s still breathing softly.

I am the queen of escape. A regular Houdini.

My half naked victory dance is halted when I turn back toward the bed and find him sitting up and watching me, his expression a sleepy combination of confusion and interest.

His dark hair is rumpled and sexy and his eyes are a bright shade of blue so mesmerizing I almost rip all my clothes off and jump back into the bed.

Plus, he’s not wearing a shirt. The sheet is covering him only from the waist down, exposing a chiseled chest and arms and . . . is that an eight pack?

“Who are you and why are you in my bed?” His voice is rough with sleep and a zing shoots straight to my lady bits.

Down girl.

“I’m not in your bed,” I point out.

He rubs a hand through his sexy, tousled hair and frowns. “You were.” Those vivid eyes narrow momentarily and then lighten. “You’re Gwen’s friend. Aren’t you living at her apartment? Why are you here?”

My brain shuffles through possible excuses.

Watering the plants got really exhausting and I needed a nap.

Too lame.

I fell asleep while smelling your sheets.

Too creepy.

There’s a ghost in my apartment and I can’t sleep there.

Too unbelievable, even if it happens to be true.

“Oh, would you look at the time?” I glance down at my wrist. There’s no watch there. “I . . . I have to go.” I grab my overnight bag from the chair and bolt for the door.

I slept in only a tank top and panties.

He’s totally getting an eyeful of my ass and cellulite and, ugh.

Doesn’t matter.

“Wait.” He shuffles behind me, pulling on his own clothes but no one can get dressed and undressed as quickly as I can.

It’s an art.

Before he’s even made it out of the bedroom, I’ve pulled my pants out of my bag and I’m out the front door, buttoning as I race down the hall in the direction of the elevator.

The shiny metal doors close me into solitude and I take a deep breath, watching my panicked face in the mirrored walls.

As the elevator descends, laughter bubbles out of my reflection.

I can’t believe I just ran away from the hottest man in the city. I mean, I knew there was a chance I would run into him. Gwen told me he would come back to New York eventually, but no one knew exactly when. I didn’t think I would wake up with him in bed, though. That was definitely a surprise.

How did he not notice someone else sleeping when he got there? Sure, I have a tendency to huddle up into a ball. My friend Lucy would probably tell me it’s because of some kind of internal psychosis or trauma, and she’s probably right, but you’d think he would have turned on a light or something.

I guess I should be thankful he didn’t bring someone home with him. That would have been even more awkward than this morning. Three-way no way.

I wipe a hand down my face with a groan.

Once I reach the bottom floor I ask the doorman to get me a cab to Park Avenue. Might as well go straight to work instead of booking it all the way to Morningside Heights and back. At least I’m close enough to forgo the subway and I have my overnight bag with work clothes still stuffed inside.

As the car pulls away from the curb I consider what I’m going to do now. Since Brent’s here, I guess I won’t have to check the mail and water the plants anymore.

I sink down into the seat of the cab.

But this means I’m going to have a much bigger problem.

How will I ever sleep?

***

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