The Fiction Between Us (Honeywood, #2)

by Julie Olivia

For everyone who thinks they’re not enough.

Once upon a time, in the hot humidity of a late Georgia summer, a queen ices her swollen lip.

Or rather, a theme park employee masquerading as a queen. An employee who, currently, can’t tell if the metallic tang in her mouth is from leftover summer rainfall or blood.

My blood pressure spikes, and it’s not because I’m overwhelmed by stomach butterflies or dreamy, lovey-dovey thoughts vignetted in peachy pinks and creams. No, it is due to stress from the other voice coming over the walkie’s line—Landon Arden.

“No, they’re in the corner, under the tulle.” “That word means nothing to me,”

If this type of annoyance is love, no wonder the divorce rate is so high.

“The name’s been around forever,” I say. “Then, why haven’t I heard of it?” “It’s not my job to keep a log of your shortcomings.”

My best friend’s twin brother and my old high school bully receives zero extra privileges from me.

“Quinn got into it with a guest again,” says my once-loyal coworker. Fred’s eyes widen, and his hands go to his hips in the pose that stretches his yellow Honeywood polo across his stomach. “Okay, wait! That’s not why I have a bloody lip though,” I quickly say. “I wouldn’t openly fight a guest. Jeez. Give me more credit than that.”

“Yes, Master of the Underworld?”

“I kind of like that one,” he says. “It was for Emily’s benefit. Go on.”

“Honest question for you,” Landon says. “I might be dishonest with my answer.” “I’d expect nothing less.”

“Ahem, your question?” I ask. “Did you steal my shorts?” “Pardon?”

I did in fact steal his security uniform shorts. Or at least, the only clean pair in his size. I knew he would have to wear one size up. I liked the idea of him being annoyed all day.

Instead of picking one size up for his shorts, he chose one size down. Thick, very toned, definitely doesn’t skip leg day thighs look like they’re about to bust out of his brown shorts, Hulk-style. A UPS man gone wild.

“Stage left,” I croak through the walkie. “And maybe wear work-appropriate shorts.”

“I don’t know what stage left means,” he says. “And it’s funny; I actually thought you’d be nicer to me, considering I’m the one bringing your shoes.”

Landon’s boot hooks onto the edge of the curtain with his next step. And then I see it all happen in slow motion—the tug, the trip, the fall.

Landon sits up onto his knees, throwing his head back. His hat slings across the stage. His reddish-brown hair hangs limp with a Clark Kent–like curl. The top button of his shirt is popped open. A tuft of amber-colored chest hair peeks out. He looks like a sacrifice to the sex gods.

But then I notice the large rip just below his belt, exposing pizza-printed underwear.

And after that, I hear a child yell loudly, “Grammy, look! It’s Ranger Randy!” It just got way, way worse.

So, I do the only thing that makes sense to me in my panicked stupor. I throw a thumbs-up, grin, and say, “Hi, kids! I’m Ranger Randy!”

Suddenly, whoops and hollers explode at a volume I didn’t know was possible. My heart pounds in my chest, but I quickly realize the cheers aren’t for me. They’re for her.

Stepping out onstage—barefoot with black nail polish—is Queen Bee.

Both my heart and my knees sink onto the wooden stage, melting into the lum...

But it’s hard to stay composed in the presence of royalty—under the eyes of my sister’s...

Only Quinn Sauer could make a gentle, bubbly character also look like she’d step on you. But not in a dominatrix way or anything. Well … maybe.

“Ranger Randy?” she asks over the crowd. “Is that you crashing down in my Honeywood Forest?”

A smile twitches at the corner of my lips, and my heart thumps. There it is. The familiar feeling.

“And is Honeywood safe, Ranger Randy?” Quinn continues. “Safe as a warm blanket,” I say with an immediate cringe. “A blanket that you seem to be tangled in,” she says.

I can’t speak. I’m too distracted by her soft Barbie blonde hair. Overwhelmed by how much I’ve missed her. Humbled by how unbelievably screwed I am.

When she reaches me, she leans in toward my ear. My heart pounds so loud that I wonder if she can hear it. The scent of her is intoxicating. She smells sweet as honey.

Then, her normal voice comes through with a hiss-whisper of, “Don’t move, Pizza Butt.” There’s the woman I know. I smile. “Gotta say, I’m loving these new nicknames.” “No, your shorts,” she says.

“I ripped them, didn’t I?” I whisper back. “Bingo.” Yep. Pizza butt. I wore my lucky pair of pizza-printed underwear.

“Why, thank you,” she finally says, her voice an echo in the dead air around us. Her chest slowly breathes in and out. And I say the only thing that makes sense in my mind at that very moment. “Anything for you, My Queen.”

All three of my friends raise their coffee mugs up to their mouths like they’re the hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil monkeys.

IS RANGER RANDY’S ROLLICKING RETURN TO HONEYWOOD TO ROMANCE ROYALTY?

“I hope the Buzzy statue falls on Landon, is all I’m saying,” I say. “Quinn!” Lorelei says, twisting on her heel. Emory chuckles into his coffee mug. Another good thing about Emory: I can tell morbid jokes and have someone else in the room laugh.

The so-called knight in shining armor himself appears.

I forget how irritatingly perfect his face is. The straight nose, the full lips, the trimmed chestnut-colored beard.

He nudges my elbow with his. I don’t return the gesture, though the sparks fly up my shoulder like a current through a wire.

That was all it took for me to fall desperately in love with my best friend’s twin brother.

“Romancing royalty,” Theo says, breaking me from my reverie. She’s got the newspaper in her hands again, shaking her head. Her eyes dart to mine with a smile. “I’d pay to see you and Landon pretend to like each other.”

I’m just trying to get my bearings and move into my thirties with some dignity. A house. Friends. Maybe eventually a family. I’ve got two out of the three. But that third piece is … complicated at best.

And yet, somehow, my heart is only drawn to the one woman who probably wouldn’t even tell me if I had spinach in my teeth.

My sister’s best friend has held my heart for far too long.

Sometimes, I wonder if my prolonged crush on Quinn Sauer is some form of karmic torture. She’s never forgiven me for finding her dropped diary in the hallway of Cedar Cliff High, for having it ripped from my hands by Michael, our f...

Quinn and I were never really the same after that and yet … and yet …

“Those dimples, my God,” she says, reaching up to drag her hands down her own cheeks. “Yes, you’re definitely my tour guide today.”

“Honey Pleasure,” she announces. “At your service. Well, not really. You’re at mine.”