Epilogue
Heather
Heather sniffed and swiped a finger under her eyes as Colin and CeCe drove off in their car.
“So the master businesswoman known as Heather O’Keith has real human emotions?”
She stiffened, whipping around to glare at Clay Steele, successful businessman, rival entrepreneur, and sexy as fuck male . . . despite the awful porn star name.
“I have plenty of feelings,” she snapped. “Just because I don’t make a practice of showing them in my fucking boardroom doesn’t make me less of a woman.”
Clay’s stare drifted down and then back up. “Anyone who says you’re not a woman has lost their fucking mind.”
Heather froze.
Had he—?
Had the man who’d done nothing but dog her steps in the business world, who made it a point of tormenting her by stealing clients and undercutting bids, had he just complimented her?
How in the . . .
Then she saw the glassy look in his eyes.
Ah. Drunk.
“You’ve had a few too many,” she said, waving a hand at the town car parked at the corner. Of all the things that came along with busting her ass to have a flush bank account, having enough money to afford a personal driver was a perk that she really enjoyed.
“So?” he asked, not quite belligerent but close.
Idiot men. She’d seen way too many of them in this situation to be the least bit cowed. “I hope you’re not an angry drunk.”
“No.” Both brows came up, waggled. “I’m a horny one.”
Despite herself, she chuckled. “With a porn star name like yours, I’m not surprised.”
“Hey!” he said and followed her when she strode toward her car, the back door now conveniently open. “I’ll have you know, my name is a family one, passed down generation by glorious generation.”
A roll of her eyes as she pushed through the open door, plunking down on the plush leather seats. “Maybe so. But you’re still drunk.”
His expression sobered enough that she stopped short of slamming the metal panel on his head.
Didn’t stop her from wanting to do it, though.
His next words made her regret the thought. “Rough day for me today.”
Dammit.
Clay seemed to realize he’d said too much and so he stepped back, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Who were they?”
“Friends.” No. At this point Colin and CeCe were family.
“Ah.” One of his hands exited his pockets and shoved through his hair, leaving the thick brown locks mussed. Not that it detracted from the image. Rather, it made Clay Steele appear slightly more human instead of his typical.
Which was godlike.
Tall, broad in the shoulders, lean in the hips, with chocolate-colored hair and unusually vibrant mocha irises.
He’d been in her mental spank bank for months.
“I’d give a lot to have one of those again.”
His words made her frown in confusion before she realized she’d spoken aloud. Though thankfully about CeCe and Colin being more than friends and not about her tendency to masturbate to the image of Clay bending her over the bed, pinning her against a wall, grabbing her by the ankles and—
“A family?” she asked, blinking the images away.
“Yeah.” A sigh as he turned away. “See you at the next convention, O’Keith.”
“Wait!” Acting on an instinct she didn’t want to examine too closely, Heather put one foot out of the car, reached to snag his wrist, and hauled him to a stop. “Let me at least take you back to your hotel.”
“I’m getting drunk,” he said, but allowed her to pull him inside the car so that her driver could shut the door behind them.
“Fine,” she said, half-worried he was going to launch himself from the sedan. She’d never seen Clay like this. Usually he was so cold and uncompromising, impenetrable even under the toughest of negotiations. He was . . . well, he was typically as Steele-like as his last name decreed.
She grabbed his arm to stop any unplanned exits from the vehicle and gave the driver the name of her favorite bar. “If you want to drink, let’s do it right.”
And then she’d drop him at his hotel.
Except it didn’t happen that way.
Yes, they hit the bar.
Yes, they drank.
Yes, they got drunk.
But then they woke up . . . or at least, Heather woke up.
Naked.
With a softly snoring Clay Steele passed out next to her in bed.
That wasn’t the worst part.
Because Heather woke up naked and with a softly snoring Clay Steele in her bed and she was wearing a giant diamond ring on her left hand.
Still not the worst part. That came in the form of a slightly crumpled marriage certificate tucked under her right cheek.
And not the one on her face.
She pulled it from beneath her, a cold sweat breaking out on her body, dread in every nerve and cell.
She still wasn’t prepared for the horror she found.
The marriage license had been signed by . . . Heather O’Keith and Clay Steele.
Holy fuck, what had she done?
—Bad Husband coming January 25th (preorder your copy of Heather and Clay’s story
Did you miss book one of the Billionaire’s Club series, Bad Night Stand? If so, grab your copy and check out the first chapter below.
CHAPTER ONE
“If you were a chicken, you’d be impeccable.”
I swirled the sip of rum and Coke in my mouth in an effort to not spit it all over the bar.
Then I swallowed carefully and rotated my head so I could see my friend Seraphina on the next stool over. She was currently holding court over a group of men.
Beautiful, tall, thin, and with a pair of boobs that could knock someone out—quite literally, they had once rendered a man unconscious. Okay, well, the sight of her impressive cleavage had caused the man to do a double take and promptly run into a large and extremely hard brick pillar in this very bar, but the point was still there. Seraphina was goddess gorgeous, and she was my very best friend.
“Get it?” the man who’d elbowed his way to the front of the crowd surrounding Seraphina asked. “Im-peck-able.”
“She gets it,” I muttered. “It’s just so horribly im-peck-able that only an idiot like you would dare use it.”
Seraphina’s lips turned up at my caustic complaint.
“Hush, you,” she murmured before raising her voice to address the man. “Puns. I do have a certain . . . fondness for them.” Her reply started him talking, drowning on about different languages and double meanings. It might have almost been admirable, the sheer quantity of words orally puking all over our ears, if it wasn’t so sad and pathetic.
Whew.
I took another sip of my drink. A bigger one because . . . bitter much?
“I’m sorry,” Seraphina whispered out of the corner of her mouth. “I don’t know why this always happens.”
“You’re Barbie,” I said, bumping her arm with my shoulder. “It’s not your fault.”
My friend had that elusive je ne sais quoi. Unspoken charisma that drew men to her like flies to honey.
And if I was being honest, sometimes that made it hard to be her friend.
I didn’t mind being in the background; I preferred it, actually. Given too much attention, I froze and inevitably made a fool out of myself.
But drawing a crowd of slavering men every time we went out made it difficult just to have a drink with my best friend, never mind a full meal.
“I’m sorry,” she said again when Bad-Pun was displaced and another man slid forward in an attempt to claim Seraphina’s attention. “I honestly thought the jacket would help.”
I grimaced. “The jacket is what’s doing it, I think.”
A bomber made of black leather, it hit just beneath her breasts and managed to emphasize both the bounciness of that particular portion of her anatomy and the slimness of her waist.
“Next time, drinks at my place and takeout.”
I saluted her with my glass. “Agree completely.”
“Should we go?” she asked, tilting her head toward the door.
“No.” I nodded at the Y-chromosomes dotting the space around her like flowers in a planter bed. “Prince Charming may be here.”
One blond brow rose. “I doubt it.”
“You’re the one looking for a happily ever after.” I nudged her arm with my own again, knowing my friend was a romantic and, despite her beauty, also very lonely. It was hard for her to find someone who saw her as more than the sum of her parts.
And Seraphina was desperate to be more for someone.
“I’m not so sure happily ever after exists,” she said.
“Oh, it definitely exists.” I held her stare, willing her to believe.
Because happily ever after had to exist.
For some people.
Of the goddess variety.
Because if Seraphina couldn’t find it, then what chance in hell did I have?
Not that I was looking, thank you very much.
I was just fine with my laptop and my cozy socks and my books.
“Now get on finding that HEA,” I said, using the code word from our favorite genre of books—romance, of course. Because what the heck was life without fictional eight-packs and alpha males who actually cared about the women they slept with?
Seraphina bit her lip and I narrowed my eyes at her. “I’ll be here to quip nastily about all the bad pickup lines your prince tosses your way.”
She laughed, leaned her head against mine. “You’re the best.”
I smiled, leaned back. “I know.”
Seraphina turned back to her admirers and I pulled out my phone, half reading the latest release from one of our favorite authors, and half listening to my friend charm the socks off everyone around her.
“You’re a good friend.”
The male voice sent a shiver from my head to my toes. It was honey, warm and languid as it slid down my spine and sent my blood pumping.
Which was very, very dangerous.
I sighed. This was always the worst tactic, the most underhanded masculine effort to get my friend’s attention.
Going through the slightly-rumpled, cute-but-definitely-not-gorgeous, exceptionally-clumsy best friend.
It sent my inner sidekick radar on full alert.
Mostly because I’d been hurt this way before.
So “mmm-hmm” was the only thing I said in response.
“Jordan.” A hand appeared directly in front of my face, unfairly positioned between my booze, my book, and my eyes and mouth.
I huffed and finally looked up.
Then promptly felt my lips fall open. Because—holy fucking shit—this guy was gorgeous. Way out of my league, of course. But blond and blue-eyed and hard and tall and ripped. He brought every single Thor fantasy to life—the short-haired, shorn, lightning-bolts-on-the-side-of-his-head version.
Which, face it, was obviously the better variety.
He wore a pair of slacks and a gray button-down that was so sinfully tight around his biceps I half expected it to burst open. I studied those seams for signs of wear. I mean, a girl had to watch out for the rest of humanity, right?
Unfortunately for me, the shirt stayed in place and the signature lightning bolts weren’t present in Jordan’s hair, but his pants were so tight that his hammer—
I shifted on my stool, thighs unconsciously pressing together as blood pooled there.
Which was the exact moment that I remembered he wasn’t there for me.
Damn.
He radiated that same allure as my best friend. Wasn’t life just perfect sometimes? A gorgeous redhead was perched on the stool behind him, leaning forward in an almost obscene pose in order to compete with Seraphina’s cleavage.
She couldn’t, of course.
But it wasn’t just one woman vying for his attention. No, they were dotted around the room, coquettishly blinking at him, crossing and uncrossing legs, adjusting outfits. Even the bartender—female, brunette, beautiful—had chosen to polish glasses two inches from his right elbow.
He was movie star handsome and he . . . was perfect for Seraphina.
“Abigail,” I eventually made myself reply, putting my hand out to shake his.
It wasn’t disappointment curling around my stomach. It couldn’t be, not when Jordan was so stratospherically far out of my league.
He grinned—nice smile, of course—and shook my hand. I suppressed the zing of pleasure that coursed through me at the contact. Instead, I pulled back and hitched a thumb over my shoulder. “Her name is Seraphina. She likes cosmos and hates cheesy pickup lines, despite her kindness in accepting them.” I decided to throw him a solid because, really, they were absolutely perfect for each other. “Talk to her about how much you love CSI.”
I tucked my phone into my purse, grabbed my drink, and drained it.
“I hate CSI,” he said, brows pulling down.
“If you want a chance with her, you might want to discover a newfound love for it.”
My legs took a long time to reach the ground—short people problems—but luckily they’d made contact with the wooden surface before Jordan spoke again; otherwise, they might have kept on slithering until I was ass-down on the sticky floor.
“I don’t want a chance with her,” he said. “I want a chance with you.”
My eyes flew up, and I couldn’t help my breath from catching. I wanted that, too. A horizontal, writhing chance. Or hell, vertical. Semi-reclined. I’d take any of it.
My body was very aware of exactly how hot he was.
But then I remembered reality.
“I’m the best friend,” I said and lifted my chin, forcing my words to be matter-of-fact. I’d been through this before. “You might be fuckable to the nth degree and perfect for Seraphina, but I refuse to set her up with a liar.”
In a movement too quick for my brain to process, my stool was shoved to the side and I was pinned against the bar, heavy hips pressing into me, a hard chest two inches from my mouth.
Seraphina whipped around at the movement and I could just see her over Jordan’s shoulder, her blue eyes concerned.
“Hi, Seraphina, I’m Jordan,” he said, calm as can be, gaze locked onto my face then my eyes when mine invariably couldn’t stay away. “I’m going to borrow your friend for a minute.”
“Abs?” she asked, and I knew she’d go to bat for me right then and there if I needed her to.
“Weasel or no?” I managed to gasp out. For some reason, I couldn’t catch my breath.
Not that it had anything to do with Jordan.
No, it had everything to do with him.
I shook my head, focused on my best friend. Weasel was our code name for the men trying to weasel, quite literally, their way into my pants and then into hers.
I was just about ready to say fuck it—or me, rather—even if Jordan was a Weasel. He smelled amazing. His body was hard and hot against mine.
And it had been way too long since I’d had sex.
“No chemistry on my part—” Seraphina began.
“Your friend isn’t who I’m attracted to,” Jordan growled out. “You are, and it’s fucking pissing me off that you don’t believe that.”
—Grab your copy of Bad Night Stand
Did you miss the first two books in the Roosevelt Ranch series? Check out Disaster at Roosevelt Ranch or Heartbreak at Roosevelt Ranch or see the excerpts below!
DISASTER AT ROOSEVELT RANCH
CHAPTER ONE
I had never thought of a plus sign as a bad thing.
Of course, I’d never had one show up on a stick I’d peed on. Kudos to me, that changed today.
My knees wobbled, and the idiotic white piece of plastic rattled as I set it on the scarred Formica countertop.
Brown eyes—mine—stared back at me accusingly in the mirror. “You’ve done it now.”
A baby.
My hand found my stomach. Still flat, still the same.
Even though so much had changed.
The bathroom door rattled as a fist slammed against the thin plank of wood. “Move it, Kel! Food’s up and your tables are restless.”
“Coming!” I called as I wrapped the test in a paper towel before shoving it deep into my purse.
I couldn’t leave it here. Not where anyone—where Henry—might see it. He would get his back up, storm out to the ranch where he-who-must-not-be-named lived, and drag the no-good, low down piece of crap into town for a proper whooping.
And I might just want to let him.
With a sigh, I washed my hands and left the bathroom.
It was my own fault. I knew the type of man Rex was.
I’d fallen into his bed anyway.
“Regret never fails to burn like a mother,” I muttered as I swept into the kitchen, grabbed the plates from the pass, and started hustling toward my table.
“What was that?” Henry asked as he flipped a burger.
“Nothing.” I hefted the tray filled with six plates and various food accessories—ketchup, extra dressing, and napkins—with practiced ease.
Oh, God. I was going to be huge and pregnant and . . . waiting tables.
Good luck to the customers, because I lacked the sincerity and cheerfulness that seemed to come naturally to most waitresses on a normal day. I could only imagine what was going to happen when my hormones raged.
Using my back, I pushed through the swinging door and promptly stumbled to a stop.
He was here. Rex was here.
Stupidly, my heart raced. He’d changed his mind. He’d—
The man’s eyes flicked to mine, completely unrecognizing and indifferent. My momentary burst of hope disintegrated.
He was going to pretend not to know me? To not recognize me?
The jerk! The rotten—
Except . . . there was something off about him. I squinted, trying to discern the change, but the tray was taking its toll on my arms. I tore my gaze away from Rex to practically hurl the dishes at my customers.
“Anything else?” I asked, and was thankful when there weren’t any requests.
Two seconds later, I was in front of Rex.
Who wasn’t actually Rex.
Oh, he was the right height and had the same square jaw and the same gorgeous, sun-kissed skin, but this man wasn’t the one I’d slept with.
“Hi,” he said, his green eyes warm. They were a brilliant emerald and just as inviting as they’d been in the picture I’d seen on Rex’s desk. “Can I just sit anywhere?”
My nod was jerky. “I’ll get you a menu.”
Fingers brushed my arm—calloused fingers that felt both familiar and different.
“You okay?”
I forced a smile, my stomach churning. This could not be happening. “Just perfect—”
And that was the moment I puked all over Rex’s twin’s shoes.
—Get Disaster at Roosevelt Ranch
HEARTBREAK AT ROOSEVELT RANCH
CHAPTER ONE
I straightened from putting the last plate into the dishwasher and stretched for a towel to wipe my hands. I was exhausted after twenty-four straight hours with the kids, and Rob still wasn’t home. Not to mention, I needed to make cupcakes for Max’s school—and somehow do it without sugar.
So the ensuing crash upstairs was not welcome.
Dropping the towel, I whisper-sprinted up to the second floor—running on tiptoes while hopping, leaping, and skipping over every toy obstacle, creaky floorboard, and rogue crayon along the way.
The light was on in Max’s room, and considering that I had made this trek a half dozen times in the last hour, I was out of patience.
“You need to go to sleep,” I growled, throwing open the door, my fierce mom glare already in place.
Except the devil child was asleep.
He’d fallen out of bed, crashed onto an entire village of Legos—scattering them to hell and back—and was dead asleep.
My heart gave a little squeeze even as the logical part of me recognized the giant mess I’d be picking up tomorrow.
It was just that face.
A cupid’s bow of bright pink lips, slightly parted, rosy cheeks, and mussed hair. The boy was cute, and it was hard to believe he was part of me, that he’d come from my body.
I clucked my tongue at myself, knowing I was being ridiculous and romantic and Melissa-like because I’d spent the day with Kelly and her toddler, Abby.
My baby sister had a baby. And a man. And was all grown up—
Oh God. There I went with the tears again.
Swiping a finger under each eye, I navigated the minefield of toys as I made my way over to Max. I gave an internal grunt as I lifted the little—or not so little, anymore—monkey and tucked him back into bed.
One hastily constructed barrier of pillows and blankets and stuffed Minecraft toys later, and I was heading back out of the room.
I flicked the light off, started to leave—
“Too dark, Mommy,” he murmured.
A sigh. Back on it went. “Good night, sweetheart.”
“Night.”
This time I made it to the top of the stairs before a sound stopped me.
It wasn’t the kids. No. This was more like . . . buzzing?
I cocked my head and listened, then made my way to my bedroom, a growing pile of toys in my arms as I went.
The door was open, and I walked inside, dumping the pile on the coverlet before stopping to pinpoint the sound.
I felt my pockets for my cell. Not even two days before, I’d scoured the house for my phone, it somehow having fallen out of my pocket, ending up under the dresser. It had taken darn near fifty calls and a search of the entire house before I’d found it.
Those locating apps were all well and good, but they couldn’t tell a person which room in a house their phone was. Which meant the app, for my day-to-day exploits, was pretty much useless.
I hardly left home at all except for the kids’ activities and school pickup or drop off.
Or if Rob needed something down at the station.
And that was fine. My place was at home. The kids needed me, Rob needed me. It was just that sometimes . . .
My phone was in my pocket. The sound wasn’t coming from beneath the dresser.
It was coming from the bed.
I peered under, saw nothing, and I was reaching for Rob’s flashlight in his nightstand when I realized where exactly the noise was originating from.
My hand slid between the mattress and box spring, jumping a little when the object buzzed against my fingers.
“What—?” I pulled it out, saw it was an older-looking iPhone. Why was there—
Then I saw the texts. An entire screen worth of them.
And my heart froze solid.
The question wasn’t why Rob had hidden a phone under his side of the mattress. It was why someone named Celeste was calling him honey and telling my husband that she needed him.
Downstairs, I heard the garage door rumble open and close, the clink of Rob’s keys on the kitchen counter. “Miss?” he called softly up the stairs.
My voice was gone, my throat tight. My eyes burned, and still, I held the phone. It wasn’t until I heard him walking down the hall to the bedroom that I sprang into motion.
I shoved the phone back under the mattress and scooped up the toys.
Rob stopped short in the doorway. “Oh.” He smiled. “I called you.”
“Sorry, I was cleaning.”
He touched my cheek, slid past me. “You don’t have to do that.”
“It’s my job,” I said brightly, and if it was too bright then what did it matter anyway?
My husband was moving toward the bathroom, already unbuttoning his shirt. “Is there a plate for me?”
I turned, saw he’d paused, and forced a smile. “Yup. I’ll heat it up for you.”
“Thanks, love.”
“Of course.” I walked out of the bedroom but didn’t go downstairs.
Instead, I hesitated in the hall, silent and waiting.
And my gut tied itself into knots when I heard Rob’s footfalls across the carpet, the slide of his hand beneath the mattress as he pulled out the phone.
—Get your copy of Heartbreak at Roosevelt Ranch .