Six Weeks Later

“And stir that in.” I grinned at the camera when Haley shrieked. “Slowly, sweetie. Slowly.”

Haley sighed and grimaced when she glanced down at her splattered apron. “Great,” she muttered. “And now I’ve embarrassed myself on national television.”

Kel put her hand to her belly, her twin-sized baby bump now beyond obvious. “At least you didn’t attempt to dip yourself into the pancake batter.”

We were making brunch on a live stream, a new addition I’d added to the blog. It had actually been Tammy’s idea, to get me more comfortable with the camera before we began filming in a couple of weeks.

And it was great, actually. All of my social media sites had jumped in traffic, and I even had my own YouTube channel.

A big part of that was the recipes.

The other portion, I figured, was the national news coverage that had come from Rob taking down an FBI drug ring and my kidnapping. Celeste and Cal were currently in federal custody awaiting trial, and while I still didn’t understand why my sister seemed to hate me so much or had decided that she needed to take some sort of vengeance on Rob and me, I was coming to terms with the fact that I might never know.

“I hear pancake batter is good for the skin,” I said.

“Who says that?” Kel groused, wiping at her shirt with a towel. “Stupid belly getting in the way,” she muttered.

“I say that.” I grabbed Haley’s arm to show her the proper motion for whipping the cream.

Yes, I did it by hand. Yes, it gave me nicely toned arms.

The cameraman snorted and I snagged the small camera from his hands. “Okay, Rob,” I said, grinning into the camera before turning it onto my husband. “Since you seem to have something to say, you can do it on film.”

Justin laughed, and I rotated to face him. “Do I need to commandeer you too?” He was sitting behind a laptop, reading comments and questions to us that were posted during the stream.

“Nope.” He raised his hands. “Unless it involves taste-testing bacon.”

We all laughed, and I returned the camera to Rob who gave me a once over and raised a brow.

I sighed. I knew what that brow meant.

It was the signal we’d come up with over the last weeks. His sign to me that he thought I was overtired and needed to wrap things up.

I smiled and nodded and where I once would have ignored the gesture, I’d learned to appreciate the thoughtfulness.

He was trying to help me. He was worried.

And my leg was aching.

So I sped into action, finishing the pancakes, plating them up for the five of us alongside the whipped cream, bacon, and egg casserole that had been resting in the oven.

Rob didn’t intervene, though I knew it was hard for him. Especially when I stumbled as I turned and my knee nearly gave out.

Now that would have been embarrassing.

The TV cook upending multiple plates on camera.

But I righted everything in time, got everyone sitting down and eating, and we ended the live stream.

After five weeks of therapy—I’d taken Haley’s recommendation straight away—and three weeks of rehabbing my leg, Rob trusted me to know my own limits.

Things weren’t perfect, but we were finding our way.

He set the camera to the side, swept me up in his arms, and deposited me on the couch in the next room. Thirty seconds later, he’d returned with two plates and fed us both.

He might trust me to know my limits, but he also wanted to take care of me.

And I was learning how to let him.

Haley sighed when Rob brought the two plates to the kitchen then lifted me in his arms again and carried me back to join the others, plunking me onto his lap in one of the wooden chairs around the old oak table. “I need a man.”

I smiled up at my husband. “Yes,” I said. “They’re not so bad.”

This is the point in every book where I freak out. Because I know I’m going to forget someone. Sometimes writing feels a very solitary career, day after day of just me and my computer, Sally (yes, she has a name. Yes, that’s crazily anthropomorphic, but I’m mean and that means my brain works in mysterious ways ). But I digress.

There are so many people that keep me sane, allow me to bounce covers and plot ideas and book titles off of that it would be impossible to name them all (though K.C. you especially rock!). This is the point that I remember I’m not a solitary creature and that a ton of people help me morph my scattered ideas into a real, working book.

Thank you to my editors, Adriel, Kay, and Christine. You never fail to jump in and save me when time gets tight or when I have a freak out about a hyphen or when I change a character’s age or eye color (looking at you, Adriel ). And thank you to my fan group, The Fabinators, who have been with me for so long and show so much support! You’re awesome.

Okay, I’ve blabbed enough, but before I go, I want to give an especially big thanks to Sara. You may no longer be my assistant (tears!!) and I’m so sad to lose you to full time employment, but I’m looking forward to what your future holds and know that you deserve all the happiness and good things in the world. I love you!

Oh! And see I almost forgot someone! YOU. Because I couldn’t do it without you guys! Thank you for continuing to support me and my books. I love you guys!! I also love keeping in touch, so go ahead and join my fan group. It’s fun, I promise!! () Or feel free to email me (), or reach out to me via my website ().

-XOXO, E

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.

“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 a man out—quite literally, they had once knocked 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 to 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 to 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 shoulder with my own, 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.

“Weasel?” he asked.

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.”