Cecilia sat on the plane, her first class seat luxurious and insanely comfortable. It might have been the first time in her limited travel experience that she didn’t feel like cattle shoved into the back of a truck, and instead like an actual person with wants and needs.

“Your champagne, Ms. Thiele.”

“Thank you,” she said and took a sip, leaning back into the butter-soft leather with a sigh.

She’d just closed her eyes when someone sat down in the empty seat next to her.

Rustling accompanied the movement as the person got settled.

“Can I get you anything?” the flight attendant asked.

“A whiskey.”

The hairs stood up on Cecilia’s neck. Oh, God no. It couldn’t possibly be—

She clenched her lids tightly, refusing, absolutely refusing to open them. No. She was hearing things. It had been years since she’d heard that voice.

Too many years.

“Here you go, Mr. McGregor.”

Oh fuck.

Her eyes flew open, she peeked out, and dread twisted her stomach into knots.

No. It couldn’t be.

She’d booked this flight last minute, deciding to use the voucher from Abby after she and Jordan had returned from their honeymoon. Cecilia’s life had felt stagnant. She’d needed to get away, and she’d had the free flight and hotel.

It made sense to use it, however last minute.

Plus, everything had worked out. There had been one first class seat open. Only one cabin at her dream resort.

And now she was sitting next to Colin McGregor.

“Flight attendants, arm the doors,” the pilot’s voice chimed through the plane’s speakers.

A thud signaled her last avenue of retreat disappearing.

She was trapped on a nonstop flight for twelve hours. With the man who’d left her at the altar.

How was this possibly her life?

“Cecilia?” that masculine voice asked. “Is that really you?”

And just like all the times before, her eyes were drawn to him. She’d never been able to ignore him. Not Colin. Not even when he’d—

But this time was different.

She wasn’t weak. She wasn’t a vulnerable girl in a rough place.

She’d been through hell and back.

Colin had no power over her.

Not anymore.

Cecilia put in her earbuds and turned her back on the man who’d devastated her world five years before.

Brit

The first question Brit always got when people found out she played ice hockey was “Do you have all of your teeth?”

The second was “Do you, you know, look at the guys in the locker room?”

The first she could deal with easily—flash a smile of her full set of chompers, no gaps in sight. The second was more problematic. Especially since it was typically accompanied by a smug smile or a coy wink.

Of course she looked. Everybody looked once. Everyone snuck a glance, made a judgment that was quickly filed away and shoved deep down into the recesses of their mind.

And she meant way down.

Because, dammit, she was there to play hockey, not assess her teammates’ six packs. If she wanted to get her man candy fix, she could just go on social media. There were shirtless guys for days filling her feed.

But that wasn’t the answer the media wanted.

Who cared about locker room dynamics? Who gave a damn whether or not she, as a typical heterosexual woman, found her fellow players attractive?

Yet for some inane reason, it did matter to people.

Brit wasn’t stupid. The press wanted a story. A scandal. They were desperate for her to fall for one of her teammates—or better yet the captain from their rival team—and have an affair that was worthy of a romantic comedy.

She’d just gotten very good at keeping her love life—as nonexistent as it was—to herself, gotten very good at not reacting in any perceptible way to the insinuations.

So when the reporter asked her the same set of questions for the thousandth time in her twenty-six years, she grinned—showing off those teeth—and commented with a sweetly innocent “Could’ve sworn you were going to ask me about the coed showers.” She waited for the room-at-large to laugh then said, “Next question, please.”

This was it, the call up of her life.

And Brit was sitting in the parking lot of the arena, unable to force her fingers off the steering wheel.

“Get it together,” she muttered. “Or you will suck on the ice.”

Harsh, probably. But the truth.

Still, the words were enough. Enough to get her body in motion, to pop her door, and walk around to the trunk of her ten-year-old Corolla.

Her gear was shoved inside the small space like a sausage threatening to burst from its casing. Brit grabbed the strap and hauled out her bag before slinging it across her shoulder.

“You know they have guys for that.”

The voice made her jump, and her gaze shot up, then up some more until she stared directly into the eyes of the captain of the San Francisco Gold, Stefan Barie.

The slight tinge of a Minnesotan accent made her shiver.

Uh-oh.

And seriously, only a hockey fan would find a Minnesotan accent sexy.

He smiled. “It’s the coldest-winter-is-summer-in-San-Francisco thing.” When she frowned, he cocked his head. “The wind chill.”

What?

“You know? Mark Twain?”

Her brows pulled together. “I know who Mark Twain is, and I’m familiar with the quote. Though it’s a common misnomer, and Twain didn’t actually say it. Still, it is windy in the city . . . I just don’t know why you think I’m cold, and it’s not—” She shook herself. What was the point in her rambling? “Never mind.”

This was what her mind did.

Every single time.

It drifted, focused on mundane details she then couldn’t prevent from bursting free.

No surprise that once they were free, her conversations were punctuated with awkward pauses.

Like the one happening now.

Brit sighed. Give her an interview any time. Let her spout off sound bites to the camera and no problem. It was the real life human interactions that were terrible.

“No,” Stefan said. “Tell me. What is it?”

It was only because he seemed genuinely interested that she answered.

“It’s not summer.”

“What?”

Another sigh. Yep. Way to go, genius. “It’s technically fall. Summer has been over for six-and-a-half days.”

There was a moment of quiet, a long, uncomfortable pause during which neither of them spoke.

Then surprisingly—shockingly—Stefan laughed. Her heart gave a little squeeze, her brain said, Uh-oh, but then before she could really panic, he spoke, “You’re absolutely right. Now come on.” Snagging her sticks, he nodded toward the arena. “I’ll show you the ropes.”

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.

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 . . .

No. Don’t get sidetracked.

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.

1. a chaotic or disastrous situation
2. a person whom disaster follows at every freaking turn
3. someone who could create disaster out of even the most innocuous situations
4. Pepper O’Brien

“So what do I do exactly?” Pepper asked, fumbling to hold the arrow-shaped sign as she wrestled her long red hair into a ponytail.

Bert, the owner and namesake of Bert’s Burgers, gave an exaggerated sigh. “You stand on the corner. You hold the sign and maybe dance a little.”

She should have brought a hat.

Her pale skin didn’t like the sun, and Pepper knew she’d be one giant freckle in less than an hour. But she wasn’t a complainer, so instead of running screaming out the door when her mind churned up the memories of the last time she’d danced—an Academy award-winning actor, blood, and her resultant flight from Plastic-town, USA—she nodded. “Got it.”

Broken vases, expensive flowers crushed on the floor, armies of lawyers, publicists, and handlers were all in the past.

She’d been pigeonholed by her family’s expectations for too long. This was her chance to slip out of the spotlight and have slice of normalcy.

Pepper gave Bert a bright smile and pushed through the door.

She needed this job.

Not just for the money. Her father would give her anything she asked for. In fact, after paying the settlement to Christian Strand—aforementioned Oscar-winning actor she’d almost managed to de-brain with his own award—her father had technically given enough for three lifetimes.

But she was tired of being her family’s train wreck. Tired of being the thing her father threw money at even as he discounted her worth on every other level.

Oh dear, poor Pepper crashed a Ferrari and destroyed an entire film set. She’s such a mess, but hey, at least the movie is in the news.

That Pepper! She set fire to her dormitory at UCLA, and the entire building had to be evacuated when she attempted to cook a special dinner for her boyfriend. But, hey, the latest O’Brien film is set on a university campus—we can spin this.

Sigh. Pepper tried to set her class goldfish free by flushing it down the toilet and ended up scarring her classmates’ delicate little psyches. But, hey, all drains lead to the ocean, right? O’Brien Films is producing a set-at-sea drama. We’ll donate to clean water causes, drum up some positive publicity.

“Ouch,” she muttered when the door shut on her before she and the arrow had cleared it.

Pepper shoved the metal and glass panel back, wrestled her way through, and—

Le sigh.

Her talent wasn’t in traditional interviews and social media posts, not like her brother. He was brilliant at lining up A-list celebrities, at getting features on the Today Show. She, on the hand, was golden because of her screw-ups.

Everyone’s favorite joke.

A bumbling fool with a sweet face and disposition. The girl who everyone loved to laugh at, to exclaim that being born with the proverbial silver spoon didn’t give a person everything.

Like grace, she thought as she tripped on a crack in the sidewalk and nearly broke the cardboard sign in half. Righting herself, she exhaled slowly then moved toward the corner.

Hollywood might as well pat her on the head like a puppy.

“Good girl, Pepper.”

“Just stay in the news. The new movie releases next week.”

“Keep messing up. Just make sure that your screw-ups are hilarious and relatable.”

She huffed inwardly. The chatter was enough to make a grown woman insane.

But this, being here, making it on her own was her chance to prove she could do something and not screw it up.

She would not screw this up.

“Pepper!”

Bert’s head popped through the door—crazy white hair, bushy eyebrows, thick lumberjack mustache, and all.

“Yes?” She straightened her shoulders and tried to appear competent at . . . holding a sign.

“Right side up, please.” The door clanged closed as she glanced down.

Hastily, she flipped the arrow so the text—“Cheeseburger, fries, and a drink! Only $4.99!”—was readable to most normal human beings. Her cheeks were hot. “Okay,” she muttered to herself. “Not the best start, but it can only get better from here.”

She ignored her inner voice, the one that was practically screaming she’d just jinxed herself.

Enough.

After popping in her earbuds, Pepper stepped near the curb and began to make the sign do a jaunty dance, white-girl rhythm be damned.

She stood in the shade from one of the mature trees lining either side of the quaint Craftsman storefronts of Stoneybrook’s downtown area. The city had recently undergone a refurbishment to make even the most casual of its shops and restaurants—specifically Bert’s Burgers—appear sophisticated.

Cobblestone-covered walls and bright white wood columns gave the buildings a refined feel, and even the flowers filling each window box deemed it necessary to show off their brightest and prettiest blooms.

Her father had been the producer of a movie shot in the area several years before, and that income for the town had made the freshening up possible, not that she’d mentioned the fact to Bert.

She was trying to fly under the radar, not draw more attention to herself.

Pepper had enjoyed visiting before the restoration—a small town feel wasn’t exactly common in Los Angeles—but even cleaned up, Stoneybrook still felt friendly, welcoming, and . . . refreshingly wonderful.

No one recognized her here. Paparazzi weren’t waiting in the wings for her to screw up. Just blissful anonymity.

And a job to do.

Cars whooshed by as she bobbed around.

A little shaky-shaky to the left, some wiggles to the right and, crap, almost taking out a group of businessmen striding down the tree-lined sidewalk.

Thankfully, they were faster than they appeared and dodged the arrow’s point just in time.

“Sorry!” she called, straightening her Bert’s Burgers’ T-shirt and flashing her best smile before continuing her advertising specialist duties, which had been the actual title in the listing for the sign-holding job.

That was Internet job hunting for ya.

For a while it actually seemed like she was going to rock it. She bounced on the corner, didn’t hit anyone, and only dropped the arrow a few times. Nobody seemed to be paying her much attention.

Despite promotion being the purpose of her job, she considered that a good thing.

No attention meant no disasters.

Downtown Stoneybrook was busy at lunchtime. Pedestrians enjoyed the mild weather with a stroll along the slate sidewalks, and diners ate on the various restaurants’ patios, each enclosed by ornate, wrought iron fencing.

She could do this, she thought, twirling the bright yellow and black sign. She could get through one day’s work and not create a catastrophe.

A shriek pierced straight through the pop song blaring in her earbuds.

Pepper frowned.

Really, her dancing was not that bad.

Which was the precise moment she looked up and saw the car careening toward her.

Move!

But she couldn’t. Her feet might as well have been glued to the ground. Stupidly, she watched as time slid forward in slow motion and the car came closer.

She could feel the vibration of the engine, its heat on her face. Her fingers ached from where she clenched the sign like some sort of shield.

The impact took her breath away.

—Get your copy of Train Wreck .

Thank you for reading Bad Night Stand! I hope you enjoyed Jordan and Abby’s story, as it’s one I seriously loved writing! If you’d like to catch up on all my other releases, please check out my website: . There you can sign up for my newsletter (with monthly bookish giveaways, woohoo!), check out my other books (everything from paranormal romance to hockey romance to contemporary stand alones), and get to know more about my dorky self (hockey, chocolate, Star Wars . . . okay, I’m pretty boring ).

You can also find me on Facebook (@elisefaberauthor), via my FB fan group (facebook.com/group/fabinators), or Instagram (@elisefaber). I look forward to talking with you soon!

-XOXO,

Elise