"What the hell, Gabriel?" My editor Rachel yells so loudly over the car speakers that it makes me wince. It's been a while since I've heard her scream at me in that thick Boston accent of hers.

"You've been harassing me for how long about sending you chapters?" I retort. "Now I give you chapters and you give me grief?" I glance at Hemy who is sprawled out contentedly on the passenger seat and mouth, "What the hell?" at him. He gives me his normal blank bulldog stare in response.

"Oh, please," she snorts. "Don't act like this isn't the most out-of-the-blue thing to happen to me all week, Gabriel Ryan. I've been nagging you for a million years to send chapters, so yeah, when you actually send them, of course I'm going to have a damned heart attack. I thought I'd die of old age before I ever saw anything from you again."

"Well, don't get your hopes up. It's only three chapters, not a magnum opus."

Rachel laughs. "With how long you've been out of the game, this is basically your life's work."

"Touché." Admittedly, my track record isn't exactly the greatest at this point.

What I don't tell her is that I have five more chapters on my desktop at home that I wrote last night. She'd probably have a heart attack, and there's no sense in causing my editor's untimely demise.

I'm not planning to tell Nate and Angelo when I see them at brunch. If I do, they'll know something's up. My brother is way too perceptive – and way too fucking nosy – to believe that inspiration surged into me out of nowhere like lightning.

Except that's what really happened, isn't it?

Inspiration in the form of a preacher's daughter.

I tell myself that's ridiculous. The fact that I suddenly started writing again has nothing to do with Purity showing up here. It's pure coincidence. It has to be, because what would it say about me if I was being inspired by an eighteen-year-old?

It would say something pretty fucked up, that's for sure.

"I sent you notes," Rachel says. "It's good, Gabriel, really good so far. When am I getting more?"

I groan loudly for her benefit, despite the stupid grin that crosses my face. Honestly, I've missed Rachel's whip-cracking since her nagging emails have dwindled to nothing over the past year. "Oh, whoops, I'm going through a tunnel right now so I'm going to lose you…"

"You're in Pennsylvania!" Rachel shrieks. "There aren't any damned tunnels in Pennsylvania!"

"Did I say 'tunnel'? I meant 'farmland.'" I make fake static noises with my mouth. Hemy looks at me with his head cocked to the side like I've lost my mind.

"You're a juvenile delinquent," Rachel presses through my noises. "Send me more chapters this week. I'm going to put you back on my list of authors to nag."

"Lucky me," I quip.

"You're goddamned right you're lucky to have my attention," she replies. "Now, go write."

She hangs up on me before I can make another smartass reply. Five minutes later, I'm on Nate and Angelo's doorstep with Hemy in tow.

I only make it as far as the patio before Nate starts in on me. "You look different."

"Hello to you, too."

He ignores my greeting, instead evaluating me through narrowed eyes. "Haircut?"

"That's probably it." I acquiesce quickly so that I can steer the conversation in another direction. Looking behind him, I watch Hemy lumber off the patio and in the direction of a group of goats he's never going to catch. What's that saying about crazy being repetition of the same behavior? That dog is the definition of crazy, chasing those goats every week, yet never learning.

"Nope, that's not it," Nate replies. "You look less… constipated."

"Constipated?" I ask, choking on a laugh. "You're saying I've been walking around looking generally constipated?"

"Who's constipated?" Angelo bursts through the patio door in a rush and sets down a casserole in the middle of the table. He yanks off his oven mitt and shakes one hand. "Son of a bitch. That mitt is worn thin near the fingers, and that is a hot pan!"

"Did you burn yourself?" Nate asks. "Are you okay?"

"I'll be fine," Angelo assures him before turning to me. "Did you need some prune juice?"

"God, no," I say, laughing as I shake my head. "No one needs prune juice. I'm not an old man."

"There's no shame in being regular," Angelo notes, running a knife through the casserole. "At our ages, constipation can be a real problem."

"I'd like to eat brunch, not vomit it up, thanks," I tell them. "So that's enough talk about constipation. And don't go grouping me in with the two of you. You're at least a decade older than me."

Nate's eyes go wide. "Oh, you did not just say that. You're about to be in a world of pain."

Angelo pauses with a spatula and a piece of casserole in his hand. "A decade older than you?! I beg your pardon."

"I'm not saying that's a bad thing," I tease. "You're both silver foxes."

My piece of casserole lands on my plate with a surprising amount of force. "A decade, my ass," Angelo grumbles.

Nate snickers. "You do realize that my husband is approximately the size of a small truck –"

"A large truck," Angelo interrupts. "Is this national Insult Angelo Day or something?"

"A large truck," Nate continues, "and he misses football because he enjoyed beating people up. You do understand that, right?"

"God, I really do miss it," Angelo admits wistfully. "There's really nothing else in life that compares to taking out your bad day on an opponent. It's the best stress-reliever there is."

Nate clears his throat and gives Angelo a meaningful look. "The best stress-reliever?"

"Aside from sex, obviously."

"Now you're just saying that to make me feel better."

"Did Nate tell you he sold his first goat tux?"

I almost spit out the sip of mimosa I'd just taken. "A tux?? As in a tuxedo?"

"With tails," Angelo adds.

"Because a goat tuxedo without tails would be ridiculous," I note.

"The bride wanted tails added," Nate tells me in all seriousness. He pulls out his phone and brings up a photo of a goat decked out in a tuxedo with a little satin pillow on its back. "Casper was the ring bearer in a wedding."

"Casper?" I can't seem to stop laughing now. "That's the goat's name?"

"He's very sweet," Nate points out, grinning.

Now, I hoot. "Casper the friendly goat?"

"A thousand dollars," Angelo declares.

"For the goat?"

"For the tuxedo."

"Shut the front door," I spit. "That's the going rate for goat tuxedos?!"

"It was a custom piece," Nate explains. "It required multiple fittings."

The image of my brother holding a goat still so he can pin on a tuxedo makes me laugh so hard I almost lose it. "You're going to be the Vera Wang of goat clothing."

"I'll take that." Nate flashes a self-satisfied grin. "I might have to put that on a business card, actually."

"Nate Ryan: Goat Couture," Angelo teases.

"You should expand to other exotic animals," I suggest helpfully, as I take a bite of my food. "I'm sure there are people with tigers who need them fitted for tuxedos."

"You're less generally cranky and disgruntled today," Nate muses, his eyes narrowed. "Isn't he, Angelo?"

"It's probably because he's not constipated," Angelo reasons.

"Don't worry. I'm just as bitter as I normally am."

"No, you're not." Nate waves his fork as he talks. "Something's different."

"Ohhh," Angelo breathes. "Did you go out with that history professor?"

"Oh my God, that's it! You got laid. That's what it is."

I choke on my casserole and have to down half a mimosa to dislodge it. "I did not get laid."

In fact, I have the biggest case of blue balls in world history, which is basically the opposite. If there's someone who should be cranky, it's me.

Strangely, I'm not.

"I don't believe you," Nate says. "You so did get laid."

"Why are you blushing?" Angelo asks. He turns to Nate and whispers conspiratorially, "He totally got laid."

"Totally," Nate agrees. "History professor, was it? Angelo told you she was cute. I can't believe you actually went out with her. I'm proud of you. We should toast to your new found dating life."

"I can't believe you guys are stuck on this," I grumble. "Are we in junior high, that you guys are tee-heeing over me getting laid?"

"So you admit you got laid!" Angelo exclaims.

"I admit nothing, because I didn't get laid."

"Gabe has always been the worst liar ever," Nate explains. "Remember when you hit that baseball through the window when we were kids and tried to tell mom it was me?"

"That's because it was you who hit it through the window and blamed me for it!"

"It was not!" Nate pauses and takes a sip of mimosa. "It was you and Andrew Robbins from – oh shit, that was me, wasn't it?"

I glare at Nate. "And I got in trouble for it."

Nate laughs. "Well, I guess that proves my point, though, doesn't it? Mom didn't believe you because you're a terrible liar."

"I guess being an honest person is better than being a psychopath," I say sanctimoniously.

"Don't get distracted from the topic at hand," Angelo says. "I want to hear about the date."

"There was no date!" I take a bite of casserole. "I swear you two are worse than mom ever was when it comes to my dating life."

Angelo makes a "hmpf" sound. "I think you mean lack of a dating life."

I throw a croissant at him.