For the first time since Rafe and I started our Bang-a-Pa-Looza, he has to work late, so I rearrange my schedule to make sure I’m out accomplishing things instead of sitting alone in the cottage, listening to my vagina softly weep.

Because my vagina is ridiculous and spoiled rotten and has nothing at all to cry about. At least not right now. When I go back to Berkeley and my fuck buddy is no longer an easy fifteen-minute trip across town, and I have to go weeks or even months without Rafe’s penis in my life, that will be a different story.

But I won’t think about that now.

I can’t think about it.

I have enough on my plate between navigating my P.R. nightmares, finishing a book that’s due in October, and pulling together a Yappy Hour wine, beer, and puppy-treat fundraiser eighteen days from now.

I should have had these fliers printed and posted two days ago. And if I were a smart organizer, determined to use her time wisely, I would text Zoey, get her and Tristan’s thoughts via email, and move forward with the printing without wasting time driving all the way out to the shelter.

But the shelter is my only semi-reasonable excuse to leave the cottage, so I print out my flier designs in Emma’s office and prepare to make my escape before family dinner commences. Emma always offers to include me, but I don’t want to impose upon her newly-married life more than once or twice a week, especially not on nights when my mother has been sitting for Mercy and joins them for the evening meal. If we were being honest, I think Mom and I would both admit that we need more time apart than we’ve been getting, but I also have no doubt that Renee will lay on a guilt trip for skipping family bonding time if she catches me on my way out.

Stealth is of the utmost importance…

On kitty-cat silent feet, I sneak out of Emma’s office and through the living room with the fliers tucked under one arm and my purse slung over the other. The door to Mercy’s room remains closed, and not a peep comes from the other side of the house, making me think my mom might be taking a nap, too.

Score!

I’m out the door, the Mini Monster in sight and my keys in hand, when a voice from the rocking chair on the porch announces, “You shouldn’t be exhausting yourself with charity work right now, Carrie,” making me jump and drop everything, sending my purse thudding onto the porch and fliers scattering across the planks.

“Jesus, Mom, you scared me!” I turn to see Renee camped out in the red rocker. My niece coos happily on her lap, deeply engrossed in chewing on her stuffed fox’s oversized ear. “Why are you lurking out here when it’s a hundred degrees outside? You and Mercy should be inside in the air conditioning.”

“It’s perfectly nice in the shade,” Mom says with a sniff. “And Mercy and I like to have our afternoon treat on the porch so we can watch Mama come home.”

“Mama!” Mercy pipes up with a smile, pointing a pudgy finger toward the vineyard where my sister is busy supervising the thinning of the fruit.

I smile and nod. “She’ll be home soon. You love your mama, huh?”

Mercy kicks her legs and lets out a delighted squeal that breaks my heart a little.

What must it be like to be Emma? To know that just coming home from work is going to thrill the daylights out of this adorable person waiting for her? I’ve always had a soft spot for babies, but it wasn’t until I became an aunt that I started to seriously consider motherhood as part of my long-term plan. Seeing the incredible bond between Emma and Mercy, and how sweet that mama love is, makes me want it for myself someday.

“Dogs and cats are great if you’ve got time to spare,” my mother continues, reminding me that mother-daughter bonds aren’t always rosy and sweet. “But they’re not going to pay your bills.” She ducks her head, cooing in a high-pitched voice as she tickles my niece’s belly, “Isn’t that right, Mercy? Aunty Carrie needs to figure out her Plan B, not work for free.”

“I’m not working for free,” I say, raising my voice to be heard over Mercy’s squeal of laughter. “I’m getting paid to coordinate the fundraiser for the shelter. And I don’t need a Plan B. I’m under contract for two more books and sales of the first books in the series are still strong.”

“That’s not what I heard,” my mom says, still in her baby voice though she’s clearly talking to me, not Mercy. “Emma told me your agent said sales were down and he wants you to work on a thriller under another pen name.”

Jaw clenching, I silently curse my sister’s loose lips. Though, honestly, my mom could wring gossip out of a turnip. She’s that good at ferreting out things she’s not supposed to know.

“It’s fine.” I stoop down to gather the fliers from the porch. “Down doesn’t mean they aren’t still solid, and Seth suggested the thriller because I asked him about writing for adults and where he thought I might find an audience. It was about expanding and trying new things, not abandoning what’s already working.”

Renee’s lips prune in a silently dubious display, making Mercy laugh. She reaches for her grandma’s mouth, doing her best to pull the lips from Renee’s face and making my mother’s next words impossible to understand.

Thank goodness for those sweet, grabby little fingers.

“Can’t hear you, Mom, gotta go,” I call over my shoulder as I jog down the stairs to my car.

Thankfully the Mini Monster starts on the first try, and I’m rumbling across the gravel and up the lane before Renee regains control of her mouth.

I know Emma’s happy that Mom has committed to babysitting three afternoons a week so Mercy doesn’t have to go to daycare, but I can’t help wishing my mother’s generosity of spirit had stayed offline for a few more weeks. All the quality time with her has my jaw perpetually clenched and my shoulders full of stress knots.

Even with my nightly escapes with Rafe and my mornings spent in self-imposed isolation—writing as fast as I can before the tiny house heats to an insufferable level of stuffiness—I’m seeing way more of her than I would like to, bringing back memories I’ve done my best to avoid pulling out of the closet. Memories that highlight the undeniable fact that Emma has always been the golden child and I the disappointing second roll of the dice.

As a kid it didn’t bother me too much—Emma adored and coddled me enough to make up for two disinterested mothers—but after she went to college things got ugly. So ugly I’ve never told my sister about all of it. If Emma knew, it might affect her relationship with Mom, and as much as I resent Renee sometimes, I don’t want to do that to her. Or to Emma.

So I keep my mouth shut and let them have their relatively happy and stress-free bond. Ruining it won’t make my relationship with my mother any better. Only time travel and a personality transplant would have any hope of that, and Renee isn’t a good candidate for either.

“And I would use the time travel for myself,” I mutter as I pull onto the 101 headed north. “To go back and tell Jordan there’s no way he’s getting near me with a camera while I’m naked.”

Though, if Jordan hadn’t shot those photos, I never would have ended up camping out in Sonoma County long enough to hook up with the best fuck buddy in the entire world, or to learn that orgasms aren’t as elusive as my previous lovers led me to believe. As painful and embarrassing as this situation has been, I wouldn’t go back and change a thing—I’m that hooked on Rafe’s body and the things he makes me feel.

It’s an unnerving realization, but I shut down the trickle of foreboding before it can become more than a drip. Rafe and I are having an amazing time together, but we’re both grown-ups and decent human beings. When it’s time for this to end, we’ll find a way to make “goodbye” as easy as falling into bed was in the first place.

Everything with Rafe is easy. It’s one of the reasons he’s so much fun to spend time with—no drama, no angst, no stress or mess or worrying that I’m going to say or do the wrong thing. I can just be completely myself in the company of a man who is completely himself, and it’s all good. So good it seems like I’m always counting the minutes until I can see him again.

I arrive at A Better Way Shelter as the sun completes its slide toward the horizon, kissing the brown summer hills of the Dry Creek valley. Almost immediately, the air begins to cool, taking the edge off the July heat, a fact I greatly appreciate as I tag along with Tristan and Zoey to feed the horses.

“Wow, they look so much better than the last time I was here.” I reach out to stroke the nose of a kind-eyed bay who trots eagerly to the fence. This crew of ten mares came from a farm where they’d been half starved to death before a neighbor called to report animal cruelty, but in just over a week their ribs are already less visible.

“They’re doing so well,” Zoey agrees, handing me a handful of baby carrots to disperse among the animals while Tristan fills the feed bins. “We’re hoping to start taking applications for adoptions in a few months.”

“But they’re not saddle broken,” Tristan says, a warning in his tone. “So that’s going to slow the process down. A lot. We need to make sure we’ve got money on hand to keep them as long as a year if we need to.”

“Under control.” I pull out my flier designs for our Yappy Hour event and hand them over to Zoey. “I just need you guys to pick a design, and I’ll get them printed and hung all over the county. Emma’s going to hand them out to the winery owners at one of her networking events, and I’ve got a team of teen volunteers who are going to plaster Santa Rosa and the surrounding cities while I continue my phone call campaign to reach out to top donors I’ve culled from your list.”

“Thanks, Carrie.” Tristan joins Zoey and me by the fence as the horses finish the last of the carrots in my outstretched palm and move on to the now full feeding troughs. “You’re a lifesaver.”

“My pleasure.,” I say, lifting a hand to shade my face from the setting sun as I glance up into Tristan’s face.

He looks so much like Rafe—same dark eyes and bronze god skin—but so different, too. Not any less handsome, but definitely more haunted, as if he’s taking life twice as seriously to make up for his brother’s devil-may-care attitude. The shadows under his eyes look even worse than the last time I stopped by, making me think Tristan could use some TLC as much as the horses he’s helping bring back from the brink.

“This one,” Zoey says, pulling my attention her way. She holds up the flier featuring bulldog puppies in martini glasses. “I love it. It’s so insanely cute I can hardly stand it. But see what you think, boss.”

Tristan shakes his head, refusing the papers Zoey holds out toward him. “I trust you. You’ve got a better grip on cuteness than I do. If you say that’s the one, then that’s the one.”

Zoey grins. “All right. I’ll go print them up.”

“I can do that,” I say, patting my purse. “I’ve got a zip drive with the file on it. I can just swing by the printer in town on my way home.”

“No need,” Zoey says. “We’ve got a great printer here. If you want to give me the drive, I can have them done in a few minutes. Cut out the middleman and spare you a trip.”

I’m in no rush to hurry home—Rafe has to do inventory and place a parts order tonight and won’t be available for playtime until later—but I hand over the zip drive anyway and thank Zoey. She promises to be right back with copies and beers for all and hurries into the main building, while Tristan and I wander over to the picnic tables with a view of the hills.

“Gorgeous.” I take a deep breath, pulling in the scent of eucalyptus trees, fennel, and the sweet, salty smell of the hay baled nearby.

“The country life starting to grow on you, city girl?” Tristan asks, sitting on top of the picnic table with his boots on the wooden seat.

“It is.” I cross my arms, amazed again at how fast the air goes from boiling hot to just-a-tad-chilly around here. “But I’ve always loved nature. It’s the people in small towns who make me want to make a run for the nearest metropolis.”

“I get it.” Tristan squints out at the view, where the sunset glow makes the vineyards look like something out of a Renaissance painting. “There’s not much anonymity in a small town. Everyone knows everyone else’s business.”

I sigh. “Yeah, but everyone knows my business these days. It’s made the small-town thing less stressful.”

“Sorry about that,” he says. “I hate that you’re going through this. I hate that so many men don’t know how to behave themselves.”

“It’s fine. Or it’s going to be fine. Scandals get forgotten pretty quickly in this day and age. There’s always another salacious something on the horizon.” I step onto the bench and sit beside him. “How about you? How are you holding up?”

Tristan lifts a tired shoulder and lets it fall. “Fine.”

I hum beneath my breath. “Yeah, you look and sound fine.”

His lips curve. “You people are going to give me a complex. Between you, Zoey, and the volunteers bringing me extra sandwiches, if I were the kind of person who stressed about my appearance, my confidence would be in the shitter.”

“No way, dude, you’re still totally smoking hot.” I clap him encouragingly on the back, doing my best to reverse the damage I’ve unintentionally done.

I’ve been where he is, and the last thing you need when you’re shacking up at the Heartbreak Hotel is well-meaning friends making you feel even worse than you do already.

“You just look sad is all I meant,” I continue gently.

Tristan’s chin dips closer to his chest as he lets out a soft laugh. “Yeah, well…I am. But it’s okay. It’s getting better.”

“Are you sure? You don’t have to pretend with me, you know. I’m a judgment-free zone about sadness and just about everything else.”

He glances my way, his eyes steady and clear. “I’m sure. But thanks for caring.”

“You’re my brother-in-law’s brother. And a wonderful person. Of course I care.”

“I appreciate it.” He smiles, his lips curving into an exact replica of Rafe’s grin but without any of the trouble in it, leaving me tingle-free and proving I probably deserve the disaster that’s plagued my love life.

Why do the troublemakers and heartbreakers make me tingle?

Why not sweet, honest, thoughtful gentlemen like Tristan?

“So what makes the judgment list?” He nudges my elbow with his, clearly ready to change the subject. “You said you were judgment-free about almost everything.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” I lean back, my hands braced on the table behind me. “People who listen to country music unironically, maybe? Though Emma’s developing a taste for it, and I love her, so probably not.” I furrow my brow, scrolling through my mental list of repulsive things. “People who make canned seafood?”

Tristan pulls a face. “Canned seafood is an abomination.”

“I know, right? I’m not a cat, don’t try to feed me tuna you’ve ruined with gross processing and shoved into a can.”

He shudders. “Or lobster you’ve mixed with corn and expect me to nurse back to life with milk.”

“Canned chowder is repulsive. Do not want.” I stick out my tongue with a gagging sound that makes Tristan laugh. “Yeah, I judge those people. Hard.”

“Me, too.” He glances over his shoulder. “But don’t tell Zoey. She brings a tuna salad sandwich to work for lunch at least once a week.”

I wave a hand through the cool air. “Oh no, we’re not judging Zoey, just the people responsible for putting the seafood into the can in the first place. She’s as much a victim of this sick conspiracy as anyone else.”

“Agreed.” His smile widens as he gently knocks his knee into mine. “Thanks for the talk. It cheered me up.”

“Anytime.” I pull him into a one-armed hug. “Next time we can discuss the abomination that is vanilla ice cream.”

Tristan returns the embrace. “Vanilla ice cream does need to level up.”

I nod. “Totally. Like, get a job, vanilla ice cream. I hate you.”

“Hate who?” a deep voice asks from not far behind us.

I pull away from Tristan to see Rafe walking up the hill beside Zoey, holding two lightly sweating beers in one hand and looking good enough to pound in one big, long gulp. Seems like someone finished his work early, and someone else’s night just got a whole lot sexier.