CJ

Eleven months later…

I tug on a pretty pink sweater, fasten on one of my typewriter necklaces, then give my hair one final fluff.

Appraising my reflection in the mirror, I decide I look pretty damn good for a woman heading to Sunday morning brunch with her roommate.

Laughing at that word—as if it can even begin to encompass the depth of what we share in this home—I head to the living room, stopping to give Stephen King a scratch on the chin.

A quick purr tells me he likes the attention.

“Of course you like attention. You’re a man,” I say, then rub his ears. Good thing I enjoy spoiling the men in my life.

I grab my purse, sling it onto my shoulder, and I’m scanning the room for my phone when it rings loudly from the coffee table. It’s Ted, the weekend doorman.

“There’s a delivery for you.”

“Send it up.”

A few minutes later, I answer the door and thank Ted as I take a slim white box from him. When the door shuts, I tug off the ribbon.

I furrow my brow as I find a number two pencil in it.

What on earth?

There’s a note. Bring the pencil to brunch, my butterfly.

I shrug happily. That’s Graham. He is the king of gifts, and I have to say, I love this special skill of his. Stephen King’s new leather studded collar is proof that Graham can shop his butt off for anyone, or any creature.

Tucking the pencil into my purse, I head uptown to Ruby’s Kitchen, where he said he’d meet me after an early morning workout. We’ve become regulars at Ruby’s. After that first brunch when I was too shocked by the audacity of my proposal to eat, we’ve made it a point to rarely miss the eggs and French toast there.

Both are delish.

When I arrive, I gaze across the bowed heads of the diners, but I don’t see the handsome cut of Graham’s jaw, or the fantastic mess of brown hair I love to run my hands through. But I know he’ll be here soon.

I tell the hostess I’m here for a party of two, and she guides me to a table right away. I take a seat, smoothing my hand over the white tablecloth, remembering the time I asked him to teach me.

That felt wild and crazy then. I would never have expected to be back here almost a year later, tending a wonderful love that grows stronger and deeper every day.

But it does.

It most certainly does.

“Miss Murphy?”

I look up at the young face of a waiter. “Yes. Good morning.”

“I have something for you.” He hands me another white box, tied with a silver ribbon this time. It’s bigger than the one sent to the house, about the size to hold a shirt or sweater.

Gently, I tug at the bow, letting it fall open. I reach inside to find . . .

A black composition notebook?

My brow pinches as I pick it up and read the front.

A new lesson plan.

I’m flipping it open when a voice I know well lands on my ears. “There’s something I want you to teach me.”

Graham stands next to me, looking as handsome as ever in jeans and a navy blue button-down, rolled up at the cuffs.

“And what would that be? How to order a double order of French toast? Because I can do that, since I’m starving.” I laugh, gesturing to the chair across from me, but he remains standing. “Don’t you want to sit down?”

He shakes his head. “I want to kneel.”

He drops to one knee, and I gasp. My eyes turn to saucers as he opens his palm. Another box. A small, blue velvet one. “Teach me how to cherish you, to love you, and to honor you every day of our lives for as long as we both shall live.”

Tears don’t even have the courtesy to wait. They roll down my cheeks as he takes out a gorgeous emerald-cut diamond.

“Will you marry me?”

“Yes. Yes. Yes,” I say, as he slides it onto my finger and I wrap my arms around him. “But you don’t need lessons in anything. You’re already perfect for me. In every single way.”

* * *

Graham

Sometimes I compare my life to the movies. I turn to my favorite heroes for guidance on what they might do in a given situation.

When I think of my favorite films, there’s no question which one I’m starring in right now.

Every chick flick ever made.

And I couldn’t be happier to picture the closing credits rolling over me as I take my seat across from the woman who’s going to be my wife, and prepare to enjoy the best French toast in all of Manhattan and decades of wedded bliss.

Coming next from Lili Valente—, a sexy, swoony, baby-making rom com! And you won’t want to miss from Lauren Blakely in January, a fun & sexy sports romance about a forbidden love. A sneak peek of each book follows.

First, THE BABY MAKER, followed by …

Some men are troublemakers or dealmakers. The men in my family? We’re baby makers. 

For six generations, the women of wine country have had a saying: don’t bang a Hunter man unless you want a bun in your oven.

Yeah, well. I’ve got a saying too: no thanks. The last thing I need is baby makes three. My business is expanding and the only thing I’m interested in getting knocked up is my bottom line.

But then one night Emma Haverford makes me an offer I can’t refuse—she backs away from the land I have my eye on in exchange for a favor…

A big, fat, baby making favor…

* * *

When I hear women have gotten pregnant shaking hands with Hunter men, I know I need Dylan Hunter’s…ahem, special skills…way more than I need to expand my vineyard. 

I’m ready to give my heart to a child and I’m tired of waiting for my late-to-the-party Prince Charming to make my dreams come true. So I promise Dylan—three months of hot, heavy, baby-making s-e-x and then I’m out of his hair forever.

But what if when it comes time to say good-bye, all I want to do is keep bottling up more memories with this big-hearted man?

Excerpt…

Dylan…

No. The answer has to be no.

I’m crazy to have even said I would think about it. There is no answer but no. Yes isn’t an option. Maybe isn’t an option. I should have drawn a line in the sand last night and made sure Emma understood I never meant to step over it.

Never.

No matter how sweet her mouth tastes or what an insanely hot kisser she is or how good it felt to have her curvy body pressed tight to mine.

God, she was hot…

Five alarm hot…

So much more responsive than I’d imagined she would be.

And yes, I’ve imagined what it would be like to kiss her, imagined Emma’s smart mouth melting beneath mine. And yes, the real Emma is even more irresistible than the fantasy.

But that’s exactly why I should say no. She’s the kind of woman it would be so easy to get hooked on, and neither one of us is looking for a steady date.

Even assuming Emma and I end up hating each other by the time our banging-for-a-baby experiment is through, there’s no way I would be able to live next door to my own child and pretend he’s just the neighbor’s boy.

I don’t want a kid at this point, but if my son were growing up next door, I would want to be a part of his life. I’d want to be there when he needed me, especially when he got old enough to wonder why his father wasn’t in the picture. I’d want to make sure he knew it wasn’t because of any flaw in his design; it’s just grown-up bullshit, pure and simple.

“Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit,” I grumble as I toss plates onto the long wooden table in the front dining room.

“In good spirits this morning, I see.” Tristan slams the front door behind him and tosses his jean jacket on the bench in the hall. “Val up yet?”

“No idea.” I open an arm to pull my little half-brother in for a quick hug. “He didn’t come home last night.”

Tristan snorts and shakes his head. “One day back in town and he already found a woman willing to put up with his ass?”

“At least for the night,” I say, earning a grin from Tris. It’s crazy how much he looks like Val when he smiles—same mile wide grin and dancing brown eyes—but they couldn’t be more different.

Tris is the family do-gooder, the kid who was always saving wounded animals and looking out for the under dog growing up. Val is our rebel, blazing his own path without giving a good God damn what anyone else has to say about it.

And then there’s me, somewhere in the middle, torn between my heart and my head, my personal goals and my family obligations.

My dick and the sound knowledge that getting a stranger pregnant is a stupid idea under any circumstances, no matter how sad and beautiful a woman looks crying in the moonlight…

* * *

Jillian

He squeezes my hand, and I tense, then give in to the momentary sensation of his big hand covering mine, reassuring me once more.

“And I’m all in with this, too.” He lets go of my hand, and I wish he’d touch me again, even though I can’t let my mind go there.

“This is a one hundred percent volunteer project,” I say, making sure he’s clear on the terms. “You’d be donating your time freely.”

“Puppies, Jillian. Puppies.”

I smile. “There will be kittens, too.”

“Meow,” he says, brandishing his hands as claws. His huge hands. My mind flickers briefly to how those hands would look wrapped around my waist. They’re so big, they’d cover me, hold me, dig into my hips. A ribbon of heat unfurls in my body, and I can feel my cheeks flush.

“You okay? You just thinking about me and all the pussycats?” he asks with a wink.

God, I’m thinking about him making me purr, and it’s filthy. It’s wanton. The way my body reacts to him is dangerous.

I need to keep my head in the game. “I am. I have some great shots planned. We’ll do them all in the Bay Area to support local rescues. It shouldn’t take up too much time. Probably a week or ten days, and it would end shortly before training camp begins.”

“Sounds perfect. I only have one stipulation.”

My heart sags. There’s always a catch. “Sure. What is it?”

“We need to take one of the pictures at the Miami Humane Society.”

“That’s in Florida,” I say, after a beat.

“It is?” he asks in mock surprise.

“Jones,” I chide.

“I had no idea where it was located. Are you sure it’s in Florida?”

“Ha ha.”

“Where is Florida? Is that all the way on the other side of the country?”

I sigh playfully and then hold up my hands in surrender. “Why do you want to—?” Then I remember. “Cletus is a hurricane dog.”

Last year, Jones helped one of the local rescues that had taken in animals evacuated from shelters during the big hurricane. He’d donated time then adopted a dog.

“His name would have been Irma if he’d been a girl. I’m glad he’s a boy, though, and it would mean a lot to me if we could support the shelter where he’s from.”

“From one adoptee to another, I completely understand.”

He smiles, that same winning grin he flashed in the studio.

Of course, this also means I’ll be traveling with Jones. Across the country. Alone.

And I’m not sure my libido will be able to take it.