“Before Kimbra, Duncan was a lady’s man like no other.”
I shake my head back and forth. “From what I’ve heard that’s only partially true. Women like to talk as much as men.”
“I’ve never been able to keep up with him.”
This time I lean back and take a prolonged look at Trevor Willis, his handsome features, and sexy, casual confidence. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
“It’s true. I’m awkward around women.”
“You don’t seem awkward to me.”
“You’re different,” he says as he moves closer.
“I’m a woman.”
“Oh, Shana, you are definitely a woman.”
My breathing accelerates as his lips near mine. Cinnamon fills my senses as we kiss. It’s soft and fresh, growing warmer by the second. When we pull away, I smile. “Definitely not awkward.”
“Cynthia, my pretend date, is engaged to my friend Eric,” Trevor says. “He’s also an engineer. We work for the same firm in New York. He’s been working on a project here in Indianapolis. When I was talking to them about Duncan’s wedding, Cynthia said she would be coming to town to visit Eric and would be happy to be my date. At first, we joked about it, but then it seemed like a good idea. Eric knows it’s not real. Heck, he thinks it’s funny. So, I RSVP’d for two.
“You see, Duncan and I are as different as night and day. We get along, yet there’s always this brotherly competition. He went through some shit when we were young, but well, since then, he can never do anything wrong. It’s not that I want to be like him. I’m happy. It’s that I sometimes feel...”
“Don’t tell her not to come,” I say, reaching out and touching his arm.
Trevor covers my hand with his. “I am most certain that I’d rather be with you.”
“I’d like that. But if you and Duncan are in competition, wouldn’t picking up the bride’s best friend be kind of a shitty thing to do on his wedding day? Or would I be that one person to up you in the competition?”
Trevor’s eyes open wide. “Never.” He turns our hands until our fingers intertwine. “This isn’t about Duncan. I like you. I liked you from the moment I saw you, right here in the glow of fake embers.”
We lean closer, our lips once again touching. “I like you too, but tomorrow is about my best friend. I don’t want her thinking about anything but her big day and…”
“And?” he asks.
“Her crazy family.” I giggle recalling Grandma Helen. “Seriously, she has enough on her mind.”
Letting go of my hand, Trevor’s warm palm skirts up and down my arm. My flesh ignites as butterflies flutter to life in my stomach. And then, it’s more. The Fireball, wine, lack of sleep, and irresistible attraction all move together, brewing a terrible queasiness inside of me.
“Oh,” I say, jumping up. “I’m going to be sick…”
Chapter Four
Shana
My eyes close as I hold tightly to the cup of coffee and shake my head. “Oh dear Lord, I threw up.”
Trevor laughs. “In the fire pit.”
“All over the glowing red rocks.” Setting the coffee cup down on the table, I cradle my head. “No. That can’t be. I kind of go blank after that.”
“Then you missed my finest hour.”
Peering upward I smile. “That competition thing. According to Kimbra, if I experienced your finest hour, your brother wins. She says she couldn’t forget.”
“Oh, that’s mean,” Trevor says. “Believe me, neither would you.”
“Right. Because nothing turns a man on like a puking woman.”
“Hey, my competition with my brother has nothing to do with notches. Eat more of your toast, and let me fill in the blanks.”
Pulling my knees up to my chest, I wrap the robe over my legs and nibble the edges of the toast as Trevor speaks.
“You were embarrassed about the little accident in the fire pit, so much so that you didn’t want to go back into the bar. You made us leave through the hedges.”
“Oh no. Really? I’m not sure I want to know more.”
Trevor sits back with his cup of coffee and smiles. The way the green glistens in his eyes eases a bit of my embarrassment. “Are you sure? It’s pretty good.”
“Okay. I do.”
“We slid out of the patio through the hedges, but the patio isn’t on the ground level.”
My blood races as I try to remember. He’s right. I had to ride the escalator up to the lobby level. The same level as the bar. “I seem to remember that there was a parking garage.”
His laugh rings through the suite. “And a fence, which I must say, you scaled very nicely in your dress and heels.”
“My dress ripped!”
“Yes.”
I peek under the robe. “That’s why I have on your shirt.”
“That,” he says, “and because once we made it back into the hotel, via some questionable ‘employee only’ tunnels, your purse was missing. You went to the desk, but as the bellman said, they wouldn’t give you a new key without your identification.”
“That’s how I ended up here in your suite.”
Trevor nods as he finishes the last of the bacon.
“So we didn’t…”
He stands and moves closer, each step predatory, his green gaze never wavering, until he is standing right in front of me. Offering me his hand, I take it and stand. His solid chest presses against my breasts as he reaches for my waist, holding us close until our hearts beat against the other. “Shana Price,” he breathes my name. “We didn’t make love. Not because I didn’t or don’t want to. It’s that last night you weren’t in a position to consent. If it ever happens—which I’m still hoping it does—I promise, you’ll remember.”
By the way my insides flutter and pinch, I am most certain he is right about that. “What now?”
Trevor leans toward me until our lips connect. Bacon and toast, lingering cinnamon, and coffee may not sound like an intoxicating concoction, but it is. I’m lost as we melt together.
“Now,” he says, “we have a wedding to attend. Tomorrow, time will tell.”
“Tomorrow,” I say sadly, “I’m headed back to London.”
“And I’m headed back to Washington.” Taking a step back, he lifts my hand and kisses my knuckles. “And if you think that distance is going to stop me from learning more about the most amazing woman to ever end up in my hotel suite, you’d be wrong.”
“I would?”
“You would. And if you don’t want the bride and groom to know, we’ll keep it between us.”
“Our secret night,” I say, as much a statement as a question.
“Our secret one, my lady. However, you should know that each time I look at you during the wedding and at the reception, I’m imagining what our future could hold.”
“How will I ever be able to concentrate on Kimbra?”
“She can have you today. I want what’s after that.”
“Time will tell.”
Not The End...Only The Beginning!
Thank you for reading this short, fun novella.
I hope you enjoyed this FREE preview. If you want to learn ‘what time will tell’ for Shana and Trevor, download ANOTHER ONE today.
If you haven’t met Kimbra and Duncan and learned their story with even more of Kimbra’s crazy grandma, Helen, then one-click PLUS ONE today.
And for Aleatha’s other “lighter one,” enjoy the sweet story of second chance romance in ONE NIGHT.
Another One
ALEATHA ROMIG
New York Times, Wall Street Journal, and USA Today bestselling author of the Sparrow Webs, Infidelity, and Consequences series
*Cover photograph by Regina Wamba, design by Letitia Hasser at RBA Designs
Contents
Author’s Note
Another One
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
C
hapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
What to do now
Books by New York Times bestselling author Aleatha Romig
Stay Connected with Aleatha
Aleatha Romig
Dedication
ANOTHER ONE is truly a joint venture with my wonderful, patient daughter.
Many writer’s roadblocks arose during the creation of Trevor and Shana’s story. Sometimes it’s difficult to get going in the world of make believe when real life is busy and full. I have no doubt that it was my many conversations with my daughter that steered this story back on track time and time again.
I couldn’t be happier with the final result of A SECRET ONE and ANOTHER ONE.
I fell head over heels in love with this pretend couple. I’m so grateful to the readers who encouraged me to pursue Shana and Trevor’s story, and mostly, I’m thankful to my daughter who during her own wedding preparations willingly added her advice. As a woman about Shana’s age, her insight was beyond helpful and often comedic.
Maybe one day she will decide to follow her mother into the world of writing. Until then, I’m happy to have her at my side and as my constant support. May she, through life’s ups and downs and friends and foes, have her HEA!
Thank you, Cass Romig. I love you and appreciate all you do, always.
~Mom
Author’s Note
Trevor and Shana’s story begins in A SECRET ONE. You do not need to read it to enjoy ANOTHER ONE, but I recommend it.
~ Aleatha
Another One
ANOTHER ONE: Standalone romance
Forbidden romance never felt so good!
Trevor Willis is sexy, sweet, and oh so fun. He’s also my best friend’s brother-in-law. That should mean he’s off-limits—or that I should be off-limits to him.
Someone probably should have told us that before my best friend married his brother, before the morning of the wedding when we woke in each other’s arms, before I woke with gaping holes in my memory.
They didn’t.
We did.
Shana Price is that one woman.
Usually shy and awkward, I want to be more for her—and in her presence I am more. I don’t even have to try. She’s my one. I knew it the moment I first met her.
The problem is the little hassle of the thousands of miles between us.
Now, everything has changed.
Shana is back in the United States—all I have to do is make her see that her job isn’t the only reason to stay.
From New York Times bestselling author Aleatha Romig, get ready to laugh out loud, swoon, and fall in love with this fun and sexy stand-alone novel. ANOTHER ONE is set in the same world as PLUS ONE, yet the two may be read in any order.
*This novel contains the connecting novella previously released as A SECRET ONE.
Chapter One
Nearly a year after A SECRET ONE
Shana
“There are so many boobs—everywhere,” Chantilly says with a shake of her head.
She’s right.
We’re in the middle of chaos—which if you don’t know is filled with tall, beautiful women with high heels and perfect breasts—better known as the fashion show dressing room. Tomorrow all the models will have their makeup done and hair styled. Today they’re simply here to make the last adjustments to the lingerie and final prep on the Saks Fifth Avenue semi-annual lingerie fashion show.
You may not think of lingerie as complicated.
I mean, it’s something we wear under our clothes or to sleep.
Not here.
Not tomorrow with these models’ bodies highlighting the latest in Saks intimate apparel. Not with my promotion on the line.
Today is the final rehearsal, the last chance to make this lingerie fashion show the best it can possibly be.
“So many,” she whispers again.
“And our job is to be sure they’re covered when they walk onstage.”
We both eye the model wearing only a black lace thong and matching bra that barely contains her C-cups. The padded half-moons of material push her boobs upward with the upper edge of her areola visible. My gaze narrows and lips purse as I turn back to Chantilly and fight back a smile with a shake of my head. It’s the same battle we’ve been fighting for the past week.
Chantilly lifts a tube that resembles something like a bottle of roll-on deodorant or better yet, a glue stick from preschool. In reality, that’s what it is, glue—body glue. By the time these models walk onstage their lingerie will be attached like a second skin.
“No wardrobe malfunctions,” we say in unison.
“Shana.”
“Shana?”
I’m turning and twisting in a million different directions as models and dressing assistants call my name with questions or simply look for my nod of approval.
That’s who I am, the number-one point on Saks Fifth Avenue’s semi-annual New York lingerie fashion show. It’s one of the top shows for the company in terms of attendance. Not only will there be buyers from all over the world, but the show is also open to the public. That means interested parties from everywhere will be in attendance, possible buyers and investors as well as the competition and of course, just the curious attendee.
That isn’t my choice. I like keeping shows professional. However, the added attendance is said to ramp up the excitement. According to Chantilly, who has been backstage for the last three shows, the enthusiasm radiates from the audience to the models.
As I fan myself with my clipboard, I wonder if we can handle more radiation. The temperature in the dressing room already feels like a hundred degrees and we still have hours of planning and refining.
Maybe the higher temperature is beneficial for the models. Since I’m not walking around in a bra and panties, my extra clothes may be part of my problem. No doubt that their lack of clothes could be an issue if they were cold.
Then again, too hot and body glue begins to melt.
No one wants that!
“Which one with the chemise?” Chantilly asks from across the room. “Thong or tanga brief?”
I eye the two swatches of white satin material she’s holding in the air, neither looking as if they’ll cover enough of the beautiful six-foot-tall model by her side to make a difference. However, with the way the white silk chemise hits the top of the model’s thighs, unless this fashion show wants to be renamed a striptease, one is definitely going to be necessary. Yes, more than breasts are on display behind closed doors. “Tanga brief, but in black.”
Chantilly’s eyes narrow before her lips move upward. “I like that. Yes, through the white silk it will pop.”
Models in all stages of dress and undress talk amongst themselves, moving about the crowded dressing room as they wait for their final assignment. I’m twisted in different directions with questions as I work to pin a too-long spaghetti strap onto the lace bodysuit.
“Shana!”
I turn my gaze as I poke the straight pin through the strap and into my finger.
“Ow,” the model in my grips murmurs with a flinch.
“Sorry,” I reply as my lip disappears behind my teeth and I assess the damage. I may have superficially nicked her, but damn, I practically stabbed my finger.
“Let me help,” Chantilly says as she comes toward us. “I think you should stick to the clipboard and let the w
ardrobe assistants handle the sharp objects.”
I lift my hands in defense, only a small dribble of blood visible. “You’re probably right. She’s all yours.”
Yes, I also find it hilarious that the lead coordinator of a lingerie show is named after lace.
Brocade, guipure, knit, or alençon...I suppose it could be worse.
“Jenese,” Chantilly says, reaching for my hand and assessing the damage, “needs your help with the French briefs.” Her eyes meet mine as she tilts her head toward the entrance. “Band-Aids are in the cabinet by the door.”
Did you know that Band-Aid isn’t a universal term? I didn’t know that until I was in London working. There they’re called fabric strips or plasters. Simple things like that make me happy to be back in the States.
Nodding, I forget about the language idiosyncrasies and recall Chantilly’s first statement. “Jenese needs my help with a pair of panties?” I ask, wondering what happened to miniskirts and lo-lace tank tops from the junior line.
I know what happened. Two weeks ago, while working in London, I received the call, the one offering me a chance to advance from juniors to ladies’ lingerie. It is more than I ever dared to dream, and yet in the middle of this pandemonium that by tomorrow needs to be a finely tuned tranquility, I’m questioning my sanity as much as my ability.
All ONES: The Complete Collection Page 40