Spring Romance: NINE Happily Ever Afters

by Tessa Bailey

“I wish I could send Charlie on a long road trip. I could use some space every once in a while.”

  “Charlie’s better at getting massages than giving them,” I laugh as I turn in his arms, facing him. “A lot better.”

  Nick’s eyebrows lower.

  I shrug apologetically. “Oops. Sorry.”

  “I wish we could have that whole set of memories wiped out of your brain. Like on a computer. Highlight, delete, empty trash.”

  “It was a very long time ago. We were just kids. The only man on my mind is you.”

  He kisses me, a quick smooch that turns into something much slower, as he teases my lips with his tongue. Some part of me rises up, my body pressing into him, time elongating as the kiss makes that gentle pivot from a sweet connection to a deep anchoring. My fingers play with the fine hair at the nape of his neck, his mouth taking mine, my breath quickening until I don’t know where his heat begins and mine ends.

  And I am so, so glad.

  His hands slide under my silk shirt, warm skin against mine, making me forget everything around me. Almost.

  “The steak,” I whisper. “I like mine rare.”

  “Damn!” He rushes out to the grill.

  Overcooked.

  But worth it.

  “Go turn on the fireplace in the living room,” Nick suggests after we finish the very well-done steak, the baby potatoes, the roasted broccoli, and a small plate of cheese and fruit. “I’ll open another bottle of wine and be right in.”

  There was a time when I could not understand the appeal of a gas fireplace. No wood smell, no crackle? Then I bought this condo, flipped the switch on the wall, and beheld the roaring fire. Now I get it.

  I curl up on the sofa, wrapping a soft mohair throw around my feet, and feel the room begin to warm.

  * * *

  Nick

  Aside from destroying a beautiful cut of meat, the night’s going as planned. Gorgeous woman with smiling eyes and fabulous conversation. Good food (steak excepted), gift bestowed, and happiness abounds. We’re in that zone, the place where all the negativity of life washes away, and all that’s left is the naked goodness of, well…

  Being naked.

  I struggle with the half bottle of Sauternes, the uncorking process more complicated than the Big Dig. Finally, it pulls free, with a lovely subtle pop. A few stragglers of cork float on top, mocking me.

  Eh. That’s what strainers are for.

  I pour two glasses of wine, strain accordingly, and prepare to seduce Chloe.

  “Here we are,” I say, my voice low and—

  She’s asleep.

  Blinking as if resetting my eyeballs will reboot the scene, I stare at her in repose, her head on the arm of the sofa, her legs curled under her. She looks like a kitten. Her breathing is steady and slow. Deep slumber.

  I’m torn.

  Angel Nick says, Set down the wine, cover her with a blanket, and let her sleep. Go do her dishes.

  Devil Nick says, Hey, dude. It’s been a week since you got any. You know what to do. Blue is not your color.

  Devil Nick sounds a little too much like Charlie for my taste.

  Sighing, I swig my wine, then gently pull up the mohair throw from Chloe’s feet, covering her. The dishes won’t wash themselves.

  And besides, I realize, as I watch the fire glowing against the thin strands of the necklace I’ve just placed around her willowy neck, we have all the time in the world.

  I met her just in time.

  But I’ll have her for the rest of my life.

  Walking back into the kitchen, I start the hot water in the sink, going outside to grab the dirty grill grates. Setting them to soak in one half of the sink, I wash up all the rest of the dishes. I’m still figuring out the layout here at Chloe’s place. Baby bottles and teething rings go in one cupboard.

  Still don’t understand the purpose of the wooden banana hanger.

  I’m deep in my own head, scrubbing the grill insert, when I hear a sleepy gasp behind me. I turn around, hands filthy.

  Chloe’s there, blanket wrapped around her shoulders, rubbing her eyes.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Washing dishes.”

  “Why? We were – oh, Nick, I fell asleep, didn’t I?” Her voice is filled with a panicked regret. She yawns, jaw popping from exertion, her shoulders rolling with effort.

  “It’s fine. I thought I’d get started on the foreplay without you,” I joke.

  She gives me a blank look.

  “You know. Porn for women?”

  Her eyebrows go up.

  “Speak English.”

  “You still want to make love, right?”

  She yawns again.

  “Don’t get so excited,” I mutter.

  “I’m going to need a lot of foreplay to get in the mood.”

  I scrub furiously.

  “What are you doing?” she asks, laughing.

  “Foreplay! Mari told me that men doing housework is an aphrodisiac for women.”

  “I can think of far, far better forms of foreplay,” Chloe responds, her voice dropping to a familiar register that makes my blood quicken.

  I wash my hands, abandon the rest of the dishes, and kiss her. As she steps into my arms, she pulls the blanket open, wrapping us in it. She’s hot, a little sweaty at the neck, and she smells like a mix of faded perfume, well-seared steak, wine and musk.

  She tastes like my future.

  Breaking the kiss, she looks around. “You cleaned my kitchen!”

  “Just wiped it down. Emptied the dishwasher. Soaked the grill plates and—”

  This time, the kiss is like a burst of fireworks in a bonfire. Mari was right.

  “You know, I clean a mean bathroom floor,” I murmur in her ear, walking her backwards down the hallway to her bedroom.

  She moans in ecstasy.

  “And you should watch me scrub a toilet—”

  Chloe’s manicured fingers cover my lips. Our eyes meet.

  “Stop while you’re ahead there, mister.”

  “Not so arousing?”

  A head shake greets me.

  So does a lovely stroke over my pants.

  “Chloe,” I groan. Trying not to be obvious, I check the bedside clock. 8:19 p.m. We have more than an hour.

  When I look back at Chloe, I find her watching the clock, too.

  “Habit,” we say in unison.

  Then we laugh.

  And then we most definitely stop laughing.

  * * *

  Chloe

  My black velvet pants, unzipped, drop to the floor, and my silk top slips off over my head. This leaves me wearing black heels, my new necklace, and perfume. Reaching for Nick, I unbutton his shirt, starting at the top, kissing and licking my way down, finding a new path. When I reach his belly, he moans. This man who is always so together, so in charge, can be utterly undone by my mouth on his skin. Amazing. I pull the clip from my hair and shake it loose.

  My muscles are still cramped from sleeping curled up in one position on the sofa. When my ass hits the bed, I can’t resist a full, luxurious stretch, arching my back and reaching over my head, eyes closed. But before I’ve completed it, I feel something more luxurious by far, as Nick’s warm mouth covers me. His tongue starts slow, lazy circles, and I hear his quiet “mmmm” of pleasure as he senses my body’s response. He knows what pleases me better than I know myself. How is that possible?

  I relax completely, then begin to tense again, but in different places, pulsing with anticipation. The hands that I stretched over my head frantically seek something to grip tightly as Nick’s lips and tongue move faster. There’s never been a boundary between our bodies. My ecstasy is his and his is mine.

  I cry his name as my orgasm begins to cascade. Seeing and hearing me come, tasting it, causing it to happen, makes him so hard that he plunges into me before I’m done. I want him desperately, and I know he feels the same. His moves become more urgent until his last powerful thrust, and I feel the hot flow
of his climax. We finish together, my final shudders blending with his strong pulsing.

  “My Chloe,” he murmurs, almost to himself. I love hearing him claim me, when he’s only half aware of his own words, lost in the golden moment. But a few minutes later, still inside me, as our breathing returns to normal, he says it again clearly: “My Chloe. My love.”

  I smile into his eyes, my palms on his scratchy face, but he looks back at me so seriously. With the fingers of one hand, he traces the thin chain of my necklace down to the interlocked gold rings of the pendant, warm now from our skin. He holds them up.

  “You are my whole world. I love you. I need you.”

  My eyes fill with tears. “I love you, Nick. I’ve waited my whole life for you. It was worth every second.”

  And it was.

  I waited years for Holly, knowing my life would never be complete without her, without a child to love. This mother’s love is a fierce, protective force that flows in my veins. It was born when she was born, and will live inside me until the day I die. But I know it will evolve. My job is not just to love her and keep her safe, but to prepare her to find her own independent life, to fly from our nest someday on her own strong wings.

  Just as Holly will do in her future, I’ve been living my own independent life. I’ve had happy times and sad times, successes and failures, with Henry and Jemma and Charlotte for support. I was doing okay. But it was chicken broth.

  I start to giggle when I remember the saying: “Cooking is like love; it should be entered into with abandon or not at all.”

  Absolutely.

  Then, like a horrible electric shock, my cell suddenly begins blaring “La Vida Loca.” Dammit, Henry got to my ringtone setting again. As I reach for it, Nick’s phone starts ringing, too.

  “It’s Elodie,” I say, looking at the lighted screen. “How on earth does she know when we’re… Hello?”

  “Amelie?” I hear him say ominously into his own phone.

  “Chloe? I’m really sorry…” Elodie starts, but I can’t hear her over Nick yelling.

  “I can’t believe you girls are doing this! You are not ten years old anymore! You’re not going to think it’s so funny when I turn off your phone plan and you can only dial 911 and pizza delivery!”

  “Shhhhhh! I can’t hear her!” I hiss at him. “Elodie, what is it?”

  “Hold on,” Nick says furiously.

  “Chloe, I’m really sorry!” Her voice breaks. “I hate to bother you, but we were trying to teach Holly to crawl and we were all on the floor and she picked something up and put it in her mouth and she swallowed it and we think it was a spider!” She’s sobbing now. “And we don’t know what to do!”

  From Nick’s phone, I hear the faint echo of “…what to do!”

  I’m already standing, picking up my velvet pants from the floor and shaking them out. “We’re on our way,” I say. “Don’t worry. Everything’s going to be fine.”

  On his side of my bed, Nick is pulling on his shirt.

  We’re on our way.

  We really are.

  And everything’s going to be fine.

  Just fine.

  :)

  Thank you so much for reading Our Options Have Changed, the first in our On Hold of contemporary romances. Whether you like a little comedy with your romance, or some drama with your smiles, you’ll find this new series to be just right.

  Here’s the next book in the On Hold series, Thank You For Holding. Read it now!

  Having it all is a fantasy, right?

  Carrie Shelton thought her boyfriend was too good to be true. Her best friend’s brother? A guy who loved antiquing? Who cuddled on the couch while watching foodie YouTube clips and talking about artisanal spices? Who helped her accessorize her outfits?

  Right.

  Fantasy.

  So when he ran off with Kevin, the owner of an antique shop, right before his sister’s wedding, Carrie’s life went from fantasy to nightmare.

  As maid of honor, she can’t back out of the wedding. And her ex is the best man – but now he has his own best man.

  She needs a date. Stat.

  Enter Ryan. Sure, he’s a hot male stripper at the O Spa where she works as junior designer, but he’s a few years younger and just, you know—a friend.

  Perfect. She needs a friend more than she needs a boyfriend.

  A weekend of playing her boyfriend so she can save face is a lot to ask, but for some reason Carrie doesn’t understand, Ryan’s all in. Enthusiastic, even.

  Especially when it comes to physical displays of affection.

  Public kisses turn to private confessions, and pretty soon, Carrie can’t tell the difference between fantasy and reality.

  Because if Ryan’s just pretending he’s in love with her, then why does the chemistry between them—and between the sheets—feel so real?

  Carrie can’t settle for almost, though. She’s already done that. She’s not putting her life on hold anymore.

  Turns out Ryan won’t, either.

  He’s holding out for more.

  Here’s the first chapter to give you a taste.

  Chapter One

  Carrie

  I swear to you, when I get married, I am NOT going to make my bridesmaids pay $250 for a dress. A hideous dress that makes them look like a) a grandmother; b) an elephant; or, in extreme cases, c) a grandmother elephant.

  I’m not.

  Just because it comes from J. Crew Weddings does not mean you can actually wear it again in real life. Trust me on this.

  Also, I’m not making them fly to Las Vegas or Cancun and pay thousands of dollars to stay at a resort for three days just so I can post pictures on Facebook and Instagram of them toasting me by the pool. With fourteen-dollar cocktails. And a stupid caption, like, “What would I do without my besties?”

  I am not doing this.

  And yes, I know, they all said that, too. Before.

  Perfectly reasonable women get engaged and apparently their memory banks are instantly wiped clean. Common sense, too.

  They forget their college roommate’s wedding, when—due to an unfortunate YouTube sensation—they were required to dance (dance!) down the aisle in a $300 sequin minidress (with coordinating sheer organza coat for modesty in church, $95).

  They suddenly do not recall their cousin’s sweet country theme, with the daisies and the barbeque and the IPA beer, and the $175 lavender flowered cotton maxidress with puff sleeves that went with it. Just try wearing that one to a future cocktail party. I dare you.

  In my darker moments, I suspect there may be a kind of payback factor at work here.

  Anyway, there’s a reason it’s called the wedding-industrial complex. And that’s not the end! Then there are the baby showers.

  Don’t get me wrong. I love my friends dearly. I really don’t know what I would do without them. I want their special day to be a treasured memory of perfect happiness, rare and well-deserved, documented in photographs. Their joy is my joy.

  But my pain is apparently not their pain.

  Let’s look at the plus side.

  I’m going to be the maid of honor in my friend Jenny’s wedding. You probably saw that coming. I met Jenny at work here at the O Spa, the women’s private club chain where I am the Assistant Director for Design. O Spas are the “fourth space” for women. Home, work, and other public venues are the first three.

  We are meant to be the ultimate space. From highly-trained, well-oiled, hot massage therapists who wear g-strings that are outlawed in 111 countries, to a sex toy boutique with weekly workshops, to a new coffee bar with lattes that are better than sex, the O Spa caters to what women want.

  A break, a chance, and a friend.

  Jenny loved working for O, but she moved on a year ago, a promotion she could only get by changing companies. We were never just work friends. We’re true best friends, and besides that, we could be sisters-in-law someday. I’m dating her brother, Jamey.

  Who is standing in fron
t of my desk right now, telling me about the tickets he just scored to Straight No Chaser at the Wang Center in November. We love a cappella.

  “Fifth row, Carrie! And it’ll be near the holidays, so maybe they’ll do songs from their Christmas album!” His dark, wavy hair falls over his forehead in a boyish little curl. His eyebrows are perfectly arched. He gets them threaded more often than I do. His narrow chinos are rolled at the cuff, exposing his bare ankles in brown loafers. And is that my cotton scarf knotted around his neck?

  I smile at him. Jamey is a great boyfriend because he always wants to do fun and unusual things. Has ever since we began dating two years ago. Our friends rely on Jamey to keep them current. When Steve Martin curated the Lawren Harris show at the MFA, we were the first people in the door. When Juliet opened in Union Square, we were tasting the tasting menu before anyone else had tasted it.

  You can see why a lavender flowered cotton dress—with puffed sleeves—is of no use to me.

  “We can go back to my place after the concert and I’ll make cocoa. Bet you’d enjoy something sweet and hot,” I say with a flirtatious grin. I give him what I hope is a smoldering look. He’s holding my hand and his eyes widen in mock excitement, then he looks away.

  I love Jamey.

  And he loves me. What kind of guy stops by his girlfriend’s work with Grind It Fresh! cinnamon lattes after finishing his Crossfit routine?

  Jamey would fit in so well here at O.

  A little too well. Looks like he’s thinking about moonlighting here, judging from the way he’s tracking Zeke, one of the master masseurs.

  “Hey,” Zeke grunts, his English accent somehow coming out even in a single-syllable sound.

  Jamey doesn’t say a word. He just keeps staring at Zeke, whose face hardens. His eyes dart to me, as if he’s asking What the fuck?

  I shrug. “Like what you see?” I whisper in Jamey’s ear.

  He jumps so high he nearly knocks my latte out of my hand. I recover quickly. Can’t waste a Grind It Fresh! latte. But a few drops spill down the edge of my skirt.

  “Whoops!” he shouts, a little too brightly. “So sorry, angel.” His hug is swift and sweaty, his scent clinging, skin clammy and hot at the same time. Jamey is so affectionate. Always ready with a snuggle or a hug, a hand to hold while we go shopping.