The Last Plus One

by Ophelia London

  “Okay?” She kissed him so hard their teeth bumped. “Of course! Of course—yes, please!” On the brink of both laughter and tears, she pressed her lips to his again. “I want you with me wherever I am.”

  “Then across the pond we go, beautiful.”

  When one last bit of unshared truth suddenly occurred to her, she bit her lip and met his gaze. “By the time you’re back in Detroit, I’ll be done with my dissertation, and a fully vested member of the research department at Tech.”

  “I know. Long distance again. We’ll figure it out.”

  “We don’t have to.” She ran a hand along his jawbone, up his cheek, across his forehead. “Just like you, I want to be where I’m most needed. Detroit has some exceptional family counseling centers, and an outreach program right by your school that could use help. If they’ll have me, I can’t think of a better place to offer my services.” Pausing, she interlocked their fingers. “I might’ve done some research on it.”

  After gazing down at her like he was seeing her in an all-new light, he wrapped her in the warmest, most intimate and loving hug she’d ever experienced.

  “I love you, Ash,” he said into her ear. “Thank you for forgiving me for being such an idiot.”

  Lifting onto her tiptoes, she kissed his forehead, his eyelids. “Thanks for loving me for who I am, for putting up with me, and for…” Her throat closed up with tears. “Waiting for me to realize I loved you.”

  With that, they held hands, making their way—not at a leisurely pace—to the hotel with a secret top floor.

  Acknowledgments

  This book would not exist if not for that one day the “LLLs” (Lex, Linz, and ’Lia) were sitting around Starbucks or wherever, daydreaming about how it would be cool to write a destination wedding kind of series. After that, I don’t even remember what happened, except before you could say Bearded Clam Bottom, we had a semi-plan and a very permanent release date.

  Alexandra Haughton and Lindsay Emory, my fabulous LLL and DARA sisters, I simply cannot thank you enough for all the support and gentle butt-kicking you’ve given me during this project—that I so fondly call the “devil book.” Your mad organizational skills, humor, thousands of texts, spirit sprinkles and discussions of green dresses and grey flowers have made this endeavor truly unforgettable!

  Next group project: Dream boyfriend in that college band!

  About the Author

  USA Today bestselling author Ophelia London was born and raised among the redwood trees in beautiful northern California. Once she was fully educated, she decided to settle in Florida, but her car broke down in Texas and she’s lived in Dallas ever since. A cupcake and treadmill aficionado (obviously those things are connected), she spends her time watching arthouse movies and impossibly trashy TV, while living vicariously through the characters she writes. Ophelia is the author of Kissing Her Crush; Aimee and the Heartthrob; Chalk Lines & Lipstick; Definitely, Maybe in Love; the Abby Road series; and the Perfect Kisses series. Visit her HERE. But don’t call when The Vampire Diaries (or Dawson’s Creek) is on. #PaceyLove

  @ophelia_london

  235557139857428

  ophelialondon.com

  When We Were Young

  Lindsay Emory

  Also by Lindsay Emory

  Rushing to Die

  Sisterhood is Deadly

  Know When to Hold Him

  For J,

  who always gives me another chance.

  And for Jen,

  who makes delicious cookies at her place.

  Chapter 1

  Dear God… Please let this be some wedding-stress-induced delusion because my dear, sweet best friend Laurel would never, ever…

  “He’s your plus one!” Laurel’s over-perky voice interrupted Claire’s desperate prayer.

  “No,” Claire breathed, feeling dizzy.

  “We needed a replacement groomsman anyway, since Tyler’s cousin couldn’t make it, and Mom suggested Tom and now it couldn’t be more perfect!” Laurel squeezed Claire’s shoulders and squealed. “All my best friends are going to be together, officially, for our big day.”

  Claire’s head spun. Not Tom Harrington, not him. Maybe there was still something she could do, some way to convince Laurel that she really, really did not want Tom anywhere within a hundred yards of Claire. “I told you, I don’t need a plus one. My job is to make sure every detail of your wedding day is perfect, and a date would just distract me.” There. That should do it. What bride didn’t want all the focus on her and her happiness?

  Laurel waved her hand. “It’s just Tom. And besides,” she said, linking her arm through Claire’s in that cozy way she did when she knew she would win an argument, “now all the events still will have an even number of men and women. You told me we had to have an even number.”

  Claire wished she could invent a time machine, travel back six months, and smack herself in the head when she’d convinced Laurel of that during an afternoon of wedding planning at Laurel and Tyler’s Tribeca loft.

  “There’s no one else?” She had to try something—anything. “No one else that Tyler wants to have standing up for him?”

  Laurel shook her head. “Not at this late notice. Besides, Tom and Tyler have hung out plenty here at the house when we’ve come to visit. Tyler thinks he’s great.”

  Of course he did. Tom Harrington had an irritatingly crafty way of getting everyone to love him. Back in college, he was the quintessential all-around nice guy, the one you could call at two a.m. to walk you home, or borrow twenty bucks, or copy class notes. Everyone was Tom’s best friend. Everyone except Claire Portelli.

  It wasn’t accurate to say they weren’t friends. Or that they didn’t get along. Claire and Tom loathed each other.

  Which was something Laurel knew, obviously, having been Claire’s college roommate and Tom’s off-and-on girlfriend for nearly four years. So why was she laughing airily about Tom’s recent promotion to groomsman and latching on to Claire’s arm and waving him over to talk to them?

  This was not happening.

  The man in question drew nearer, lit by the flickering flames of the beach bonfire at the Ramseys’ “Welcome to Maine” clambake meant to kick off the wedding weekend. The shadows of the roaring fire caught on the chiseled planes of Tom’s face. Somehow, as if he’d made a deal with the devil, he was more handsome now than he had been at twenty-two, when Claire had seen him last.

  “I can’t,” Claire murmured to her friend. She tried to pull away. There were a million excuses she could invent, most of them legitimate. Technically, she wasn’t maid of honor, but when the MOH was the useless pregnant sister of the bride, much of the wedding-planning assistance had fallen to Claire, since she was an OCD stickler for detail, had amazing taste, and didn’t give a damn if people called her a bitch—all requirements for an A-plus volunteer wedding planner. Laurel clasped Claire’s hand tightly. This was ridiculous. Laurel couldn’t force her to talk to Tom, not with this short notice. Claire needed time to compose herself, to touch up her lip gloss and to craft a few zingers to protect herself against Tom Horrible.

  “Oh look!” She pointed a finger in the opposite direction “Senator Fukuyama just arrived. I’ll go over and make sure she gets a fresh plate—”

  “She’s fine,” Laurel said, her teeth gritted.

  “Your mother is walking the dogs, and you know how she feels about guests getting plates,” Claire found herself babbling. Anything, anything to get her out of here. He was within talking distance now. She couldn’t do this, and Laurel, a.k.a. the most stubborn bride in America, wasn’t letting her go, so she did what she had to do. Claire pinched Laurel Ramsey, Senator August Ramsey’s daughter, the granddaughter of a former vice president.

  “Ow!” Laurel jerked but kept her grip on Claire’s hand. Claire pulled, the sole of her shoe slipped on the sand, and she went tumbling face first…into the bonfire.

  But before she could reach the fire, her other sandal caught in the hem of her m
axi dress, bringing her to a sliding stop, upsetting her balance and she went hurtling to the left, her head bouncing off a shabby-chic Adirondack bench she herself had ordered for the perfect Maine clambake ambiance.

  Sharp pain ricocheted through her skull and somehow her mouth was full of sand. What the—

  “Don’t move her!” Laurel shrieked. “We need a doctor!”

  Warm, wide hands covered Claire’s shoulders and rolled her over so that she could see the velvet sky over the Maine coast, the graceful plumes of smoke rising over the bonfire, and Tom Harrington’s irritatingly handsome face.

  “Hell. No.”

  The demon formally known as Tom Harrington was the one who was reaching for her head.

  “Get him off me!” she screeched.

  Tom smiled reassuringly. “Let me take a quick look.”

  “You touch me and I will saw your hand off with a rusty steak knife.”

  Laurel gasped, which caused Tom to smile reassuringly at the bride. “Violent threats are a rare, but well-known side effect of head trauma.”

  Claire glared at the both of them. “This man is evil incarnate—just look at his hair.” It had made sense before it came out of her mouth. Maybe she’d hit her head harder than she thought.

  “Erratic behavior, delusions—all classic signs of a concussion,” Tom informed Laurel.

  Claire snorted as she pushed up from the sand. “You must have a permanent concussion if you think anyone is going to listen to you.”

  “Best to take her in to the hospital,” Tom continued like she hadn’t said a word. “We should probably get her x-rayed, sedated, and fitted for a straitjacket.” Tom leaned back and looked her up and down. “She’s gone up a size or two since her last one.”

  Claire gasped. She’d gone up a size? Or two? How could people not see that Tom Harrington was the devil’s spawn?

  “Oh, you two are as hilarious as ever,” Laurel said breezily.

  “She’s bleeding all over the sand.” They had been joined by a small group of the invitees, among them Laurel’s sister Janine, who had to point out the blood. “She could die.” Claire followed Janine’s finger toward the drops of blood on the sand and her vision went foggy, her balance was tilting, and thud. She was somehow in Tom Harrington’s arms. There was a beat. And then she screamed.

  “I think you have to take her someplace, doctor,” Janine said. “Someplace else. Someplace not within the earshot of the guests.”

  Tom Harrington had her clutched tight next to him, which strangely helped the fuzziness she’d felt upon seeing her blood splatter on the sand. She became clearer and…Tom Harrington was a… “Doctor?” Claire was aghast. “Who would give you a license?”

  He shook his head sadly. “I know, right? Who would have thought? Me? After I killed all those old people in the nursing home.”

  “See!” Claire demanded of Laurel and Tyler, who had now joined his bride, his arm protectively around her waist. “He’s admitting he’s a psychopath.”

  “He’s obviously making a joke, Claire,” Laurel said in a soothing voice.

  “You don’t know him like I do. He applied to be an Obamacare Death Panel administrator but they denied him for being too enthusiastic.”

  Tom made a cuckoo sound, and when Claire whipped her head around to see him, their faces were mere inches away from each other, which was disorienting. “I heard that.”

  He smiled. “Good, you’ve passed. Only forty-eight more tests to go, each one more invasive and painful than the last.” He lifted her to her feet and started guiding her toward the parking area.

  “Don’t let him take me, please,” Claire begged Laurel, who was looking strangely relieved before she shook her head.

  “Sweetie, you’re bleeding a lot. Can you please go get checked out? For me?”

  It was the only thing that was going to make Claire leave with Tom. Laurel Ramsey was her best friend; Claire had helped her plan every minute detail to this wedding. It had to be perfect, and Claire’s gaping head wound had not been part of the carefully considered shore-chic decor.

  Tyler took Claire’s left arm and Tom took her right, helping her up the wooden staircase over the rocks and to the private lawn where all the cars were parked. “There are photographers waiting on the road and we’re trying to keep them from getting shots of the guests. What kind of car do you have?” Tyler asked Tom.

  “I know,” Claire piped up. “A windowless white van. Easier to transport the grave-robbed cadavers he uses for his Frankenstein experiments.”

  “For that you need a minivan,” Tom said sotto voce. “It’s lower to the ground and the cops never want to pull over a soccer mom with two screaming toddlers in the back.”

  “Why am I not surprised that you have spent so much time thinking about this?”

  Tyler cleared his throat. Tom answered quickly, “An old truck.”

  “Tinted windows?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  Tyler tapped his chin. “Got anything to hide her?”

  “If I see a roll of plastic sheeting, I’m out,” Claire muttered.

  Tom reached into the back and held out a dusty blanket, in the exact gray-brown shade as dried mud.

  “Perfect,” Tyler said. “Claire, you lean down, and Tom, you put this blanket over her before you drive out and the paps can see you.”

  Tom threw the blanket over Claire’s head. She yanked it off, feeling the static electricity shooting through her hair. “He said when we drive out—”

  “Sorry. I just got overexcited.”

  “They have pills for that.”

  The men chuckled but still pushed her in the back of the truck. “If I don’t come back, take care of Laurel,” she told Tyler, right as Tom gleefully threw the dirty blanket over her head. Again.

  Chapter 2

  He had Claire Portelli hiding under a horse blanket in the back of his pickup truck.

  The image made him want to laugh. Or maybe cry. Things got confused when Claire was around.

  How many years had he thought about this? Claire. Blankets. A bed. All those fantasies and he’d never imagined the blanket would be one he kept on hand to rescue stray dogs, the bed would be the back of his truck, and Claire would be bleeding and furious.

  For four long years at Columbia University, he’d been tortured by this woman, by the dreams he’d have about her, by the sexually frustrated repartee they’d have by day. Finally, he was able to force her out of his system. It had taken time, distance, and, shamefully, a few other women with honey-colored hair for Tom to finally move on from the self-destructive nightmare that was Claire Portelli.

  He knew he’d see her again at the wedding. She was Laurel’s best friend and Laurel talked about her all the time. But hearing about Claire and seeing her again were two entirely different animals.

  Halfway to his office, Tom snapped on his blinker to move to the side of the road. There were no reporters out here, on this stretch of dark highway between Virtue Cove and his clinic in Bar Harbor. He helped her climb out of the bed, her hair a rat’s nest of dried blood and debris, but that didn’t deter her from acting like a queen as she lifted her chin, accepted his hand, and settled into the passenger seat.

  She didn’t say a word on the rest of their drive, which was fine with him. He needed to save up his energy for the epic battle that was surely to come. He pulled into the dark rear parking lot of his office, and let them in the back door. He had to reach across her to flip on the lights and then he counted one…two…three…

  “This is…a vet clinic.” Claire spun on him. “You’re a veterinarian?

  “Very good, Claire. A doctor that takes care of animals is called a veterinarian.”

  She snorted. The ferociously snotty Claire Portelli just snorted. Which meant things were about to get particularly dirty.

  “Go ahead, get it out of your system. I’ll wait.”

  Claire’s eyes widened like the innocent she never was. “You think I’m going to
make fun of you for being a vet?”

  “I’ve got all night.”

  “Tom, I know you and I have had our differences all these years, but even you, the man who hates me more than anyone, should know that I draw the line someplace,” she said while examining a microscopic chip in her manicure.

  “Here we go.”

  Claire clicked her fingernails together, as if she was counting. “Crimes against humanity, for one. I wouldn’t laugh at genocide, either, or child abduction, or famine.”

  “You’re a saint, Claire.”

  “And I’d never mock victims of natural disasters, or veterans with war injuries, or developmentally disabled persons who can’t get into med school and have to go to vet school instead…”

  There it was. “Are you done?” he asked, making sure he looked bored. She hated it when she couldn’t get a rise out of him.

  “Have you always had a romantic interest in farm animals?”

  “No, I just realized spending some quality time with cows was more appealing than another night with you.”

  Her only response was a tiny flicker of her lips. Dammit. She’d goaded him into mentioning The Great One-Night-Stand Mistake. One point for Claire.

  “Well, I’m relieved that you’re not treating people,” she said with more of an edge than her usual icy aplomb.

  “You’ll be my first human patient,” Tom said, moving toward the supply cabinet.

  “In your dreams.”

  “Yes, for the last seven years I’ve been lurking in the shadows, doing nothing but dreaming of the day you’d trip over ridiculous shoes, slice your head open, and I’d be the lucky, lucky man to put some glue on your head.”

  “Take me to the hospital. I want a plastic surgeon who knows what he’s doing, not some doggy doctor with a score to settle.”