by Sara Ney
I peek my head around the corner to catch a glimpse of them.
Greyson and that dark-haired hottie.
Shit, he’s deliciously attractive.
He’s tall and broad with thick, dark brown hair and sexy black sunglasses propped on top of his head. Greyson has her blonde head resting against his wide shoulder. A large hand slides around my brother’s girlfriend’s waist, giving her an affectionate squeeze.
I hate it. I hate how comfortable they obviously are with each other.
How the hell can my brother compete with a guy as handsome as that?
I glare at them, sick to my stomach and wanting to vom, then plaster myself back up against the shelf with a shaking breath. A sharp price tag stabs me in the back, jolting me out of my angry stupor.
Why the hell am I the one hiding? I’m not the one doing anything wrong!
Another rich laugh fills the air, coming from the next aisle over, and I steady myself. Straighten my spine. Count down from three.
Two.
One.
I step out into the main aisle, plastering on a wide smile when I come face to face with Greyson and this homewrecking asshole.
“Greyson! Hi!” My voice comes out saccharine sweet, sounding hollow, fake, and robotic as I try my best to act surprised to see them. Surprised but cheerful. Definitely cheerful.
Gag.
“Oh my gosh! Tabitha!” Greyson gasps, delighted, and steps out from behind the cart, coming around it to embrace me. “It’s so good to see you!”
Hmm, she sounds suspiciously joyful. For a lying, backstabbing cheater.
“Hey.” My body is stiff, arms clutching the toiletries that haven’t yet made it into my cart. I glance between the two of them bitterly from under the brim of my cap. “What are you doing in town? So far from school?”
She and my brother are in college three hours away, but coincidentally, our parents only live twenty minutes apart from each other.
Imagine that.
Greyson’s painfully attractive date’s eyes linger on me with rapt interest, his hazel irises checking me out from head to toe, landing on my chest a heartbeat too long, his high cheekbones taking on a rosy glow before jerking his gaze away.
Of all the nerve!
What. An. Asshole.
“We’re getting odds and ends for his condo,” Greyson replies slowly, stepping out of our embrace and narrowing her eyes as she studies me. My brother’s girlfriend might be stupidly gorgeous, but she’s definitely not stupid. “Tabitha, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I lie, shaking out of her grasp. “Who’s your friend?” Agitated, I begin tapping my foot on the hard tile, biting my tongue.
Greyson’s lip’s part, and I brace myself for her lie.
“You mean Collin?” Confused, she looks back and forth between him and me, apprehension marring her beautiful face. “Tabitha, I’m not sure—”
“How could you?” I hiss in a whisper.
Her expressive eyes get wide. “How could I what?”
“Oh my god, seriously?” I raise my palms in frustration, the deodorant, hairspray, and toothpaste falling to the ground with noisy, hollow clangs. The metal hairspray can bounces, rolls, and hits the adjacent metal shelf, but I don’t even care.
“How could you do this to my brother? He loves you!” It takes every ounce of my self-control not to have an outburst, but based on the shrill sound coming out of my mouth, I’m not successful.
“Tabitha, tell me what’s wrong, please. You’re scaring me,” Greyson implores, reaching for my arm.
I jerk it away.
Upset and near hysterics, I turn to leave, bending with a sob to snatch my purchases off the ground. “Whatever you’re going to say, save it, okay? Enjoy your ridiculously good-looking boy toy. I’ll be there to pick up my brother’s broken pieces after you break his heart into a million little shards.”
I turn to stalk away.
“What!” Greyson gasps from behind me. “Oh my god—”
“Hey!” the dark-haired Adonis bellows after me, taking several long strides and cuffing his large, warm hand over my bicep. “Get your bony ass back here for a second.”
Bony ass? Bony. Ass?
“H-how dare you!” I sputter furiously; whether it’s from the manhandling or name calling, I’m not entirely sure.
“How dare I? You’re the one that sounds like a mental person. That’s my sister. Greyson is my sister.”
Okay.
Yeah.
So this is the part where I stand there dumbfounded, staring at both of them with my mouth agape. Yup, that’s what I do. I stand there, gaping. Embarrassed. Face flushed. Horrified. Mortified.
As far as misunderstandings go, this is one of the worst.
“I… oh.”
“Yeah, oh. What the hell is wrong with you?”
“I didn’t… I didn’t think.”
“You didn’t think? I can see that.” He runs a tan hand through his dark, mussy hair. “Nice to meet you, by the way. I’m Collin Keller. Greyson’s brother.”
Collin Keller extends his hand, and I gawk dumbly at it, still sheepish. He leaves it there, hanging between us, waiting for me to shake it.
“I… Hi.” My hand slides into his and I shiver. Our eyes connect.
They’re hazel.
His eyes are hazel, just like Greyson’s.
Exactly. Like. Greyson’s.
As we take each other in, the hard set of his mouth transforms; the corners of his beautifully sculpted lips tip into an awkward smile, framed by the shadow of a beard playing along his strong jawline and defined chin.
He’s so… male.
“You don’t have any pictures of him on Facebook,” I blurt out, releasing Collin’s hand and wiping any traces of him off on my white shorts.
He studies me then, awareness prickling the back of my neck. We regard each other intently before he turns towards his sister, his eyebrows going up quizzically. “You don’t have any pictures of me on Facebook? Why the hell not?”
She laughs and smacks him in the arm. “You said you hate when I tag you in pictures. Besides, you haven’t even been in town the last two years. So I have almost no recent pictures of you. Unless you count the ones where our whole family’s wearing matching Christmas pajamas.”
He chuckles then, deep and low and manly. God, his voice is sexy. His hazel eyes shine and my breath hitches for the second time today. “Fair enough.” He regards me then with another grin. “She’s right, I do hate when she tags me in pictures.”
I shake my head, miserable. “I’m sorry, Grey. I can’t believe I thought…”
She nods, understanding. “I know what you thought, and I don’t blame you.”
I’d feel so much better if she called me an asshole. Or an overreacting jackass.
I deserve it.
“Yeah, it’s just. When I saw you touching him…” I let my judgment trail off suggestively, glancing back and forth between the two of them with raised eyebrows to emphasize my point. “You and him, my imagination ran a little wild.”
If only she knew how wild my imagination really was.
“Ya think?” Collin deadpans beside her.
Greyson ignores him, shaking her head before reaching over, pulling me in for a hug. “Collin just accepted a job offer,” she murmurs into my hair. “He just moved back to the city from Seattle. I’m helping him buy a bunch of stuff for his new condo.”
All I can muster is a weak, “Oh,” when she pulls away. Then meekly, I say, “In my defense, except for the eyes, you two look nothing alike.”
“Thank God,” Collin jokes, and Greyson playfully smacks him again.
“Hey!”
“Sorry, but you’re the least attractive of mom’s three children.”
Greyson rolls her large hazel eyes. “Anyway, I feel horrible you thought that me and him... I mean. Look at him—so not my type.”
Oh, I’m looking alright. As if I could stop myself.
&nb
sp; I fidget with the toiletries in my arms awkwardly, speaking cautiously. “Grey, could we… can we not tell anyone about this?”
She hangs her head and shakes it ruefully, patting me on the arm. “No can do, Tabby. This one is just too too good to keep a secret.”
Blare Wellborn wasn’t always this guarded; she was fun and outgoing and loud. But she had a secret, one she was hiding from everyone she cared about—the one thing that brought her the most joy, was the one thing she couldn’t tell to anyone.
Blare freezes in the aisle of the store, not sure which direction to head in first. She didn’t come for cosmetics, but the glittery display of mascara beckoned her. Man, was she a sucker for new products, and she loved getting dressed up. These days, though, there wasn’t much opportunity, and she heaved a loud sigh when she snatched up a hot-pink mascara tube and tossed it in her basket.
Biting down on her lower lip, she studied her choices, not paying any attention when someone brushed past her and bumped into her shoulder, causing her to drop her purse. “Oh!” She gasped, startled. “I’m sorry.” Blare was always apologizing, and mentally kicked herself for doing it now. After all, she wasn’t the one who had smacked into her.
They both bent down, grabbing at her bag. Hands touching. Fingers grasping. Then, “Oh…” Hazel eyes stared back at her, a tuft of shockingly dark brown locks brushed away by a masculine hand. “Don’t apologize. I bumped into you.” His voice. His lips. That ruggedly handsome face, those kind eyes. They regarded each other then, something passing between them: recognition. Attraction. Definitely attraction….
Leaning back in the high-back chair, satisfied, I hit SAVE on my laptop, pleased with the progress on my second novel.
My. Second. Novel.
Two novels that I wrote, all by my freaking self.
Me!
A romance writer.
I can hardly believe it, and if someone had told me a year ago that I’d be publishing a book—let alone two—well, I wouldn’t have believed them. I might have even laughed in their face. Not very ladylike, I know, but there you have it.
My parents would be shocked. And horrified—not because I’ve written a book, but because they’re fifty shades of smut. I don’t even want to imagine what I’d say to my grandparents.
And if Cal found out? I would never live it down.
I grin, imagining the tasteless jokes and innuendos my brother would throw down if he discovered my secret, but also saddened by the knowledge that I’m hiding it from him, because I know he would support me. Be proud.
My biggest fan.
Ironically, despite his rough exterior and grumpy disposition, Cal has always been my biggest cheerleader. When I was a teenager and became obsessed with animals—stray dogs at the pound in particular—he helped me raise money to donate to the shelter. Together we went to buy pet supplies the shelter needed with the cash I’d raised.
When I went through my boy band phase, it was Cal who went with me to stand in line at the radio station, overnight, to enter a contest for a chance to win tickets.
And every spring when we mulch our parents’ landscaping, I always weasel my way out of working in the yard by faking an injury, and he’s never once ratted me out.
Heaving a loud sigh at the memories, I reach over the side of my chair to root around the tote next to my table for a pen, feeling around inside the bag blindly with one hand and coming up empty. I lean over farther to yank it open and peer inside.
Ah-ha, there it is.
I pop the pen cap off with my teeth and admire the paperback proof for my first book—which hasn’t even been officially released yet—resting on the table next to my soy latte, trailing my fingers across its sleek cover and glossy design. I turn the paperback this way and that, admiring the two entwined, naked bodies in the heat of passion, the shocking red title, and my name in bold letters splashed across the front.
My name!
Well, my pen name, anyway.
A pair of blue ear buds dangle from my lobes and down the front of my white tee shirt, and I reset my music playlist before flipping open the proof copy of my book, pen poised and ready for edits.
Disappointed, the first page—the title page—is pixelated, so I circle it and add a note in the margin for my formatter. Thirty pages in I find a typo, and a few chapters further, too many spaces between paragraphs, a sentence that’s meant to be italicized. There are narrow margins in the epilogue.
I circle them all.
I forgo acknowledgements in this book because, well, who am I going to thank?
No one knows I wrote it.
And if none of my family or friends know I wrote it, who’s even going to read it? Probably no one. But I didn’t write it for them or for strangers; I wrote it for me.
It’s something I’ve always wanted to do; it’s always been my passion. My career goals never included working for my parents. Don’t get me wrong—I love them to death and I like my job, but…
…the construction company is their passion. Their vision. Their dream.
Not mine.
But my parents count on me—always have—trusting that Cal and I will take ownership of their company when they retire. They have confidence in us, put us through Business School at Ivy League colleges, and rely on us to continue their legacy.
Lately though, for the first time in my life, the thought of living someone else’s dream is stifling me. Suffocating. It might be what my brother wants, but it’s holding me back.
I rest my back against the soft cushion, my pen hovering above the cream pages of my novel—all three hundred and eighty pages of it. Setting the blue felt-tip pen down, I trace the title on the cover with my hand, letting my fingers run up and down the glossy surface.
I lift it with both hands and lift it to my nose, inhaling the smell of freshly printed paper and sighing before clutching it to my chest.
This book is my baby. My labor of love. The best thing that’s happened to me in years.
And I have no one to tell.
With a sigh, I continue to write.
Blare closed her eyes and tried to remember him. What he looked like, how he sounded, what it felt like when he handed her the discarded mascara that had fallen on the cold tile of the store. He felt familiar to her, like someone she’d known all her life. Like they were connected somehow, and it made her heart beat faster.
Oh well. She wasn’t going to see him again. What would be the odds? A million to one? Serendipity only happened in fairy tales, and Blare’s life was anything but. With her eyes open and reality surrounding her, the fast-paced beating of her heart gradually returned to normal. But her memory of him never would…
The pink hat gives her away.
I spot it as soon as I push through the door at Blooming Grounds, a coffee shop in the heart of the city, sandwiched between a hotel chain and insurance brokerage firm. It’s surprisingly cozy.
Hefting my black leather laptop bag up and bending at the neck to move the strap over my head, I sling it around my torso, resting the cross-body strap diagonally against my chest.
I hold it steady while I… study her.
I hone in on Tabitha Thompson, the brightest spot in the room. It can’t be anyone but her—I would recognize that ball cap anywhere. She was wearing it during that embarrassing display she put on last week when she accused my sister of cheating on her brother. With me.
Not that I blame her; my sister and I look nothing alike and Greyson was far from college, home for an impromptu visit.
With her back to me, Tabitha’s spine is bent over a glowing laptop monitor, blonde hair in a ponytail she’s pulled through the back of her hat.
Baseball caps and ponytails; man, I love that shit.
Cautiously, I approach her from behind, my eyes raking her back. Her bra is visible through her thin white tee, faded cut-up jeans, and navy flip-flops—she looks casual and relaxed. As her fingers fly across her keyboard, the tap tap tapping sound resonates, filling the gap
of space around the small square table she occupies in the center of the room.
I observe her for a few minutes from across the room until she leans back in her chair, digs in her bag to produce a pen, and eventually begins scribbling in a paperback book.
Inching closer, I watch as she sets the pen down and closes the book to run a hand over its surface, her fingers stroking the cover before raising it to her nose and giving it a whiff. Yeah, you heard me—she’s smelling the book.
Who does that?
Then, as if that wasn’t weird enough, Tabitha grasps the book tightly, clutches it to her chest, and… hugs it?
Uh, okay.
She might be weird, but my looming over her is just as creepy. The soft, dull light from Tabitha’s monitor draws me in, and curiously, I hover closely behind her, scanning the paragraph she’d undoubtedly been pounding away on earlier.
Wait. Does that sentence say, Blare could not stop thinking about him, the guy from the store. His hazel eyes burned holes into her soul and made her center quake. She was experiencing want and desire like nothing… nothing she’d ever felt before. She wanted to strip them both naked right there, drag him into a dressing room, and let him—
Holy shit.
I feel my eyes widen in shock. Bugging out of my fucking skull is probably more accurate, because—holy shit—Tabitha Thompson is writing a sex book in the middle of a public coffee shop.
Smut. A bodice ripper.
Whatever the hell you wanna call it.
In disbelief, I give my hair a shake before pushing the black sunglasses up so they rest atop my head. My eyes hit her monitor again, seeking, reading word after suggestive word.
I’ve seen what I’ve seen and I can’t un-see it.
Drawing even closer, my intention isn’t to scare the shit out of her, but that’s exactly what happens when I let out a surprised gasp. Yeah, I fucking gasp. Like a goddamn girl.
Startled, Tabitha turns.
Her eyes hit my legs first, climb leisurely up my body, pausing on my broad chest, and widen with surprise, then recognition.
Dismay.
The book falls from her hands, landing on the floor with a soft thud on the carpet, and when I bend to scoop it up, her hand darts out and grips my wrist.