All the Best Nights

by Hanna Earnest

  Hard nails pounded the smooth cement, pinky to forefinger and back. Bran narrowed in on the sound. A metronome that might as well have been pumped through his in-ears, cueing him in on Nelle’s timing, her pitch, the moment she insisted, “I didn’t lie.”

  “You didn’t tell the police and the first responders that you’re Bran Kelly’s wife?”

  The tapping stopped.

  Why? he had asked her, and she’d never answered. Why not tell them we’re married?

  She hadn’t needed to answer. The answer had been the same since the first night. Nelle had agreed to marry him on the condition that it stay their secret.

  Nelle fisted her hand, green nails disappearing into her palm. She didn’t want to let it go. She wouldn’t compromise—she shouldn’t have to. She was Nelle.

  Bran cleared his throat. “Steve really didn’t see him?”

  “I saw him.” Nelle’s voice, sure and clear, commanded their attention.

  Moony pressed his hands together. “But you lied.”

  “I didn’t fucking lie!” Nelle turned to face Bran head-on, her back to the rest of them. “Bad things don’t happen to me.”

  He’d been waiting for this. The moment when she stopped holding it in and got back to breaking them down, how it had to be done.

  “I know. I’m sorry I dragged you down.” She had been untouchable. And he had pushed.

  “Bad things are signs that you need to rethink, check your bearings, fix your course. Realign. Bad things don’t happen to me because I know where I’m going.”

  She’d always excelled at twisting the knife. Bran let out a bitter laugh. “Nobody can control everything, Nella. Not even you.”

  “I’m not talking about controlling everything, I’m talking about controlling me. I’m talking about my path.” She paused. Her eyes went glassy and he wanted to look away from the hurt he’d caused. “I was going to say no. I was going to tell you it wasn’t worth it, not if people knew. But you need to tell them, Bran.”

  “We don’t have to.” He released the counter. “It doesn’t matter. Just go.”

  “A man broke into our home.”

  Our home.

  Bran closed his eyes against a sudden sting and inhaled a sharp breath. Nelle’s voice grew tender, closer, while maintaining its protective edge. “Do you feel safe knowing he’s still out there? I don’t. And I don’t want to protect a secret over our lives. It’s not worth it. Nothing is worth losing you. Bad things won’t touch us if we’re together. That’s my path. Straight to you.”

  “They’ll twist it.” He opened his eyes and locked directly on to Nelle’s amber irises. “They’ll say I cheat. They’ll make things up. They won’t stop.”

  None of it would be true—he wasn’t going to cheat, he wasn’t going to leave her. He wouldn’t stop trying to be worthy of her.

  Forever.

  Mine.

  But they’d also reduce her, he understood finally. They’d make her story about her connection to him, pivot the conversation away from who she was to who she was with.

  “They’ll call you Nelly Kelly.”

  “I can take it.” She rested her hands on his hips. “It’s just noise. We’ll make music that’s louder. I know you’re good for it.”

  Bran brought his free arm around her shoulders and pulled her into his body. The contact brought such relief, his knees almost buckled. Her hair slipped softly over his elbow as she looked up at him, fitting herself under his shoulder. Every tight muscle in his body relaxed as he stood united with Nelle, with his wife, in their kitchen, in their home.

  Where six people waited for answers with expressions ranging from impatient to bewildered.

  He raised his voice to address them. “Nelle didn’t lie. We’re married.”

  “Says who?” Moony wanted to know.

  “Michael Jordan.”

  Aya pointed her phone at Arlo. “No more pain pills for him.”

  “Judge Michael Jordan married us in a private courtroom ceremony last December,” Nelle explained.

  Bran clocked the still-skeptical faces. “I’ve got the paperwork in my firebox.”

  Moony’s head shook with disbelief. “And where is that?”

  Arlo rubbed his temple. “Under the sink.”

  “Under the—why?” Benj asked.

  “It’s a firebox. Filled with things you don’t want to burn.” Bran tightened his hold on Nelle defensively. “There’s water in the pipes. It’s a redundancy—”

  “I got it.” Cormac retrieved the box from its questionable cabinet and set to work on the combination lock.

  “It’s two-two-three—” Bran started.

  “He knows,” Aya cut him off.

  “Can’t you keep anything private?” Nelle hugged his waist.

  Bran inhaled the top of her head. “We’re doing Christmas in Iowa.”

  “To get away from them?”

  “Yeah. And basic marriage rules: split holidays between our families.”

  She hugged closer.

  “Here it is.” Cormac passed the marriage certificate to Moony and the prenup to Mina.

  Aya read over her shoulder. Bran braced himself for impact. She stared, the silence ticking by. And then she threw her head back and laughed. She tried to straighten, but the momentum took her down to the counter, where she buried her head in her arms. A muffled Braaaaaaan escaped from the pile that used to be Aya.

  “You broke her,” Arlo said.

  “This,” she said, pulling herself upright, “this is why you have me. Look what you do on your own!” She left her phone on the island and joined Cormac by the stove, taking a long swig from his tumbler of red wine. Her eyes met his over the rim. “You’ll drive me home?”

  He nodded slow and sure, and she finished the glass.

  “That’s...a first,” Moony said, glancing at the page when Mina handed it over. He secured both documents in his briefcase. “I think this is all I need. But I have to enter it into the public record. It’s going to be news.”

  Bran shrugged. He and Nelle had just agreed to see it through. They’d face the consequences together, whatever came. “What isn’t? Someone out there has an entire house filled with ways to make money off me—at least this is for us.”

  Nelle craned her neck to look up at him. “I bought your gran’s house.”

  He balked. “You couldn’t have—my dad told Cormac he wouldn’t sell to someone who—someone who—”

  “Loves you?”

  Bran swallowed. “He saw our ‘feud’ in the news.”

  “He’s like everybody else. They don’t know about us.” She rose up and rubbed her nose against his. “They don’t know that I love you.”

  “They don’t know that I love you,” Bran repeated, lowering his mouth to hers.

  “Everyone will know what you two do if you don’t break it up,” Cormac said. “We don’t need another Cleffy night during Thanksgiving prep. It’s the turkey that gets stuffed.”

  All at once, everyone was talking: Benj demanding to know exactly what happened on Cleffy night, Moony announcing his exit, and Mina trying to compose a text to her voice reader.

  Bran sank back, taking it in, keeping Nelle close. He’d felt hunted, he’d felt caged and he’d shut down. He’d closed himself off from the possibility that there were people among the takers who could give him something. Give him everything.

  Aya’s voice broke through the chatter. “If you two are going public, can I tell Gordon McKane their campaign is still on?”

  Bran raised his eyebrows at Nelle. Did she want everyone in the world to see her name over his heart?

  “Yes,” Nelle answered.

  “Then I’m getting you more money.”

  “Aya—”

  Cormac stopped him. “Bran, just let her. Lucrative
contracts are her love language. She keeps you rich because she cares.”

  Bran wasn’t listening. He’d given in to the desire to kiss Nelle. No matter who was watching, no matter who saw.

  Circle of Trust

  Today 4:13 pm

  Cormac Doyle

  after Nelle wins, tell us which party you’re going to

  Arlo Bannon

  he means good luck

  Benjamina Wasik

  she doesn’t need it

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Nelle had just hit Send on a text to the group chat, thirteen upside-down faces and a tongue-out-crazy-eyes, when Bran snatched the phone out of her hand. He cringed when the lock screen popped up.

  “No phones. Aya did this for me last year.” He slid the device into the inner pocket of a fitted plaid suit. “Be here. Take this in. No distractions.” He wedged his fingers under hers and lifted the back of her hand to his lips. The pear-shaped diamond bauble nestled point-to-point against her wedding band caught the overhead lights, scattering them sideways. She didn’t wear it every day, favoring the simple chevron ring she’d had first, but if she couldn’t wear a seventeen-carat diamond to accept her Cleffies, when could she?

  Bran squeezed her hand. “And I’d better hold this now. Your arms will be too full by the end of the night.”

  She twined their fingers. “I’m keeping a hold of you. Everyone in here is looking at you like they’ve got X-ray vision after that Gordon McKane shoot.”

  There were two photos that kept popping up on Nelle’s feed: Bran wearing nothing but sunglasses and briefs, lying in a hammock with a guitar, and Bran dripping wet, hands slicking back his hair, standing in front of a pool filled with inflatable pink flamingos. But Nelle’s favorite—the one she put on her phone’s lock screen—was her husband leaning against a deck rail. In one hand he held a juicy rib, a smear of dark red barbecue sauce on his cheek. His blue eyes looked straight into the camera as he sucked more sauce off his thumb.

  That was her man. And she was keeping him close.

  “I know what can happen at these things, someone shiny and new trying to catch your eye from across the room.”

  “I know what can happen after these things. And you’re very shiny.”

  She did shine, standing at the sound of her name in a glittering teal bodysuit. A matching skirt of iridescent accordion-pleated chiffon fanned from the band at her waist. (“Gem tones,” Mina had said again, nodding with approval.) She would always shine, no matter how people tried to reduce her, to dim her power. She didn’t have to be afraid of playing with fire. Bran had dubbed her the queen of light because Nelle was the goddamn sun.

  She glowed when she kissed Bran, lingering with her forehead pressed to his, soaking up his shared joy, his pride. She could have done it without him. She would have. But to be able to look down and see him there, to not have to look away, to kiss him and not care who saw or knew or what they would say was an electric feeling. No matter what happened, they would link hands and step out of the building, out of the spotlight, through the dark, through the quiet, together. That was happiness in a way she’d never thought to wish for, but the universe had provided big-time.

  She’d said yes, and now she shimmered under the manufactured lighting, looking up with genuine gratitude and wonder. This was abundance. And she lit up the room when she expressed it.

  “They say you should follow your dreams. But I don’t subscribe to that. Go where you want. Walk sure, walk tall. Lead and your dreams will find you. Live for the day they catch up to you and say, ‘You’re it.’ They got you. But that was the plan all along. So you can smile back and say, ‘I got you too.’”

  * * *

  Acknowledgments

  Guys! It’s time to thank you all for your love and support! Starting with Deborah Nemeth, Kerri Buckley, and Elaine Spencer, consummate industry professionals who made this manuscript into a real book. That you all thought it was worthy—still wow. Three wows, one for each of you.

  Jeff and Steven, thanks for the infinite enthusiasm and the “ohoto.” Giancarlo, what a bonus it’s been to get to have your friendship and know your warmth all these years. And Sarah, my first reader, the staunchest of believers in this endeavor. As I say to G, couldn’t have done it without you, wouldn’t have wanted to.

  Thanks to my local subterranean bookstore for introducing me to all my clubs. I’ve learned so much from each of them. Indie City, thank you for the writers’ space, the critique, and encouragement. Especially Renee, who fixed Chapter 30, and anyone who had to watch me almost crack my head open before I implemented the two-chair system. Romance Book Club and Jen, I’m so thankful for this community, in all its iterations and corresponding group chats. LPWG, we need a better name, but the content remains of the highest quality. Kate, Julie, and Julia: you are rocks in the thrashing sea of my chaos. And Barely-Read-the-Book Club: I can’t say anything about how important you are to me or my perfectly crafted air of mystery will be ruined.

  And to my family, thank you for also being friends, for your excitement both across the kitchen island and the divides of this year. Mom, you’d like some of the puns in here, and definitely would appreciate the Van Morrison references, but if you skim to look for them, maybe don’t read any more of Chapters 21–22. And finally, Alex, I may have dedicated this book to myself, because I am so proud of making it, but you made it possible. Let’s be in love forever.

  About the Author

  A fan of topknots, fried Brussels sprouts, and other people doing the dishes, Hanna Earnest lives, laughs, and writes in Chicago, contributing to the world’s supply of book boyfriends and girl crushes.

  She wants to be friends on Twitter and Instagram @hannaearnest. Find out more at hannaearnest.com.

  Having conquered bullies, snobs, and boardrooms, self-made billionaire Roxanne has earned the right to mother a princess. She offers an impoverished prince a marriage of convenience in exchange for a settlement large enough to save his beloved kingdom. Mateo does not intend to marry and have a baby with a stranger just for money...until the successful beauty uses a weapon he hadn’t counted on: his own desire.

  Keep reading for an excerpt from Lush Money by Angelina M. Lopez!

  January: Night One

  Mateo Ferdinand Juan Carlos de Esperanza y Santos—the “Golden Prince,” the only son of King Felipe, and heir to the tiny principality of Monte del Vino Real in northwestern Spain—had dirt under his fingernails, a twig of Tempranillo FOS 02 in his back pocket, and a burning desire to wipe the mud of his muck boots on the white carpet where he waited. But he didn’t. Under the watchful gaze of the executive assistant, who stared with disapproving eyes from his standing desk, Mateo kept his boots tipped back on the well-worn heels and his white-knuckled fists jammed into the pits of his UC Davis t-shirt. Staying completely still and deep breathing while he sat on the white couch was the only way he kept himself from storming away from this lunacy.

  What the fuck had his father gotten him into?

  A breathy ding sighed from the assistant’s laptop. He granted Mateo the tiniest of smiles. “You may go in now,” he said, hustling to the chrome-and-glass doors and pulling one open with a flourish. The assistant didn’t seem to mind the dirt so much now as his eyes traveled—lingeringly—over Mateo’s dusty jeans and t-shirt.

  Mateo felt his niñera give him a mental smack upside the head when he kept his baseball cap on as he entered the office. But he was no more willing to take his cap off now than he’d been willing to change his clothes when the town car showed up at his lab, his ears ringing with his father’s screams about why Mateo couldn’t refuse.

  The frosted-glass door closed behind him, enclosing him in a sky-high corner office as regal as any throne room. The floor-to-ceiling windows showed off Coit Tower to the west, the Bay Bridge to the east, and the darkening hills of San Francisco in between. The twinkling l
ights of the city flicked on like discovered jewels in the gathering night, adornment for this white office with its pale woods, faux fur pillows, and acrylic side tables. This office at the top of the fifty-five-floor Medina Building was opulent, self-assured. Feminine.

  And empty.

  He’d walked in the Rose Garden with the U.S. President, shaken the hand of Britain’s queen, and kneeled in the dirt with the finest winemakers in Burgundy, but he stood in the middle of this empty palatial office like a jackass, not knowing where to sit or how to stand or who to yell at to make this situación idiota go away.

  A door hidden in the pale wood wall opened. A woman walked out, drying her hands.

  Dear God, no.

  She nodded at him, her jowls wriggling as she tossed her paper towel back into the bathroom. “Take a seat, Príncipe Mateo. I’ll prepare Roxanne to speak with you.”

  Of course. Of course Roxanne Medina, founder and CEO of Medina Now Enterprises, wasn’t a sixty-year-old woman with a thick waist in medical scrubs. But “prepare” Roxanne to...

  Ah.

  The nurse leaned across the delicate, Japanese-style desk and opened a laptop perched on the edge. She pushed a button and a woman came into view on the screen. Or at least, the top of a woman’s head came into view. The woman was staring down through black-framed glasses, writing something on a pad of paper. A sunny, tropical day loomed outside the balcony door behind her.

  Inwardly laughing at the farce of this situation, Mateo took a seat in a leather chair facing the screen. Apparently, Roxanne Medina couldn’t be bothered to meet the man she wanted to marry in person.

  Two minutes later, he was no longer laughing. She hadn’t looked at him. She just kept scribbling, giving him nothing to look at but the palm tree swaying behind her and the part in her dark, shiny hair.

  He glanced at the nurse. She stared back, blank-eyed. He’d already cleared his throat twice.