Rogue Acts

by Molly O'Keefe

  Then she glanced at the counter, and her eyes widened. “But first, is that…uh…”

  “A cake?” He turned his head to contemplate the monstrosity. “In theory. I baked it yesterday and hid it in my workshop until today.”

  “You made me a cake?” Now she was squinting at him, her head tilted. “You realize I own an actual bakery, right?”

  He shrugged. “You’re busy. And I wanted to do something special for you today.”

  A wicked grin curved her wide mouth. “Move your hand about six inches to the right.”

  “Something else special.” He got up and brought to the cake closer to her. “Something involving exploding eggs and melted icing and a call from the fire department.”

  “Baby, you’re all the sweetness I need.” She wasn’t even looking at the misshapen mound on the plate anymore. Instead, she was gazing at him, her blue eyes soft. “But thank you for making the cake.”

  “You’re welcome.” Keeping the plate carefully level, he leaned forward to drop a kiss on her mouth. “I love you.”

  She smiled up at him. “I love you too. That said, I’m not sure what’s so special about tod—”

  She sat up with a jerk. The water splashed over the edge of the tub, then settled to just below her breast. He was only human, so he took a moment to admire the view.

  Her smile transformed into a pleased laugh. “Eight years! Today makes eight years!”

  She’d finally deciphered what he’d drawn on the cake with two shaky loops of the premade icing. In her defense, it did look more like the outline of a mangy owl than a number, so a certain amount of confusion was understandable.

  “Yup. It’s your anniversary.” It was also a long, promising time to remain cancer-free, although he hoped the number of years would eventually stretch into infinity. “Congratulations, honey.”

  He put the cake on the counter. Bending down, he kissed the scar from her mastectomy, the smooth curve of her shoulder, and her temple, where her hair swept back into its ever-present ponytail.

  That distinctive hair glowed pale in the light of the setting sun, framing her pretty face like a nimbus. Not blond anymore, not since it grew back after chemo. Silver.

  Just as beautiful as blond. More so, in fact.

  He loved her hair. Loved her scar.

  That halo of silver was not only gorgeous, but undeniable, physical proof of what a gloriously stubborn fighter he’d married. And because of that scar, the surgery it represented, she was still his wife. Still his partner and friend and—

  His heart. She was still his heart and his world.

  “Eight years. Which means next week is our anniversary.” She walked her wet fingers up his leg. “I have big plans for you.”

  Given where her hand strayed, he could guess at some of those plans, and he approved.

  But his were more urgent.

  He’d promised her a pick-me-up, and he was a man of his word.

  Stripping down to nothing took less than a minute, and then he stood naked in front of his wife with his fists on his hips and his interest more than evident.

  She shook her head. “Show-off.”

  Maybe just a little. But soon enough, his hands would make her forget all about it.

  “Move over, woman.” More water splashed over the edge of the tub as he climbed inside. “I have work to do.”

  Work he loved, for the woman he loved.

  He figured he could do work like this for a lifetime.

  Elizabeth was giggling as he nibbled at her neck, her hands sliding over his chest and moving downward, beneath the warm water.

  And more, he amended. A lifetime and more.

  * * *

  Thank you for reading Cover Me. ♥ If you enjoyed this story, you should sign up for my newsletter! Readers get exclusive sneak peeks at future books and sometimes even early review copies.

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  Also by Olivia Dade

  Lovestruck Librarians

  Broken Resolutions (Book 1)

  My Reckless Valentine (Book 2)

  Mayday (Book 3)

  Ready to Fall (Book 4)

  Driven to Distraction (Book 5)

  Hidden Hearts (Book 6)

  * * *

  Other Books

  Rogue Affair

  Acknowledgments

  While writing Cover Me, I veered so far outside my usual romantic-comedy lane that I required a great deal of handholding (even more than usual!). So I owe a huge thank-you to all the women who read this story and gave me the help and reassurance I needed: Emma Barry, SonomaLass, Cecilia Grant, Molly O’Keefe, and Ruby Lang. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your kindness and the care with which you considered my words.

  Also, I want to acknowledge three other women: my maternal grandmother, who survived her bout with breast cancer; my paternal grandmother, who didn’t; and my mother, who faces each mammogram, each biopsy, with both bravery and fear. This story is for you.

  About the Author

  While I was growing up, my mother kept a stack of books hidden in her closet. She told me I couldn't read them. So, naturally, whenever she left me alone for any length of time, I took them out and flipped through them. Those books raised quite a few questions in my prepubescent brain. Namely: 1) Why were there so many pirates? 2) Where did all the throbbing come from? 3) What was a “manhood”? 4) And why did the hero and heroine seem overcome by images of waves and fireworks every few pages, especially after an episode of mysterious throbbing in the hero's manhood?

  Thirty or so years later, I have a few answers. 1) Because my mom apparently fancied pirates at that time. Now she hoards romances involving cowboys and babies. If a book cover features a shirtless man in a Stetson cradling an infant, her ovaries basically explode and her credit card emerges. 2) His manhood. Also, her womanhood. 3) It's his “hard length,” sometimes compared in terms of rigidity to iron. 4) Because explaining how an orgasm feels can prove difficult. Or maybe the couples all had sex on New Year's Eve at Cancun.

  During those thirty years, I accomplished a few things. I graduated from Wake Forest University and earned my M.A. in American History from the University of Wisconsin-Madison. I worked at a variety of jobs that required me to bury my bawdiness and potty mouth under a demure exterior: costumed interpreter at Colonial Williamsburg, high school teacher, and librarian. But I always, always read romances. Funny, filthy, sweet--it didn't matter. I loved them all.

  Now I'm writing my own romances with the encouragement of my husband and daughter. I have my own stack of books in my closet that I'd rather my daughter not read, at least not for a few years. I can swear whenever I want, except around said daughter. And I get to spend all day writing about love and iron-hard lengths.

  So thank you, Mom, for perving so hard on pirates during my childhood. I owe you.

  If you want to find me online, here’s where to go! Or sign up for my newsletter at http://eepurl.com/bDS6Z5

  https://oliviadade.com

  The Long Run

  Ruby Lang

  About This Book

  Harlem stalwart Monroe Webb is reluctantly drawn to cheeky gentrifier Annie Wu who has moved in across the hall. Annie knows that Monroe opposed her bid for a space in his building, but she can’t help but be fascinated by his style and his dedication to local causes. Can these neighbors mend fences or are they better off breaking them down?

  1

  Monroe Webb had bought his apartment for a song in 1992—literally. A co-writing credit on a hit single had allowed him to put a down payment on his two-bedroom in central Harlem. Now he owned his place outright. He was on the co-op board. He boasted eight, sharp, bespoke suits that hung reverently in the airy walk-in closet he’d installed in 2004 after his son had moved out. And the nervous Asian woman now in front of the board was willing to hand over 5 times what he’d paid long ago for the privilege of living in the same building as his black ass.


  It was always a jolt to find out how high the prices in his HDFC building had climbed despite the income restrictions placed on prospective buyers. And with that jolt came a mixture of fierce pride in the neighborhood that had grown around him (and truthfully in his investing skills) along with a feeling of unease about the changes, about the new people coming to his neighborhood and painting it over and “cleaning” it up. Even if they weren’t overtly trying to make America great again, it made him apprehensive. People like Annie Wu made him worry.

  She wore a linen shift dress, a simple cut that someone had probably told her was elegant but on her frame hung like a plain t-shirt. At least she sat straight, her feet not quite making it to the ground. She’d stretched her toes, probably to steady herself, but he found himself noticing the line of muscles of her smooth calves. He had a tantalizing peek of the rounded underside of two kneecaps, set slightly apart.

  And then his gaze caught at her hem and he realized what he was doing. His eyes snapped up, and he glowered at the paper in front of him. But quick Annie Wu had caught that glower and instead of averting her gaze, she mock-frowned right back at him.

  It should have been exactly the wrong thing for her to do. This was her board interview—he was one of her interviewers.

  Even as he tried to impart with his brows the gravity of her situation, he noticed the laugh lines blossoming around her eyes, and he was struck momentarily by how vivid and fine her face was, a face that seemed mobile even when she was perfectly still. Or, in this case, animated by her open amusement—at him.

  She didn’t seem like she would be a particularly restful neighbor.

  Her eyes danced until Ms. Hernandez asked her a question, and she turned back to the other members with the appropriately supplicating expression of a prospective tenant trying to prove that she was humble yet solvent, meek yet friendly, a perfectly behaved potential addition to the community who would most of all, not upset the delicate balance of their apartment building.

  “You’re moving from a very different neighborhood in Queens. Why did you choose this one?”

  “I love the park and all of the buildings and the sense of community,” she said. “I already feel like a part of it—”

  Uh oh.

  “I want to get to know you all better and I am going to try to be respectful of everyone who already lives here, too. I want to participate in the life of the neighborhood. I mean, as someone whose interest has probably driven up the prices in this building, I… I don’t think I can say I’m not like a gentrifier—but I have really good intentions and I want to contribute! I just want to be a part of all of this and make friends and be a member of a real community.”

  She concluded with an awkward laugh that echoed through the room.

  She really had said it aloud—the G-word. After that remark, he definitely couldn’t like her.

  He assumed the rest of them would think the same. So, after a few more softball questions, some social smiles and handshakes, after they dismissed her, he noted, “That seems pretty open and shut.”

  “Yes,” Ms. Hernandez said, gathering coffee cups. “She’ll make a reasonable addition to the building.”

  Everyone else nodded. “Wait,” Monroe said confused. “I don’t understand. She basically said she was going to come in and meddle.”

  “She said she wanted to contribute and be friendly.”

  More nods.

  “But she said—”

  “Monroe, this neighborhood is changing—has changed—whether we like it or not. Best we can do is take charge of the way we want it to happen—and make sure that a chunk of cash goes to the co-op in the meantime. Maybe finally fix that elevator.”

  Mrs. Ali from 6, always the conciliator, said soothingly, “She’s a lifelong city employee. No pets. No small children. Her daughter’s starting graduate school out of state. And Annie lived more than 10 years in her last place. Financially secure enough but well within the income restrictions. It’s a delicate balance finding someone who fits our requirements. And she doesn’t look likely to have raucous parties. She’s not obnoxious—”

  “But she’s awkward.”

  “You don’t have to be her best friend. We were always going to approve her.”

  “Even after that gentrifier remark?”

  Ms. Hernandez said, “It was awkward but true. Every time a unit sells here it drives prices up, Monroe. That’s a blessing and a curse. At least she looks to be staying for a long time.”

  “She could get a loud partner—” even that sounded a little thin to him. “Screaming grandchildren.”

  Five pairs of eyes swiveled toward him. It occurred to him briefly—alarmingly—that these four women, by the roles they’d carved out for themselves in family and community, were more aligned in this instance with Annie Wu than with him.

  “And just what do you have against grandchildren, Monroe Webb?”

  Annie was jogging along the cobblestone paths of Marcus Garvey Park when she spotted Monroe Webb again.

  The man always seemed to see Annie at her worst. First, she’d been in that plain, terrible dress she’d worn for the board interview. And then two days ago, she’d been wearing a pair of old cargo shorts and a paint-stained t-shirt when she’d encountered him again. Of course, he lived in graciousness and style across the hall from her. She’d been kicking a box through her doorway and wiping sweat from her neck when he appeared. And just as he paused to put in his key, her daughter—her beautiful daughter whom Annie had taught to value herself by asking for more—had said, “Ma, you should have done something about the cheap laminate floors all these apartments seem to have before you moved in. And you’ll need all new appliances, of course.”

  Monroe Webb seemed to pause and stiffen when Jenny punched the words cheap and new.

  “They’re fine,” Annie said, perhaps a tad too loudly. “It’s a beautiful place.”

  But if he heard her, he didn’t say anything. He opened the door just wide enough for her to catch a glimpse of the glowing light from the room, an ice blue chair, like a sculpture, standing on a pristine white rug over gleaming floors. Then the hallway was darker and empty once again.

  “What, ma? I just want you to have nice things. For once.”

  Her daughter wasn’t trying to be obnoxious. She was probably worried about what her own impending move would do to Annie.

  Well, Annie was doing fine, although it was a relief after unpacking the most essential of essentials to go back to a routine again, to go back to running.

  So now here she was sweaty and red-faced, during her first run in days. Her t-shirt was drenched and she kept stumbling over the unfamiliar ground of Marcus Garvey Park. But she wanted to train for a 10k. And Marcus Garvey was where Monroe Webb was apparently running, too. Beautifully, of course. Because, she sensed, that was how he did everything.

  It would be nice if for once he could see her looking good. Because he always looked good.

  It wasn’t that she was interested, of course. She’d dated after her divorce. But the last one had been a while ago and she missed having sex. Not that she should contemplate starting anything with Monroe Webb. He was right across the hall, for one, and that could get messy. She planned on living in that apartment—in this community—for a long time, for the rest of her life. But even without that complication, she wouldn’t get involved because, well, he so plainly did not like her at all. It was in his body language—the way his shoulders stiffened and his full, dark lips paled as they pressed together. In the way that—aside for that one time in the co-op board meeting—he refused to really look at her.

  Right after the board meeting, Annie reminded herself, in which he’d been the only one to vote against her application.

  Ms. Hernandez had spilled it—how deliberate the slip had been, Annie hadn’t stopped to analyze—when she stopped by the day Annie moved in.

  She’d been indignant, although she didn’t show it while Ms. Hernandez told her more about Monroe Webb.
Apparently, the older woman assumed Annie would want to hear all about their handsome neighbor. She wasn’t entirely wrong.

  Still, when Ms. Hernandez left and when the door was firmly closed, Annie had slapped her hands on the counter and tried to think of why the man had taken such an inexplicable dislike to her.

  Until she remembered that she’d practically winked at him during her interview.

  She hadn’t been able to help herself. He’d been scowling at some papers in front of him, documents that presumably had information about her—her tax returns, testimonial letters, things that she’d considered dull. And yet imagining that he’d found something scandalous in them amused her so much that she’d… well, she couldn’t help the laughter that bubbled up. She was nearly fifty-five and still battling inappropriate reactions. Those had always been her downfall.

  Or maybe he’d thought she was trying to pick him up right there during the meeting.

  And then she couldn’t even be angry. He was a single man living in a building filled with older women and young couples. Apparently, he’d been in a huge, number one pop group when he was younger. But when she’d Googled she hadn’t found any shirtless boy band pictures. And now he was stylish, mysterious, and aloof. And he wasn’t a young man, either. She was bad at ages, but even she could see that his age was just right.

  Not that he was for her.

  She remembered abruptly that in that same co-op approval meeting she’d also lost her head so completely that she’d made that awkward speech about gentrification.

  Even mid-run, she wanted to kick herself, except she’d probably trip and fall right in the front of the playground.