by Elise Faber
Absurdly, the threat forced him to bite back a smile. Mad was so much better than hurt. He could deal with fury, but he couldn’t look into Heather’s pain-filled gaze and have any hope of making things right. Not when he’d hurt her so badly.
“Baby—”
“Don’t baby me,” she snapped, shoving another piece of dough into her mouth. “You fucked up royally, Clay Steele.”
He closed the distance between them again, dared to push the roll away. “You’ll make yourself sick.”
“You make me sick!” But then her chin wobbled, and Clay lost his heart all over again.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart. So damned sorry.”
She sniffed, buried her head in his chest. “You hurt me.”
“I know.” He cupped the back of her head. “I’m so sorry.”
She inhaled deeply, then let it back out. “I know. That’s what makes this harder.”
“Yeah.”
He allowed himself another minute to just hold her before dropping his arms and stepping back. “I’ll leave you to get some sleep.” He’d go that night, let her rest because she was hurt and upset and exhausted . . . but he was going to keep coming back every single chance he got. Until he proved to Heather that this was just a stupid, albeit horrendous, mistake, until she understood that she was his and his future wasn’t worth shit if she wasn’t in it.
A smack to his chest. Not hard, but surprising enough that he stared down at her in open-mouthed shock.
“You are a fucking idiot,” she said and launched herself back into his arms.
“Wh—”
“Shut up and kiss me.”
Blindsided and confused but not stupid enough to deny such a request, Clay slid one hand behind her neck and slammed his lips down onto Heather’s. It wasn’t a gentle tangling of mouths, but all teeth and tongue, heat and desire.
She broke away, tugging at his neck until her forehead rested against his.
“No matter what”—a gasping breath as her eyes met his with blazing intent—“no matter what, you will talk to me, and you will trust that I’ll give you the same courtesy. Always. No excuses. I will never shut you out.” Her expression softened. “Never.” Her hand came up, resting on her chest, over her heart. “You’re here. You’re in my heart. Forever.”
“I will love you until the day this”—he interlaced their fingers, bringing her hand to his own chest, where his own heart was pounding furiously—“stops beating. I will love you until the moment I leave this earth.”
She rose on tiptoe, nuzzled his cheek then whispered, mischievous intent in her words. “Only until your heart stops beating? What about after?”
Muscles relaxing, he brushed his knuckles down Heather’s cheek.
“Always so demanding,” he teased.
Her smile filled his heart to overflowing. “You know it.” A beat, her hands weaving into his hair again. “Now get down here and kiss me again.”
In this case, Clay had no issues doing what he was told.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Heather
Heather was feeling unaccountably nervous as she stared at herself in the mirror three months later.
She wore a white dress—short and sexy, but still white—and blue heels—courtesy of Abby, who held her baby girl on one shoulder while she ran around the house, shouting orders every which way.
“The flowers have to be evenly spaced across the mantel,” her sister-in-law declared, and because no one dared argue with a breastfeeding mother who held her newborn in her arms, her decrees were being followed left, right, and center. “No, evenly spaced.”
Abby popped her head back into the bedroom. “This is awesome! Everyone is listening to me, and I mean everyone!” She came up behind Heather, used her free hand to smooth a nonexistent wrinkle. “Can I hire them to come live with me?” she stage-whispered. “No one listens to me there.”
Heather smirked, but she also saw right through her sister-in-law. “I know what you’re doing.”
“What?” Abby asked, all innocent, the faker.
Rachel, who was wearing a killer red dress with matching red lipstick that went perfectly with the olive tone of her skin, smirked. “Abs, everyone knows what you’re doing.”
Heather turned and hugged Abby tight, careful of baby Emma. “And I love you for it,” she said, softly.
“Stop! I still have baby hormones, and you’re going to make me cry,” Abby wailed, but even as she sniffled, she held on to Heather for dear life. “Now I’ll have to redo my mascara.”
“What’d I miss?” Bec asked, and Heather flicked her eyes to the mirror, smiling when her friend strolled in all lawyer-like, wearing a perfectly tailored black business suit that showed off her curves, her cell held in one hand, a briefcase in the other. She was all business as she extracted a white envelope . . . well, except for those killer heels.
Those were sexy.
Rachel filled her in. “Abby’s still hormonal, and Heather is feeling so sappy that she’s declared her undying love.”
“Hey!” she and Abby said in unison, turning to glare at her assistant—now in job description only, since she was officially part of their group of friends in real life.
“Because of that,” Heather added, pointing an accusing finger at Rachel. “No more pajamas for you.”
Bec shuddered. “You fight mean, O’Keith.”
“Not O’Keith for much longer,” she said, biting her lip.
“Aw,” Abby chimed in as Rachel smiled wide and Bec’s eyes went suspiciously misty. “Damn, Heather,” she said, swiping one finger under her lashes. “You were my only hope.”
“No crying without us!” CeCe said, hustling down the hall with Seraphina in tow.
Colin, CeCe’s husband and one of Heather’s business partners, waved from the doorway. “Looking good, O’Keith,” he said in that yummy Scottish accent.
“Steele,” Bec called. “Apparently she’s going to be a Steele.”
Seraphina snorted. “She likes some Steele.”
“Oh my God,” Rachel moaned.
“What?” Seraphina said, plunking her hands onto her hips. The action made her considerable “assets” threaten to burst from her dress. “Why is it funny when you guys make a bad dirty joke, but it’s not when I do?”
“Easy there, supermodel. It’s because you’re too sweet and innocent,” Bec teased, tugging up the front of Seraphina’s dress as their friend began to protest her innocence. At the same time, Abby moved forward to squeeze Sera’s arm, said, “We love you anyway,” and then moved to the mirror to fix her mascara.
Newly returned from her ostentatiously long honeymoon, CeCe crossed the room to hug Rachel.
“It’s nice to meet you in real life,” she said, the women only ever having chatted during their weekly videoconference book club meetings since CeCe had been too busy traveling the world to join them all in person.
Their weekly Horny FaceTime—as they’d termed it—worked out well. Whoever was near enough to meet up, got together in person at someone’s house, and the rest conferenced in.
Which is what Clay thought was happening that night at their house and as such, he’d made himself scare, meeting up with Jordan at Bobby’s for wings and a couple of beers.
Meanwhile, Heather had called in the help of her friends.
“Do you have it?” she asked Bec.
Bec nodded, holding up the white envelope.
The gate chimed, and Abby ran to the window, peeking out the curtains. “He’s here!”
Heather hotfooted it over to the window, saw Clay’s blue Maserati pulling into the drive. He parked behind the line of cars in the driveway and got out, chatting with Jordan as they walked up to the front door.
“Oh God,” she said, stepping back and releasing a shuddering breath. “Why am I so nervous?”
“Because this time you won’t be drunk during the vows?” Rachel asked.
“You.” Heather pointed. “Are both evil and right.�
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CeCe slipped a hand around Rachel’s waist. “It’s also why she fits right in.”
Obviously, Heather had experienced no little amount of teasing about her “drunken wedding.” Her friends had been merciless . . . as was only right.
At least they’d waited to tease her until after she and Clay had made up.
And now they were together and happy. Of course, Clay still felt guilty that he couldn’t recall their wedding, which was why they were there today.
“Just remember,” she told her friends. “Tequila is dangerous.”
“And gross,” Sera said, probably remembering some drunken night at boarding school, considering Abby and Bec, the other two members of the original trio were shuddering, too.
“No tequila,” Bec agreed.
Abby nodded.
“Heath?” Clay called up the stairs. “Is there a reason that a florist shop exploded in the front room?”
“Fuck,” Heather said, pacing the room. “I don’t think I can do this.”
“Just a second,” Abby hollered, but Heather was almost too far gone to hear her. She’d gotten it into her mind to give Clay new memories, to show him how stupidly happy and in love with him she was, but what the fuck did she know about grand gestures?
There was no way this was going to be okay—
And just as she was fully entering the panic zone, five pairs of arms wrapped her up tight.
“It’s going to be great,” Abby murmured.
“Totally,” Rachel agreed.
“It’s the perfect gesture,” Seraphina said.
“He’s going to love it,” CeCe added.
“Men are stupid.”
They all froze and looked at Bec, who shrugged and added, “It seemed like the thing to say at the time.”
Laughter. The room was filled with pure, unfettered laughter and love and hugs and teasing . . . and because Heather was no longer afraid of getting close to people, no longer terrified of being left behind, or measured and found lacking, she tucked all those lovely emotions close to her heart, shoved her nerves down, and lifted her chin.
“It’s go time.”
More laughter, and then they heard Clay’s footsteps on the stairs. “Baby?” he asked, knocking on the doorframe but not peeking in. “Is it safe to enter?”
“Almost,” Abby called then turned to Heather and whispered. “No tears—and I mean it!”
“Anybody want a peanut?” CeCe quipped.
Abby smacked her lightly on the arm. “Shut it, you. I don’t see how anyone could possibly like that movie!”
Sera glared. “The Princess Bride is an absolute classic—”
“As for you,” Abby interrupted, effectively ending the familiar argument before it could really get started. She grabbed Heather by both shoulders and gave her a fierce look. “Raccoon eyes are not sexy, so do not ruin your mascara.” Then she led the way out, the rest of their friends following suit.
Bec was last. “When are you going to tell her that your mascara is waterproof?”
“Shh,” Heather said with a smile. “She’s still hormonal.” But it was her who had to regain control of her emotions when Bec hugged her tight. She was so incredibly grateful for the group of friends, of family, that she had in her life.
“Good luck,” Bec told Clay, patting him on the shoulder as she pushed by him and into the hall.
“What’s happening, sweet—” His words cut off as he stepped fully into the room and saw her in the white dress. “Wow, you look amazing. What’s the occasion?”
Heather took a deep breath and handed him the envelope. “This.”
Clay was grinning as he opened the flap, but the smile faded the moment he began reading what was inside.
“An annulment?” His face went pale, his lips pressed into a tight line. “No, Heather. We’re in this together. We’ll go to therapy, work out whatever the problem is but—”
Bec was right. Men were idiots.
Clay had pulled the obscenely large diamond out of the envelope, the one from that night, the one she hadn’t worn since. “This is yours.” He crossed his arms. “I’m not taking it back.”
“Clay—”
“No, Heather. I’m not giving you up.”
And apparently, she’d been right to worry. This grand gesture was going to hell.
“Clay—”
“No negotiation. You promised we’d always talk—”
Since words weren’t working, Heather went back to gestures. This time, though, it wasn’t a grand one. She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. His lips were all heat and passion and anger, in equal measure.
Only when her lungs were screaming for air did she pull back.
“Listen, you stubborn man,” she panted, sucking in another breath to slow her pulse. “I’m wearing a white dress. There’s a flower explosion downstairs. I just handed you a diamond ring. Can you please put the freaking pieces together?”
“What—oh. Oh.” His eyes lit up. “Really?”
“Yes, really.” She cupped his face. “You’ll have to pretend that I’m down on one knee, because this dress is way too tight and these heels are way too high, but all of that aside, I wanted to ask, Clay Steele, will you mar—”
“Nope,” he said and dropped to his knee. “I love you, sweetheart, but it’s me who’s going to do the asking.” He held up the ring. “Heather O’Keith, my love, my heart, my soul. I never dreamed that I would feel this way about another person, that the love I feel for you could be this—”
“Yes,” she interrupted. “I’ll—”
“Shh,” he said, standing to cup her cheek with his free hand. “I’ve had this speech planned for a while.”
Tears escaped the confines of her lashes. “Clay . . .”
“I can honestly say that when I tell you I love you, it’s because you’re the best thing that has ever happened to me. You’ve given me a family, a home, and I love”—he pressed a kiss to her cheek, capturing the tears there with his lips—“I love”—another kiss on the other cheek—“I love you.”
She sniffled. “Had to go full Darcy on me, didn’t you?”
He touched his lips to hers. “Didn’t think I knew it was your favorite movie?”
“Of course, you knew.” Her fingers brushed his jaw. “So, can I say yes, now?”
Clay laughed and hugged her tight. “Yes, love, you can.”
And so, Heather said yes. Yes to the now. Yes to forever.
And then she fixed her mascara.
Epilogue
Rachel
Rachel watched her boss dance with her second husband—or maybe husband twice over, was a better description?—and gave a little sigh of happiness.
Yes, Heather was technically her boss, but she was also her friend.
She deserved her happily ever after.
The party was just getting started, friends and business associates spilling out onto Heather’s back patio that had been decorated with twinkly lights, lots of flowers, and plenty of portable heaters.
Only the Sextant—herself, Abby, Bec, Seraphina, CeCe, and Heather—plus Jordan, Colin, and of course, Clay, knew that the surprise wedding they’d celebrated that night was technically a second wedding.
The rest just thought Heather had pulled a fast one on Clay.
Rachel smiled as she remembered the way the couple had come down the stairs, both of their eyes a little damp, but love in every fiber of their bodies.
The vows had been beautiful and—
Ugh. She was getting a little too sappy.
Wiping the tears away before they could escape—and heaven forbid, ruin her mascara—Rachel blew out a breath and set about making sure the food the caterers had delivered was set out properly.
Soon the first dance would be over and then the group of fifty-plus—okay, so she knew that it was actually fifty-seven guests, because she was damned good at her job—would descend like locusts on the food tables.
Everything needed t
o be ready.
So, she went down her mental checklist. Appetizers. Check. Several types of salad. Blegh, but check. Entrees. Pasta, chicken, and vegetarian. Check. Check. Check. And the cake was ready and waiting to be cut.
“This little shindig your doing?”
Rachel froze, all her nerve endings going on red alert.
She knew that voice.
She knew if she turned around she would see him.
Him.
Tall, much taller than her, but lean when compared to her curves. Still, all that lankiness hadn’t meant a lack of strength. He’d been all sorts of hard and hot as he’d pinned her against the door and pounded into her.
Rachel cleared her throat but didn’t rotate to face him. “Not my doing. I just helped out.”
A long pause, probably because normal people usually looked each other in the eyes when they conversed.
“Well, from what I’ve seen, you’ve done a lot of helping out.” He put a hand on the table next to her, and she shifted away, shivering. She remembered what those fingers could do, how they’d traced over her skin, slipped between her legs, slid inside.
Shuddering, she smoothed out a wrinkle on the tablecloth.
“For a last-minute surprise wedding, everything is beautiful.”
She shrugged before fussing with the placement of the warming dishes.
The man didn’t leave.
Why wouldn’t he leave?
She dropped her chin to her chest.
“So,” he finally said after a lengthy—and silent—moment. “Gay, taken, or not interested?”
“Oh my God,” she moaned, one hand coming up to push her bangs off her forehead. “This is not happening.”
“I—” A beat then his voice was incredulous, “I know that moan.” Warm fingers grasped her wrist, tugged until she could see him in all his yumminess.
Her moment of weakness. Her hookup because she’d been feeling desperate and lonely and—
“It’s you,” he said softly.
Yes, it was her. Rachel, the good girl who didn’t sleep around, who certainly didn’t hook up with random strangers in a bar.