Bad Husband

by Elise Faber

  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 to 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 end
ings 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.

  Rachel, who had hooked up with a stranger.

  The sex had been damned good. Incredible, actually.

  But it had been just that. Sex. And she hadn’t been able to let go of the guilt. She’d now slept with a grand total of two men in her life, and one of them had been her husband.

  “I—” She tugged at her wrist. “I need to go.”

  Heather and Clay chose that exact moment to saunter over.

  Why universe? Why?

  “Oh, good,” Clay said, after a brief thanks to her for all her help with the wedding. “I was going to introduce you two, but I see you’ve already met my assistant, Sebastian.”

  Sebastian’s expression flickered with shock—no doubt mirroring her own—but luckily, Clay and Heather were too lost in each other to recognize it.

  After a few more words, their bosses moved on to talk with a business associate, and Sebastian’s green eyes darkened to a deep emerald. His stare was all heat and desire and sex appeal.

  But his words made her insides tremble.

  “I’m really looking forward to working with you.”

  She tipped over a bowl of salad dressing.

  —Don’t miss Bad Hookup, coming April 14th. Preorder your copy here.

  * * *

  Did you miss book one of the Billionaire’s Club series, Bad Night Stand? Get your copy here or read on below for the first chapter.

  * * *

  BAD NIGHT STAND

  CHAPTER ONE

  “If you were a chicken, you’d be impeccable.”

  I swirled the sip of rum and Coke in my mouth in an effort to not spit it all over the bar.

  Then I swallowed carefully and rotated my head so I could see my friend Seraphina on the next stool over. She was currently holding court over a group of men.

  Beautiful, tall, thin, and with a pair of boobs that could knock a man out—quite literally, they had once knocked a man unconscious. Okay, well, the sight of her impressive cleavage had caused the man to do a double take and promptly run into a large and extremely hard brick pillar in this very bar, but the point was still there. Seraphina was goddess gorgeous, and she was my very best friend.

  “Get it?” the man who’d elbowed his way to the front of the crowd surrounding Seraphina asked. “Im-peck-able.”

  “She gets it,” I muttered. “It’s just so horribly im-peck-able that only an idiot like you would dare use it.”

  Seraphina’s lips turned up at my caustic complaint.

  “Hush, you,” she murmured before raising her voice to address the man. “Puns. I do have a certain . . . fondness for them.” Her reply started him talking, drowning on about different languages and double meanings. It might have almost been admirable, the sheer quantity of words orally puking all over our ears, if it wasn’t so sad and pathetic.

  Whew.

  I took another sip of my drink. A bigger one because . . . bitter much?

  “I’m sorry,” Seraphina whispered out of the corner of her mouth. “I don’t know why this always happens.”

  “You’re Barbie,” I said, bumping her arm with my shoulder. “It’s not your fault.”

  My friend had that elusive je ne sais quoi. Unspoken charisma that drew men to her like flies to honey.

  And if I was being honest, sometimes that made it hard to be her friend.

  I didn’t mind being in the background; I preferred it, actually. Given too much attention, I froze and inevitably made a fool out of myself.

  But drawing a crowd of slavering men every time we went out made it difficult just to have a drink with my best friend, never mind a full meal.

  “I’m sorry,” she said again when Bad-Pun was displaced and another man slid forward to attempt to claim Seraphina’s attention. “I honestly thought the jacket would help.”

  I grimaced. “The jacket is what’s doing it, I think.”

  A bomber made of black leather, it hit just beneath her breasts and managed to emphasize both the bounciness of that particular portion of her anatomy and the slimness of her waist.

  “Next time, drinks at my place and takeout.”

  I saluted her with my glass. “Agree completely.”

  “Should we go?” she asked, tilting her head to the door.

  “No.” I nodded at the Y-chromosomes dotting the space around her like flowers in a planter bed. “Prince Charming may be here.”

  One blond brow rose. “I doubt it.”

  “You’re the one looking for a happily ever after.” I nudged her shoulder with my own, knowing my friend was a romantic and, despite her beauty, also very lonely. It was hard for her to find someone who saw her as more than the sum of her parts.

  And Seraphina was desperate to be more for someone.

  “I’m not so sure happily ever after exists,” she said.

  “Oh, it definitely exists,” I held her stare, willing her to believe.

  Because happily ever after had to exist.

  For some people.

  Of the goddess variety.

  Because if Seraphina couldn’t find it, then what chance in hell did I have?

  Not that I was looking, thank you very much.

  I was just fine with my laptop and my cozy socks and my books.

  “Now get on finding that HEA,” I said, using the code word from our favorite genre of books—romance, of course. Because what the heck was life without fictional eight-packs and alpha males who actually cared about the women they slept with.

  Seraphina bit her lip and I narrowed my eyes at her. “I’ll be here to quip nastily about all the bad pickup lines your prince tosses your way.”

  She laughed, leaned her head against mine. “You’re the best.”

  I smiled, leaned back. “I know.”

  Seraphina turned back to her admirers and I pulled out my phone, half reading the latest release from one of our favorite authors, and half listening to my friend charm the socks off everyone around her.

  “You’re a good friend.”

  The male voice sent a shiver from my head to my toes. It was honey, warm and languid as it slid down my spine and sent my blood pumping.

  Which was very, very dangerous. />
  I sighed. This was always the worst tactic, the most underhanded masculine effort to get my friend’s attention.

  Going through the slightly-rumpled, cute-but-definitely-not-gorgeous, exceptionally-clumsy best friend.

  It sent my inner sidekick radar on full alert.

  Mostly because I’d been hurt this way before.

  So “mmm-hmm” was the only thing I said in response.

  “Jordan.” A hand appeared directly in front of my face, unfairly positioned between my booze, my book, and my eyes and mouth.

  I huffed and finally looked up.

  Then promptly felt my lips fall open. Because—holy fucking shit—this guy was gorgeous. Way out of my league, of course. But blond and blue-eyed and hard and tall and ripped. He brought every single Thor fantasy to life—the short-haired, shorn, lightning-bolts-on-the-side-of-his-head version.

  Which, face it, was obviously the better variety.

  He wore a pair of slacks and a gray button-down that was so sinfully tight around his biceps I half expected it to burst open. I studied those seams for signs of wear. I mean, a girl had to watch out for the rest of humanity, right?

  Unfortunately for me, the shirt stayed in place and the signature lightning bolts weren’t present in Jordan’s hair, but his pants were so tight that his hammer—

  I shifted on my stool, thighs unconsciously pressing together as blood pooled there.

  Which was the exact moment that I remembered he wasn’t there for me.

  Damn.

  He radiated that same allure as my best friend. Wasn’t life just perfect sometimes? A gorgeous redhead was perched on the stool behind him, leaning forward in an almost obscene pose in order to compete with Seraphina’s cleavage.

  She couldn’t, of course.

  But it wasn’t just one woman vying for his attention. No, they were dotted around the room, coquettishly blinking at him, crossing and uncrossing legs, adjusting outfits. Even the bartender—female, brunette, beautiful—had chosen to polish glasses two inches from his right elbow.

  He was movie star handsome and he . . . was perfect for Seraphina.

  “Abigail,” I eventually made myself reply, putting my hand out to shake his.