◆◆◆
I hated to say it but the wedding wasn't a disaster. Bess had only broken down twice – both times over inconsequential matters (who the fuck cared if a table runner was oyster and not eggshell?) but Molly calmed her down and the festivities progressed. Now we were done with eating, speeches and cake cutting, and were on to the good part.
Dancing.
Molly, despite the numerous years we'd known each other, had never experienced my moves first hand. I already had a limo ready and waiting to carry us to the closest hotel.
"Come dance with me, Pecas." I whispered, plucking her drink from her hand and twirling her away from the gathered bridesmaids. She laughed, allowing me to spin her across the room and onto the dance floor.
The band struck up a heavy sultry number. I led her through a salsa, her eyes flashing with heat as I dipped and twirled her, enjoying her delighted laughter that quickly turned husky. The song closed and I ended with a swoon worthy dip. She panted, laughing, grinning up at me.
"You're really good at this."
"Pecas, you have no idea." I slowly drew her back up, only to slide her down my body enjoying the press and drag of her curves.
"Fuck it, let's go." She snatched at my hand, pulling me through the crowd towards the entry.
A commotion from the other side of the room interrupted our departure. We paused, turning to look.
"How dare you?" Candy's voice sounded loud in the sudden silence.
"Well, what else was I meant to think?" Molly's brother, one of the twins - I couldn't tell which one from this distance - growled back.
I glanced over at the Bride and Groom, catching my brother's eye. He jerked his head at the door, giving me a wink. I lifted my head in thanks, turning to Molly. I shouldn't have bothered, she'd already made up her mind.
"Nope," Molly shook her head, tightened her grip on my hand and tugged me along. "Not my circus, no longer my monkeys. Let's get out of here while we still can."
I laughed, following her out. I pulled her down a side street and she blinked at the limo.
"You planned this?"
"Pecas, I plan everything."
She laughed, sliding in.
"Where to?" The driver asked.
"Home." Molly whispered, her beautiful eyes glowing in the dark. "Our home."
Fuck, I loved that.
The limo pulled away from the curb, the privacy screen lifting into place.
"I love you, Molly Archer."
"And I love you, Joshua Greenfeld."
"I'm really glad you're not in love with my brother."
"No, just you, Josh. Always."
I kissed her, distantly filing this perfect moment away.
Really, this is exactly how you'd end the movie.
Epilogue Molly
I paused in the entry to our brownstone, the door half-open. Roses covered our entry and hall floor. Not just any roses though, these were paper roses. I dropped my bag on the entry table, closing the front door to the townhouse. Josh had asked me to move in three months ago and I'd happily agreed.
I picked one up, examining the perfectly folded petals, squinting to read the words on the paper. It was made from his rom-com script.
The familiar ball of gooey warmth bubbled happily in my middle.
I followed the paper flowers, laughing at the pictures he'd hung on our walls, a little frisson of nerves and excitement finding a foothold in my chest.
On our walls were pictures of our life. Images from when we were young, our families pushing us together for an obligatory picture in front of a fountain. There was a still of the Dragon Slayer's kiss. Another of a birthday, an anniversary, me standing proudly between him and Sam as they held their Oscar at a family dinner.
Next came the more recent photos. Silly selfies and the pictures from Bess and Pete's the never-ending engagement shoot. Images of us dancing at their wedding. The vacation we'd taken over the July long weekend. A set of photobooth strips from Syd and Elena's engagement party.
The paper flowers had led me to the library, stopping in the entry.
Josh sat on one of the chairs, reading. My heart sighed.
There he is. Our one.
"Hey," I called softly, holding up one of the roses. My voice sounded thick.
"Hey, Pecas." He slid the book onto the table, gesturing for me to come sit on his lap. I strode across, glancing around. There was nothing out of the ordinary here. No paper roses, no pictures. Just Josh and the books.
He pulled me onto his lap, arranging me just so. I snuggled into his chest, laying my head on his shoulder.
"I love you," he whispered, looking down at me.
"I know." I pressed a kiss to his jaw. "You told me three times today."
His lips quirked. "Only three? I must rectify this." He shifted, pulling the book back, handing it to me.
I glanced down, frowning.
"Open it."
I lifted the title-less cover and gasped. Inside, he'd removed the pages, carving out a hole for a ring.
"Don't worry, I had the script printed and the book bound just for this. No real books were harmed in the making of this proposal." He lifted my head, searching my face. "Will you marry me, Molly?"
"Yes."
He pulled the ring free, sliding it onto my finger.
"I love you." He whispered, pressing adoring kisses to my mouth, my cheeks, my neck.
"I love you too." I replied, sniffling.
"Are you happy, Pecas?"
"Yes. You?"
"Beyond happy. But promise me one thing?"
"Anything."
"Don't become a bridezilla. One in the family is more than enough."
We started the next chapter of our lives laughing.
◆◆◆
Thank you so much for reading JUST JOSHING!
I hope you loved Molly and Josh as much as I do! If you love sexy reads like this one, be sure to check out Evie Mitchell's next book, New Year, Knew You – launching 30 January 2020.
Preorder New Year, Knew You now!
If you'd like more from Kim Congram, keep reading for a sample of ON EDGE, a romantic suspense with a hot protective Aussie Alpha, and a kick butt heroine.
On Edge is available in Kindle Unlimited now!
Turn the page for more information.
Translation
Pecas – Freckles
"¿Cuándo arderían mis oídos, oh hijo mío?" – Why would my ears be burning, oh son of mine?
Padre – Father
Hermano - Brother
Querido - Dear
Querida – Sweetheart
¿sí? – Yes
"Yeah, buena suerte con eso, hermano." – Yeah, good luck with that, brother
Cariño – Sweetie
Hermoso - Beautiful
"Ah, mis queridos!" – Ah, my darlings!
"¿Quién escribe esta mierda?" – Who writes this shit?
"Gracias a Dios." – Thank God
"Y ya tienes mi corazón." – And you already have my heart.
"He querido besar estos mientras pongo mis dedos dentro de ti. Me he imaginado haciéndote venir, preciosa. He fantaseado con esto cientos de veces. Estas Pecas, tus piernas, tu bello cuerpo. Cada parte de ti mía." - I've wanted to kiss these while I put my fingers inside you. I've imagined you coming, beautiful. I've fantasized about this hundreds of times. These Freckles, your legs, your beautiful body. Every part of you, mine.
Mi corazón – My heart
"Esa mujer esta loca." - That woman is crazy.
On Edge
Chapter One
Jetta
“It’s Courtney Oliver!” The excited hiss came from behind me. I was tired and craving my extra-large extra-hot extra-shot mocha. As the line in the coffee shop shuffled forward, I kept an ear on the whispered conversation behind me, feeling my shoulders tense.
“Where?” Another voice whispered urgently to the first.
I caught the eye of Joe, the barista. He was a nice guy. Tattooed, tall,
always with a smile and a laugh, his girlfriend worked there too and together they were the cutest couple I’d ever met. He glanced down the line to me, obviously having heard the girls behind me.
Crap.
“There! In the black shirt!” The voices behind me grew louder as their excitement increased.
The line shuffled closer to the front. Only one guy was ahead of me and he was tossing up between a latte and a flat white.
Uh, newsflash, mate. It’s all coffee!
“No. Freaking. Way! How can you tell?”
“Duh. She’s got that wrist tattoo! Though she’s definitely put on weight.”
Ah crap. I resisted the urge to cover my art.
The wrist tattoo had been a spur of the moment impulse my sister and I had made during a week in Vegas. A small, yet incredible phoenix, flying, wings outstretched fire falling behind. In the fire trail were music notes. It was a distinctive tattoo in a visible spot.
Stupid.
The weight comment was pretty rude though.
“No. Freaking. Way. Go over! I want a selfie!”
Mr Flat White had finally decided, meaning I’d finally made it to the front of the line. Joe glanced at the girls, before looking straight back at me.
“Hi, Delores. How was the nursing home last night?”
I smiled gratefully. Joe knew some of my background and was willing to cover when something like this happened.
“Hi Joe, great, thanks. Just the usual.”
He nodded and wrote it on the disposable cup. The girls behind me watched in disappointed silence as I waited for my mocha.
“Thanks, Winnie.” I grinned at the short brunette behind the coffee machine, pressing a plastic cover to the lip of my cup.
“No trouble, Delores. See you tomorrow.” She winked as I nodded and moved out, relieved to be leaving the rude teens behind.
It was a fairly nice day. The heat causing people to dress in shorts and t-shirts. I wandered down the road, pausing here and there on my way back to my apartment.
A magazine in a newsagent window caught my eye. The latest tabloid had a picture of my sister on the front arm-in-arm with her latest conquest. The caption read Courtney Oliver – Her Secret Shame!
I sighed, pulled out my phone and hit number one on speed dial. It was answered after one ring.
“Finally!” My sister’s voice came over the speaker. “I’ve been calling your loft for hours. Have you seen the papers? Can you imagine? ME! Bad in bed?”
She continued her tirade while I walked home. I slipped my key in the lock and headed up to my apartment.
I lived in an average area of town. The mortgage was decent and I liked the acoustics. When Courtney had moved out—uprooting to Sydney, which had a better night life, club scene, and quicker flights to international destinations—I’d stayed where I was. I’d sold the two-bedroom apartment Courtney and I had shared and moved into a loft apartment in an older area of the city. It was within walking distance of the Canberra city centre, but near park which offered quieter living.
My little loft apartment was open plan. The wooden flooring old and scuffed, having been in the original building before it had been divided into the apartments it now housed. The thick brick walls meant my neighbours never got upset with the noise.
I’d purchased it for the wide windows and sunny balcony. The kitchen was small and U-shaped with a gas cooktop and small oven. I didn’t own a dining table; instead, I’d found kickarse comfy wood and chrome stools for under my breakfast bar. My appliances were a mix-match of old and new. No sense spending money when a twenty-dollar toaster worked as well as a hundred-dollar one.
The majority of my space was taken up by recording gear—microphones and mixers, amplifiers and audio equipment, my mother’s grand piano, a few guitars, a keyboard, some ukuleles, a few drums and bongos, a saxophone and a violin.
My little apartment was bright, cheerful and filled with everything I needed and not a thing more. It was also spotless, barring a few music sheets heaped on the grand piano. Everything had to be in its place with a reason for being there. It was one way I could bring control to my life.
“If Dad was alive this would never have happened!” I snapped out of contemplation, brought back to Courtney’s tirade.
My parents had lived large. They were the rock star cliché. Crazy parties, screaming matches, boozy nights out, brawls, destroyed hotel rooms. They had epitomised the rock-and-roll lifestyle. Had they been alive, I had no doubt they would still be on the front page of magazines.
“Mmm.” I murmured, non-committal. Experience had taught that sympathetic sounds work best in these situations.
“Anyway, let’s talk my birthday! I’m thinking 1940s burlesque. All feathers and bodice. You’re totally coming. I’m getting Manny to plan it. You know how fabulous he is at planning this shit,” she chattered while I kicked off my flip-flops and padded over to the small recording area in my apartment. I hit loudspeaker on the mobile and started shuffling music sheets and scribbled notes.
“So anyway, Jet, when are you flying in?”
“For your birthday? Next Tuesday. Though I thought I’d drive. I know it’s a short flight, but it’s only three hours to drive and I need my car. I’m looking at staying a week or more. Depends on what Paul says about the latest stuff I’ve got for him.” I referred to her record label manager and our pseudo-uncle.
“God. As if Paul would turn you down. After Dad and Mum, he practically owes us.” I didn’t comment. Instead, I looked at the picture on my desk of our parents. I felt the familiar creep of grief.
“Look Ney-ney, I need to head off. I’ve got some work to do and I still need to go and visit Mum and Dad.” There was silence on the other end of the line. I could practically see her displeasure dripping through the speaker.
“I told you not to remind me.” Her voice was brittle, cold.
I sat down. “Ney-ney—”
“No! I don’t want to talk about this! You’ve completely ruined my birthday buzz! God, Jet! Why do you do this?” The phone went dead.
I considered calling back for all of five seconds, then pushed the phone away, heaving a sigh.
Today was the tenth anniversary of our parents’ death. I spent every year remembering. Courtney spent every year trying to forget.
◆◆◆
My parents’ grave was surrounded by flowers and mourners. I was wearing a nondescript tee and faded jeans. Rockers, jazz musicians and strangely a violinist were drinking around their grave. This I hated. Even after ten years, people still remembered. Still invaded on my mourning.
My parents had been music legends. My mother had rubbed shoulders with people like Madonna and Sting. Her voice had been smoky and pure. She’d brought jazz back.
My father was a rock-and-roll heavy weight. He’d featured in Rolling Stones magazine, sold out Times Square, sang in front of Royalty. He’s been huge and everyone and their family knew his name.
They’d met at a party, love at first sight. Inseparable, so I’d been told. They’d toured together and then a year later, I’d been born. Five after that Courtney had popped out. They’d continued to tour but at a less frantic pace, mostly it had been the four of us. Mum playing her piano, Dad his guitar. My fondest memories were of sing-alongs in the tour bus as we moved from venue to venue.
It hadn’t been easy. Dad had a drug habit he’d never been able to beat, and Mum was a closet alcoholic. Instead of bringing out the best in each other, they’d been trapped in a toxic spiral. But their music benefitted and they stayed together because, according to Dad, “We fucking love each other.”
I snapped a shot of the groupies and wannabes hanging around the cemetery and sent it to my honorary uncles. They’d appreciate the love my parents were being shown.
While Mum was a one-woman-show, Dad’s band was made up of his bassist, Paul, Anthony, the drummer, and Marco, their rhythm guitarist. These guys were family. While there had been fighting, drugs, alcohol, and lo
ts of dark nights, there’d also been love, laughter and adventure.
I headed to the tomb and placed my usual offering. Roses for my mother; a single lily for Dad. While Mum had always been about flash and tradition, he’d been about the uniqueness of life. The things that were beautiful but not necessarily obvious.
I sat down amongst the groupies and silently filled my parents in on the last year. They’d have been so proud of Courtney. She was so talented, and knowing them, they’d have gotten a kick out of her diva antics. I still didn’t know what they’d make of me.
I had just turned eighteen, the year they’d died. We’d been planning Courtney’s birthday do. She’d demanded to have it at a theme park. As the mega-rich parents of a twelve-nearly-thirteen-year-old, mine hadn’t seen anything wrong with attempting to hire the damn place out for a whole day.
They’d driven off to try to talk to the park manager. Dad was high, Mum slightly drunk. They’d rolled down an embankment, hit a tree and died.
People had offered to take Ney-ney. But I’d stood firm, demanding she stay with me. I’d done what I could for her, but at sixteen, Uncle Paul-who’d morphed from bass player to extremely successful agent-had discovered her singing ability. He’d transformed her from poor little orphan into a pop princess whose face constantly graced the front of magazines and newspapers. MTV and TMZ showed near constant segments on her life, loves and breakdowns, of which there were, unfortunately, many.
It had been hard, raising a sister when you were just a kid yourself. We’d had a rocky relationship but we’d made it through and were close. Sure, she was a brat sometimes, but she was also loving, funny and caring. She was my little sister and I loved her beyond all reason.
Saying a silent goodbye, I got up and headed back toward my car. Someone had started singing my Dad’s hit My Baby. He’d written it as his love song to me after I’d been born.
The lyrics were sung clearly as I shuffled past, tears burning the back of my eyes.
“You came into my life,
So innocent and small,
Just Joshing: A BBW Romantic Comedy (Short and Sweet Series Book 1) Page 13
