by Lauren Runow
A special thank you to Jovana Shirley of Unforeseen Editing for your incredible copy edit. Our love and hugs to your bundle of joy.
Thank you to Autumn Gantz of Wordsmith Publicity for your friendship and guidance. Kisses to our beta readers April Wells and Kelli Mummert.
A huge thank you to Carlye Slover for offering to help us with proofreading.
As always, we wouldn't be where we are without the bloggers, readers and support of our fellow authors.
A special shoutout to our children. At the heart of the Sexton Brothers is the bond of family. May you always remember that your moms love you...so very, very much.
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Copyright © 2019 by Jeannine Colette and Lauren Runow
All rights reserved.
Editor: Jovana Shirley, Unforeseen Editing, www.unforeseenediting.com
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
No copyright infringement intended. No claims have been made over songs and/or lyrics and/or quotes written. All credit goes to original owners.
Created with Vellum
For our sons,
Jake, Mason and Leighton
1
HARPER
“You’re not doing this anymore,” my best friend, April, says as she storms into my bedroom. Well, my makeshift bedroom she made for me in her home office.
Thank goodness for friends like her, or I’d be living in a hotel—or worse, my parents’ house.
“I’m not twenty years old anymore.” I pull the blanket up to my neck and point the remote toward the television, raising the volume. “Besides, I have a date tonight with Chandler and Monica.”
She looks at the TV. “You’ve watched the Friends wedding episode a thousand times.”
I ignore her and continue watching my favorite show.
“You might not be twenty, but you sure as shit ain’t dead.” She pulls the covers off of me. “We’re going out!”
I suspiciously eye her and reach for the remote that fell on the floor, except she grabs it before I can and shuts the show off completely. We enter into a stare-down, just like when we were kids. Her brown eyes challenge my blues in a game of chicken. Of course, I blink first. She cheers in victory before pulling me up.
“I drove past a new bar I want to check out, and you’re coming with me,” she says.
“I don’t go bar-hopping.”
“I know. That’s why we’re going to one bar and staying.” She pulls me up off the futon. “Oh, and I bought you a new outfit today.” She winks and slaps my ass.
“Ow!” I rub my bottom as April jogs over to her room.
It’s nine o’clock at night. This time last month, I was curled up with a glass of wine and a boyfriend by my side.
On my couch. In my apartment.
The wine was a vintage pinot.
And the boyfriend went sour.
“You really shouldn’t have,” I say with a sigh as I stand in her bedroom doorway.
“You can’t slum on my couch for the rest of your life.”
“It’s a futon, and I think it’s been working out well.” I stand up a little straighter, twisting the crick in my back. “Wait. Are you kicking me out?”
She levels her eyes with mine. “You know I love having you here, but enough is enough, girl. Time for you to at least leave the house for something besides for work and food.” She shrugs her shoulders with a sly expression. “Live a little. Go have a one-night stand with a rich banker who works his ass off and doesn’t have time for a relationship.”
“No,” I say with an elongated O.
“Harper,” she sings. “There’s nothing wrong with getting laid. Lord knows, Aaron’s getting some.”
I bite the inside of my lip, trying to stifle the tears his name brings on.
She rushes up to my side. “Shit. I’m sorry. That was … God, that was insensitive of me. I was just trying to make a point. You’re gorgeous and successful and funny and smart. Just because one man couldn’t appreciate what he had in front of him doesn’t mean there isn’t someone amazing out there for you. It’s time to forget about that asshole.”
She reaches into a bag and holds up a long-sleeved minidress that’s actually pretty cute.
“You do realize it’s cold outside,” I chastise.
“Yes, but it was on sale, and it always gets hot inside bars. Besides, you have killer legs that you’ve spent too long covering up.”
“I’m a teacher,” I defend. “Below the knee is about as high as my skirts go.”
“You also had an insecure boyfriend who kept you under lock and key.”
She’s right. Aaron stated early on in our relationship that he didn’t like when women wore short skirts or bared their cleavage. He said less was more.
Obviously, when it came to relationships, less was not more to him. Turns out, he was sleeping with—no, correction: as he stated it, he was “just fucking” his friend Nicole. The same friend I would invite over for dinner. The one who, when he told me he was having “drinks with Nicole,” I thought it was safe because the relationship was completely platonic. Silly me for thinking people could be true to their word.
My heart was completely broken.
It broke for a second time when he showed up at April’s door a week later, begging for me to come back home.
I almost—almost—agreed to give him another shot until he uttered the phrase, “I knew you weren’t that upset about a little side piece.”
Frustration seeps into my veins for the thousandth time when memories of him begging me to come home flood my vision.
No, I’ll never be okay with him doing her on the side.
“Fine,” I say reluctantly as I grab the dress from her hands.
She jumps up with a clap. “Get ready, and I’ll do your hair.”
She turns to leave her room, and I glance at the floor-length mirror leaning up against the wall. I try not to cringe at the sight of my slumped-over shoulders and torn, baggy pajamas. I used to take pride in my appearance. I loved to get dressed up and have a fun night out.
April wants me to get over Aaron with the snap of her fingers. How can I get under someone when I’m still not over Aaron?
“You’re over me? When were you under me?”
Of course a Friends reference pops up in my head.
I look at the dress in my hands. Well, if I’m gonna wear this bad boy, I’d better shave my legs.
A half hour later, I’m out of the shower with legs that are the smoothest they’ve been in weeks. I dry my hair and keep my makeup pretty simple. I hate a face that looks painted on. And, no, it’s not because that’s how Aaron liked it.
Well … maybe just a little.
Damn it. Let me add some eye shadow.
I emerge from the bathroom, pulling down on the sides of the material, feeling more feminine than I have in a while. The dress fits me like a glove, rounding my curves and leaving the perfect amount of cleavage on display. The long sleeves are a great counter to the short hemline.
I slide on my Christian Louboutins—my one and only pair, which I got from Aaron for my birthday. I got rid of most things that reminded me of him, but I kept the shoes. I mean, I’m heartbroken but not crazy.
“Hell yes,” she says as I enter her bedroom where she’s finishing up her makeup. “Sit.” She points toward her desk chair, and I do. She rewards me with a pat on the head. “Good dog.”
I stick my tongue out at her through the mirror.
She smiles as she picks up her curling iron. “Just
like old times, right?”
Our eyes meet, and I can’t help but smile at the memory. April and I have been friends since grammar school, following each other to the same Catholic high school and parting ways only when we went to college in different states.
The distance didn’t keep us apart, but being adults had. April is an attorney while I’ve dedicated my life to a school in Harlem and every free minute to pleasing Aaron. I guess you could say the only good thing about learning my boyfriend, the man I was certain I would marry, was sleeping with someone else was that I got to reconnect with April in a way we’d neglected for so long.
She curls my short blonde hair in ringlets and then sprays it to give it a messy look. “There! Now, you’re complete! And, when you do the walk of shame tomorrow, your hair already has the just fucked look, so it won’t matter.”
I laugh and shake my head as I leave her room. “Not a chance.”
I grab a clutch from one of my boxes near the futon. Everything else I own is in a storage unit on the West Side Highway until I figure out what’s going on with my apartment. The one I own and he won’t leave. I’m currently in the process of trying to sell it. I don’t want any memories of our time there, and with it being a seller’s market, I’m going to walk away with a pretty penny. I guess that’s another upside to this mess I’m in.
We take the stairs and exit the lobby, deciding to walk the few blocks. The cool breeze brings the stubble back to my legs in full force, reminding me why I haven’t bothered to shave lately.
“So, where are you dragging me to again?” I stop her mid-stride. “Please don’t tell me it’s a college bar. I refuse to be the oldest person in the room.”
“Thirty is hardly old,” she deadpans.
“I don’t care what people say about thirty being the new twenty. It’s not. Especially to a group of people who are barely twenty-one—or worse, using fake IDs to get in.”
She grabs my arm to get us walking again. “Oh, stop. People at my firm recommended this place. It’s more of the after-work hangout. I’m sure half the people will still be dressed in suits and ties.” She smirks, raising her eyebrows.
“Oh, yes, because the last hot guy in a suit I went to bed with worked out so well.” I shake my head in disbelief.
“Exactly. You need revenge suit sex. When we walk in, I want you to find the hottest guy you can.”
“Then what?” I stop at the entrance before we enter.
“Flirt. Bat those ridiculous lashes of yours. Show off that ass. If you like him, let him take you home to do dirty things to you all night long.”
“I don’t go to strange men’s homes.”
“Then, take him to a hotel.” She opens the door. “After you, my dear.”
We walk inside, and my eyes are immediately drawn to the far wall that’s lined with an extra-long gas fireplace set high on display with a lounge area of white leather couches and high-top tables. On the opposite side is a long metal bar that spans the length of the space.
Every bottle of liquor imaginable sits on the glass shelves. Based on the labels taking up some prime real estate behind the bar, this is definitely not the Pabst Blue Ribbon crowd. These people drink whiskey. The good kind.
We walk through the joint, placing our hands on the backs of patrons as we work our way to the bar. It’s crowded but not packed.
April was right; this is definitely a place for the after-work crowd. Most of the men here are still dressed in their suits and ties, though some have already lost the jackets and are starting to roll up their sleeves. At this late hour, I can only assume they work long days.
“What can I get you?” the bartender asks, tapping on the bar top.
“Vodka Seven with a lime,” April orders.
“Pinot noir,” I say.
While he makes our drinks, April and I look around the room. From the way she bites her bottom lip, I can tell there are a few who have already caught her attention.
I’m not as lucky. I feel like such a creeper, standing by the bar, searching for a man to … what? Seduce? I haven’t done this in years, and to say I feel like a fish out of water is the understatement of the year.
This is ridiculous. I just wish I’d stayed home with my six fictional friends. At least they wouldn’t make me stand here like a wanton woman waiting to be picked up. I’m an elementary school teacher, for Christ’s sake. I’m not some floozy.
I’m also a virile young woman. I’ve already missed my life goal of being married before I’m thirty. I know it’s silly, but I’ve always set life goals for myself and succeeded. Until now.
I might not have the gumption to have a one-night stand, but I certainly could stand to meet a nice guy. Maybe my Mr. Right is in this room right now. I’d never know if I stayed home on the futon.
Harper Doyle, this is where the next chapter of your life begins.
2
TANNER
“Why are we coming here again?” I ask as we walk toward the bar on Third Avenue. It’s a far cry from my usual haunts on Broadway.
“Because we’re not college guys anymore,” Ryan says.
“Yes, we are,” I remind him.
Chris adjusts his tie with a smirk. “Dude, this here is where all the prime women in Manhattan are. They worked all day and are ready to kick up their heels and let off the workweek frustration.”
These two idiots put on their best interview suits just to come out tonight. I, on the other hand, kept to my signature style—jeans, a long-sleeved henley, and a beanie.
“You know, there are thousands of bars in the city that have single women,” I say. “The college bars are swimming with them.”
“Yeah, but Chris has royally pissed off every female on the Upper West Side.” Ryan gives Chris a shove with a laugh.
“It’s not my fault they all want more of this.” Chris motions his hands like he’s a fucking prize.
I shake my head. “I don’t think they want more of that as much as they want your real phone number after a one-night stand.”
Chris shrugs. “Excuse me for not being able to quote Whitman to a woman as she’s walking out the door.”
“It’s called being a gentleman,” I say as we reach the front door of the bar.
“I just want a change of pace. If it’s not cool, we’ll leave.” Ryan walks through as I hold it for them.
“You’re buying then.” I take my beanie off and tuck it into my back pocket. Then, I run a hand over my hair to make sure it’s smooth.
“Fuck that. Not all of us have a trust fund big enough to buy this bar if we wanted to,” Chris says.
My friends might be idiots, but they’re smart idiots. Ryan is a financial forecaster who already has three job offers on the table. Chris is an advertising major, like me, who’s most likely going to start his first job as a coffee boy but will quickly climb up the corporate ladder.
My fate is already written in stone at my family’s company in San Francisco—Sexton Media, where I’ll be the President of Marketing and Advertising.
“Fine, but as soon as you meet someone, I’m out.” I get a bartender’s attention and order a round of beers.
Despite our best efforts to blend in, my college buddies and I stick out like sore thumbs in the pretentious surroundings. I’ll admit though, the place seems pretty cool even if it’s not my kind of scene.
The bar is packed with the after-work mob. Back home in San Francisco, happy hour starts at five. In Manhattan, happy hour is like Happy Midnight since people get out of work at all hours of the day. This place is better suited for my older brothers, Bryce and Austin. Well, actually, no. Just Bryce. Austin rips off his suit as soon as he possibly can.
Chris has quickly zeroed in on a group of women sitting around a table by the window. He walks over and introduces himself with a, “Hello, ladies,” as smooth as he can.
They quickly look right through his bullshit. Any man who addresses a group of women like that is saying he doesn’t care who comes ho
me with him as long as they suck his dick.
“The sad part is, I put money down that he goes home with one of those girls,” Ryan says in my ear.
I let out a laugh, knowing he’s right. “How does he do it?”
“He pretty much hangs out long enough until one of them gets desperate and settles.”
“A consolation lay?”
Ryan shrugs. “Hey, as long as it’s consensual, I don’t think the guy gives a shit.”
“What about you? Anyone in here catch your eye?” I ask him.
He’s looking around the room, taking in the inventory. Ryan is all talk about picking up women, but he’s actually pretty reserved. He likes a wingman to make the initial approach. Once he’s got a girl in conversation, I usually make my way back toward the bar.
“Right there.” He hits me in the chest like he just witnessed a shooting star.
I look up to where he’s nodding.
“The redhead sipping on her straw. Holy shit, she’s gorgeous.”
He’s right. The girl he’s staring at is incredibly attractive. Long hair and large breasts pushed up in her tight dress. She’s sophisticated, and she has the posture of a woman who would eat him up alive.
But she’s not the most beautiful woman in the room. Next to her is a beauty with curly blonde hair and icy-blue eyes. Her skin is like porcelain lined with a button nose and a pouty mouth. She’s scanning the room and biting on her lower lip like this is the last place she wants to be.
Ryan starts walking toward them, and I follow. As we get closer, my gaze travels from the blonde’s face down toward the creamy skin of her décolletage. Her dress covers up her upper body, but her curves are severe enough to show off a sexy silhouette. I do a visual skim down her body and become distracted by her gorgeously toned legs that seem to go on for days. She’s a goddess in black. A muse in a sea of ordinary.
