by Tawna Fenske
Table of Contents
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
If you love erotica, one-click these hot Scorched releases… Sin and Ink
Good Girl’s Bad Lessons
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The Dossier Series Boxed Set
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2019 by Tawna Fenske. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.
Entangled Publishing, LLC
2614 South Timberline Road
Suite 105, PMB 159
Fort Collins, CO 80525
[email protected]
Scorched is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.
Edited by Liz Pelletier
Cover design by Bree Archer
Cover photography by 4x6/Getty Images
ISBN 978-1-64063-603-3
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Edition February 2019
Dear Reader,
Thank you for supporting a small publisher! Entangled prides itself on bringing you the highest quality romance you’ve come to expect, and we couldn’t do it without your continued support. We love romance, and we hope this book leaves you with a smile on your face and joy in your heart.
xoxo
Liz Pelletier, Publisher
For Sarah Keating, fierce cancer warrior and beloved sister of my reader Julie Keating Schumacher. While we never met, I don’t think it’s a coincidence this story’s heroine bears your name, along with your strength, kindness, and capacity for love.
Dear readers: Have you groped yourself today? Or scheduled that mammogram you’ve been putting off for months? Please, take five minutes right now to do it. Then email me at [email protected] with your mailing address and a note letting me know you’ve taken care of breast health biz and I’ll send you an autographed bookmark. This matters. You matter.
Love, hugs, and butt pats,
Tawna
Chapter One
Sarah
“Hey, ladies! Come on in.” I swing open my front door with a flourish, shifting the champagne glass to my other hand as I usher in a colorful parade of pajama-clad girlfriends.
Cassie stops to tug the bright yellow drawstring at the waist of my smiley-face flannel PJs. “Great pants,” she says. “They’re very you.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes as I take a sip of champagne. “Funny, the ex who bought them for me said the same thing.” I bump the door closed with my hip. “For the record, it’s a bad sign when the guy you’re having sex with buys you sleepwear that suggests you should cover up more.”
Her sisters Missy and Lisa glide toward my kitchen wearing silk pajamas like something from a fashion runway. They set to work popping a bottle of Dom Pérignon and laying out a charcuterie spread that would put Martha Stewart to shame.
“You’re beautiful, smart, and you have a great rack,” one of them calls. “There’s a reason that guy is an ex.”
“True enough.” I turn my attention back to Cassie and Junie, who are still standing in the entryway beside me. Cassie gives me a fond eye roll and shoves a hand in the pocket of her practical gray sweatpants. She’s always been the odd woman out with her sisters, but it doesn’t seem to bother her.
“Simon insisted on sending us in a limo,” Cassie informs me. “It’s entirely possible we polished off a whole bottle of champagne on the way.”
“Atta girl.” I give Cassie a high five, then hold up a hand so Junie can do the same.
“No, it’s your birthday.” Junie throws her arms around me, engulfing me in the world’s most exuberant hug. “You get hugs on your birthday, everyone knows that.”
I’m grinning as Junie squeezes me tight enough to squish the air from my lungs. For six years she’s been my favorite resident at the group home I manage for adults with Down Syndrome, and we’ve grown closer since Cassie got engaged to Junie’s brother, Simon. That’s basically what brought the whole pack of us together, and there’s no one else I’d rather be with to ring in this milestone birthday.
“How old are you?” Junie pulls back from the hug to accept a bubble-filled glass from Lisa.
“The big three-oh.” This is one of those times I’m grateful that Junie’s bluntness saves us from dancing around awkward topics. “Thirty years old and free as a bird.”
I lift my champagne in a toast to myself, and the ladies do likewise. Even Junie, who doesn’t like the taste of alcohol, has a fancy champagne flute brimming with the expensive French sparkling cider Lisa always brings for her.
I can’t help noticing the look the ladies exchange as they arrange plates of hors d’ouvres on my coffee table. The five of us settle on my living room sofas for the official start of this birthday pajama party.
“There’s nothing wrong with being single and thirty,” Cassie says, swirling the golden bubbles in her champagne flute. “You’re hot, you have a great career, and amazing friends.”
“Hear, hear.” We all take another healthy swig from our glasses.
“I’m not worried about it.” This is not entirely true, but I don’t want to be that cliché of a woman whining into her champagne about how hard it is to be single. “I did always think I’d be married by thirty, but goals change.”
I was trying for inspirational with the tone of that last bit, but I think I missed the mark. Everyone’s shooting me smiles that are halfway between encouraging and sympathetic. Everyone except Junie, who hands me a bowl of fat Castelvetrano olives that she knows are my favorite. “You said no presents, but I got you these.”
God bless Junie.
“I also made you a scarf anyway, because you like yellow and I’m the best in my knitting class.” She places the unwrapped gift in my lap like it’s a beloved pet, and the bright rows of colors shift as my eyes fill with tears.
“Junie, it’s beautiful.”
It is. She used four different shades of yellow yarn, and it reminds me of sunbeams. I lift it off my knee, savoring the softness of the yarn, and wind it around my neck with the reverence it deserves. “Thank you so much.”
Junie grins and hugs me again. “I love you, Sarah.”
“I love you, too.”
I release Junie and reclaim my olives as the rest of my friends murmur their own words of love and encouragement.
But it’s Junie’s words that touch me the most. As the rest of the ladies chatter happily about birthdays and appetizers and tomorrow’s brunch plans, the warm pinch of nostalgia in the center of my chest reminds me how I got into my line of work.
Freshman year of college, I was best friends with a guy named Ian Nolan. He had a dimpled smile, a dorm room with a microwave, and a beloved brother with Down Syndrome.
Watching Ian with Shane, seeing how much they cared for each other—that’s what sparked my passion for working with adults who rock that extra chromosome.
“I should message Ian.”
The ladies stop talking and stare at me in puzzlement.
“Who’s Ian?” Cassie asks.
“A guy I knew in college,” I explain, a little surprised to realize I’ve never mentioned him. Then again, Ian and I sorta lost touch after he dropped out at the end of our sophomore year. “His birthday is two days before mine, so we message each other every year around this time.”
Cassie tilts her head to one side and considers me over the rim of her champagne flute. “How come we’ve never met him?”
“He’s on the opposite side of the country,” I reply, trying to remember the last time I saw him. Ten years ago, maybe? “He lives in New York now. One of those friendships that sort of drifted apart, but we still do the obligatory happy birthday thing every year.”
“Hmm.” The sisters look thoughtful, and I suspect they have matchmaking on their minds. Two are engaged and one happily married, so I shouldn’t be surprised they’re plotting to get me on the wedding train with them.
“It’s not like that at all,” I insist, wanting to nip this in the bud. “Total platonic friendship. I always had a boyfriend in college, and he had this girl he was dating long distance. We were just best buds.”
Cassie grabs a piece of prosciutto off the plate and folds it onto a cracker. “But is he cute?”
I shrug and do my best impression of a woman who has never done a lustful doubletake over Facebook photos showing a shirtless Ian charging through the finish line at a triathlon. A girl can admire an old friend’s physique, right?
“Sure, I guess.” I pop another olive in my mouth. “If you’re into gobs of muscles and that whole Prince Harry complexion.”
Which I am not. The men I date tend to be built more like swimmers or distance runners, lean and ropey. I’ve always preferred dark-haired guys over gingers or blonds, and I like brown eyes. I have a definite type, and Ian Nolan isn’t it.
And you’re still single, my subconscious reminds me.
I take another swig of champagne and tell my subconscious to shut the eff up.
“He was a great pal in college, but not really the type I go for,” I tell them. “He was the guy who got to mop me up after the boyfriends dumped me. A total sweetheart, but not someone I was ever interested in.”
“Why?” The earnestness in Junie’s expression has me asking myself that same question.
“Well, I guess—I don’t know. I just didn’t see him that way?” That sounds lame. I can tell from the matching dubious expressions that my friends think so, too.
I chew another olive and try again.
“We did make a pact, though.” God, I’d totally forgotten this. I refill my champagne glass, pretty sure I’ll need reinforcements for this confession. “We were eating Top Ramen in his dorm room one night. He had this huge brown beanbag chair we used to call the space turd, and we were sitting in it together sharing a Pabst Blue Ribbon.”
“Naked PBR night?” Cassie asks hopefully.
“Not naked,” I say. “I told you, it wasn’t that kind of friendship.”
“Unfortunate,” she says around a mouthful of cracker. “Keep going.”
I settle back on the sofa, burrowing into my new yellow scarf and the memories of that long-ago night. “We were hanging out, drinking beer, just bullshitting about dating and life goals and all the heavy stuff you talk about when you’re nineteen years old and three beers into a six-pack.”
Cassie laughs. “Oh, to be young again.”
I lift my champagne glass and take a sip, part of me expecting the warm, bitter tang of cheap beer. “Anyway, we made this vow,” I continue. “We said if we were both still single at thirty, we’d marry each other.”
The sisters titter with excitement. “And?” Cassie refills her champagne, then moves on to the other empty glasses around the table. “What’s his status?”
“I have no idea.” Liar. “He probably has a girlfriend or something.” Possibly true. I’ve seen a parade of them pass through my Facebook feed over the years, including one who looked like Blake Lively’s hotter doppelganger.
“You should message him,” Cassie says.
“To say happy birthday,” Junie supplies.
“And see if he’s single,” the sisters chorus.
“And ask if he’s ready to get hitched.” Cassie grins and grabs another cracker.
“You guys are dorks.” I take a small sip of champagne and decide to blame the bubbles for the fact that their ideas aren’t sounding all that dumb. “I do message him every year, I guess.”
No reason this is any different. Just because we both turned thirty, there’s no need to make this weird.
I grab my phone off the end table and scroll to Facebook. It takes a few seconds to locate our message thread from last year and to tap out a quick happy birthday note. It’s not until after I hit “send” that I realize my message is identical to the one I sent a year ago.
Happy birthday! Hope you’re doing well.
So original.
Those first two years of college, we were inseparable. We’d go camping with this big group of friends. Since his girlfriend went to school in California and the dudes I dated were too busy with frat parties to camp, Ian and I always shared a tent. Totally platonic.
We’d also eat ramen together in his dorm room, sitting there under these tacky, twinkly chili pepper lights he’d strung around his window. We talked about love and life, boyfriends and girlfriends, fantasies and—and—
God, we were young. Young and passionate and ready to take on the world.
But we’re older now, and friendships drift apart when you’re separated by three thousand miles.
I set the phone down and pick up my champagne before turning to Cassie. “How goes the wedding planning?”
“It’s coming along,” she says. “Dax is doing this cool mixed-metal arch for the ceremony. Here, let me show you.”
As Cassie scrolls through her phone, Lisa sits beaming at the mention of her fiancé. It’s no secret she’s a big fan of Dax’s artistic skills, not to mention the rest of his talents.
Cassie holds out her phone so I can check out the arch. “It’s symbolic of the intertwining of his career in tech and mine in soil science and—”
A buzzing from the coffee table yanks everyone’s attention back to my phone. The screen lights up with an incoming message, and there’s an unexpected flutter in my belly when I see Ian’s name.
Hey! Long time no chat. Happy birthday to you, too.
I smile to myself and hold out my hand for Cassie’s phone. “Let’s see the arch.”
She draws it back like I’ve just asked for a crack pipe. “No way. You need to respond to that right now.”
I give her a dramatic eye roll. “It’s girls’ night,” I tell her. “Ian Nolan is definitely not a girl.”
“All the more reason to respond,” she points out. “He has a penis. You enjoy penis from time to time.”
I’m not sure I follow the logic, but I pick up my phone anyway and tap out a quick reply.
Hope it’s been a good year for you.
Dorky, but true. I do hope he’s doing well. I hope he’s happy and healthy and—
His reply appears before I can finish that thought.
Can’t complain. You celebrating with husband, kids, boyfriend, whatever…?
I stare at the words, not sure what to make of them. In ten years, Ian’s never asked about boyfriends or marriage. Not once.
“What is it?” Cassie asks.
“I can’t figure out if he’s super-clueless and hasn’t bothered checking my Facebook profile, or if he’s fishing for details about my relationship status.”
“He’s a guy.” She shrugs. “I’m going with super-clueless.”
Junie grabs the bottle of sparkling cider and refills her glass before reaching for one of the homemade gluten-free crackers Lisa always brings for her. “Ask him if he’s married,” she says.
I’ve gotta hand it to Junie—her directness has it
s merits.
But I’m not ready to be quite that direct.
No husband, no kids, no boyfriend. Just enjoying a little birthday bubbly at home. Cheers!
I snap a quick photo of my hand holding my half-empty champagne flute, then click to include that with the message. Ian responds with a thumbs-up emoji, which would normally signal the end of this exchange.
Normally.
Hell, I’m thirty, right? Time to be a little bold, to do things outside my comfort zone? Maybe I owe it to myself to be a little more like Junie.
I hesitate. Then I start typing again.
How about you? Married? Kids? The whole ball of wax?
I flip the phone face down, feeling silly. What does that even mean, ball of wax? And why am I keeping this going? I’m here to enjoy a night with my girlfriends, not a flirtation with some long-lost guy friend.
I grab a piece of salami, determined to get this ladies’ night back on track.
“What are you doing?” Cassie’s question sounds exactly like it would if she caught someone urinating on the Mona Lisa.
“Uh, eating salami.”
“No.” She waves at my phone. “Keep chatting with him. We’re living vicariously through you.”
“Way better than soap operas,” Junie says. “And maybe there will be kissing.”
“There will be no kissing,” I insist as my phone buzzes with an incoming reply. I do my best to ignore it.
“If you don’t look, we will,” Cassie says. “And that could be embarrassing for you.”
“Please,” I mutter. “You guys know all my secrets.”
Most of them, anyway. I sigh and pick up the phone.
Not married. No wife, girlfriend, or badly deflated blow-up doll in my bed. Hey, remember that pact we made?
Holy shit. He remembers? I sit back on the sofa, too stunned to reply.
Cassie gives me an odd look. “What is it?”
I hold out my phone for her to see, and she passes it around the group. The ladies nod thoughtfully.
“What?” I ask. “Is it weird that he remembers?”
“You remember,” Cassie points out. “Why would it be weird?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “He’s a guy.”
