I feel a small tug of some pressure behind me and immediately smile.
“How’re my girls doing?” Joey asks as he strokes Ari’s head. He’s still standing behind me, so I can’t see him, but I know exactly what kind of adoring expression he’s sporting right now. He gets it every time he looks at her. And sometimes when he looks at me. It makes me remember all the naughty things he still likes doing to me at night.
Even with the stretch marks and the pooch that doesn’t want to go away, Joey still finds me sexy and lets me know with his tongue on a regular basis. And he always makes sure to tell me how much he loves me with his words, too. Someday when he finally asks me to be a Marshall, I’ll be ready to say yes.
“Dinah says she was great as always.”
“Even after getting her six-month shots this morning?”
I snort a laugh and snap a towel out. “You had a worse time with her shots than she did, Joey. It was almost embarrassing seeing a grown man cry for longer than his baby.”
“She was in pain.”
“She was pissed,” I argue back. “You better get that under control because she is going to figure out really quick how to turn on the waterworks to get what she wants from you.”
“And she can have whatever her heart desires.”
I roll my eyes, but I’m not upset. There are worse things than having a baby daddy who loves your child so much you have to fight him not to spoil her. “You better win the lottery, then.”
“I’m still waiting on Abel to get me those numbers.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Just an inside joke.” He makes his way in front of me and leans against the half-wall I’m using to sort and organize. “You’ll be interested to know I have a new client.”
“Yeah?” I’m always interested to know how his clientele is shaping up. I’m proud of how much effort he puts in and people seem to love training with him. He deserves it.
“Does the name Scott Adleberry ring a bell?”
My arms stop moving mid snap and my jaw drops open. Everyone knows the name Scott Adleberry. “The quarterback for Chicago Squalls. A legend among men and a god on the field? That Scott Adleberry?”
He purses his lips, not doubt wondering if his new client will star in my latest fantasies. “You don’t have to be so excited, but yes. That one.”
“He’s your new client?”
Joey nods smugly. “Called and signed up this morning.”
“Holy shit, Joey. That’s… I’m at a loss for words.”
“As you should be. And now that I’m sure I sparked more inappropriate threesome fantasies”—I playfully snap a towel at him, which he easily dodges—“I was thinking, I could grab some Thai takeout on my way home, we crack open a bottle of wine and have date night on the living room floor.” The waggle of his eyebrows tells me “date night” is actually a front for some hanky-panky. Not that I mind, but I have to keep him on his toes.
I smirk and snap another towel. “I hate Thai food.”
“What? That’s all you ate when you were pregnant.”
“And I’m not pregnant anymore. My taste buds changed.”
He looks utterly confused by this revelation. “So. Weird.”
“I won’t argue with you there. But how about we get Cajun food instead? There’s a new place about half a block down from us that smells amazing every time I walk by.”
“It’s a date.” He looks around quickly, probably to make sure Keely isn’t lurking anywhere, then leans in and kisses me slowly and with feeling. It’s the kiss of two people who aren’t in lust, but in love and building a life together. I’ll take this kind of kiss over any others.
“Get a room,” someone says behind me and we pull apart, only for Joey to break out into a smile.
“Stan, my man, you’re early,” he says, and they do some weird manshake greeting I will never figure out.
“Thought I’d bring a couple new people from the office with me to try out the class. Do we have room? It’s getting pretty full in there.”
“Sure. We’ve got someone new joining us but we’ll make it work,” Joey responds and turns to me. “I’ll see you later.” He gives Ari a quick kiss on the top of her head and turns back to his client.
I watch as they walk away, discussing Atlas stones or log raises, I’m not even sure.
The one thing I am sure of, though, is I am so blessed to have this life. A year ago I never would have imagined I’d have the most precious baby in the world, the best boyfriend a girl could ask for, a job that makes sure we’re a happy family, and a kind of joy I’ve never experienced.
I am truly the luckiest woman in the world.
The End.
Acknowledgments
A comedy of errors in the time of pandemic
*based on a true story, and exaggerated for effect*
Once upon a time, there was an author who had an idea for a book. It would be fun. It would be zany. It would be a little weird because the characters would be a little weird, but that’s what the author liked about them. The story started strong and funny and the author happily wrote all her words every day, and even kept her house somewhat clean. She and Karin Enders would discuss the ins and outs of Strongman competitions, as Karin is somewhat of an expert, and things were falling into place. The author almost felt like she was a Disney princess singing through her day.
Then, like the plot twist from a dystopian novel, a pandemic ensued for the first time in over one hundred years. Suddenly, schools were closed, toilet paper was missing, and children were home during work hours. Mental health/motivation started to fall apart. It was a rough time for everyone.
The author was determined, however, to write a romantic comedy and powered through, even though she wasn’t feeling funny at all. She was feeling exhausted and overwhelmed. Still… she wrote.
Bad idea. (maybe. We’ll see at the end of the story.)
When she finally wrote “the end”, the author was so happy to be done that she cried. Immediately, she sent it to her beta readers Hazel James, Aly Stiles, Marisol Scott and Brenda Rothert who all read it, then stared at the author for a beat too long before collectively saying, “Um, your characters are kind of crabby.”
This is not at all what the author had in mind, but recognized she herself was feeling kind of crabby, so maybe she accidentally transferred her own feelings into those of Rosalind and Joey. Oops.
Slightly discouraged, the author went through the words with a fine-toothed comb and made her characters a little less, well, rude. They are, afterall, flawed. But there is good in them as well.
Satisfied the second draft was much better, the author sent it to Andrea Johnston who was delighted at Rosalind’s tough exterior and the general nature of the book. She also suggested some more changes.
Six weeks later than intended and after writing an entirely different book in the meantime, because she is an author after all, the second draft was finally sent off to editing with Erin Noelle. The author breathed a sigh of relief. Prematurely.
Erin’s assessment was comprehensive and as detailed as an ER doctor’s. Basically… this book needs some major surgery.
The author wasn’t overly surprised as the pandemic had turned off her romcom mood in a very strong way. She was, however, also still cranky and immediately turned to Karla Sorensen to complain.
Karla cocked her head from the clouds because she is, in fact, that tall, and said, “I’ll give you until tomorrow to whine about it, and then you will suck it up and work.” The author complied. Sort of. She also contacted Brooke Nowiski.
Thinking she would get some sort of sympathy, the author dramatically threw herself on the floor, with weeping and gnashing of teeth. Brooke merely tapped her foot, crossed her arms, looked at the petulant child and said, “Are you done yet?” before putting on her sexy cat suit, cracking her sexy whip, and pulling out the tequila, all while wondering how she got stuck with this emotional mess of an author and making a mental note nev
er to give said author her phone number.
Once she was done flailing, the author got up off the ground, brushed herself off, and did a massive overhaul. It took a week or so, but she sent it off to Hazel James and Nicole McCurdy who provided much needed feedback on the good, the bad, and the ugly. That final feedback was exactly what the author needed to finish up the story.
It was then sent to the author’s mommy, partially because moms always say things like, “I’m so proud of you even if it sucks!” And partially because oddly enough, this mom has an eagle eye for proofreading. Go figure.
The moral of the story is, life sometimes sends you lemons. Sometimes it sends you things even worse than lemons. And when that happens, things will go off-kilter. Words won’t come like they should. Things won’t fall together easily. But if you surround yourself with people who can tell you exactly what you need to hear, whether it be “I’m proud of you” or “Suck it up, buttercup,” you can get through anything. For that, this author is so very grateful to the women in this story.
She is also considering sending Brooke more tequila.
The end.
About the Author
Mother, reader, storyteller—M.E. Carter never set out to write books. But when a friend practically forced a copy of Twilight into her hands, the love of the written word she had lost as a child was rekindled. With a story always rolling around in her head, it should come as no surprise that she finally started putting them on paper. She lives in Texas with her four children, Mary, Elizabeth, Carter and Bug, who sadly was born long after her pen name was created, and will probably need extensive therapy because of it.
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Website: http://www.authormecarter.com
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Read on for:
1. Sneak Peek: Mad About Ewe by Susannah Nix, Common Threads Book #1
2. M.E. Carter’s Booklist
3. Smartypants Romance Booklist
Sneak Peek: Mad About Ewe by Susannah Nix, Common Threads Book #1
Dawn
Slow walkers were a scourge upon the city streets.
It was all very well to live a leisurely, low-stress life, taking plenty of time to stop and smell the roses—so long as you did it off to one side so those of us with somewhere to be could get past you.
“Pardon me!” I chirped politely as I zipped around a young man strolling down the dead center of the sidewalk with his phone pressed to his ear.
He was too engrossed in his conversation to hear me, and as I drew abreast, his arm shot out to gesticulate at the person on the other end of the phone.
Fortunately, I had ninja-like reflexes when it came to navigating Chicago sidewalks, and I managed to avoid taking a forearm to the face by ducking under the offending appendage. I threw a glance over my shoulder as I hurried past, but the man hadn’t even noticed me—or how close he’d come to breaking my nose.
Unsurprising, really. I’d found as I progressed through my forties that men didn’t seem to see me anymore. It was as if age had rendered me invisible to them, no matter how faithfully I dyed my gray roots copper brown, or how many steps I added to my skincare regimen. (Nine, if you’re wondering. I was up to nine steps, and seriously considering adding two more.)
Never mind Mr. Forearm Tattoo, I had more important things to worry about. The store was supposed to open—I glanced down at my watch—five minutes ago. Fudgsicles!
I picked up the pace, dodging around obstacles and pedestrians like a high-speed Ms. Pac-Man, breaking into a sweat despite the chilly spring weather. Chloe had been scheduled to open this morning, but she’d called in sick an hour ago. I’d still been in my pajamas, unwashed and unshampooed, enjoying a rare late morning in, when she’d phoned to tell me she’d woken with a sore throat and fever.
Sidestepping a yawning young woman in scrubs headed for the hospital a few blocks away, I skipped over the leash of an old man’s wayward dog while giving a wide berth to a deliveryman balancing a stack of boxes. I was moving at a solid clip and making good time until I came up behind a pair of spandex-clad women walking two abreast down the sidewalk ahead of me.
“Excuse me,” I said to the back of their matching Lululemon outfits and bouncy ponytails.
No response. They continued chattering at one another, as oblivious to me as the young man on the phone had been. Apparently, my invisibility wasn’t limited to men.
I’d simply have to go around. If I made myself smaller, I could just squeeze by on one side—
“Excuse you,” one of the women said when my handbag bumped her elbow as I squeezed between her and a parked SUV.
“Sorry,” I answered reflexively, feeling my face flush with a mix of anger and embarrassment.
It wasn’t my fault Ms. Lululemon had been rudely blocking the sidewalk, yet I couldn’t help the sense of shame that clawed its way out of the pit of my stomach over a small correction from a stranger. My dearly departed mother’s voice rang in my head, admonishing me from beyond the grave: Be polite, Dawn. Say you’re sorry, Dawn. Don’t get in the way, Dawn.
I grimaced and picked up the pace, knowing the sour feeling left by that one insignificant encounter would likely hang over my mood for hours. On the bright side, the sidewalk was mostly clear ahead, and I was able to make the final stretch of my journey down East Randolph without further mishap. I felt a small surge of happiness as I caught sight of the yarn store I’d opened last year.
Mad About Ewe was my pride and joy. Of course I was also proud of my two children, and of course they also gave me joy, but they were both grown, independent humans who made their own decisions these days. There was only so much credit I could take for them anymore. Mad About Ewe, on the other hand, was all mine. The first thing I’d done entirely on my own in my whole adult life.
I’d written up the business plan, picked out the property, furnished the interior (with some guidance from my artist best friend, Angie), and selected the inventory with painstaking care. Although some of the start-up capital had come from my divorce settlement, I considered it fairly earned compensation after twenty-four years of marriage to a world-renowned pulmonologist who’d spent more time at the hospital than at home helping me raise our children and keep our household running.
To be honest, I’d felt more like a personal assistant than a wife for a lot of my marriage. Two years after signing my divorce papers, I was still relishing my freedom. My younger son was off at college and the older one, a recent graduate, was living on his own. Which meant I had the house all to myself, and my time was my own to devote to my new career as an independent businesswoman.
As I drew nearer to the shop, I spied Linda, my most faithful customer, waiting on the sidewalk outside and looking rightfully impatient. Fudgsicles.
“Good morning, Dawn,” she said with a judgmental eyebrow arch. “You’re four minutes late.”
“Yes, I know, Linda. I’m sorry. Chloe called in sick this morning.” I unlocked the door and held it for her to follow me inside.
As I moved around the store turning on the lights and readying things for a new day’s business, Linda made a beeline for her favorite chair. There was a grouping of cozy couches and chairs by the front window where people were welcome to sit and knit for a spell, when the space wasn’t in use by one of the knitting or crochet groups that held their regular meetups at the store.
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Linda came in almost every morning to sit and visit for a few hours over her knitting. She was retired and lived alone, and I had the sense she didn’t talk to many people outside the time she spent in the store.
“What do you think, crème brûlée or southern pecan this morning?” I asked as I moved to the coffee maker. I always kept a carafe of coffee on hand, as well as a selection of teas and powdered hot chocolate, so customers could enjoy a warm beverage while they knit or shopped for yarn. It encouraged them to stay longer, and the longer they stayed, the more likely they were to buy something. It also made the store feel more homey, which was part of my business mission statement: Create a comfortable home for fiber arts lovers to gather and shop.
“Feels like a crème brûlée day to me,” Linda answered as she unfolded the Joji Locatelli Odyssey shawl she’d been working on for the last several weeks. It was knitting up so beautifully I’d been considering starting one of my own with some of the new Malabrigo Dos Tierras I’d gotten in last week.
The bell on the shop door rang, and I glanced over my shoulder as I counted out scoops of flavored coffee grounds. It was a man who’d just entered, which was unusual but not unheard of. He stood with his back to me, gazing at the window display Angie had created for the store. It was an eye-catching installation, with sagging clotheslines full of colorful hand-knit hats, scarves, and socks suspended over a pair of giant knitting needles supporting a swatch of rainbow-striped garter stitch. It had enticed quite a few curious onlookers into the store.
“Let me know if you need any help,” I called to the newcomer. He didn’t respond, so I finished setting the coffee to brew before I went to properly greet my first customer of the day.
Weights of Wrath (Cipher Office Book 4) Page 24
