by B. E. Baker
“Don’t you mean prince and wife?” Beth asks.
The English speakers laugh.
“Do I get a kiss now?” I ask.
“Yes,” Beth says. “Take it already!”
But I don’t just lean down and kiss her. No, nothing so boring will do for my vivacious bride. I yank her against me, pivot and dip her, and only then do I press my mouth to hers. Her eyes are wide open when we kiss, as are mine. We may not be perfect, and we may be as different as can be, but we’re also alike in every way that matters, and we’re going into this marriage knowing exactly what we’re getting into.
When we stand back up and turn to face our American and Liechtensteiner guests, they’re all equally joyful. “Well, Mrs. Cole Michael Alois of Liechtenstein, how do you feel?” I ask.
Her eyes shimmer with tears. “Like I’m glad that I used waterproof mascara this morning, your serene highness.”
I snort.
“And like I’m very glad to be home next to you at last.”
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***
A lot of fans asked me to write another story that would showcase where all the Finding couples are and how they’re doing. Most notably, people asked after Amy, from Finding Faith. I decided to write a short story about her, but as with most things I do, a short story quickly became more. You can certainly skip Book 7—it’s short, but it’s technically longer than a novella. It’s almost 50,000 words, but I know that for me, that’s short. Finding Balance also introduces Anica, the main character in Finding Peace. They are both out now. So feel free to skip Book 7, or read it. Up to you. Book 8 is a full length novel, and the FINAL book in the Finding Home series!
If you’d like a FREE book to read in the meantime, you can sign up for my newsletter on my website at www.BridgetEBakerwrites.com! I’ll send you an ebook copy of Already Gone, a standalone YA romantic suspense.
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I am also including the first chapter of my YA post apocalyptic novel, Marked. It features a substantial romantic subplot! Read on to check it out.
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And if you’d like to join a fun group of readers (and me!) on a facebook group, check out “Bridget Baker’s Binge Reader Recovery Program” right here: https://www.facebook.com/groups/750807222376182 I’m working on writing some exclusive content for the group right now—bonus short stories that will take place after each of my series ends. They’ll be available for free, but exclusively to members of my group. I hope you’ll join me.
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Finally, if you enjoyed reading Finding Home, please, please leave me a review on Bookbub, GoodReads, and/or your book retailer of choice!!!! It makes a tremendous difference when you do. Thanks in advance!
23
Bonus: Sample Chapter of Marked
I’m a big fat coward.
I’ve known this about myself definitively since one month before my sixth birthday. The night I lost my dad.
Case in point: I’m just shy of seventeen. I’ve been in love with the same guy for almost three years. Even though I see Wesley a few times a week, I haven’t said a word. But tonight I have the perfect opportunity to do what I’ve always feared to try. Tonight, to celebrate our upcoming Path selections, all the teens in Port Gibson play a stupid, risky game.
Spin the Bottle.
I glance around as I walk toward the campfire in front of me. Only thirty-five kids turned seventeen in the past year, so of course I know them all. My best girl friend, Gemette, waves me over. I try to squash my disappointment at not seeing Wesley. When I played this scene in my brain earlier, I was sitting by him.
“You gonna scowl at the fire all night, Ruby?” Gemette pats a gloved hand on the slab of granite underneath her.
“You couldn’t have saved us one of those seats?” I point at the smooth, flat stumps on the other side of the fire. I sit down and shift around, trying to find a flat spot.
“I think what you meant to say was, ‘Thanks, Gemette. You’re the best.’”
Her straight black hair reflects the campfire flames when she tosses it back over her shoulder. It’s against the Council’s rules for hair to cover your forehead. Gotta make it easy to see anyone who might be Marked. Except tonight, no one’s following the rules. Everyone's wearing their hair down, and Gemette’s silky locks frame her face beautifully. I envy her sleek hair almost as much as I covet her curves.
“My bum’s already hurting on this,” I mutter.
“If you weighed more than eighty-five pounds soaking wet, it wouldn’t bother you so much.”
Instead of curves, I’ve got twig arms and a non-existent backside. I shift on the huge slab, trying to find a position that doesn’t hurt. I arch one eyebrow, not that she can see it in the dark. “I weigh ninety-two pounds, thank you very much.”
Gemette snorts. “That proves my point, you bony butt.”
She leans toward the fire and picks up the glass bottle lying on its side. She tosses it a few inches up into the air before catching it again.
“Be careful with that.” That bottle’s the only reason I’m sitting here, sour-faced, stomach churning.
Slowly the remaining seats around the fire fill up. Wesley shows up last. There aren’t any seats left, but before I can convince Gemette to squish over, he grabs a bucket. He turns it upside down and takes a seat a few feet away from everyone else. I guess that’s fitting. His dad’s the Mayor of Port Gibson and a Counsellor on the CentiCouncil, so Wesley’s in charge by default tonight. He’ll probably take over for his dad one day, which isn’t as glamorous as it sounds since less than two thousand people live here.
He looks around the fire, and his gaze stops on me. He bobs his head in my direction, and I shoot him a smile. I’m glad he can’t hear the thundering of my heart.
Although we’re all huddled around a campfire, and I’ve known most of the kids here for years, we maintain carefully measured space between us. Tercera dictates our habits even when we’re rebelling. Which we’re only doing because it’s a tradition.
Maybe Tercera’s made cowards of us all.
“Are we starting?” Tom’s sitting to my left. His parents are both in Agriculture and he’s Pathing there, too. He has broad shoulders and tan skin from working outside most of the day. Gemette likes him, and it’s easy to see why. Of course, he’s nothing to Wesley.
I glance across the fire in time to see Wesley stand up. He straightens the collar of his coat slowly and methodically, like his dad always does before a town hall meeting. Wesley loves doing impressions, and he’s usually convincingly good at them.
“I’d like to take this opportunity to welcome you all to the Last Supper.” His voice mimics his father’s, and he touches his chin with his right hand in the same way his dad always rubs his beard. Wesley himself is tall and lean with long black hair that he’s wearing down, for once. It falls in his eyes in a way I’ve never seen before, and I feel a little rush. I want to touch it.
Wesley smirks. “I know you may be less than impressed with the culinary offerings for our gathering, but as I always say, Tradition has Value.” He cracks a grin then, and everyone laughs. “Seriously though.” He drops the impression and returns to his normal voice, which I like way better anyway. “I know the food sucks, but this whole thing started with a bunch of teenagers who were sick of rules and ready to throw caution to the wind for a night.”
I look down at the three or four-dozen nondescript metal cans with the tops peeled back, resting on coals. Another few dozen are open but sitting away from the fire. Presumably they contain fruit or something else we won’t want to eat hot.
Wesley leans over and snags the first can, his gloves keeping him safe from the heat. “I hope you’ll all forgive me, but this was what we could find.”
“This is a pretty crummy tradition.” Lina reaches down and grabs a can with mittened hands. Her dark brown hair falls in a long, thick braid down her back, like it has every single time I’ve seen her.
“Traditions matter, even
the silly ones. They help pull us together as a community, which is valuable when fear of Tercera yanks communities apart. We’re stronger when we aren’t alone. Thinking every man should look out for himself hurts all of us.” Wesley takes his first bite right before Lina. I grab a can of baked beans.
The food really is as bad as it looks, but at least it’s not spoiled.
Wesley talks while we eat.
“As you already know, we come from a variety of backgrounds. Before the Marking, Port Gibson housed approximately the same number of people, but not a single person who lived here before the Marking survived. We cleaned out the homes, burned some to the ground and rebuilt, circled the city with a wall, and made it our own. The Unmarked who live here are Christian, Muslim, atheist, black, white, Hispanic, Russian, German and Japanese. I could keep going, but I don’t need to. Before the Marking, these differences divided humanity. Now, we know that what truly matters is what we all share. We embrace the traditions that bring us all together, because we’re more alike than we are unalike.”
I swallow the last spoonful of baked beans from my can and set it down on the ground by my feet. I’m almost the last one to finish eating, but several half-full cans are scattered around the campfire. A few people grab a can of fruit. I prefer the stuff my Aunt and I process and can ourselves, so I don’t bother.
I rub my hands together briskly. Even in mittens, my fingers feel stiff. It’s usually not too cold in Mississippi, even in January, but a late freeze has everyone bundled up. The Last Supper’s supposed to be a chance to rebel, but I’m grateful that everyone’s as covered as possible. It means I won’t look as cowardly for keeping my mittens on. My aunt is Port Gibson’s head of the Science Path, so I know all about how Tercera congregates first in the skin cells, even before the Mark has shown up on the forehead in some cases.
The wind moans as it blows through the trees, and we all huddle around the meager fire. Even though the flames have died down to coals in most places, it burns hot. My face roasts while my back freezes. The bottle lies stationary on the weathered flagstones by the fire where Gemette set it, light glinting off of the dingy glass at strange angles.
The quiet conversations die off and the nervous laughter ends. Eyes dart to and fro among the thirty something teenagers gathered.
“So.” Evan’s voice cracks, and he clears his throat. “Who goes first?”
“Thanks for volunteering,” Wesley says.
I suspect no one else asked for just this reason. All eyes turn toward poor, gangly, redheaded Evan.
Evan gawks momentarily. Even though he and I work in Sanitation together, I don’t know him well. I haven’t been there long enough to guess whether he feels lucky or put upon. He sighs, and then leans forward and tweaks the bottle. It twists sharp and fast and skitters to the right, spinning furiously.
I really hope the bottle doesn’t stop on me, and I doubt I’m alone in that thought. Evan’s funny in a self-deprecating way, but he isn’t smart, and he definitely isn’t hot. I bite my lip, worried about what I’ll do if it does stop on me.
It slows quickly and finally stops pointing to my left. I sigh in relief, which I belatedly hope no one heard.
Tom gasps, and then in a raspy voice says, “No way. I mean, you’re nice and all Evan, but I’m not . . . I don’t . . .”
“Yeah, me either. Chill, man.” Evan laughs. “So, does it pass to the next person over?” Evan raises his eyebrows and glances at me.
I want to protest, but my throat closes off and I look down at my feet instead.
Evan stands up. “So Ruby . . .”
He may not have saved me a seat, but Wesley jumps in to save me now, thank goodness. “That’s not how it works. If you get someone of the same gender, and neither of you . . . well, then your turn passes to him or her. Which means you sit down Evan, and you spin next, Tom.”
“Who made these rules?” Evan grumbles as he sits.
Gemette smiles. “They make sense, Evan. I mean, it’s not spin the bottle and pick best out of three. Your way, you’d basically pick someone in the circle who’s close and kiss whoever you want.”
Evan shrugs and glances at me again with a smile. “Sounds pretty okay, actually.”
Tom snorts. “I don’t hear Ruby complaining about Wesley’s rules. I’d say that’s your answer, man.”
I look back down at my shoes, but not before I see Tom’s wink. Jerk. Evan must feel idiotic, and I definitely want to sink into the ground.
I bite my lip again, this time a little harder. Tom’s an obviously good-looking guy, but I have no interest in kissing him. I hope his wink was a joke about Evan and not some kind of message.
Cold air blows past me as Tom leans forward to spin the bottle, his body no longer blocking the wind. One thing jumps out at me as he reaches for the glass bottle. In spite of the cold, Tom isn’t wearing gloves. He must’ve taken them off at some point. He’s either a daredevil or an idiot. I’m not sure which.
Tom spins the bottle less forcefully than Evan and rocks back and forth as the bottle circles round and round. His eyes focus intently on the spinning glass as if he can somehow control where it stops. I wonder who he’s hoping for and look around the circle for clues. Andrea seems particularly bright-eyed. My eyes continue to wander. One gorgeous, deep blue pair of eyes in the circle stares right back at me. Wesley. I’ve looked at him a lot over the past few years, but this feels different somehow. A spark zooms through me, and I quickly stare at my feet.
No luck for Andrea tonight, or Gemette. The bottle comes to rest on Andrea’s best friend, Annelise, instead. She and I were in Science together a long time ago. Her dark brown hair hangs loose, framing high cheekbones and expressive chocolate eyes. She frowns. Tonight doesn’t seem to be going right for anyone so far.
“Now what?” Annelise’s voice shakes. “We just kiss, right here in front of everyone?”
“No, of course not,” Gemette snaps.
“Who made you the boss?” Evan frowns. Judging by his sulky tone, he’s still mad about losing his turn earlier.
“Unfortunately, I’m the boss,” Wesley says, “and she’s right.” He points to a dilapidated shed at the top of the hill. “You two go up there.”
“Romantic.” Tom rolls his eyes as he stands up. He rubs his bare palms on his pants. Gross. At least I know I’m not the only nervous one here. Tom and Annelise trudge a path through clumps of frozen brown grass toward the rundown tool shed.
What a special memory for their first kiss.
Gemette sighs and I pat her gloved hand with my own. I’d feel worse for her, but Gemette likes every decent looking guy in town, including a few boys a year younger than us. She’ll recover from missing out on a special moment with Tom.
I glance again toward Andrea, an acquaintance from my time in Agriculture. She and Tom trained together for years. She may have liked him as long as I’ve liked Wesley. She looks into the fire while her foot digs a messy hole in the soil. I wonder how I’ll feel if Wesley spins and gets Andrea. Or worse, Gemette. I’ll have to sit here and twiddle my thumbs while I know he’s in there kissing a friend. My stomach lurches. Coming tonight was a stupid idea. I clearly didn’t think this through.
No one speaks to distract me from my anxiety. The shed isn’t far. We could easily eavesdrop on them if the wind would shriek a little less.
“How long does this take?” Evan asks.
“Who the heck knows?” Gemette points at the bottle. “Impatient for another crack at it?”
Kids around us chuckle.
After another few awkward moments, Gemette grabs the bottle and gives it a twist. “No reason we have to wait on them.”
“Sure,” Wesley says. “Whoever it lands on can go next.”
“Wait,” Evan asks, “whoever it lands on goes next as in it’s their turn to spin? Or goes next as in Gemette’s going to kiss them?”
The bottle stops before anyone can respond, pointing directly at Wesley. His perfectly shaped br
ows draw together under disheveled black hair. Gorgeous hair. His lips form a perfect “o”. His bright blue eyes meet mine again.
My heart races and the baked beans sit like a lump in my belly. I shouldn’t have come. Of course Wesley will want to kiss her. Gemette’s gorgeous, curvy, and smart. Ugh. Am I going to have to sit here while my best friend kisses the guy I like twenty feet away? This is all my fault. If I’d only told Gemette, she’d beg off.
I bite down a little harder on my lip and taste blood this time. I really need to kick this particular habit, especially with kissing in my future. Maybe. Hopefully. I’m such an idiot.
Wesley clears his throat. “I think I’m going to sit this game out. I’m more of a moderator than a participant.”
“No,” I blurt out. “You can’t. You’re here, you’re seventeen, you have to participate.” What am I doing? Why am I shoving him at my friend? But if I don’t make him play, I’m flushing my chance to kiss him down the toilet. I want to cry.
“Well, then I guess it’s my turn to spin.” His deep voice sounds completely different than any of the other kids here tonight. My stomach ties in knots when I hear him speak, which is ridiculous because I’ve heard his voice a million times.
I glance at Gemette. She looks disappointed and I want to cry with relief, but I don’t blame her. He could’ve kissed her but didn’t pursue it. I imagine most any girl here would be disappointed. He glances up and his eyes lock with mine again. Caught. I start to shiver and try to stop it. This look is different somehow from any before, like something shifted. Wesley clears his throat, looks down at the bottle, gracefully reaches over, and snaps it between his fingers.
It spins evenly, not moving to the right or the left. It spins on and on, and I wonder if it’ll ever stop. It slows, whirling a little less with each rotation, the butterflies in my stomach swooping and swirling with each pass.
