by Lauren Layne
“Quite the résumé.” I can tell she’s trying for levity, but her voice cracks.
“Quite. But none of those are what I regret the most.” I rest my forehead on hers and take a deep breath. “What I regret the most is not telling you how I felt about you. I should have told you when I was nineteen. Hell, I should have told you when I was nine.”
Her bottom lip wobbles, and I lift a hand to brush my thumb across her trembling mouth. Suddenly, there’s no fear. No terror. There’s only this moment. Late, but still perfect.
“I love you, Lucy.”
Okay, I may have been premature in my confidence, because saying it out loud is fucking terrifying.
Especially when she doesn’t say a word in response.
Lucy doesn’t even move, and her eyes are shiny with tears, and I can’t read them. I can’t tell what she’s thinking, or what she’s feeling, and I’m about to go to my plan B of get on your knees and beg, when she lets out a broken cry and wraps her arms around my neck.
I go perfectly still, before very slowly closing my arms around her in relief.
Then my eyes close. I am home. Even if this hug is all I get, it’s enough. I’ll make it be enough. At least until I can get better and braver, and demand that she give me more moments just like this one.
“I was coming to see you,” she says against my neck.
I rub a hand along her spine. “Oh yeah?” I touch her hair, my hand trembling a little as I order myself not to rush her. Not to beg her to say what I need to hear. “Must have been in quite the hurry.”
She pulls back and nods, her fingers touching my cheek. “Let’s just say it’s six years overdue.”
“Better late than never?”
Her smile is slow and tender as she goes on her toes to kiss me softly. “You know that you don’t need to take those classes, right? If you want to for you, by all means. But don’t do it for me.”
My heart sinks. This is what she wanted to tell me? I put my heart on the line, and she—
“I love you just as you are. I’ve always loved you.”
My heart starts beating again, but I’m still needy, and I clasp her to me roughly, giving her a little shake. “Again.”
Lucy laughs. “I love you. From the very start. And I never should have left that day. I should have had more faith in you, more faith in us. And the other night, I should have—”
“Let’s make a deal,” I say, cupping her face. “Let’s agree to let all that go. We can learn from those experiences and all that shit, but we deserve a fresh start. We’re more than our mistakes.”
She gives my chest a happy little pat. “I like that. A fresh start, hiccups forgotten.”
I snort. “ ‘Hiccups.’ Is that what we’re calling them?”
“Nope.” Her arms are around my neck again, and she’s looking up at me. “We’re not calling them anything, remember? And I just realized why it was that I was coming after you.”
“It wasn’t to tell me that you loved me?”
“I was maybe going to mention that. But mostly, I was going to tell you that I need a roommate. And you need a roommate…the current one’s no good for you.”
My eyes narrow. “This place is a one-bedroom.”
She bites her lip. “I’m aware.”
My eyes narrow further. “Lucy Hawkins. Are you asking me to move in with you?”
“Well, it’s the only way we won’t have to worry about joint custody of Horny,” she says pragmatically.
I smile. “True. He needs to know that both his parents love him very much.”
“Do you think he knows that his parents love each other very much?”
“He should,” I say as I begin backing her toward the bedroom. “After all, he’s the one that watched us fall for each other all over again.”
Lucy puts a hand on my chest, halting my progress. “Well here’s the thing, Reece. I don’t think I ever stopped. I think I’m one of those crazy-stupid girls who’s loved you this whole time.”
I can’t help the happy grin that spreads over my face as I bend my knees and hoist her over my shoulder and expedite our movement toward the bed.
“Well that’s convenient,” I say, giving her butt a playful swat. “Because I’m that crazy-stupid guy that loved you the whole damn time too.”
Epilogue
Lucy
LUCY, TWENTY-SEVEN, REECE, TWENTY-EIGHT
I rest my hand on Reece’s shoulder, tugging his ear down to me so he can hear me as we mingle with the crowd gathering around the makeshift stage.
“You know that if one of us wins, it means that the other loses,” I say.
Reece gives my hand a pat and grins down at me. “Oh, Luce. That’s cute. No, no, sweetie, it means that when I win, you’ll have lost.”
I roll my eyes. Cocky bastard.
We’re at one of wine country’s most-hyped events…an impromptu wine tasting where the top wineries bring what they think to be the best of last year’s vintage for a blind tasting. It’s one of my favorite gatherings. No tourists, no wine snobs, just winery employees and the people who make the stuff.
The party’s been going all night. It’s finally down to five finalists, and the winner is about to be announced.
The winery Reece works for is in the finals.
So is the winery I work for.
My boss catches my eye across the room and holds up a hand with crossed fingers as the judge tallies the final vote. I do the same, although truthfully, I want Reece to win almost as much as I want to win.
I love my job. I mean I really love it.
I love Reece more. Way more.
“All right, ladies and gentleman,” a short lady with spiky blond hair says into a microphone that squeaks. The sound reverberates off the rafters of the large barn where we’ve all congregated. “We have our winner!”
Beside me, I feel Reece shift nervously, and I take his hand, noticing the way some of the people around us smile at the gesture. I don’t want to brag or anything, but in the three years we’ve been in Napa, Reece and I have become something of wine royalty.
We both made Wine Magazine’s Thirty Under Thirty list—he for Innovative Winemaking, I for my guerrilla marketing tactics.
Reece’s words, not mine.
He’s just jealous, because I’m not selling his wine. Yet.
Let’s just say we have plans.
“And the winner is…” Blond lady pulls the paper bag off the bottle of the winner. “Abbott Vineyards!”
My heart leaps in joy. Reece’s wine.
Reece’s only reaction is to clench his fist, giving the smallest pump of victory, before he turns and grins down at me. “Told you.”
“Such a gracious winner.” I go on my toes to kiss him. “Congrats. Go ahead, wallow in this, because next year…”
“Next year I’ll win again, and all the years after that, soooooo…”
I laugh and push him toward the stage. “Go. Get your prize so we can go home and drink the stuff.”
My heart nearly bursts with pride as I watch Reece shake hands and smile at his colleagues. I shake some hands of my own, smiling and working the crowd as I always do, even as one eye follows Reece, loving the pure joy on his face.
I think my pride might kill me.
Nearly an hour later, he meets me at the coat check, helping me into my trench as I make a grab for the award-winning wine bottle in his hand. “Now do I get to see the bottle?” I ask, knowing that Abbott Vineyards has the unique quirk of letting each winemaker pick the name of the wine beyond the type of grape. “You’ve been so weird about it!”
Reece hesitates for only the briefest of moments before letting me pry the bottle from his hand.
I take in the familiar Abbott logo, the cabernet sauvignon descriptor, and then I see the name of the wine itself, and my happy smile turns into stunned wonder, and I look up at him.
“Love Story,” I say. “You named it Love Story. And there’s a little cartoon car that
looks suspiciously like Horny.”
His face is embarrassed. “Don’t turn it into a thing.”
I catch his arm when he tries to turn away. “Love Story. Like…our story?”
Reece scratches his cheek, before finally meeting my eyes. “Is it dumb? It just came to me, and it seemed…fitting.”
“Are you kidding me? It’s pretty much the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard.”
His eyes light up, and I can tell he’s pleased by my reaction. “I was going to name it Endgame, but…”
“But what?” I say as we walk hand in hand toward the car (a secondhand Toyota sedan, since poor Horny is needing more and more naps these days).
“Well, because much as I love my work, I realized that a bottle of wine was never going to be my endgame,” he says.
“No? What is?” I ask, climbing into the car as he opens the passenger side for me. “Reece?” I prod, when he doesn’t reply.
Instead of answering, he ushers me in, gives me a mysterious smile, and shuts the door.
I bite my lip, trying desperately to get a grip on my euphoric smile before he opens the driver’s-side door.
I’m pretty sure Reece’s real endgame has to do with the diamond ring I spotted in his sock drawer.
And I want that ring on my fourth finger so bad, I’m practically levitating.
But, hey, I can be patient. If our story has taught me anything, it’s that the wait is always worth it.
Author’s Note
Here’s a little something nobody told me about being a professional author: The further you get in your career, the more choices you’ll have to make. What to write. When to write. How to write it. Who to listen to. Where to publish it.
The tricky part? Sometimes you get pulled in contradictory directions, and before you know it you can become paralyzed with all the sparkly options!
It took me a while to figure it out, but the best way to work through this is to know your priorities.
Mine? Writing the story I want to write. The freedom to tell the story that’s loudest in my imagination, the story that’s begging to be told.
Sounds obvious, but the truth is, it’s sometimes hard to find a home for these stories!
Which is why I need to start out my acknowledgments by thanking the following three people: Nicole Resciniti, Sue Grimshaw, and Gina Wachtel.
Right there you have my creative muse’s holy trinity, because these are the ladies who make stories like Love Story possible. I tell Nicole (my agent) that I’ve got a story in my head that won’t let go, and without batting an eye, she says, “Let’s find a home for it.” Sue and Gina are that home, enabling characters like Reece and Lucy to find a way to your e-reader. Not a day goes by that I don’t think how lucky I am to have this sort of support.
And it doesn’t stop there. Huge shout-out to Erika Seyfried and Madeleine Kenney for their marketing and publicity prowess, as well as being so friendly and fun to work with. To Janet Wygal and her copyediting peeps for polishing my gibberish into a readable book. To Lynn Andreozzi for continuing to be one of the best in the industry when it comes to creating gorgeous covers. Thank you to Matt Schwartz for his brilliance with strategy and numbers, and knowing the answers to all my questions before I even ask them. And to everyone else on the Penguin Random House side who’s touched this book in ways I don’t know about, thank you.
Of course I couldn’t do any of this without the support and patience of my husband, who doesn’t even flinch when I don’t shower on deadline, and to Lisa Filipe, my amazing assistant whose capacity for details continues to blow my mind on a daily basis. Thank you to my street team, who continues to be there for me even when I’m in the cave and don’t pay as much attention as I should.
To Annie Selak, who continues to be my biggest cheerleader, seeming to know exactly when I need an encouraging text on a bad day.
To Rachel Van Dyken, Kate Meader, Jessica Lemmon, and Jennifer Probst, my author friends who let me sob on their shoulders about authory stuff.
And as always, thank you to my readers. I know your time is limited, your book budget precious, and I’m grateful every day that I found a spot on your TBR list.
If you enjoyed Love Story, I think you’ll adore the rest of my Love Unexpectedly series! Blurred Lines, Good Girl, and Walk of Shame (available April 2017) don’t have connected characters, but they’re all told from a sassy, first-person POV with plenty of laughs and swoons.
I often get asked the best way to stay up to date on my books, and that’s absolutely the LL Weekly—my Thursday newsletter, where you’ll get the first look at new covers, sneak peeks, behind-the-scenes details, writing tips and more, direct to your inbox!
You can find me on the usual social media spots, although Instagram’s most assuredly my favorite, so if you’re a fellow fan of the ’gram, you can find me there!
Lastly, before I was a writer, I was a website manager, which means I’m all about my website! Swing by to check out my upcoming releases, as well as exclusive content.
For Annie Selak—your constant support means more than you know!
BY LAUREN LAYNE
Oxford Series
Irresistibly Yours
I Wish You Were Mine
Someone Like You
I Knew You Were Trouble
Love Unexpectedly Series
Blurred Lines
Good Girl
Love Story
Walk of Shame (coming soon)
Sex, Love & Stiletto Series
After the Kiss
Love the One You’re With
Just One Night
The Trouble with Love
Redemption Series
Isn’t She Lovely
Broken
Crushed
LAUREN LAYNE is the USA Today bestselling author of over a dozen novels. A former e-commerce and Web marketing manager from Seattle, Lauren relocated in 2011 to New York City, where she left the corporate world to pursue a full-time writing career.
Her hobbies include maintaining a designer purse addiction and observing cocktail hour. Lauren lives with her high school sweetheart in midtown Manhattan, where she writes romantic comedies with just enough sexy-times to make your mother blush.
laurenlayne.com
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Facebook.com/LaurenLayneAuthor
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Read on for an excerpt from
Walk of Shame
A Love Unexpectedly Novel
by Lauren Layne
Available from Loveswept
Chapter 1
Five a.m.
Also known as the most heinous hour of the day, am I right? Because if you’re awake to see five a.m., it means one of a few things.
You’re on your way to the airport for an early-morning flight.
Heinous.
It means you’ve been out all night, but last call was more than an hour ago, and now you’re at that oh-shit moment where your buzz is fading and you’re realizing that the rest of your day will likely involve Excedrin, carbs, and indoor voices.
Heinous.
It means you’ve got a crap-ton on your mind, and you’re lying awake in bed, staring at the ceiling, hating your life. Maybe hating yourself a little bit, I dunno, who am I to judge?
Heinous.
Or…and now brace yourself, because this is the most heinous of them all…
You could be up at five a.m. because you’re an uptight prick whose schedule is even more rigid than your posture, and your life is an endless string of working out, the corner office. You’re the type of person who subsists on protein shakes and kale smoothies and has been known to utter the phrase The body is a temple, thus solidifying what we already knew: you have no friends.
But wait, I’m getting ahead of myself.
The point is, it’s almost five a.m. and not only am I still awake, I’m actually kind of…
Excited a
bout it.
I know. I know. Four months ago, I’d have bet my favorite vintage Chanel bag that there was no chance I’d actually look forward to the ghoul hour of five in the morning.
And yet, here we are.
“Good morning, Ramon,” I sing, pushing through the revolving doors of the luxury high-rise on Fifty-sixth and Park.
The concierge/security guard/all-around good guy glances up and gives me a friendly smile. “Ms. Watkins. Welcome home.”
Usually the massive front desk has a bit more going on, with an army of concierges in black suits calling wealthy residents to let them know their impatient guests have arrived; those same residents stopping by the front desk demanding to know why FedEx hasn’t arrived yet. There’s dry cleaning being dropped off, mail being collected, and designer-purse dogs letting out sharp, high-pitched barks of greetings from their Louis Vuitton carriers.
And so on.
This time of day though, the luxury lobby is mostly silent, with just the lone overnight guy working the front desk, holding down the fort until the day guys arrive to handle the morning crush.
My new Tory Burch clutch tucked into my armpit, I lightly juggle the box in my hands and wiggle my eyebrows at the front-desk guy. “Brought you something.”
Ramon’s smile grows wider, his brown eyes lighting up. “My wife says you’re going to make me fat.”
“Tell Marta that the dad-bod is totally in style right now,” I say, setting the box of donuts on the counter and lifting the lid. “Unless, of course, you don’t want a maple bacon old-fashioned?”
Ramon is already reaching inside the box, shaking his head as he lifts the sugary treat. “Still warm.”
“Technically my shop doesn’t open until five, but I’m such a loyal customer they let me in a bit early,” I say, surveying the array of donuts and trying to decide if I’m in a chocolate kind of mood, or if I want to risk the powdered sugar one.
