Then Came You

by Kate Meader

  Then Came You is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  A Loveswept Ebook Original

  Copyright © 2019 by Kate Meader

  Excerpt from Illegally Yours by Kate Meader copyright © 2019 by Kate Meader

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  LOVESWEPT is a registered trademark and the LOVESWEPT colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Ebook ISBN 9781984820297

  Cover design: Makeready Designs

  Cover photograph: PeopleImages/iStock

  randomhousebooks.com

  v5.4

  ep

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Epilogue

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  By Kate Meader

  Excerpt from Illegally Yours

  Chapter 1

  Aubrey

  I hate weddings.

  I especially hate friends’ weddings. However, I have a peculiar fondness for the groom in this one, Max Henderson, and his girl. Charlie is exactly what he needs—sharp, stylish, and willing to go toe to toe with his entitled self. But the last thing I need right now is a happy fest when I’d much rather curl up with my kitty, sip on a nice Glenfiddich, and binge-watch Midsomer Murders. (I have a crush on Tom Barnaby, which probably means my daddy issues are showing atrociously.)

  It would look odd if I didn’t put in an appearance. Max and I have just figured out how to be friendly again—his fiancée helped—and I really do want to be supportive. Slipping into the church, I reason that I can stay for the ceremony, kiss both parties hello, and skedaddle before the ink is dry on the marriage register.

  The pews are full to bursting, but I can make out an empty spot fourth row from the top, exactly where I suspect Max’s friends are situated. I inhale deeply. Here goes. Moving closer, I spot the back of Trinity’s head and slide into the seat beside her.

  “Hey, princess,” Lucas, Trinity’s boyfriend and one of Max’s law firm partners, says with a cheeky grin, while I try to avoid looking beyond him along the pew. If I can’t see the problem, it doesn’t exist. Tunnel vision will get me through.

  Frowning, Trinity touches my upper arm, right above the neon pink cast on my forearm sitting in a matching sling. “Are you okay? What happened?”

  “Just me being a dumbass.” I squint at the line of hats in front of me, marveling at how Chicagoans at a wedding in November think they’re at Royal Ascot. I cast a glance over my shoulder. “Maybe I should sit back there.”

  No sooner are the words out of my mouth than the air shifts.

  “What happened?” a dark voice grits out.

  Looking up, I find Grant Lincoln—Max’s other partner—staring at me from his place at Lucas’s right, the spot I’ve been avoiding since I parked my ass in this pew. Though it’s more like he’s sitting on Lucas’s lap in an effort to impose himself. His brown hair, tinged with red, is tousled far too early in the day’s proceedings. Perhaps he was nervous at the thought of running into me, but that notion doesn’t bear up in the face of midnight blue eyes plundering my aplomb, pirate style.

  How unfair that the sight of him should steal my breath every time.

  “None of your business.”

  “How did you get here? Because it looks like you can’t drive.”

  “Big city, Grant. Lots of cabs.”

  A muscle ticks in his jaw. If I wasn’t already so annoyed at being interrogated, I would be appreciating the hell out of that dancing muscle. My ex-husband’s not traditionally handsome. People might call him thuggish, even, an image he cultivates to his advantage in court. He’s a big guy, broad-shouldered and barrel-chested, with a husky voice and attitude to match. When Grant held me in his arms, I felt wrapped in him in the best possible way.

  That fuzzy-jagged feeling I get whenever I think of being enveloped in the world that is Grant’s arms takes a flying leap through the church’s stained-glass windows at his next barked query.

  “What are you going to do about going home for Thanksgiving, Bean? Unless you’re suddenly okay with flying.”

  My heart skips at the nickname. At least two years have gone by since I heard it pass his lips. On the day he told me he couldn’t do this anymore. Do us.

  “Nothing for you to worry about,” I shoot back.

  “You don’t like flying?” Trinity asks, all concern. She’s the nicest person.

  “Um, no.” Terrified, actually. “But I’ll figure it out.”

  Grant snorts. Oh, he thinks he knows everything.

  Lucas waves a hand between us. “Would you two like to sit together?”

  “Certainly not!”

  “Hell, no!”

  I’ll break my other arm before I voluntarily sit beside Grant Roosevelt Lincoln.

  * * *

  —

  Trinity convinces me to stay for the reception. As I don’t want Grant thinking he’s driven me away, I channel my mother and pin on my high society smile. Of course we’re sitting at the same table, separated by Lucas and Trinity, who are unbelievably cute together.

  “So, princess, spill,” Lucas says after feeding Trinity a sliver of roasted potato. “Tell us how you broke your arm.”

  “Oh, y’know. Some idiot kept asking me dumb questions and I lashed out and hit his giant British head. The usual.”

  Lucas rolls his eyes, clearly enjoying my dig. He’s a funny, egotistical Brit himself. “You need to make up a better story than that, Aubs. Say you tripped over your cat while vacuuming naked.”

  “Why do you assume I have a cat?”

  Grant makes a choking sound. If only.

  “Something to say, Lincoln?”

  “That thing still alive?”

  “Yes, Cat Damon is alive and well, surviving on spite.”

  “Cat Damon?” Trinity asks. “That’s adorable.”

  “It’s a joke.” I catch Grant’s gaze, piercingly blue and unerringly focused on me. “Or someone’s idea of one.”

  Despite naming my cat, Grant barely tolerated the ball of grump, and my kitty hated him right back. Neither of them liked being in competition for my affection. Don’t let Mr. Lincoln’s southern gentleman demeanor fool you. The lumbering giant with the syrupy voice is the most cutthroat competitor I know, especially in the bedroom.

  Three for one was his rule. Three of my orgasms for every one of his. And if he thought I coul
dn’t go the distance, he’d forgo his own. One night I tried faking number three because I was worried he might have a hernia if he didn’t get off. He only punished me with two more.

  I miss those Grant-given orgasms.

  More than that, I miss—no, we won’t be taking that trip down memory lane.

  The night goes on. Heartfelt speeches. The first dance. Wedding cake in the kisser. It’s all lovely, really, and in time, my curmudgeon self melts away in the face of all the hope and love on display. I can’t leave without wishing them well, so I sidle up to Charlie while Max is getting an earful from a woman who looks like his grandmother.

  “Nice catch, friend,” I whisper in her ear.

  “Aubrey!” She turns and hugs me, clearly tipsy on life, love, and Dom Pérignon. “I’ve been trying to cut my way through the hordes to get to you and your broken limb. What happened?”

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” I say mysteriously.

  She eyes me, and I pray that the alcohol won’t compel her to give advice I neither want or need. Perhaps she senses my desire to keep it at a surface level, for her next words are neutral. “Those two next, I think.” She nods at the dance floor, where Lucas and Trinity are swaying to Tony Bennett.

  “Probably. They had a rough time of it and miraculously made it out the other side.”

  “The deepest love affairs take work.” She pauses. “You know, I’m here—”

  “I know!” I plaster on a clown smile. Everyone assumes I’m miserable since my divorce, which was over a year ago. And we were on the rocks for a year before that. I’ve had plenty of time to get over Grant.

  It’s the failure that swirls around me like a fog that I can’t abide.

  “Okay, Aubs, let’s dance.” Max skirts Charlie and grabs my free hand.

  “But, your wife!”

  Max stops, his handsome brow furrowed, and leans over to kiss Charlie. “My wife. Can you believe I totally love that? But I can dance with the old ball and chain any day of the week.”

  Charlie grins. “And so it begins.”

  I let Max manhandle me onto the dance floor. “You did good, Maxie. Proud of ya.”

  “Never thought I’d get here. I mean, this is me we’re talking about. Anti-marriage, doom and gloom, matrimony is for idiots, and weddings are organized by hucksters.” Charlie’s a wedding planner by trade so this unholy union with Max the divorce lawyer didn’t quite gel from the start. But they soon realized they had more in common than not. His sigh is wistful, and my heart expands with joy, knowing that he’s found the woman who’ll make him happy.

  At least until something rips them apart. I have to think there’s hope in this dim, dark world. Perhaps they’ll stay on the right side of the one in two that fail.

  “You okay?” he asks, his blue eyes softening. “I know you haven’t spent much time in the same room as Grant.”

  “I’m fine. We work in the same building, booze in the same circles, and once we were really good friends. Maybe we can get back to that.”

  “You’d have to talk to him first.”

  “Baby steps. And I talk to him plenty.” Out of the side of my mouth across the battlefield in court. And at home when I replay conversations, wishing I’d said this and that and not that and this.

  “So. Driving home for Thanksgiving?”

  I pull back and give him my best Bostonian glare, learned at my grandmother’s knee. “Did Grant tell you to ask me that?”

  “Nope. I know you hate flying, and you usually drive, so I’m wondering how you’re going to do it with your mystery injury.”

  “Well, there are these big steel machines called…trains!”

  “They don’t allow cats for journeys longer than seven hours.”

  I stop mid-sway. “How do you know that?”

  “Like you, Aubs, my great-aunt Dorothy also likes to take her cat places—”

  “You’re making this up.”

  “Great-aunt Dorothy,” he insists, the big fat liar, “also likes to take her cat places but was recently stymied on the New York–Miami route. They don’t permit the furry beasts in the sleeper cars.”

  I narrow my eyes. “How fascinating that this one piece of extremely relevant information is right at your fingertips.”

  “Pub quiz champion. No trivia is beneath my interest. Also…” He waves over my shoulder.

  I turn to see a large elderly woman with a white Siamese in her lap. She’s stroking it Blofeld-style. “Great-aunt Dorothy?”

  “One and the same.”

  The problem is, I missed Thanksgiving last year. I couldn’t stand the thought of rolling up in my car, bearing my sickly cat and the stink of failure. My brothers and their perfect other halves would be held up as the standard-bearers of the Boston Gateses, while sad, miserable Aubrey never quite cuts it. It’s not as if the demise of my marriage is a secret—well, one person doesn’t know—but I haven’t had to look anyone in the eye yet and dare them not to judge me.

  The Gateses don’t fail, I can hear my mother saying in her French-tinged whine, which is rather rich, considering my parents’ marriage is currently imploding during the longest dissolution ever. And me, a divorce lawyer, just like my ex. Gotta love the irony.

  The song ends, but Max holds on to me while the next one starts up.

  “I’ve missed you, Aubs.”

  “You’re only saying that because it’s true.”

  He smiles, and I wonder why we never found each other remotely attractive. Max is a charmer through and through, but he’s never once made my heart flutter. Not like—gah!

  Grant Roosevelt Lincoln, leave me be.

  “I’m so happy for you, old friend. Truly.” My voice breaks a little.

  Max hugs me hard and whispers into my ear, “If he cheated on you, I will kill him.”

  “No. Nothing like that.” Nothing so simple. In truth, for all my grumbling, Grant is the nicest guy on the planet, far too kind for someone like me.

  Max’s mouth twitches with the need to know. “I never stopped being your friend. I know it was hard with me and Grant working together, but I never stopped.”

  Max tried to draw me out and back into his life, but I couldn’t bear to share my pain with anyone. It’s taken me a long time to be fit for company. I’m finally ready to restart life post-GRL.

  “Thanks, Maxie. I promise we’ll do dinner sometime.”

  And with a squeeze of his hand, I take my leave.

  Chapter 2

  Grant

  She’s on the phone near the entrance of the Drake hotel lobby, jet black hair in a fall down her back, wearing a blood-red cocktail dress that maximizes every curve on her petite frame. Curves I know intimately despite the winter coat slung like a cape over her shoulders.

  The need to know how she hurt her arm is a barb in my chest, just one more lure that draws me into her orbit. Little Red Riding Hood in the flesh. I suppose that makes me the wolf, but we all know what happened there, don’t we?

  Didn’t end well for the beast.

  Spending a single moment in my presence causes her pain, which is why I’ve made a concerted effort to not be in places where she’ll be, other than what’s necessary for work. Or at least, I did that for a year after we signed the divorce papers.

  My chest squeezes with the effort of avoiding her. But we’ve made it a year without each other. More than that, because we had to be officially separated before we could dissolve our union. That word, “dissolve”—like we could mix the pain with water, and hey, presto! no more us.

  Bullshit, all of it.

  In the past couple of months, we’ve found ourselves at some of the same events, and twice on opposing sides of a case. Even working together in the same building since her law firm moved into
the suite five floors above mine. It’s eased some of the heartache for me, and I want her to get there, too.

  After a moment, she ends her call and stares at the phone. I know that move: she just spoke with Marie-Claire, her mother, and knowing this and their history tears at something inside my chest. My need to breathe her air outweighs my desire not to cause her further pain. I’ve always been a selfish prick where Aubrey is concerned.

  “Leaving so soon?”

  Her shoulders stiffen, and when she turns, I know what I’ll see: that Bostonian cool she wears so well. On her pivot, I inhale like my lungs could hold on to her scent and use it to fuel me for a few more days. Every time is like the first.

  “Thought I should escape before the Hokey Pokey makes an appearance.”

  “But you always had such great moves.”

  Unsmiling, she studies me. She knows I have the means to hurt, but she’s likely wondering if I have a motive. I’d never do it intentionally, but sometimes merely breathing in a person’s direction is as harsh as a blow.

  Visibly relaxing, she says, “Better than you, for sure. You’re an embarrassment on the dance floor.”

  I chuckle my agreement. “I need room to showcase my talent.”

  “Yeah, your talent.” She smiles tentatively as if she’s trying it out after a long time going without, and my heart explodes on the spot. It’s been an age since she’s graced me with that sun.

  I stare, soaking her in while I still can. “Need a ride home?”

  “I’ll just take a cab.” She steps back, toward the revolving door.

  Outside, I raise my hand to the guy pulling double duty calling cabs and valets, handing my ticket to him before Aubrey can get a word in. His glance flicks over us, and he makes a decision, holding open the passenger door to my car.