by M. J. Pullen
“Yes. You can.”
“Come to the door with me.”
“No.” Tara turned off the headlights. “I’ll wait out here for five minutes and if you don’t come back, I’ll go home. You’ll call if you need me, okay?”
“What if—”
“No what-ifs! I saw the way this man looked at you in those videos. This is your moment, Mar—go get it. Go get him.”
Marlowe forced herself to get out of the car, feeling far less confident than she had walking into the Tipsy Trucker twenty minutes ago. This was his house. Her finger hovered over the bell before she made herself press it.
“Hi,” Kieran said when he opened the door, and a rush of scents and light and music came flooding out with him. Some kind of wonderful bread smell, with eggs and oil and herbs she inhaled deeply to recognize. An Irish punk band playing on the stereo, a muted soccer game on the television over the hearth. It was like walking into heaven, except St. Peter was wearing a tight white undershirt and black soccer shorts—damn, he’d been hiding some muscular legs beneath those tattered jeans.
“Marlowe? Everything okay?” Kieran’s voice brought her out of her trance.
“What? Yes. Why? I mean, hi.” Idiot, idiot, idiot.
“Hi. Again.” His mouth quirked that half-smile. “I think we’ve got that covered.”
“Something smells amazing in there.”
“Herb and goat cheese omelet, and my grandmother’s soda bread. I cook when I’m stressed.” He raised an eyebrow. “Sorry I can’t offer you any. Wasn’t expecting company.”
“Barbara gave us your address. I hope you don’t mind. I’m not a stalker. I can leave if you want.” What the hell was wrong with her? Didn’t she just realize an hour ago that she was calm and steady under pressure? Where was that woman?
“Us?” Kieran poked his head out to peer at the car. “God, Marlowe. If that’s Steven or a bunch of cameras, I have to tell you, I just don’t—”
“No! It’s Tara, my best friend. She’s just waiting to make sure everything is okay before she leaves… Like a mom.”
“And is it?” He gazed down at her, eyes bright, taking her in. “Okay?”
“I hope so,” Marlowe said. “I mean, as long as things are okay with us.” After a moment, she added, “With you. That’s why I’m here.”
Kieran’s face relaxed. “You’d best come in, then.” He leaned out farther, putting a hand on Marlowe’s shoulder and waving to Tara with the other. “Bye, Mom. Promise I’ll be a gentleman.”
“Not a complete gentleman, I hope,” Marlowe said, shocking herself with the brazen flirtation. He did this to her. He made her frustrated and lusty and brave.
Kieran sucked in a breath. “What does that mean, princess?” His voice was equal parts playful and cautious. But his hand was still on her shoulder as he guided her inside and closed the door behind them. “You’ll pardon me if I’m a little confused by you sometimes.”
“It’s mutual, believe me,” Marlowe said. “But I know what you think you saw between me and Steven yesterday, and I’m here to tell you there is nothing going on between us. Despite what you may think, I haven’t had feelings for him since we broke up over two years ago. He tried to manipulate me into starting things up again yesterday, and I made it very clear I’m not interested.”
“Okay…” Kieran looked thoughtful. “And you’re telling me this because…?”
“Because I—” She faltered. The intensity of his gaze was unnerving. “I needed to make sure you knew that you were wrong, about me and him.”
“Point taken. I was wrong. Feel better?”
He was doing it again, challenging her. Baiting her to say what he wanted her to say, and refusing to accept anything less, just like Steven did when they argued. But Kieran was different, she realized now. He challenged her to be honest with herself and with him. He wasn’t taunting her for the sake of getting a reaction or exerting his power. He was coaxing her out because he wanted to hear her say the words, no matter how terrified she was.
“No, actually. Because that’s not why I’m telling you. I lied just now, because I’m scared.” Marlowe held his gaze, not allowing herself to break eye contact, even as she trembled.
His face softened. “Me, too, princess.”
“I’m telling you this because of the thousands or even millions of people who might see that video from yesterday, who might think there is something left between me and my ex, there is only one person I need to know the truth.” She reached for him, hesitating, and her fingers landed lightly on his T-shirt, near the waistband of his shorts. He didn’t react. He didn’t break eye contact or move away. And just like that, her courage arrived, lifting her into the moment. “Because I’m in love with you.”
“Are you now?” His smile was playful, but his voice broke a bit on the words.
“I am. And I think you feel the same way.”
He leaned down and Marlowe held her breath as he touched his forehead to hers. “What gives you that idea?”
“I have photographic evidence, for one thing.” She patted the handbag on her shoulder. “I can show you, but then we’d need your TV and you might miss the soccer—”
He stopped her mouth with a kiss, urgent but far more tender than their first kiss a week ago. Marlowe let herself melt into it.
“I’ll concede the point, then,” he murmured, circling his arms around her. “I’d hate to miss the game.”
“Kieran Dunne,” she teased, as he went in for another kiss and she tilted her chin up to dodge it. “Are you admitting that I was right about something?”
Denied her mouth, he seemed more than happy to kiss her neck instead. “Yes, a chara,” he murmured between soft, sexy kisses that trailed from her throat to her collarbone. “You were right. Enjoy it while it lasts.”
She laughed lightly, and he pulled her tighter against him. She could feel how much he wanted her through the thin soccer shorts, and this made her even happier than when he’d loved her pimiento cheese balls. Which, between two food professionals, was foreplay in itself.
After a moment, his hands slid up to her jaw and tilted her face down to look at him. “Yes, Marlowe. I am in love with you. And it pains me to say this, but last night I wished like the devil not to feel this way.” He breathed heavily, the tendons in his neck straining in a way that made Marlowe want to trace the taut lines with her fingers. “Needing you constantly, being so close when you seemed out of reach…these last few weeks have been torture.”
“I’m not out of reach.” She kissed the hollow of his throat, loving the smell of him—beer and spices and the clean scent of his soap. Her fingers grazed down the side of his body, strong and lean beneath the cotton shirt, and found the waistband of his shorts. “And I hate to break it to you, but you’re going to miss this game anyway.”
He groaned against her. “Are you sure, a chara? I acted like a right bastard before…”
“I’ve never been surer of anything.” She flicked her tongue lightly against the ridge of his collarbone, gratified when he groaned again and lifted her off the floor in response. “What does it mean?” Marlowe asked as he carried her down the hallway to his bedroom. “You keep calling me that. A chara? Please tell me it’s not Irish for ‘princess.’”
He chuckled low against her neck as he kicked the door closed behind them, and set Marlowe gently down on the bed. He lay next to her, stroking her hair back from her temple with awed deliberation, as though the whole world hinged on doing that tiny thing exactly right. “You should know that one already, my love,” he said softly, letting his hand fall to the top button of her blouse, where it rested, waiting for permission to go on. “A chara means friend.”
Acknowledgments
First, you should know that this novella has been one of the most fun projects I’ve undertaken in my professional writing career. I began working on Easy as Pie about a year and a half ago, not long after my first novella, City of Yes, was published. I was stalled out on another, massi
vely ambitious project and my amazing agent Louise Fury suggested I try writing this novella in installments—sending out each excerpt to my Distracted Readers newsletter group as it was complete, and letting my subscribers play a role in guiding the story. “It will be fun,” she said. “You’ll work on it a little at a time and it will be done before you know it.”
Well. She was half-right. It was fun.
What I didn’t know then—what no writer ever knows at the start of a new project—was how doing things a new way would work with my usual approach to writing. And, I’ll be honest—it’s just us here, right?—for me, this writing method was so. Freaking. Hard.
Writing in bits and pieces with long breaks in between challenged me in completely new ways. Long story short (pun absolutely intended), this novella taught me more about my writing process in 35,000 words than the previous 600,000 published words before it. That understanding has tremendous value in itself. So thank you, Louise!
The Distracted Readers: Interacting with you guys has been THE MOST FUN. Through the Facebook group and email, you chose the food truck theme, and came up with (and voted on) every amazing, pun-derful food truck name in this story. We had fun deciding what some of the characters would look like, how the story would progress, and you even gave me feedback on the book’s cover. You’re the best cheering squad and bad-pun creators any author could hope for. I want to thank every single one of you for your input, especially: Allyson Eman, Amanda Quinn Davis, Andrea Van Meter, Angela Gallman, Angie Gupton Middleton, Ani Greenwood, April Parmelee, Arletta Boulton, Carol Doscher, Chanpreet Singh, Chris Negron, Christy Barbash, Cynthia Landrum Dara Shifrer, Darlene Ryner, Debbie Bethea, Dianne Turner Carter, Dyana Hulgan, Emily Carpenter, Emily Moore, Gail Schell, Gillian Goodman, Hailey Fish, Hayley Best, Jencey Gortney, Jenna Denisar, Jennifer Wendell, Kate Rock, Kathleen Arnold, Kimberly Brock, Kristal Goelz, Laird Sapir, Lauren Turner, Linda Seymour-Whitten, Lynn Pearson, Matthew Sheehan, McRae Stephenson, Melanie Guevara, Michelle Colquitt, Michelle Moore, Nan Willis Merrow, Patricia Reeder, Paula Grothe, Rob Wade, Ross Newberry, Ryan Van Meter, Shekenah Keith, Stacey Eubanks Herrera, Stacey Schuler-Cannon, Stacie Walker, Stacy Chavoya, Stefanie Gordon and Tonni Callan.
I also want to thank Mae Suramek for teaching me a bit of the nitty gritty about the restaurant business. And Faith Williams of the Atwater Group for her always-stellar and patient copyediting (and for accepting that it’s alright that I often prefer alright to all right).
And of course, Sam Turetsky, who not only comes up with great puns and fun working titles for everything I do, but also is my husband and has the dubious honor of putting up with me when I’m stressed out on deadline. To our wonderful boys for the same and so much more. I love you more than I can say.
xo,
MJP
About the Author
M.J. (MANDA) PULLEN is the author of playful women’s fiction and quirky romantic comedies, including the bestselling Marriage Pact trilogy. She has also worked as a non-profit fundraiser, corporate trainer, psychotherapist and mom of two young boys. Each of these jobs has eroded her sanity and contributed to her writing equally.
Manda loves cheap wine, expensive beer, and coffee at any price. She lives in the Atlanta, Georgia, area with her husband, two young boys and Zelda and Zora the Wonderpups.
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Also by M.J. Pullen
The Marriage Pact Trilogy
The Marriage Pact
Regrets Only
Baggage Check
Romantic Comedy
Every Other Saturday
Women’s Fiction
Sugar Street
