I Knew You Were Trouble

by Lauren Layne

  “Oh, I get it,” she scoffed. “Your dreams of being a dad are finally coming true, and you’ve decided I’m as good a vessel for your progeny as any?”

  “Progeny? Vessel? What? No. No. This isn’t about the baby. This is about the fact that I love you.”

  Her heart seized up, and she pushed at him. “Don’t say that. Don’t say that! Do you know how long I’ve waited for someone to say that and mean it? Hardly anybody says it, and nobody means it,” she said on a sob. “Nobody means that when they say it to me.”

  “I do,” he said softly. “I mean it.”

  The simplicity of his response made her go still. There was no pleading, no pretty words. Just that quiet statement that made her hope, that made her long…

  “No,” she said shaking her head. “I’m not doing this. We’ll get your paternity test, see that the baby is yours, and then we’ll work out custody, but—”

  “Fuck the paternity test,” Nick said angrily. “I know the baby is mine, but it could be Calloway’s or George Clooney’s or Indiana Jones’s and I’d still be right here. I’d still be doing this.”

  Taylor’s eyes went wide as he pulled something out of his pocket and dropped to a knee.

  His thumb flicked open the simple black box, and a solitaire diamond winked up at her.

  “I’d still be asking you to be my wife, Taylor Carr, because I want to marry you. Baby or no baby, you’re the love of my life. And you can say no, and I’ll be annoyed, but then you’ll be annoyed too, because I’m not going to stop asking. Not ever.”

  “This is so clichéd,” she whispered. “The post-pregnancy-announcement proposal.”

  He shrugged. “Got the ring before that.”

  Her eyes flew to his. “You did not.”

  “When I was in Oregon. My mom helped me pick it out and was bossy as shit. That’s going to be one more reason I’ll be annoyed if you say no, because I did not endure that process for nothing.”

  “You wanted to marry me before you knew I was pregnant?” she whispered, disbelieving and yet wanting so, so much to believe.

  The corner of his mouth lifted. “Very much.”

  She could only stare at him, then the ring, then him again.

  Nick sighed. “What’s it going to be, Carr? You can say yes now, or tomorrow, or next year, but you will say yes. And by the way, I’m still paying rent for this place, and it’ll take you time to evict me, and every day you try will be another day I propose, and—”

  Taylor’s heart was bursting. There was no choice, really.

  She snatched the ring out of the box, but he snatched it right back, standing up and tossing the box aside so he could grab her left hand.

  “Please let me do this,” he whispered. “I’ve been dreaming about it for weeks.”

  “You’re a sap,” she whispered.

  But then she was a sap too, because when he slipped the ring onto her fourth finger, she started crying. Again.

  He laughed and pulled her in for a hug. “Is this your new thing? Crying all the time?”

  “Having second thoughts?” she said.

  “Never,” he whispered, brushing his lips against hers. “I love every version of you, even the soggy one.”

  “I love every version of you too,” she said. “Even the idiotic one.”

  “I deserved that,” he whispered.

  She nodded.

  “Good thing I’ve got the rest of our lives to make it up to you,” he whispered before giving her a toe-curling kiss that felt like even more of a promise than the ring.

  “Do we know if it’s a girl or boy yet?” he asked softly when they pulled back to breathe.

  She shook her head. “No. But if it’s a girl, I’m thinking Taylor Junior. If it’s a boy…Bradley, obviously.”

  Nick laughed and scooped her up before walking toward the bed and laying her down gently. He followed, framing her face with his as he moved gently on top of her.

  “I knew you were trouble from the very first second, Ms. Carr,” he said, reverently running a finger over her mouth.

  “Worth it, though. Right?”

  He smiled tenderly. “You are the best thing that ever happened to me. So hell yeah. It was all worth it.”

  Epilogue

  SEVEN MONTHS LATER

  “I suppose the fact that they called to let me know she went into labor makes up for the fact that I didn’t get to be a bridesmaid,” Brit Robbins said, tapping her fingers against the waiting room chair. “Almost.”

  Hunter Cross didn’t glance up from the laptop he’d brought to get some work done while they waited. “We’re all so glad to hear it, Brit. Since today’s most definitely about you.”

  She kicked his shin.

  “I didn’t get to be a bridesmaid either,” Daisy pointed out. “They eloped.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m not feeling quite so bad for you, because last year you were the maid of honor at your sister’s wedding, where you met this one,” Brit said, pointing at Lincoln. “I want to meet my Lincoln. A wedding would be a good place to start.”

  “Sorry, doll. I’m one of a kind, and a one-woman man,” Lincoln said, resting his hand on Daisy’s knee.

  Hunter sighed and shut his laptop with a glare at Lincoln. “Must you? You’re ruining the reputation of men everywhere, giving women the impression we’ll all be as whipped as you. No offense,” he said to Daisy.

  She blew him a kiss. “None taken.”

  Brit glanced at her manicure, then flicked her eyes up to Hunter. “You sound testy. Things not going well with Ms. Connecticut, First Runner-Up?” she asked, referring to his new girlfriend.

  He ignored the question, glancing upward over Daisy’s and Lincoln’s heads. “So, did you guys clear out the gift shops in all the hospitals in New York, or just go straight to the balloon manufacturer and rob them directly?”

  “It’s Nick and Taylor’s fault for not telling us if it was a boy or a girl,” Daisy said, glancing up and tugging on a string. “I had to get pink and blue.”

  “And the green glitter ones?” Hunter asked.

  Daisy looked at him and grinned. “I just like them.”

  “Don’t worry,” Lincoln said, patting his laptop bag. “I brought the real gifts. Cigars.”

  Hunter grinned, patted his own bag. “Same.”

  The two men fist-bumped, and the two women rolled their eyes. But then they all shot to their feet as a nurse came out to tell them they could come with her to Taylor’s room.

  Daisy and Brit were about to burst into the room when Hunter and Lincoln held them both back. “Give them a minute,” Hunter whispered in Brit’s ear.

  She was about to protest, then glanced into the room and understood.

  Nick’s arm was around a radiant if slightly tired-looking Taylor, and they were both staring down at a tiny blue bundle in wonder.

  The eyes of both parents were shiny. Brit and Daisy were both crying openly at the happy sight. Lincoln and Hunter did not cry. The twin throat-clearings were just typical man stuff.

  Taylor glanced up and did a double take when she saw them. “Don’t be weird—why are you lurking? Get in here and meet our son.”

  It was Nick who proudly introduced them to Aidan Benjamin Ballantine, and Taylor who handed Aidan to Daisy to start the rounds of cooing over tiny fingers and sleepy eyes.

  As Nick pressed a kiss to the top of Taylor’s head and her hand squeezed his, there was no doubt anywhere in the room that no baby’s parents had ever loved each other more.

  For the Stiletto and Oxford fans who keep asking for more. Your enthusiasm for this fictional world means everything to me.

  Acknowledgments

  Wow. How did this happen? How did we get to the fourth book in the Oxford series, the eighth in the Stiletto/Oxford world?!

  And there’s no doubt about it, this was a we effort, you guys! I’ve always said that this series would never have gone past its original three-book plan way back in 2012 had it not been for the rea
ders, and that remains truer than ever. Your enthusiasm for these characters nearly matches my own, and I’m so grateful to have such a warm reception for the Stiletto and Oxford gang.

  Continuing to give credit where it’s due, I have bunches of gratitude for the team at Loveswept for helping make the Stiletto/Oxford series the hallmark of the Lauren Layne world. From the fabulous covers, to the story input, pitch-perfect branding, and finishing edits, I Knew You Were Trouble, like all of the books, is a team effort. By now you guys all know who you are, but a huge thank-you to Sue Grimshaw, Gina Wachtel, Matt Schwartz, Janet Wygal, Lynn Andreozzi, Erika Seyfried, Madeleine Kenney, and the entire Random House team for constant support and incredible skill in turning my “messy story idea” into a polished book.

  A huge thanks also to the other side of the Lauren Layne team: Nicole Resciniti, an amazing agent and friend; Lisa Filipe, my amazing assistant, for knowing what I need before I even know to ask; and Kristi Yanta, for the amazing editing/critiquing, yes, but especially for the friendship.

  To wonderful author friends, Jessica Lemmon, Rachel Van Dyken, and Jennifer Probst especially, for understanding those odd daily struggles that only fellow writers seem to understand, and for being quick to assure me that sometimes what I need is a glass of wine and a bubble bath, even if it’s 3 P.M. They’re always right.

  And lastly, for my husband, who pours that wine, draws that bubble bath, and most of all who’s always there, even during those days when I was more invested in Taylor and Nick’s world than I was my own reality!

  Thank you all so much for reading I Knew You Were Trouble. I’d always planned for this to be the last in the Oxford world, but then…I always say that, don’t I? We’ll see. In the meantime, if you’re looking for another Lauren Layne book, you can find them all on my website. I’m also so excited to announce a brand-new series coming in summer 2017. The first is called Ready to Run, and it’s a bit Runaway Bride, a little bit The Bachelor, and a lot romantic.

  Whether you’re new to the LL world, or have been around since the very beginning, I’m so glad you’re here .

  BY LAUREN LAYNE

  Love Unexpectedly Series

  Blurred Lines

  Good Girl

  Love Story

  Walk of Shame

  I Do, I Don’t Series

  Ready to Run (coming soon)

  Oxford Series

  Irresistibly Yours

  I Wish You Were Mine

  Someone Like You

  I Knew You Were Trouble

  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

  PHOTO: © ANTHONY LEDONNE

  LAUREN LAYNE is the New York Times bestselling author of more than twenty 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

  laurenlayne.com/​the-ll-monthly

  Facebook.com/​LaurenLayneAuthor

  Twitter: @_LaurenLayne

  Instagram: @_laurenlayne

  Read on for an excerpt from

  Walk of Shame

  by Lauren Layne

  Available from Loveswept

  Georgie

  TUESDAY MORNING

  Let’s talk about five A.M. for a second.

  Also known as the worst hour of the day, am I right?

  Here’s why:

  If you’re awake to see five in the freaking morning, it means one of a few things, all of them heinous.

  Scenario one: You’re on your way to the airport for an early morning flight. Heinous.

  Scenario two: You’ve been out all night, and now your vodka buzz is fading, and you’re just sober enough to realize that the rest of your day will likely involve Excedrin, carbs, and indoor voices. Heinous.

  Scenario three: 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.

  Now brace yourself, because scenario four is the most heinous of them all: You’re awake 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, repeat. You’re also likely the type of person who subsists on protein shakes and kale smoothies, and you have been known to utter the phrase the body is a temple, thus solidifying what we already knew about you.

  You have no friends.

  But wait, I’m getting ahead of myself.

  See, it’s five A.M., and I, Georgie Watkins, am…kind of excited about it.

  I know. I know. Four months ago I’d have bet my favorite vintage Chanel bag that there was exactly zero chance I’d actually look forward to the ghoulish hour of five in the morning.

  And yet here we are.

  I guess you could say there’s a scenario five on reasons to be up this early.

  “Good morning, Ramon,” I sing, pushing through the revolving doors of the luxury high-rise on 56th and Park, the place I call home.

  The concierge/security guard/all-around good guy glances up and gives me a friendly smile. “Ms. Watkins. Good morning.”

  Usually the massive front desk is a bustling, busy affair. Starting at around seven, an army of well-dressed concierges will be smoothly facilitating the needs of impatient residents, as tiny dogs let out sharp, high-pitched barks of greeting from their Louis Vuitton carriers.

  But that’s later.

  Right now, the luxurious 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 hold up the box in my hands and waggle my eyebrows. “Brought you something.”

  Ramon’s smile grows wider, brown eyes lighting. “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 donut?”

  Ramon is already reaching inside the box, shaking his head in reverence as he lifts the sugary treat. “Still warm.”

  “Well, technically the 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.

  Since my Alexander McQueen minidress is black (the archnemesis of powdered sugar), I reach for the chocolate as I set my clutch on the counter and fish out my phone: 4:58 A.M.

  Two more minutes.

  “How’s Marta dealing with the pregnancy of baby number three?” I ask, taking a bite of the donut and shifting attention back to Ramon, who’s already polished off his donut and is contemplating a second. I nudge the box toward him.

  “She’s good,” he says. “Excited that we’re finally having a girl.”

  “A girl!” I say, reaching across the counter and squeezing his massive forearm. “Congratulations, I hadn’t heard!”

  “Just found out yesterday,” he says with a happy smile, apparently deciding that the occasion calls for another donut.

  “Oh my gosh, I have the perfect baby gift,” I say, nibbling at a piece of my donut. “I saw this adorable Burberry onesie in Bergdorf’s the other day, with this precious little red bow—”

  “Yes, because that’s what every infant needs,” a low voice interrupts. �
��A four-hundred-dollar piece of fabric that needs to be dry-cleaned. Don’t be ridiculous, Georgiana.”

  I don’t have to look at my clock to know what time it is.

  Five o’clock.

  On the dot.

  Not even bothering to turn around, I roll my eyes as my red nails tear off another piece of donut and pop it into my mouth. “Ramon, do you think you could talk to maintenance about adjusting the temp? It just got a little cold in here.”

  Ramon’s been working here long enough to know my request isn’t for real. He’s not even paying attention to me. He’s already set his donut aside and has straightened up, practically saluting the newcomer.

  “Mr. Mulroney. Good morning, sir.”

  “Mr. Ramirez.” The voice is low and serious, a touch impatient, although not quite rude.

  You know that adage that you catch more flies with honey? I’m not so sure it’s true. I bring donuts to the front desk guys just about every morning, and they adore me. I know they do.

  But they respect him.

  Giving in to the inevitable, I finally let my eyes flick to the side, my gaze colliding with a stern brown scowl.

  I put on my widest, sparkliest smile, only because I know it drives him crazy.

  As always, I see a muscle in his jaw twitch as I flutter my eyelashes.

  “Good morning, Andrew,” I say sweetly.

  “Georgiana.”

  I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Only my late grandmother has ever called me that, and I’m pretty sure that’s because I was her namesake. Everyone else calls me Georgie. Well, okay, not everyone. Ramon and the other guys still insist on calling me Ms. Watkins, but I’m working on it. See: daily donuts.

  I smile wider and push the box in Andrew’s direction. “Donut?”

  His lip curls. In case you haven’t already gotten a read on this guy, he’s the type that sneers at donuts.