She rolled her eyes. "I wouldn't hold your breath."
As she spun on a heel and walked away, she heard him mutter, "Hot damn."
During the meetings, Erin shocked Bill Rice when she turned down the offer to work on next season's show, which had already been green-lighted for production. She signed a release allowing YOLO to continue to use her likeness and her footage, but as she put it to Bill, "I'm ready for a new challenge."
She wasn't one hundred percent sure yet what that might be, but she had a pretty good idea of what it might include. She and Ben had been working on the last item on her list at every opportunity—including a strategically timed trip to the teensy bathroom on their plane to Flagstaff.
No. 34: Join the mile-high club was the first list item Erin had agreed to complete out of order. After all, who knew how crowded the flight home might be? Some opportunities, you just had to seize when they rose in front of you, so to speak. And she had the bruise on her right bicep and scrape on her lower back to prove it. Those airplane faucets were sharp little suckers…
And now she and Ben were on this Grand Canyon adventure together, which was her favorite way to be. There'd be more togetherness in the future, too, now that he'd handed the lead on the Fort Myers project to Nate. Not because of Melody—who'd voluntarily stepped off the project—but because he wanted a lighter load. He'd asked his department head if he could add new research positions now that the team's work had grown. He didn't want to stay so overloaded at work that he never had time to spend at home.
Melody was keeping her job on a probationary basis, as long as she agreed to seek counseling and conduct herself in a professional manner. It was Erin who'd convinced Ben not to file a formal harassment complaint with HR. Now that Melody had talked to Ben and the two of them had gone to Peter, Erin trusted that she'd no longer live up to her role as The Nemesis.
More than that, though, she trusted Ben.
Besides, after Melody's humiliation—after all, there were some people who knew who the mystery woman was in that tabloid photo, even though Erin hadn't blabbed—Melody had asked to transfer to another department. At this very moment she was probably in the process of moving to a whole different building in the hospital complex. Erin figured she wouldn't bother them again. At least, she hoped.
Erin and Ben picked their way along the trail that hugged the south rim of the canyon and then boarded a shuttle bus to complete their tour. After this two-day Arizona adventure, they were driving their rental car up to Utah to visit four more national parks—Canyonlands, Arches, Zion, and Bryce Canyon—and do some intense hiking, which was a top item on Ben's unwritten bucket list. And then they were driving to Vegas to complete Erin's 35 by 35 challenge. Or at least, to complete all they could of it. No. 35: Get pregnant was up to God, not them.
Erin drew in a shaky breath, tilting her head to the cerulean sky. She thought about her mom, how she'd been there through all of Erin's ups and downs, encouraged her to follow her dreams even when they'd led her down less taken roads. How she'd quietly sacrificed while Erin took it all for granted, only beginning to realize, years later, how much of herself her mother had given her.
Can I really do this? she asked the heavens, squinting through the desert haze. Can I be so unselfish? Will I be a good mom?
Only time would tell. Which meant she'd know soon because if all her list making had taught her anything, it was that time really did move as quickly as everybody said. She was almost thirty-five. In a blink she'd be forty. Forty!
Glancing over at her husband leaning against the canyon rail, snapping one of a hundred pictures, she knew that despite everything, she had no regrets. She'd lived as much and as hard and as openly as she could. And she'd keep doing it, too. But she hoped in the next chapter of adventures, they wouldn't be two, but three.
* * *
Just under one month later, Erin entered the half bath off her kitchen and squeezed her eyes shut, thinking about the last time she'd done this. She'd been twenty-nine and stupid. Ignorant and irrational. Careless and not ready. So not ready. And now, unlike then, she wanted this. She wanted it so much.
Too much? What if it never happens? What if we've waited too long?
She took a deep breath to steady herself and then glanced down at the plastic stick in her right hand and the instruction sheet in her left. The crisp white paper rattled in her fingers as she forced herself to concentrate on the letters on the page.
A few rooms away, Ben was dozing in blissful ignorance. He didn't even know she'd bought the test. She hadn't said a word about ovulation or the timing of her cycle or the fact that her period was now eleven days late. She was trying not to overthink any of it, but mostly she just didn't want to jinx anything. After all, she'd be thirty-five in ten days.
For the past four months, ever since that night in February when she and Ben had sped home from the restaurant to start trying, Erin had read and followed every recommendation she could find on getting pregnant, but so far none of it worked. Her periods had come and gone like clockwork. Until now. And this was her last chance, at least when it came to This Is 35.
If she wasn't pregnant this month, she wouldn't complete her list.
Erin crouched over the stick, holding it in a constant stream of urine the way the instructions explained. It was six forty-five a.m., and she'd just woken up—the time of day when the pregnancy hormone, if present, would be most potent in her urine. She followed the instructions precisely. She didn't want to be left with a shred of doubt.
When she was finished, Erin closed the toilet lid and plopped down heavily on top of it, placing the used stick on the floor in front of her and setting the stopwatch on her phone. How can three minutes be so endless? For three minutes her mind spun through a constant reel of backup plans.
We can see a fertility specialist. Dr. Eastman. Easton? I think that's his name, Easton. Hilary had gone to him when she and Mark had trouble conceiving, and she'd talked about him nonstop for months. She called him "Dr. Miracle."
Or we can adopt. Of course—we'll adopt! There are thousands of babies out there that need good homes. Tens of thousands. Hmm, do we want to adopt domestically? What about…didn't Angie say something about looking into adopting from Haiti? Or was it Malaysia? The first item on her next bucket list would be to research adoption agencies.
Through all her thought twists, Erin gazed everywhere but at the stick on the floor. She studied the white subway tile, the pedestal sink, the old-fashioned faucet handles, all of which had been purchased to look old but actually weren't—that bathroom had been added in the 2010s, before Erin and Ben had bought the house.
She studied a chip in the gray-green paint, thinking I should really touch that up. Eh, but what was the point? If she followed Mitzi Carlisle-Fitzpatrick's advice, the wall color in this room and probably every room would eventually change.
She glanced over her shoulder at the high window, which caught early rays of eastern sun and filtered them in a platinum web above her head, dust motes dancing in thread-like strands of light.
Finally, anxiously, she peered down at the phone clutched so tightly in her hand that her fingertips were red and her knuckles bone-white. Two minutes and forty-two seconds had gone by. Erin counted along with the stopwatch in her head, not daring to glance at the test results even five seconds early. Fifty-six, fifty-seven, fifty-eight, fifty-nine…
She stopped the clock and let the phone clatter to the floor. And then she took another deep breath, squeezing her eyes shut as she steeled her spine and gathered her nerve. As she did, an unexpected memory popped into her head of scaling the Tahoe cliff face all those months ago, muttering to herself, Don't look down.
Well, now it was time to look down. Facing the unknown, she resolved once again to meet the future with courage, no matter what it brought.
She dropped her head, opened her eyes, and picked up the small white stick.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
This Is 35 was so much fun
to write, and it's because I got to reenter Erin Crawford's world. She's adventurous and bold, outspoken and impetuous…all things that I am not! And that's the reason I love reading and writing fiction—it's an outlet for seeing the world through different eyes, trying on different personalities, and embracing new ways of life. So my first thank you goes to Erin, who's more than a fictional heroine to me. She's a friend! Just one, granted, who doesn't send me Christmas cards.
The biggest challenge in writing this book wasn't channeling Erin's personality or grasping how she felt when scaling a cliff face, wandering among ancient ruins, or peering over the edge of the Grand Canyon. It was nailing down the day-to-day details and career achievements of a reality TV producer and a genomicist. For that, I owe several people a huge, enormous, gigantic, very big thank you!
Thanks so much to Geralyn Corcillo, Ron Corcillo, and Ann Nakamura. Geralyn, a fantastic chick lit author and all-around wonderful person, read an early draft of this story and helped shape it in so many ways. Ron, a TV writer, and Ann, a reality TV producer, provided insight that helped bring the YOLO bullpen to life—and taught me a bit about behind-the-scenes wrangling and Hollywood politics. I appreciate you three so much!
Thanks also to Michaela White and Peter White, two of my favorite people in the world—and brilliant scientists to boot! Michaela, thank you for reading the first draft and offering guidance in areas where my made-up scientific words were simply too absurd. Critique is easy to take when it comes in your gentle British lilt! And to Peter (a genomicist like Ben), thank you for sitting down with me to explain what you do and for sending me information about your fascinating, life-saving work. You are awe-inspiring! Thanks, too, for teaching me the difference between an experimental drug and an experimental therapy. I still can barely spell oncolytic virotherapy, let alone understand how it works, but because of you this story is more scientifically sound.
Thank you to the authors, bloggers, readers, and friends at Chick Lit Chat HQ for your amazing support. You inspire and help me in so many ways! Consider this not only a thank you but a big virtual hug.
Finally, a huge thank you goes to my editorial team at Gemma Halliday Publishing. To my editor, Gwen Hayes, thank you for challenging me to drive harder into my craft, and know that I would never, ever call you a "meanie task master." Ha! I appreciated your deep well of expertise and your thoughtful advice so much. Thank you, also, to editor Wendi Baker for your partnership, guidance, sharp eye, and excellent input, and to Gemma Halliday, publisher extraordinaire. I can never thank you enough for taking me under your wing! I'm proud to be part of the GHP author team.
And of course, thank you to the two main men in my life, Lance and Colby. I love our adventures, and your support means the world.
* * * * *
Dear Reader,
Thank you for reading This Is 35! If you enjoyed this story and have a few minutes to spare, please consider leaving a review on Goodreads or your ebook retail platform. There's nothing more helpful to a book's or an author's success than a word-of-mouth recommendation. Just a sentence or two can make such a big difference—it means more readers will learn about the book and get a chance to enjoy it.
Also, I love hearing from readers! Please feel free to connect with me on Facebook or Twitter, or stop by my website to learn more about my books or join my mailing list.
Again, thanks for joining me on Erin's adventures in This Is 35. Happy reading!
Sincerely,
Stacey Wiedower
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
USA Today bestselling author Stacey Wiedower had barely blown out the candles on her 21st birthday cake when she took her first job as a reporter at a daily newspaper. She later followed her passion to interior design school and spent three years working at a firm with bizarre similarities to the set of Designing Women. Today she funnels that experience into her work as a full-time freelance writer, penning everything from magazine articles to website copy to a bi-weekly column called Inside Design. She also writes romantic comedy, and the zany characters she's met poke their heads into her stories from time to time. Stacey lives in Memphis, Tenn., with her husband, also a writer, and a son who's inherited their overactive imaginations.
To learn more about Stacey Wiedower, visit her online at: http://staceywiedower.com
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BOOKS BY STACEY WIEDOWER
Unlucky in Love Romances:
30 First Dates
Now A Major Motion Picture
How to Look Happy
This is 35
Other Works:
48 Hours in New York (short story in the Killer Beach Reads collection)
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SNEAK PEEK
If you enjoyed this Unlucky in Love romance, check out this sneak peek of another exciting novel from Gemma Halliday Publishing:
CUPCAKES, BUTTERFLIES & DEAD GUYS
by
JENNIFER FISCHETTO
CHAPTER ONE
"Bridal showers serve actual food and not just appetizers, right?" I ask my sister, Izzie, as we walk across the narrow, residential street to the two-story, light blue house. My stomach is praying the answer is yes.
According to Ma, this is the bride-to-be's niece's home. If that's not confusing enough, my sister and I don't know who the bride is because Ma won't tell us. It might be a huge, delicious secret and Ma wants to see our delighted expressions, although I can't imagine who it could be that would excite us. We're not exactly close with Ma's friends. Or Ma's simply forcing us to attend because she doesn't want to go alone. I can't imagine the latter either, though. Ma is a social person. She loves a good cookout, holidays are like candy to her, and she's never said no to a party.
Izzie smirks. She can probably see the ravenousness in my eyes. "I'm sure there will be."
Thank goodness. I'm not sure I can survive an afternoon of chips, salsa, and crustless cucumber sandwiches.
Ma, who leads us to the front walkway, stops and turns around. She's holding a large, pink-wrapped box. She won't tell us what's inside. It's an afternoon of mystery, and Ma is the ringleader.
She's only told us that the bride-to-be is an old friend of hers. They were friendly years ago and drifted apart. Recently, the woman started coming into our family owned deli, and they reconnected. I don't recall seeing Ma chitchatting with any customer more than usual lately. Maybe this bride comes in the early morning, before I get to work. Ma received an invite a couple of days ago. It was last minute, but due to their recent relationship renewal, it's acceptable. Normally, Ma would've declined because of the short notice. She's a stickler for etiquette. Tonight, after the shower, she'll go home and handwrite a thank you note and send it by snail mail. There's nothing wrong with that. Most people prefer email these days.
"This is going to be fun," Ma says. "I promise you."
"I'm not complaining," I say. This isn't my first choice of Saturday afternoon activities, especially since I doubt I'll know anyone attending. But I have my sister, who is safely in the second trimester of her pregnancy, which means she's no longer grumpy. And it's not like I lead a riveting life. Well, I did help solve a couple of murders recently, and I do see ghosts and help them move on. But it's been dead for a while. Pun intended.
Ma holds up her hand and cuts off my train of thought. "I know it's last minute, and while I'm glad I'm here, my mind is also on all of the food that still needs to be prepped and prepared for tomorrow."
Sunday dinner is a holy event at Ma's house. She and Pop prepare more food than any one family can consume, and the men mostly watch TV while the women cook and clean, which annoys me to no end. But it's mandatory. If you have Mancini blood running through your veins or if you're married to one of us,
you have to be there. On time. But it's also a day that I get to spend with both of my siblings together, as well as our parents, and it always makes me feel loved.
Ma takes a deep breath. "Let's put on our smiles and wish my friend a happy marriage. Capisci?"
Izzie and I obediently nod. We understand.
Ma fluffs the side of her dark hair. She must've teased it out, because it looks fuller than normal. Not like 80s dramatic but enough to slim down the fullness of her heart-shaped face. Like me, she has some girth to her, but she's still considered average sized. I, however, edged into plus-size some years ago. What can I say? I like to eat, and I'm not ashamed of it.
"What are you grinning at?" Ma asks.
My smile grows. "You. You look pretty."
She's wearing that red lipstick that brightens her face, blush, and mascara that opens her eyes. And underneath her black, knee-length coat is a royal blue, figure-hugging dress. She's always been a looker, but most of the time, I only see Ma. The woman who keeps nudging me to settle down with my taking-it-slow boyfriend, or who still reminds me to make regular dental appointments because clean teeth means good health.
A corner of her mouth lifts, and she waves away my words. "I have two beautiful daughters. You both look stunning."
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