Hitched
Page 21
“Sorry, sorry!” she cries, holding the white cupcake box over her head as the cats lunge at her bare legs, mewling and hissing as they take turns trying to jump up and snag their claws into her red-and-white checkered skirt. “I tried to keep them outside, but they chased me in.”
Clint springs into action, leaping over tables and executing a fancy roll across the scarred floorboards before popping back to his feet to collect the cupcake box in one hand while he sweeps the cupcake lady off her feet and sets her atop a table, safely out of the way of the kittens.
“I knew I should have brought a few kennels,” Hope mutters as her eyes narrow on the wild felines streaming into the bar. “Just in case.”
“Always good to have a few spare kennels around on your wedding day,” I agree dryly.
Her lips quirk as she lifts her eyes to mine. “I attract strays, O’Dell, you know this about me.”
“I do,” I whisper, for her ears only. “And you’re so good with them. And with me. I love you so much.”
“With every piece of my heart,” she vows as George’s kiddos, now full-fledged grown raccoons themselves, erupt in chitters and dive from their booth, all of them dashing over to play with the kittens—and then run away from the kittens, as the bloodthirsty pack proves too much for the coddled pet raccoons to handle.
“Dearest friends,” Olivia says over the chaos, “we’re gathered here today to celebrate love, the very best thing on earth. I’m so happy for you both. May you guard each other’s hearts well and always shine as brightly for each other as you do today.” She smiles. “Do you take each other in pandemonium and astrological storms, in sickness and in boat explosions, and everything in between?”
“We do,” we say together.
“Then by the power vested in me by stardust and sunshine, I now pronounce you married in the eyes of all of the people who love you most. Now, shall we go rescue some kittens?”
“We shall.” We head, hand-in-hand, to corral a few cats, protect our cupcakes from George, who is once again trying to sneak into our white bakery box, and spy on Clint and the cupcake lady, who are making eyes at each other. As usual, we laugh the entire time.
“You think every day will be like this?” I ask as we make our way to the floor to have our first dance to “Afternoon Delight,” a mortifying selection that was apparently my mother’s doing, since she’s the only one standing by the jukebox giggling like a crazy person.
“Oh, I hope so,” my wife says with a happy sigh. “I really do.”
“Me too.” I smile and pull her into my arms for another kiss and another, knowing without a doubt that I’m the luckiest man on earth.
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Books by Lili Valente and Pippa Grant
Hosed
Hammered
Hitched
Humbugged
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Sneak Peek from Lili Valente
Check out this HOT new friends with bang-i-fits read from Lili Valente! THE BANGOVER is available now!
ABOUT THE BOOK
It started with too much whiskey, and ended with two plane tickets to Vegas and a make out session with my best friend, renegade rock star, Colin Donovan.
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Kill me now…
No, seriously, kill me now. I’m begging you.
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‘Cause there’s no way I’ll make it through this Best Buddy Festival of Fornication with my dignity intact. The moment Colin and I do more than kiss, he’s going to realize that my feelings for him run so much deeper than just friends.
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I intend to fly back home as soon as our plane touches down—I can’t risk losing Colin, not for all the Big O’s in Sin City.
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But then we run into his evil ex, inciting a series of events that includes chaos, dancing at midnight, more chaos, a cat in a purse, a mirror on a ceiling, multiple conspiracy theories, yet even more chaos, and Colin in my bed.
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Yes. My bed.
And he’s everything I’ve dreamed he would be, and more.
* * *
Maybe the high will be worth the fall.
All I know is that by the time we’re done, we’ll both have one hell of a Bangover.
Excerpt from THE BANGOVER
I wake up with no feeling in my right arm, my face smashed into an unfamiliar pillow, a case of cottonmouth any stuffed animal would be proud of, and the disturbing realization that I can’t remember where I am or how I got here.
I can’t remember, but I instantly know Colin is involved.
I am not a rock star.
I do not do rock-star things like stay up all night burning old love letters or go skinny-dipping in the ocean at midnight or drink so much whiskey after a show that building a pack of vampire snowmen in the town square at three a.m. sounds like a good idea. But under the influence of too much Colin Donovan, I have done all of these things and more.
And apparently, our latest case of shared insanity has landed me on a plane. There’s no mistaking the lingering smell of jet fuel or the dull roar of the engines churning away on either side of this soaring death pellet.
I crack open my lids, and yes—there’s the overhead bin, dull gray and sad in the dim light of the darkened cabin. But instead of the usual packed sardine tin of people on either side of me, there’s only a fully-reclined seat arranged head-to-toe with mine, a quaint swiveling bedside table, and gray plastic walls that grant this little cubby-for-two almost complete privacy.
There is, however, no sign of Colin.
But I wouldn’t put it past him to talk me into buying a first-class ticket to somewhere and then drop me off at the airport before skipping off to do more exciting things. He knows I hate planes. I hate them so much that I usually have to be drunk, drugged, or both to force myself down the Jetway and into my assigned seat. But I’ve never booked a trip while under the influence. I make travel plans, arrange my life accordingly, and then I pop a Xanax like a civilized person twenty minutes before boarding.
This impulsive gallivanting is unacceptable. I don’t usually do impulsive, not even in my work. I’m a plotter, not a seat-of-my-pants wordsmith. I know exactly how the vampire clowns became vampire clowns and who they’re going to kill—and why—before I type a single word. And if I deviate from my outline, I feel anxious, unsettled, unmoored until I find my way back to the path and tie up any loose ends I’ve created.
I like the path.
I like knowing what’s coming next.
I like waking up in my own bed with my own pillow and all my memories of the night before.
I like all of that…until I snap, decide I don’t like it anymore, and do something fucking crazy. The last time I snapped, I moved to a yurt in Tibet for a month. The time before that I went cage-diving with sharks. And before that, I bought a bed and breakfast at a repo auction, without even seeing the inside. All of those things tu
rned out okay in the end—I learned to meditate in Tibet, conquered my fear of sharks, and set my sister up as proprietor of a profitable business with only a few bumps along the way renovation-wise.
But I’m just waiting for the day when I do something impulsive that doesn’t have a happy ending. And perhaps today is that day.
I have no idea what inspired me to drink such an inadvisable amount of whiskey. But as I reach for the water bottle on the table beside me, grateful my hangover doesn’t appear to be too vicious, I vow never to do it again.
No more whiskey, no more pranks with Colin, no more…
“Pranks,” I mutter as I twist off the cap and gulp down every drop of brain-restoring liquid. I remember hiding out under the back porch at my place for what seemed like forever, waiting for Shep to come outside so we could prank him. I remember Colin having an existential crisis about his inability to write songs, and then I remember…
I remember…
“Oh no. No, no.” I sink farther down in my chair, tugging my blanket up to my chin to hide my flaming cheeks seconds before a shadow appears at the entrance to the swanky first-class cubby.
A shadow cast by the long, lanky, yet surprisingly well-muscled body of my best friend. A body I am well acquainted with seeing as I had my hands all over him last night. All over his chest, his biceps, his abs, his ass… The same lovely ass that moves across my field of vision as he climbs quietly over me to settle in his seat, clearly thinking I’m still asleep.
I squeeze my eyes shut and fight to keep my breath slow and even, but I’m a horrible actress, and Colin has superhero-like senses and reflexes. If he weren’t a rock star, he could be a ninja assassin or a cat burglar or something more wholesome that involves a similar skill set, but which I can’t think of at the moment because my mind is not naturally inclined to weave wholesome stories and because I am dying of shame.
Dying—my heart stuttering to a stop and my stomach turning to stone as Colin grabs a fistful of my blanket and tugs it down to reveal my face. “Hey there, sunshine,” he says with a grin. “How you feeling this morning?”
I shake my head and tug the blanket back up.
“That good, huh?” He chuckles and pulls it back down. “Don’t hide. Talk to me. How much do you remember?”
“Nothing,” I lie, leaping at my one chance at salvation. “Nothing between going out to hide under the porch and waking up a few minutes ago. What happened? How did we get here?”
Colin’s full lips purse, and his brown-and-amber-flecked eyes narrow. “Yeah? That’s all?” He brushes a thoughtful thumb back and forth along the line of his jaw, the pad making a soft shushing sound as it disturbs his morning whiskers. He’s rocking a seven-a.m. shadow that makes him look even more like a naughty rock star, but if memory serves, this time it isn’t Colin who can’t be trusted.
It’s me.
The killer’s call is coming from inside the house…
He leans closer. “So you don’t remember kissing me last night?”
I shake my head, wide-eyed in what I hope looks like innocence mixed with utter shock.
“No? Really?” he murmurs, resting a hand on the curve of my hip, making my skin burn even through the covers and the long skirt I’m wearing beneath. “Then I guess you don’t remember dragging me up to your room, stripping off all of your clothes, and riding me like the last roller coaster left standing?”
My eyeballs attempt to leap out of my skull, but thankfully there are muscles and ligaments in place to keep things like that from happening.
There are not, unfortunately, muscles in place to keep my tongue from flapping. “I did not, you dirty liar.”
“So you do remember,” he says, pointing a victorious finger at my face. “Now who’s the dirty liar, Larry?”
Sneak Peek from Pippa Grant!
Love red-hot enemies to lovers, secrets, and marriage of convenience? Read on for a sneak peek at Pippa Grant’s Hot Heir!
* * *
Viktor (aka a royal bodyguard who only thinks hot air is his biggest problem)
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It’ll be fine, Viktor, His Highness said.
Perfectly safe. Nothing to worry about, His Highness said.
You wouldn’t want to disappoint Gracie, would you, Viktor? His Highness said.
In my twelve years as lead bodyguard to His Highness—Prince Manning Frey, third son of the king of Stölland—I’ve learned to never trust It’ll be fine, Viktor.
But in the seven months since Miss Gracie Diamonte became a permanent fixture in His Highness’s life, I’ve yet to learn that sometimes, she must be disappointed.
Were she unpleasant or loud-mouthed or the scheming sort—like the woman I currently find myself attempting to not throttle—it would be far easier to tell Miss Diamonte no. That it’s not the best idea to take a balloon ride over town to view this Grits Festival from above. But His Highness has sworn his eternal love and allegiance to a woman sweeter than honey and kinder than a saint who also bakes the most marvelous cookies I’ve ever had the pleasure of tasting.
If angels are real, Miss Diamonte is surely one of them.
Again, very much unlike the woman I currently find myself struggling to not strangle.
Were we anywhere other than a hundred meters in the air in the scorching midday heat of a record-breaking Alabama summer day, held aloft only by the flame of a hot air balloon that neither of us knows how to operate, with sirens flashing on the roads below us as the local authorities attempt to chase us by ground, I would consider baiting this woman who is the very antithesis of His Highness’s dear Miss Diamonte.
I do quite enjoy baiting Miss Peach Maloney when the opportunity presents itself.
At the moment, however, I’d far rather get us back safely to the ground. “Madame, you own a flight adventure company,” I remind her. “I daresay this current predicament is your specialty.”
So perhaps I’m not entirely capable of not baiting her. But I do stand by my statement that my priority is returning to the ground.
Especially seeing as I would not have dove into the hot air balloon basket to save Miss Maloney had she not been in the basket in the first place as it began to rise.
“I don’t do the flying, and we operate airplanes, not balloons.” Her blue eyes flash, and for the briefest of moments, I contemplate the likelihood of her being able to lever me out of this basket and send me careening to my death, as she, too, seems to be contemplating strangling me.
Reasonably unlikely that she might overpower me, I decide.
Which leaves room for error, as I don’t deduct her chances to be nil.
I don’t like it.
* * *
Click here to get HOT HEIR!
About the Authors
Pippa Grant is a USA Today Bestselling author who writes romantic comedies that will make tears run down your leg. When she's not reading, writing or sleeping, she's being crowned employee of the month as a stay-at-home mom and housewife trying to prepare her adorable demon spawn to be productive members of society, all the while fantasizing about long walks on the beach with hot chocolate chip cookies.
Find Pippa at…
www.pippagrant.com
pippa@pippagrant.com
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Author of over forty novels, USA Today Bestseller Lili Valente writes everything from steamy suspense to laugh-out-loud romantic comedies. A die-hard romantic and optimist at heart, she can’t resist a story where love wins big. Because love should always win.
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When she’s not writing, Lili enjoys adventuring with her two sons, climbing on rocks, swimming too far from shore, and asking “why” an incorrigible number of times per day. A former yoga teacher, actor, and dancer, she is also very bendy and good at pretending innocence when caught investigating off-limits places.
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You can currently find Lili in the mid-South, valiantly trying to resist the lure of all the places left to explore.
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Find Lili at www.lilivalente.com
Also by the Authors
Books by Lili Valente and Pippa Grant
Hosed
Hammered
Hitched
Humbugged
Books by Pippa Grant
Mister McHottie
Stud in the Stacks
The Pilot and the Puck-Up
Royally Pucked
Beauty and the Beefcake
Rockaway Bride
Hot Heir
The Hero and the Hacktivist
Charming as Puck
Flirting with the Frenemy
America’s Geekheart
And more…
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Books by Lili Valente
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Hockey Romance
Hot as Puck
Sexy Motherpucker
Puck Aholic
Puck me Baby
Pucked up Love
Puck Buddies
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The Red Hot Hunter Brothers
The Baby Maker
The Troublemaker
The Heartbreaker