“Congratulations, you have a beautiful baby boy!”
“A boy.” I press a kiss to my wife’s forehead. “Whit, we have a son.” Tears fall unchecked between us while I kiss her cheeks, her forehead, her lips. “You were amazing,” I say, meaning it with every beat of my heart.
When we break apart, Prissy is just standing there, arms crossed, glaring at me. Lord, that girl hates to be wrong.
The very petty side of me wants to stick out my tongue and gloat. Of course, I don’t. I want her to love him, not see him as a bet she lost. “Look at him, Priss.” I wrap my arm around her shoulders, leading her to where to doctor is waiting for me to cut the cord. “You wanna do it?” I ask in a split-second decision, hoping it’ll help her bond to her new brother.
“Really?”
I nod. “Go for it…I’ll get the next one.”
I feel my wife’s glare before her words meet my ears. “Over my dead body.”
Curious about the fateful night on Bourbon Street that started it all? Click here to download a special bonus scene, THE DUMPSTER.
PREVIEW OF TAKE TWO
Nya
Déjà vu
A beam of light streams in through the window, stabbing me right in my barely opened eye. Jackhammers pound inside my head as I squint, peering around the room to take in my surroundings: a king-sized bed with plush white linens, gaudy chandelier, a wall of windows with thick, gold damask drapes pulled back on each end.
What the hell am I doing at a hotel?
A loud snore sounds, nearly scaring me right out of my tingling skin. To my left is a hard body, enveloped in billion-thread-count sheets, facing away from the offending window. That back—those sinewy shoulders and sculpted muscles—I’d recognize anywhere.
“Liam?” I whisper, forcing myself not to run a hand through his tapered hair, to touch my finger to the little mole right at the edge of his hairline. It was once my favorite spot to kiss.
What. The. Fuck? This can’t be happening. Not again.
Groggy and disoriented, I attempt to roll off the bed to relieve my screaming bladder and rid myself of the dragon breath that only comes after a night of hard partying. One I can’t seem to remember. But I can’t move. Reaching beneath the comforter to investigate what’s weighing me down, I come up with my hands filled with layer upon layer of satin and tulle. What the hell?
“A wedding dress?” I screech, panic welling in my throat as my heart damn near leaps from my chest. No way.
Suddenly the mound of man muscle shifts my direction. With a dreamy smile, his large hand creeps across the bed, reaching for mine. The smell of last night’s cologne wafts into the air, threatening to weaken my resolve. Holding my breath, refusing to be distracted, I scoot to the edge of the bed. Has he lost his damn mind? Has this idiot forgotten that we’ve been over since our now-preteen daughter was barely walking?
Well, mostly over. There was that one time…but that was a mistake we swore to never speak of again. At any rate, we’ve proven that me, alcohol, and my ex-husband are not a good mix. The situation is one I try to avoid at all costs.
“’Morning, wife!” Liam stretches his arms above his head, winking a sleepy blue eye my way. His caramel-colored hair is sticking up in all directions, only serving to make the insufferable man more irresistible. He looks…well…well fucked.
Wife. That curse has me scrambling to my feet, lugging fifty pounds of dress to the full-length mirror that’s attached to the closet door. Adding to my horror, it’s a dress that only my very extra—and now former—best friend would pick out.
How could she do this to me?
“Where is she?” I growl, turning to the side and running my hands along the fitted silhouette. Jesus, I’m thirty-three, not twenty. I look like I’m going to the damn prom.
“Who?” Liam glances around the room, seemingly confused by my reaction. Most likely by why I’m not already threatening to castrate him.
“Hannah! Who else? Are there pictures? I swear to God, if there are pictures of me in this thing, I’ll kill you both, and no one will ever find your bodies.”
My ex-husband snorts. “You wouldn’t do that to Ellie.”
Our daughter. Ugh. I want to slap that smug look off his too-handsome face.
“How did this happen?” Please, for the love of God, he’d better tell me we went to a freaking costume party or something, but the sense of déjà vu is just too strong. This room all too familiar. The bustling city, haunting me through floor to ceiling windows, bringing back memories of the biggest mistake of my life. My college boyfriend. An impulse trip to Vegas. A little white chapel. No. No. “No.” I shake my head, moving to the window to stare down at Sin City.
“Give me six months,” the asshole rasps, sneaking up behind me wearing nothing but a thin pair of cotton boxer shorts. He glides his warm hands around my waist, pulling me flush with his chest. As if he has any right. I gulp hard, swallowing down a lump of regret, because something tells me I gave him that right last night. Liam’s eyes connect with mine in the glass, and I’m finding it hard to breathe. “We owe it to our little girl.”
Jesus, now he’s using our kid as a weapon. I should move out of his embrace, but I’ve always been putty in his arms. “Does she… does she know?”
He spins me around to face him, my resolve weakening with every moment spent wrapped in his embrace. “You don’t remember anything, do you?” Liam brushes away the strands of hair blocking his line of sight and studies my eyes.
Heat blooms in my chest. The smell of alcohol on his breath is oddly arousing. It’s not even fair that he’s been blessed with sexy morning breath, of all things. He’s not at all deserving of such sex appeal. “Please tell me this is a nightmare.” My voice cracks as the enormity of this situation creeps in. “And that I’m going to wake up to Ellie begging for me to make her scrambled eggs or to take her to the skating rink with her friends. Liam, tell me this isn’t happening.”
“Poker?” he asks, swiping a tear from beneath my right eye with the pad of his thumb. “Shots, shots, shots, shots, shots,” he sings in his best Lil Jon impression. A hopeful smirk curls his lip as he does a little shimmy to the beat. I try like hell not to let him see me ogling his erect penis flopping side to side with his movement.
Damn him and that appendage, which reduces me to nothing but a puddle of hormones.
“Oh, dear God, did we?” Nausea pools in my stomach as the face of my boyfriend, Ryder, flashes in my mind.
“Not yet.” His chiseled brows bounce.
“This isn’t funny, Liam!” I shove at his chest weakly. “I have a boyfriend.”
The exasperating man barks out a laugh. “’Fraid to tell ya…but husband trumps boyfriend.”
How can he be so blasé about this? “There’s no way.”
“No way, what?” he asks, lifting my hand to rest on his chest. The glint of a familiar diamond shimmers in the light of the morning sun. I’m momentarily distracted by the realization that he kept my ring all these years. My heart wants to soften to him, but the anger at this impossible situation swiftly overpowers the foolish organ.