Tessa Bailey

“Fine,” Stephen finally grumbled. “I’ve got my own problems to deal with right now.”
Kristin shot to her feet. “Oh, I’m a problem now?”
“No. No, honey, I . . .” Stephen shoved a hand through his wet hair. “Can we talk about this at home?”
His wife crossed her arms and waited.
Their brother shifted in his boots. “I missed your chicken like hell, Kristin. I was going to tell you all about how leaving it behind ruined my day, but then I got to looking at the calendar. You know, the one that says when you’re . . .” He cleared his throat loudly. “It says when you’re, you know, ovulating. So I was trying to get the day cleaned off as fast as I could, so we could . . . uh. I wanted to—”
“I think we’re good here,” Georgie said, raising her hand. “I’m pretty clear on what happened and don’t need any more details. Who’s with me?”
Everyone’s hand went up besides Kristin’s and Stephen’s.
“You may take me home now, Stephen Castle,” Kristin said, lifting her chin. “Girls, you can keep the muffins.”
She’d barely finished her sentence before Stephen scooped up his wife and left the way he’d come, kicking the door shut and leaving the room awash in silence.

“Story? What the hell kind of name is that?”

“She’s from California.”

“Ah.”

She made a sound of outrage. “This is exactly how Taylor Swift felt when Kanye West stole her thunder at the VMAs.”

His scowl deepened. “I don’t know who or what those things are.”

I’m going to feed you before I introduce you to God.

When sex was over, it usually—always—meant parting ways after the sweat cooled. He’d never been anything but fine with that outcome, because he barely knew the women to begin with. Panic niggled at him now, though, refusing to give up. If Georgie tried to leave or make him leave right now, he wouldn’t like it at all. No, he would hate it.
She wouldn’t leave him, would she?
“Whoa,” she whispered at his ear, her fingers threading through his hair. “Porn sucks.”
His fear eased, a smile beckoning at the corners of his mouth. There was some insecurity in Georgie’s expression, probably thanks to his silent panic attack. So he framed her beautiful face in his hands and kissed it right off her mouth. “Nah. We’re just that good.” He dropped his forehead to hers. “How do you feel?”
Her catlike yawn made his throat hurt. “Like that.” She smiled, somewhat shyly. “But I also feel spoiled because that was better than . . . wow. Than I ever expected. And smug because you look spoiled, too. Are . . . you? You know, spoiled?”
“I can barely feel my fucking legs.”
The smile bloomed, spreading to her cheeks, eyes. Gorgeous. “We brought it.”
Could she hear his heart hammering? “Damn right we did,” he managed through the notch in his throat. “Come on, let’s get you to bed.”

“Do you think I’m more than a clown?” She swallowed. “Professionally and . . . figuratively.”
He ran a hand down her hair. “Of course I do, Georgie.”
Cool relief slipped beneath her skin. “See? People can be wrong. They can treat you one way when you deserve another, but it’s their fault. Not yours.” His frame was beginning to stiffen against her, so she rushed to finish. “I’m sorry if you were treated like less than you are.”
For several heavy beats, he didn’t move or breathe. “All right,” he said finally, removing his arms from around Georgie and rolling onto his back. “That’s enough.”
Georgie banished the pinch of hurt. “Don’t be so romantic.”
He stacked his hands behind his head. “You’ve got the wrong man for that.”

“Kristin,” Rosie started. “Maybe he just had that tired work brain. He probably would have opened the fridge sooner or later and remembered he forgot to take your chicken.”
“Also,” Bethany chimed in with mock sincerity, “we’re literally talking about chicken here, so—”
“Pecan chicken,” Georgie cut in smoothly, patting Kristin’s arm and trying not to show how ridiculous she found the complaint. “One of his favorites, right, Kristin?”
“I don’t know.” She looked up at the ceiling. “I just don’t know anymore.”
Across the circle, Bethany mouthed a silent countdown. Three, two . . .
Outside the house, a vehicle screeched to a halt, followed by a door slamming and angry boot steps storming up the walkway. The door to Bethany’s house opened without preamble and in stormed their brother in flannel pajama pants and a sweatshirt, his hair still wet from the shower. “Get in the truck, Kristin.”
His wife stood her ground—or sat it, rather—refusing to turn and look at him. “You’ve done it this time,” she called dramatically. “Enjoy your life of deep-fried potatoes and fake meat.”
Stephen pointed at Bethany. “This is your fault. Putting ideas into her head.”
“You’re the one that forgot her pecan chicken!” Bethany burst out. “That shit is important.”
“Oh, now she thinks so,” Georgie drawled, reaching for the tequila.
“You’re one to talk, Georgie. This”—he waved an angry hand around—“girls’ club has taken away your common sense

“You’re not doing it,” Stephen grunted at Kristin, before softening his tone. “Please.”
Kristin firmed her chin. “We’ll see

When I start to pull the dress over my head, he stops me. “Leave it. I’m going to make you come in that dress. Then I’m going to fucking burn it.”

“Sit up. I’m about to banish the word coffee from your vocabulary.”
I prop myself against the pillow and take the offered cup. “Never going to happen. When I die, I want my ashes sprinkled over a Starbucks.”