Especially now, when Robert is doing so well. His tumor is barely a few centimeters long, and doctors are predicting a full recovery. He recently moved in with Mrs. Hawthorne upstairs, so Jude and I took over his apartment. We’re refurbishing it, one meltdown at a time.
Next month, we’re going to Syria for a few weeks. Jude wants to help cover what’s happening there. And I want to be with Jude.
If you’d told me a year ago that I’d live in Brooklyn, I would have laughed.
But if you’d told me a year ago I’d be desperately in love to a point of madness, I would’ve admitted you to the nearest mental health facility and thrown the key in the ocean.
Yet both of those things have happened, and strangely enough, they didn’t ruin my life. They saved it.
James appears behind me and claps a hand over my shoulder, whispering into my ear, “Proud of you, son. Junior is one hell of a catch.”
I smirk, my eyes still focused on my bride, who is wearing the most ridiculous wedding gown. The hem of the dress is painted pale yellow, which makes it look like it was dipped in Chuck’s piss. Jude says it reminds her of my Post-it notes—the ones I keep on writing to her now so she’ll never forget how I feel about her, even when I suck at saying the words out loud.
“Call me your son one more time…” I hiss at James, as I always do. “And I’ll move you to the marketing department and have you cold-call small businesses to convince them to place plumbing ads on LBC.”
He laughs. “Call us from the honeymoon.”
“Only if you promise not to pick up,” I banter. He squeezes my shoulder.
Why does the gesture feel more real than any moment I ever shared with Mathias?
I look across the buzzing room, scanning for something to dampen the moment. I keep expecting to see him, even though he wasn’t invited. But Mathias hasn’t been in the States for over four months, if the rumors are true. I never bother checking. Giving a fuck and worrying about people who are malicious robs you of your power and purpose—otherwise they wouldn’t want to harm you.
Coast is clear.
I pick up my bride and carry her to the elevator, honeymoon style, essentially bailing on everyone else. Her arms are looped around my neck and she purrs as she says, “I heard there are CCTV cameras everywhere in this place, so don’t do anything stupid.”
I lift my hand and give one camera the middle finger, still holding her, then kiss her so deeply and darkly she doesn’t come up for air until the next morning.
In the South of France.
In my bed.
“I believe you just brought sexy back, Mr. Timberlake.”
One Year Later…
“Pink Chucks, huh?” Célian smirks as he coils his arm in mine and we stride toward the elevators. He is on the sixtieth floor—the new president of LBC—and I’m on the sixth, an associate producer next to Blu. Kate is the director of news now, a role she earned the hard way and fully deserves.
Every evening, my husband picks me up from the newsroom, seals my grinning mouth with a hot kiss for everyone to see, and whisks me to the elevators, where we share all our thoughts and secrets, because since day one, the elevator is where everything happens between us.
Why break the habit now?
The doors slide open, and we get in. As soon as they slide shut, I wiggle my toes inside my Chucks.
“Let’s make a Le Coq Tail stop before we go home,” Célian suggests, already advancing toward me across the tiny space.
“Sure, I could go for a roast beef sandwich,” I say as he corners me against the wall and hoists me up by my ass, wrapping my legs over his waist.
“And a drink to go with your long day.” He bites down on my lower lip and tugs it inside his mouth.
I groan into our kiss, grinding against him shamelessly. I’ve been needy lately. “I’ll stick to the food.”
“Good idea. I like you sober when I fuck you.”
“And when I’m pregnant,” I add.
“And when you’re…” He continues the sentence, dipping his hand between my legs and shoving my panties to the side under my skirt.
He stops and frowns. “Come again?”
“Pink Chucks.” I bite down on a smile, my eyes traveling to my stomach.
His do the same. They flare a little, and then he squeezes my ass, seemingly for affirmation that he’s still breathing.
Good. We only talked about kids one time, just days after he proposed to me.
“I don’t think I’m much of a father figure, but if you want kids, we’ll have kids,” he’d told me. “Hell, if you want rabies, we’ll catch it together. Make a day of it.”
I wanted to wait a bit longer before we became parents, and took my pill every day. But then I made a basic mistake this past winter and went on antibiotics to treat my sinus infection without using further protection. I’d been so busy with work and Célian and Dad, I didn’t even realize I’d missed three periods.
When I finally bought the test—Ava made sure to hit me in the head with it before we opened it in the restroom of the fifth floor—it came back positive. I went to the OB-GYN the same day. That day was yesterday.
My husband is looking at me now, with a look I’ve never seen on his face. A look of redemption, and awe, and hope. The fact that I put it there makes me want to break into a dance, sing at the top of my lungs—even though nobody in this zip code deserves such punishment.
“I’m having a daughter?” He blinks.
“Technically, I’m having one. But I can settle for we. How would you feel about naming her Camille?”
He throws his head back and laughs, and it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. His blues are twinkling like stars in the dark, and he lowers me down, wraps his arms around me, and chuckles into my ear, sending hot, sweet air into it and making me shiver in pleasure.
I can get used to this.
I think I just did.
“I love you, Judith Penelope Humphry wallet-thief, Smiths fan.”
“I love you too, Célian James Laurent one-night-stander, cold-hearted bastard.”
In case you were wondering, we’ve already crossed off every item on the bucket list I’d made with Milton.
Visit Africa.
Get assigned to the Middle East.
Watch the sunset in Key West.
Eat one perfect macaron in Paris.
My heart is not lonely.
It’s full and happy and whole.
Most of all, it is Célian’s.
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Pretty Reckless (All Saints High)
First and foremost, I’d like to thank my readers for following me on this journey, as I continue to evolve as a writer and an artist. It means the world to me that you trust my words. I have so many crazy, exciting, new ideas, and I cannot wait for you to meet all the characters and worlds that I am building.
Huge thanks to my beta readers: Amy Halter, Lana Kart, Charleigh Rose, Helena Hunting, Melissa Panio-Petersen and Yamina Kirky. Each and every one of you brought something fresh and fundamental to this story. Special thanks to the person who has read this book approximately five-hundred times, Tijuana Turner. You can’t ever, ever leave me. Just saying.
To my editors, Angela Marshall Smith, Jessica Royer Ocken and Tamara Mataya. Thank you so much for helping me get this book to where I wanted it to be. You have an amazing eye for detail, you challenge me with every turn, and make me a more skilled writer.
To my designer, Letitia Hasser at RBA Designs, and my formatter, Stacey Blake of Champagne Formatting. Thank you for making my product pretty from the inside and out.
To my superstar agent, who is so much more than an agent, Kimberly Brower, Thank you so much for your incredible input and all the hard work.