It’s odd to be writing acknowledgments for a book that I am finishing up copyedits on only a month after my first book published! The most topsy-turvy part of this entire “being an author” process has been getting used to the schedule of the whole publishing thing. I would love to tell you that after more than a year I’ve totally got it down, but if I were sly enough to say that, I am sure my entire team would give me bombastic side-eye (cue TikTok sound). Speaking of my team—my continued love and adoration for every single one of you hasn’t dimmed in the slightest. My editor, Cindy Hwang, who is the horny cheerleader of my dreams, and whose agreement that this book needed exam-room shenanigans just confirms that she is, in fact, perfect; Jess Watterson, who I am happy to confirm is still petting my hair whenever it’s warranted (which is a lot, since I am the human equivalent of a natural disaster—think tornado, full-on cows circling around, just mooing up a storm while people shout in terror), is seriously the best, and even if she ever fires me for being insufferable (which would totally be fair) I will still love her; Jessica Mangicaro (marketing) and Kristin Cipolla (publicity, and my little onion babe)—I think of Jess and Kristin as a duo, and maybe that’s not true, but it won’t stop me from consistently cc’ing them together (and more recently, forcing them to endure me in a group DM chat on IG). These two ladies deserve gold medals for the sheer number of all-caps emails and neurotic questions they have had to endure (sometimes the SAME questions, since I have the attention span of Doug from Up). I would love to tell you both that things WILL GET BETTER, but . . . I am not a liar. I will always be a tragedy of the non-Greek variety, since I am not nearly important enough. However, I am sorry for saying “raw dog” so much. The Penguin creative team, who owns my entire heart and my whole ass (yeah, I am making it weird); Monika Roe for another FANTASTIC cover (may she always be available for more); and a special thank-you to Ruby Dixon, who not only blurbed my first book but then suffered through an entire year of me badgering her to be my friend with grace and poise. (I love her books, but I love her more.) And on that note, thank you to ALL those that blurbed my book after Ruby; every single one had me rolling in bed like a cat on catnip.
The Fake Mate had many champions while being worked on, even if my oldest friend, Dan, was not one of them. (Dan, you bland, tasteless jerk, you will never know the glory of knotting!) My sweet Katie, who loves everything I do, even if it’s not remotely interesting; my lovely Keri, with her less-than-superior taste in Sleep Token thirsting (iv is superior, I’m sorry) but her more than competent encouragement of my horny wolves; my pseudo-mama, Andria, for FaceTiming me to yell at me when I got mopey; and my daddy, Kristen, for pointing out after a beta read that this book DID IN FACT need horny exam-room shenanigans (the universe brought you into my life to give us this, and I am all the better for it).
Shout-out to all the amazing bookstagrammers, bloggers, journalists, readers, booktokers, and reviewers who yeeted about my first book and shared hype for my second—I won’t pretend I haven’t feared that people would pass on this book with it being (or as it feels to me, at least) so experimental in genre, but if you made it this far, know that I am grateful. I love these two, and I hope you did also. (I mean, come on, KNOTS.)
And to my dude of more than a decade—I’m sorry I haven’t made you a househusband yet, but I’m still working on it, never fear.
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Overruled
“Objection. Leading the witness.”
I bite my tongue, quietly seething as I resist the urge to look back at the owner of the deep, honeyed voice calling out in a bored tone.
“Let me rephrase,” I say as evenly as I can manage, keeping my attention on the man in front of me. “You said in your statement that you would often see a visitor coming to the house while Mrs. Johanson was home alone. Is that correct, Mr. Crane?”
The man nods, peeking warily at the woman in question. “That’s correct.”
“And during those visits, where was Mr. Johanson?”
“He was usually at work, ma’am.”
“And this visitor, was it a man or a woman?”
“It was a man.”
I bite back a grin. “I see. How long would this man stay?”
Mr. Crane reaches to scratch at his thinning hair, shifting in his seat. It had taken me a hell of a lot to get him on the stand; in the end it was only the promise from Mr. Johanson that he would keep his gardening job regardless of the outcome of this trial that he finally agreed.
“It varied,” Mr. Crane said. “Sometimes an hour. Sometimes more.”
“So it’s safe to assume that Mrs. Johanson knew this man . . . well, correct?”
“Objection.” I hear a sigh behind me. “Speculation.”
“Rephrase,” I say tightly, still refusing to look at him. “Did you ever see Mrs. Johanson and the man interacting when he would visit, Mr. Crane?”
Mr. Crane shakes his head. “No, ma’am. He always went straight inside the house.”
“But it was always the same man?”
“Yes, ma’am. As far as I could tell.”
“Thank you, Mr. Crane.” I give my attention to Judge Hoffstein. “No further questions, Your Honor.”
I try not to look at him when I return to my table, I really do—but that pull is there, the one I so desperately wish didn’t plague me anytime we’re in the same room together. I can feel his eyes linger on me when I’m finally able to avert my gaze, feel it like the weight of his fingers along my skin as I retake my seat.
He stands slowly, one hand reaching to fasten the button of his suit—a deft, practiced motion that makes the veins in his too-large hands flex—and I can’t help the way my eyes are drawn there, remembering the warmth of them on my body hardly even a week ago. I catch a hint of a smirk when I turn my face to meet his eyes, feeling warmth creep up my neck as I clench my teeth.
Fucking Ezra Hart.
I train my eyes forward, keeping them on the nervous older man on the stand, in quiet support.
“Mr. Crane,” Ezra starts. “Did you know Mrs. Johanson’s visitor?”
“No, sir,” Mr. Crane answers. “I was told that—”
“That’s hearsay,” Ezra cuts him off. “What you heard is irrelevant.” He shoves his hands in his pockets, strolling casually to the side and flicking his gaze to mine for the briefest of moments. “I’m asking if you ever actually met Mrs. Johanson’s visitor.”
Mr. Crane’s eyes dart to mine, looking unsure. “Well, no, I didn’t.”
“So there’s no possible way for you to know the purpose of that man’s visits. Correct?”
Mr. Crane is quiet for a moment, and my heart thuds in my ribs. There’s no way that Ezra can possibly suggest—
“No, sir,” Mr. Crane answers. “I could not.”