Yes, and… Let’s Stop Self-Censoring

For fuck’s sake, “sex” isn’t a bad word.

A few years ago, people started a trend of hate-reporting in the book/author community (similar to the one-star bombing of ye olde days). Basically, a petty person reports another post for abuse, getting it taken down while the social media person (or bot) reviews it. It devolved from there; with the explosive growth of social media during the pandemic and shutdowns, it was getting too much to manage, so companies started deploying AI to handle reports. If you’ve ever been in Facebook or Instagram jail, you know how poorly this system works.

Case in point: A couple weeks ago, one of my private accounts got banned from commenting. Whether I’m on my public persona (author) or personal accounts, I make it a point to always leave positive comments (or say nothing at all). So I truly have no idea what I said to upset the bots. (The comment that automatically got flagged and subsequently got me banned from commenting was, and I quote: “I swear the door only squeaks at night!” For context, the Reel was about how daytime sounds are a million times louder at night.) Over the years, I’ve heard a lot of similar stories akin to war tales about how various friends “got Zuck’d.”

We did this to ourselves.

To bypass the petty reports and bot flags, authors and readers alike started self-censoring. I get it; no one wants to deal with the hassle of a jailed account, especially if you get a high volume of engagement. Social media is now viewed as a currency nearly more valuable than actual money. It’s incredibly frustrating to watch your hard work get Zuck’d by AI that doesn’t understand context or nuance or sarcasm. The problem is, AI learns by what it consumes. Once we collectively started self-censoring, we unwittingly confirmed that “sex” is in fact a bad word.

As an artist, this really bugs me.

As a romance author, this enrages me.

Especially as a writer with a small social media following.

It was already challenging to get views on posts. It’s harder than ever now. I’ve noticed that when I post excerpts using any of the “dirty” words, I don’t get flagged, I’m just quietly stifled. Posts that perform well on one platform barely get 100 views on another. I refuse to self-censor to appease stupid AI or puritanical people. “Sex” is not a bad word. These platforms were created for adult use—most of them require users to be 14 years of age, and I know damn well my 14-year-old niece has heard worse than “seggs”—aimed at Millennials as we aged out of high school (RIP, MySpace). Facebook was originally made for college Millennials. TikTok, formerly known as musical.ly, was specifically created to share music (a form of art).

Books—yes, even romance, haters—are an art form. When authors and readers share excerpts, it’s a form of expression. When we self-censor (for example, turning “sex” into “seggs”), we’re stifling that expression. It also just looks ridiculous. (The irony of grown adults reading spicy romance while unable to bring themselves to type out the word “cock” doesn’t escape me.)

It’s gone so far, even Ariana Grande is self-censoring.

In her latest single, “Yes, And?”, she sings “say that shit with your chest and / be your own fucking best friend” in the uncensored version. In the same explicit version, she purposely bleeps out the word “dick” in the line “Why do you care so much whose dick I ride?”

This is an interesting choice since, just a few years ago, she released a song with the lyrics “wrist icicle, ride dick bicycle,” with the word “dick” loud and proud in both the explicit and radio-friendly versions of the song. It’s a sudden pivot from someone whose entire discography revolves around fiercely proud sexuality and lyrics to match.

It’s weird that Gen X and Millennials, who grew up flipping off the establishment, are now the biggest proponents of self-censorship, falling into line behind Gen Z (who seem overly sensitive to offending anyone, including AI).

I grew up in an era of fierce artistic expression. It kicked off in 1990 with the fight against Parental Advisory labels, continued with Prince changing his name to a symbol so that no one could own him, and escalated with gamers protesting the ESRB ratings brought on by the media blaming video games for violence. I so passionately believe in artistic freedom, I’m not even sure I love the wave of discreet romance covers. (Why are people ashamed to be reading romance and erotica in 2024? Ignore the haters and enjoy the smut!)

Maybe it’s because I’m an ’80s baby who cut my teeth on the ’90s no apologies attitude, but I just can’t get on board with self-censorship.

Fuck that.

Featured image via studiostoks / depositphotos

The Stairs Between Us, Chapter 2

A full year had passed since we separated, and six months since the divorce was finalized, and still just the sight of her knocked the air out of my lungs. I fought the urge to embrace her. My ex-wife. I still couldn’t get used to the phrase.

Levi

Wind whipped around the corners of the house, creating an eerie howling effect. I sat in the kitchen, listening more to the wind than to the guy I called my best friend. Guilt picked at my stomach, making it acidic. I should’ve been making an effort to be there for him. The only thing I could focus on, though, was the time ticking closer on the wall.

“I think it might be stress,” Theo said in his soft-spoken voice. It was hard to believe that a nearly seven-foot man could have such a gentle voice. He spread his dark hands. “Pamela’s got her hopes so high, and she gets so frustrated.” He cleared his throat.

My gaze snapped up from the kitchen table. I met his brown eyes across the table. “Sorry, man.”

“Is Noah dropping off Joey this morning?” he asked.

I nodded, rubbing the back of my head. “Any minute now.”

“I guess there’s no chance in me stealing you for a run.” Theo grinned, and for the first time I realized he wore his running gear.

I glanced down at my long-sleeved henley and jeans. Maybe I would’ve been better off throwing on sweats. I no longer had the effect on Noah that I’d had on her in college, but I still tried.

It was pathetic.

“A run might help get your mind off things,” Theo said, his voice returning to that lulling level.

“Yeah,” I agreed, “but I can’t leave Joey.”

“I’m sure Pamela wouldn’t mind looking after him.”

I laughed, the sound bitter. “And have it get back to Noah that I dropped my kid off on someone else the second he got here? No thanks.” I rubbed at my beard. “How did I get here, man?”

“It takes time.” He stood to his full height. After over ten years of friendship, I was used to him towering over me. At UConn, people called us Sully and Mike when we walked around campus together. He’d go to basketball practice and I’d head to my pre-med classes.

Or the poetry class where I’d met Noah.

Together, though, Theo and I were a duo. When people threw parties in their dorms, they told each other: “Make sure you invite Sully and Mike.”

College. Those were the good days.

The doorbell rang, yanking me out of my thoughts. Standing, I tried to arrange my features into what I hoped was a relaxed expression. Instead, my brows rested heavily over my eyes as I made my way to the front door. Taking a deep breath, I swung the door open wide.

“Daddy!” Joey threw himself into my arms.

I scooped him up, hugging him to my chest. “Hey buddy.” Over his head, I glanced at her.

Noah.

A full year had passed since we separated, and six months since the divorce was finalized, and still just the sight of her knocked the air out of my lungs. She lifted her angular chin, sapphire eyes looking at Joey and me but avoiding my gaze. She nibbled at her full, pink lips.

Releasing Joey, I fought the urge to embrace her, too. My ex-wife. I still couldn’t get used to the phrase.

“Uncle Theo’s in the kitchen,” I told our son.

Joey’s eyes lit up. Dropping his backpack in the entryway, he took off toward the kitchen.

“This isn’t a dumping ground!” Noah called after him. Her eyes sparkled with amusement, though.

A year earlier, this had been our home. Yet there she stood, in the doorway, half out of my life.

“Want a cup of coffee?” I asked, shoving my hands into the pockets of my jeans. Cold air swirled around my bare feet.

“I should go.” She jerked a thumb toward the car idling in the driveway. When she left, she didn’t even keep the car I’d bought for her. She drove a brand new Toyota Camry that she was probably leasing—and paying out the nose for every month.

I didn’t get it. She could’ve kept the Jaguar. I’d bought it for her.

“It’s cold,” I said. “Just come in for a few. Run me through school?”

For a second, her eyes lit up. Then her lips tightened. “I’ve got lesson planning to do.” She turned, low ponytail whipping around through the bottom of her beanie.

I closed my eyes. I’d meant Joey’s school, forgetting entirely that she’d started grad school—all while caring for our son and teaching English at the high school. “Wait,” I called. “How’s business school?”

She paused, boots crunching over the salt on the shoveled front walk. Turning, she shoved her hands into the pockets of her coat. Her eyes lifted, but still didn’t meet mine.

When I breathed in, my chest ached. Without her in my life, I rattled around in my body, in the big empty house we’d once shared. Though she haunted me, I was the ghost.

“Demanding,” she said. “I’ve gotta go.” She hesitated as if she had more to say.

“Noah . . .” A thousand questions burned on my own lips. Even after all those months, I still didn’t know why she left me. I’d thought we had a good thing going. Sure, my job could be demanding. I was the best pediatric urologist in the region. Those kids needed me, and I couldn’t exactly ignore my pages. I knew Noah wanted me home more, but I thought she understood.

Until I came home to a dark house.

“Can you drop him off tomorrow night?” she asked, eyes on my beard.

I suppressed a grin. She’d always liked when I went without shaving for a few days. I was pushing dress code at work, but seeing the look in her eyes was worth it. “Of course,” I said, voice soft.

“I would just get him myself, but it’d buy me some extra study time.”

“It’s no problem.” I swallowed, and stepped onto the porch. “Look, Noah, I can take him for the week, if that helps.”

Those triangular eyes narrowed. “Our current custody agreement works just fine.”

“I know,” I said quickly. “I just meant, if you need me to step up to sixty/forty custody, just to give you more time for school—”

She laughed, a short, bitter bark. “How exactly would that work? Are you going to take a vacation?”

I licked my lips. “I’m trying to help.”

“Or are you just going to send him to your mom’s?” She clenched her keys.

Jaw tightening, I sucked in a deep breath. “I’m just going to finish my coffee,” I sat flatly. “I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

“Great,” she said. She turned, boots scraping against the ground. Her heel spun, sliding over a small patch of ice that the snow removal guy had missed. Legs flying out in opposite directions, she started to fall.

I jumped down from the porch, bare feet slapping against the freezing cold walkway. Pebbles of salt bit into the soles of my feet. Arms outstretched, I reached for her. I hooked one arm under her bottom, wrapping another around her shoulders, and drew her into me.

We both went down.

I landed hard on my back, the air exiting my lungs in an icy whoosh. My body absorbed the impact, and I cradled Noah in my arms. With a grunt, I met her eyes.

Only inches separated us. Those blue eyes stared into mine, both wonder and fear mingling in them. I frowned. She had nothing to fear from me. I would never hurt her. Both the oaths I’d taken bound me from harming her: the Hippocratic Oath, and my marriage vows.

Even though our marriage was technically over, I’d never break them.

“Are you okay?” she whispered. Her breath warmed my face.

“Yes,” I rasped. I tried to suck in a deep breath, but my lungs were still in shock.

A strand of hair escaped her beanie, caressing my cheek. “I’m sorry,” she said, lips so close to mine, all I had to do was lift my head.

“Good thing,” I panted, “I’m off today.”

“Good thing you’re a doctor.” A corner of her mouth lifted. “Tell me what to do for you, Dr. Wester.”

Come home, I wanted to say. As my lungs started working correctly, though, I realized my arms were still around her—my hand still on her ass. I loosened my grip, releasing her.

She brushed snow out of my hair. “Thank goodness your head landed in the snow.”

I glanced around. Sure enough, we’d twisted as we fell. The snow wasn’t exactly soft, but it’d saved me from cracking my head open on the pavement.

Noah rolled off me, and my body instantly went cold without her. I sucked in a deep breath to salve the ache in my chest. She stood, holding her hand out to me.

Reaching for her, I braced my elbow against the walkway, pushing off as her hand closed around mine. I outweighed her by at least 100 lb. “Thanks.”

Biting her lip, she walked around me, evaluating. “You look okay to me, but you fell hard, Levi.”

“I’m fine,” I lied. “Really. It’s nothing a little Advil can’t fix.”

Most of the damage wasn’t physical, though. All of the painkillers in the world couldn’t help me, not with Noah out of my life.

“Theo’s inside, too,” she said, as if reminding herself that she had no obligation to stick around and nurse me.

“He’s going to be devastated to hear that I won’t be running with him for a while.” I shooed her. “Go. We’ll be fine.”

“Okay.” Her eyes flicked up to mine for a moment, then darted away. Without another word, she moved carefully down the driveway.

Just like in our divorce, I’d absorbed the impact. Noah always got away clean, leaving me to lick my wounds. Before she left, all I’d wanted was a family and a career, but I couldn’t juggle the two. After, I’d thrown myself into work, dropping the ball as a father in an effort to save my patients and give my son everything he wanted. Sometimes I thought I’d never find the right balance.

The Stairs Between Us

The Stairs Between Us, Chapter 1

No matter how much time passed, part of me would always long to be back in that house. I wanted the man I’d married. The man who looked at me as if I was his whole world, his eyes filled with the dreams he had for us. The Levi who saw the whole picture and wanted to keep looking.

That Levi was gone. I didn’t know how to get him back, so I left.

Noah

The early morning glow filtered through the blinds—the wrong kind of light. It should’ve tipped me off, but it never did. I rolled onto my side to face him, a hand automatically stretching out. My fingers touched cool sheets.

Empty bed.

No husband.

There were still mornings when I woke, half expecting to find myself in my husband’s house, in our bed. Most mornings, actually. I should’ve been used to it, but somewhere between sleep and the land of the living, my brain kept glitching out.

Levi always kept blackout curtains in our bedroom. Those sheets never saw the light of day. With his odd hours, he needed to be able to sleep no matter what time of day.

I squeezed my eyes shut, willing myself back to that bedroom, to that life. To the person that I was. The velvet inside of my eyelids glowed red from the diffused light, the illusion shattered.

Even though I’d divorced my husband, I still missed him.

No matter how much I missed him, though, I’d had to leave.

I glanced at the alarm clock on my nightstand. I didn’t have to get up for another fifteen minutes, but I couldn’t go back to sleep. My brain already ticked through each thing I had to do for the day, a perpetual running list that never shut up—even while I slept.

Running feet pounded the carpeted hallway as my six-year-old son zoomed toward my room. He flew through the open door and bounded into bed with me.

“Good morning, Momma!”

Pushing away all of my worries, I snuggled him into my arms. “I love my cup of morning Joey.” I inhaled the scent of his mousy brown hair, breathing in the scent of sleep and berry kids’ shampoo from his bath the night before.

“Am I going to Daddy’s today?”

“Tomorrow, buddy.” I hugged him tighter. “Today’s Friday.”

Joey giggled. “No, Momma. Today’s Saturday.”

He was right. I threw on a smile to hide my grimace. “Are you sure? I can still bring you to school.” My fingers found his ribs, tickling lightly.

He squealed, wriggling away from me. “No school. I want to go home. I mean, to Daddy’s.” He studied my face with dark eyes that were so like Levi’s, waiting for my reaction.

“Daddy’s house is your home, too,” I reminded him. My heart throbbed with guilt. What I did hadn’t been easy on my son. As much as I missed Levi, I knew Joey missed the three of us being together even more, no matter how much of a brave face he put on.

“Why . . . ?” His voice trailed off.

“What, buddy?” I sat up in bed, tendrils of dark hair reaching down my back, tickling my skin as they tumbled over my shoulders.

“Never mind,” he mumbled. His eyebrows remained pinched together, though.

“Honey? Talk to me.” I stroked his smooth, creamy white cheek with my thumb.

“Why can’t we go home?” Those round brown eyes stared up at me.

“We are home.” I gathered him into my lap. “This is my home, and Daddy’s house is his home, and both of those places are your home. Remember?”

Twisting in my arms, Joey came face to face with me. “Seems like a lot of homes.”

I chuffed a tiny laugh through my nose, a smile touching my lips. That was another way that Joey was like Levi. They both thought logically. All of the pieces needed to fit, no room for arguments or emotions. Sometimes I wondered if this boy was even mine. The only physical feature he’d inherited from me was my chin. My sapphire eyes skipped him, and his genes took off running after his father.

“Sometimes mommies and daddies need to have more than one home.” I patted his leg.

“Yes,” he said, as if explaining to a toddler, “but one home costs less money.”

“I know you want things to be the way they used to be, but we’re still a family.”

Joey slid out of my arms and off the bed. “We have a lot of bills.” He turned and padded toward the hall in his bare feet. “Can we have pancakes?” he asked over his shoulder as he ambled out of sight.

I sighed. Even though he was only six, he saw and heard everything. He noted the bills piling on the table, some with red PAST DUE stamps, and assembled the pieces. Just like he saw Levi’s empty kitchen table, the mortgage already paid off and the bills automatically withdrawn from his checking account.

Leaving my husband had cost me more than I’d been prepared to lose.

Life went on, though. It had to. If I spent too much time assessing my decision, I might doubt it. And I didn’t have room in my life to start second-guessing myself.

The damage was done, as they said.

I climbed out of bed and wrapped myself in my thick flannel bathrobe, tucking my feet into slippers. As I moved through my room, I glanced out the window. Part of me hoped that I’d see snow on the ground, January continuing its pattern of dumping snow on our small New England town just so I could keep Joey for one more day. No such luck, though. Both the sky and streets were clear.

That soft morning sunlight kept on shining.

On Saturday mornings before it all fell apart, Levi let me sleep in. I’d wake up to coffee in the carafe and my husband flipping omelettes on the stove. I’d hop up onto the counter, he’d hand me a plate, and I’d wrap my legs around his waist. Then I’d feed us both little bites while we talked about our dreams and laughed.

Sometimes dreams can turn into nightmares, though. You can become consumed by what you think you want, until your view of everything around you slowly narrows and you lose sight of what’s important. The people you leave behind are forced to pick up the pieces, to make the hard decisions.

I couldn’t explain these things to my son, though. At only six, his world view was simple: mommies and daddies stayed together. At least, his were supposed to. No matter how many times I read him children’s books about divorce, or how many kids in his first grade class told him their parents separated too, Joey would always want us back together.

I couldn’t blame him.

No matter how much time passed, part of me would always long to be back in that house. The days I longed for, though, weren’t the later years of our marriage. I wanted to return to before Joey was born. Not because I didn’t want my son, but because I wanted the man I’d married. The man who held my hand on our walk over to campus, who slipped sweet little notes into my backpack.

I wanted the Levi who looked at me as if I was his whole world, his brown almond-shaped eyes filled with the dreams he had for us. The Levi who saw the whole picture and wanted to keep looking.

That Levi was gone, though, replaced with a cold lookalike who barely saw me when he bothered to come home. The doppelgänger who came home from the hospital hardly glanced at our son, ignoring his pleas to “Come play dinosaurs with me, Daddy.”

I shuffled into the kitchen where Joey already stood on a chair at the counter. A mixing bowl and the box of pancake mix sat in front of him.

“I waited for you,” he told me.

Kissing the top of his head, I grabbed a measuring cup. He was already six. There weren’t too many pancake mornings left, fewer still afternoons spent playing with dinosaurs in a sandbox.

Whether you paid attention or not, time kept moving forward.

“Wanna stir?” I asked my son. He nodded and I handed him a rubber spatula. “Go for it.”

“Momma,” he began as I poured water into the mix.

I paused, holding the measuring cup over the board. “Yeah?”

“You’re putting too much water.”

Peering at the pancake mix and the water already in the bowl, I shook my head. “Honey, I’ve been making pancakes since before you were born.”

“Momma,” he said again. “It’s a two to three ratio.”

I blinked at him. “It’s a do what now?”

Joey sighed. “It’s one and a half cups of water for every two cups of mix.” Gently, he took the measuring cup from my hand and set it down. Then he grabbed the box and pointed to the chart on the back. “See?”

Shaking my head, I moved toward the coffee pot. “I’ll just let you handle that, then,” I told him, reminded again of how like Levi he was. Math and science—those came easily to the men of my heart. When I made pancakes, I just added water until the batter was right. When Levi made them, the measurements had to be exact.

Precision made for a fantastic surgeon. Surgeons made for terrible spouses. I just hoped that Joey wouldn’t take after his father in that department, too.

Just One More Minute, Chapter 2

Matt slumped into a chair in Katherine’s office. After hearing the news the other night, he hadn’t even wanted to open the bakery for the next day. There was no point. The place was lifeless without her. But she’d made it abundantly clear to him that she wanted him to keep the place going if anything happened to her. Her lawyer was definitely making sure sure that he followed her last wishes, too.

So he’d opened up Elli’s on Saturday and accepted a steady stream of customers mourning Katherine. He spent the day serving them coffee and pastries, pushing his own feelings aside. There was no choice. If he thought about his mentor too much, he would break. Katherine had been more than that, really. She’d been like a mother to him.

He’d closed early and fallen into a heavy sleep, resolving not to open on Sunday. But the lawyer had given him a friendly wakeup call that morning, imploring him to get to work. Matt didn’t know what to expect, but nothing had changed. People continued to flock to Elli’s, offering him their condolences and treating the weekend as a memorial service in and of itself.

He dragged a hand through his brown curls, sighing. He’d made it through most of the weekend, but he had no idea what would happen next. Without Katherine, he had no job. It was only a matter of time.

The smart thing to do would be to skip the wake that evening and spend the night figuring out what he was going to do. He’d graduated high school only by the skin of his teeth. College hadn’t even been an option. If it wasn’t for Katherine, he and his family would be homeless. And he would never be able to thank her for what she’d done for him.

There was no way he could miss her wake, though. The thought of seeing her in a casket simultaneously made him nauseous and sent pain searing through his chest, but he had to pay his last respects. He owed her at least that—even if it would cost him dearly.

Matt rubbed his face with his hands. The whole situation was all too familiar. He’d been one of very few people who had known Katherine was sick. She hadn’t even intended to tell him, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew the side effects of chemo. He’d watched her get weaker and weaker, once again powerless to stop the inevitable. On its own, his grief for his father was unbearable, but losing Katherine was like ripping a scab off a large, still raw wound. The anger, sadness, and helplessness enveloping him were familiar, but that didn’t make dealing with those feelings any easier.

Shoulders slumped, he stood from his seat. On his way into the kitchen to clean up, he paused in the hall. The front end needed a run-through, too. His limbs felt frozen. Without any customers, the place felt too empty. Katherine would kill him if he left the place anything less than spotless, though. Torn, he glanced back at the kitchen, then at the cafe. Normally he wasn’t so indecisive, but he felt reluctant to clean either room. All he wanted to do was go home and collapse into bed. Maybe then he’d wake up and discover it’d all been a bad dream.

Danny and his mom were waiting at home for him, though. The thought of his family jolted him into action. They depended on him. He needed to stay strong.

It didn’t take long for him to clean up, even though he took his time. Once he started, he relaxed easily into the familiar ritual. He was suddenly all too aware that the sooner he locked up, the closer he’d be on his way to the wake. There was only so much procrasti-cleaning he could do, though. Squaring his shoulders, he put the mop away and grabbed his keys from the office. He set the alarm, then slipped out into the hot afternoon.

His pickup didn’t have air conditioning. He’d parked in the shady corner of the parking lot earlier that morning. Though it’d been dark when he arrived, the truck rested underneath a sprawling oak. Even though he’d left the windows wide open, when he opened the door, steaming hot air rushed out at him. The sooner he got it moving, the better.

He took the long way home—not that there was really a long way in Watertown. He crossed the small town into the even smaller town of Oakville within just a few minutes. Parking in front of the three-family house where he and his family lived, he shut the engine off. He needed to compose himself before he walked in and Danny saw his face.

The wake would start in just a couple of hours. Everything was happening too quickly. He needed a moment, but life was unrelenting. The best he could do was stop fighting and let himself be carried.

The problem was, he had no idea which direction he should float in.

Steeling himself, he pushed open the car door and got out. As he walked toward the door that led to his apartment, he felt eyes on him. Casually, he glanced up to the third floor. His upstairs neighbor Burton glared down at him through the blinds.

“That old fucker blocked me in again.”

Matt turned toward the door to the first floor apartment, shoulders tense. He did not feel like dealing with Maureen at the moment. If he brushed her off, though, she would take it personally. She and Burton had already dragged him into their war, each trying to force him to pick sides. He had no idea how Switzerland always remained so neutral. Juggling neighbors was hard. Besides, he was inclined to get along with Maureen because she frequently looked after Danny for him.

“What else is new?” he asked, keeping his tone light.

Maureen nodded toward the other side of the house. “So I knocked his garbage over.” She smirked.

Great. Burton would, without a doubt, blame Danny. Every time Matt’s little brother played outside, Burton made an effort to intimidate him back inside. The old fucker was territorial and mean. Matt opened his mouth, then shut it. Reminding Maureen that she had other neighbors would do no good. He’d have to remember to clean up the mess as soon as she went inside. He climbed the steps to his door and put a hand on the knob.

“Want a cigarette?” Maureen asked, holding out the pack to him.

He considered it. A cigarette would help soothe his nerves. But he’d promised Danny he would never smoke again, and he intended to keep that promise—even if his mother didn’t. “I’ve got a wake to get to.”

Maureen’s lips twitched to the side and her eyebrows slanted. “Sorry to hear that.” She took a drag from her cigarette. “I’ll catch you later, then,” she said, exhaling smoke as she spoke.

Closing the door behind him, Matt climbed the flight of stairs that led to the final door to his apartment. They were steep, creaking and groaning beneath him. He still thought the placement of the stairs was odd, but he was glad that there were two doors separating him from his neighbors.

As soon as he opened the door, Danny flung himself into his arms. “Matty,” his little brother said affectionately. The kid hadn’t hit puberty yet, and his voice was still childlike. Soon that would change, though.

“Is Mom . . . ?” Matt let the question hang in the air.

Danny nodded. “She said to get her up before the, well, you know.” He looked down at the floor.

Matt knelt in front of him. “You don’t have to go, if you don’t want to.” He considered for a moment. “But you’d have to hang out outside the funeral home—unless you want to stay with Maureen.”

His little brother shook his head rapidly. “I’ll bring my Gameboy.”

Matt smiled. The Gameboy Advance had been his, from his own childhood. Despite its age, Danny loved the Pokemon Red and Super Mario Bros. games that Matt had played at his age. He was glad he’d held onto it. Neither he or his mother could afford to get Danny the latest Nintendo handheld device, and definitely not something as expensive as an iPad. But if the kid knew the difference, he didn’t let on. Danny was a good boy.

Straightening, Matt glanced around the kitchen. Cereal bowls from that morning were still on the table, soggy Os floating in probably rancid milk. He sighed. “You’ve got to remember to clean up, Danny.” Though he hated that his little brother had joined the Take Care of Mom club, eleven was old enough to put a dish in the sink.

After he rinsed the bowls out and set them in the sink to soak, Matt headed into the bathroom. “I’ll be out in a few. Wake Mom up,” he called over his shoulder.



He pulled into the funeral home’s lot and followed one of the usher’s directions into a parking spot. “Danny,” he said, turning in his seat. His little brother sat bent over his Gameboy. “It’s too hot to stay in the car while we’re inside so go sit in the shade over there.” He pointed to a grassy area. A bench sat underneath a tree. From there, engrossed in his game, Danny probably wouldn’t even remember that he was at a funeral home. Or so Matt hoped.

Matt unbuckled his seat belt and slid out of the car. At some point, he’d have to stop babying his little brother. He knew that. But he’d never forget the look on Danny’s face when they first walked into another room in another funeral home, six years earlier. Matt hadn’t even been prepared for how their dad would look, the once tan skin ashen and flat. Their father had looked like a sleeping statue, a parody of himself.

Shaking the memories away, Matt went around to his mother’s side of the car. He opened her door and offered her his arm. She glanced up at him from beneath thinning lashes, her eyes somber.

“You can hang out with Danny, if you want,” he said gently.

Relief flickered across her face for a moment, then she shook her head. She lifted her chin. “Katherine did so much for you—for us,” Emily said. She clasped his arm and climbed out of the car, grimacing in pain at his touch. Grief had not been kind to her. Where she’d once been strong, Fibromyalgia wracked her nerves, the stress of losing her husband aggravating her illness.

Still, he was able to lead her into the funeral home without much trouble. He started to guide her to a seat, but she shook her head. Nodding, he led her toward the line. It was long.

While they waited, he tried to look anywhere but the casket. The room was crowded with people, many of the faces familiar. He glanced at the line of family members receiving condolences. He’d only met Katherine’s brother Noah once. He could only assume the woman standing next to him was his wife. He knew Katherine hadn’t exactly seen eye to eye with her family, but he’d never learned why. He was pretty sure that, if Katherine could have it her way, none of them would be at the wake or funeral.

The line of mourners moved forward, rapidly passing time shoving Matt closer to the casket. He forced himself to focus on something else as he moved his feet.
Next to Mr. and Mrs. Ellis stood their daughters and son. Their oldest daughter, he knew, was a relatively successful theatre actress out in New York City. Their son was a teenager who regularly got into trouble, though. He’d barely graduated high school, but only because he preferred to smoke pot and snort pills in the school bathroom. Katherine was not fond of either Mia or Leo.

But she’d loved her other niece.

Matt’s eyes fell on the young woman named Rowan. He’d never met her, but he felt as if he knew her. As he took in the sight of her, his breath caught in his throat. The dress she wore hugged her curves, its pencil skirt shape falling to just above her knees. Though the neckline reached her collarbone, parts of the dress that stretched across her breastbone were tastefully cut out in three diamond shapes. Light brown hair fell in waves down to her waist. She was stunning—much more so than the photos on Katherine’s desk hinted at.

Pale blue eyes met his from across the room. Recognition flashed across her face. Her eyes widened. He smiled, starting to lift a hand. Rowan’s eyes narrowed in a hard glare. Her lips twitched in distaste.

Turning around, he glanced about for the object of her anger. No one in the vicinity seemed to even notice her, though. He glanced back at her. She was definitely glaring at him.

And she wasn’t happy.

Matt took an involuntary step back. The line moved forward—Murphy’s Law. He realized that his mom was eyeing him expectantly, one brow lifted in question. For once, his mother was more possessed than he was. He shook his head at himself, then joined her. Throwing a glance at the casket, he tried to decide what he was going to do once up there.

People knelt, bowed their heads, and after a few seconds, made the sign of the cross. Then they stood up. Though his father had been raised Jewish, Matt’s parents had basically raised him Protestant. All that came to an end six years before. He knew Katherine’s family was far from religious—never mind Catholic—so the ritual seemed even more impersonal to him.

What he really wanted to do was shake her awake and take her out for a coffee, escaping from the too warm room and all the formalities. The thought was absurd, but there it was.

Suddenly it was his turn.

He hadn’t noticed his mother go ahead of him. She stood off to the side, waiting for him.

Matt wiped the palms of his hands on his worn black Dickies. He stepped forward. Swallowing hard against the dry knot in his throat, he knelt down in front of the casket. He found himself staring into Katherine’s arm. Quickly he bowed his head.

He didn’t know how to pray, or if he should even bother. He had no idea what happened after life. Heart thudding in his chest, he tried to think of what he’d want to say to Katherine if he’d had the chance.

I’m sorry, he blurted into the spaces of his mind. I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry—

Someone in the line behind him cleared their throat. Matt’s head snapped up. With a final nod, he jumped away from the casket and joined his mom.

She gave his arm a squeeze.

Together, they turned toward Katherine’s family.

“I’m so sorry,” Emily said, clasping Noah’s hand.

The man nodded his thanks. The bitter, sticky scent of marijuana oozed off of him. His eyes were red-rimmed and glassy. In fact, Matt noticed as he moved down the line shaking hands, the entire Ellis family smelled like weed. A smile tugged at his lips but he forced his face to remain blank. Part of him wished they’d invited him to spark up. The scent was so strong, it almost knocked him over. All of them were engulfed in it—except for Rowan.

He stopped in front of her. She smelled clean, a light fragrance hovering around her like an aura, enveloping him in soothing warmth. Standing next to her family, she was a complete contrast—in more than one way. Her father and brother, for example, wore rumpled jeans. Rowan stood out in her funeral black. And while her family’s eyes were bloodshot, relaxed smiles painted their faces. Her eyes were red and swollen, and her mouth tugged down in a frown.

So maybe she hadn’t been glaring at him after all. Her family appeared almost jovial. No wonder she looked so pissed.

He held out his hand to her. “I’m Matt,” he said.

She wrapped her arms around herself. “I know who you are.” Her tone was sharp.

He blinked. Okay. He wouldn’t take it personally. She’d just lost her aunt, after all. “Katherine really loved you,” he offered. “She talked about you all the time.”

For a moment, Rowan’s face softened. A smile lit up her face. Then fresh tears filled her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly.

She gazed at him, a mixture of emotions playing off her face—feelings he couldn’t read.

He stood there, feeling more awkward with each second that passed. His feet felt rooted to the floor, though. Something about her drew him in. It was familiar, almost as if they knew each other. But he’d never met her. Only through Katherine’s stories did he know that she made delicious pastries and that her face turned bright red when she swore. But still. He felt an almost relief in her presence, the same kind that came from being reunited with someone you love and haven’t seen in a long time.

It was ridiculous. He didn’t believe in instalove. The crazy thing was, though, that for a second, she looked like she felt something too.

Then the mask slipped back over her face. Her eyes narrowed, guarded.

He needed to say something. People behind him pressed closer. He was holding the line up. He should tell a funny story about Katherine, bring that smile back again. Give her something to carry with her. Blank static filled his mind, though. He’d spent the last two years working with Katherine, yet he couldn’t recall a single moment. His pulse echoed in his ears. He realized that he might just be having a panic attack. The wake was proving to be too much for him.

Resolving to find her again before he left, he mumbled another quick sorry, then hurried away. He retreated to a seat at the back of the wide room. Then he cursed himself.

He’d had a chance to pay it forward, to spread some of Katherine’s kindness toward him to her niece. And he’d botched it—completely. Bringing his hands to his face, he bent over. Suddenly, he needed air. He stood and headed toward the exit.

Just One More Minute

🧁 enemies to friends to lovers
🧁 small town
🧁 bakery
🧁 healing together
🧁 diverse characters
🧁 group of friends

Just One More Minute, Chapter 1

Rowan peered into the oven, her hand guarded by a thick oven mitt. The scent of chocolate wafted toward her. Though the brownies smelled done, the slightly chocolate-coated toothpick in her free hand told her otherwise. “Just one more minute,” she decided. Pushing the pan back inside, she closed the door.

Brownies were hardly a healthy dinner, but she’d had a long night at work. Usually she didn’t mind her job waitressing tables at the diner. Sean’s regular crowd gently teased her but left generous tips. But Sean’s was also right off the highway, and every once in a while they got drunk strangers. Her soiled clothing was currently cycling through its second run in her old washing machine. After being vomited on, anyone would need a good dose of chocolate.

And wine.

Maybe it was a sign that she needed to get out of waitressing. The problem was, she had no idea what she should do instead. She’d finished her A.S. in May. Given her experience, she could apply for a management position at a restaurant. The pay would be decent, but she just wasn’t sure that she wanted to work holidays and weekends for the rest of her life.

Sighing, she turned away from the oven and grabbed her notepad. With a swipe of her pen, she adjusted the time on the recipe that she was working on. In the three years since she’d started her blog, she had yet to post a recipe for brownies. She was about to remedy that.

Her blog was also an option. Because of it, she earned a pretty decent side income. Between affiliate sales and paid product reviews, she was able to pay her rent, and her waitressing income took care of her bills and other expenses. Now that she was out of school, if she quit her job and focused on her blog full-time, she could easily turn that income into a living. The idea of sitting in her kitchen all day didn’t really appeal to her, though. She liked bantering with her customers at Sean’s. Though her readers left great comments and busted her balls just fine, it wasn’t the same as face to face interaction.

She had no idea what she wanted.

The timer on her oven went off. Her minute was up. She pulled the pan of brownies out of the oven and set it on top of the burners of the stove. Immediately she turned the oven off. Despite the sun having set hours ago, the temperature outside hovered in the upper eighties. It was going to be a brutal summer.

Her father would tell her that she was crazy for baking in eighty-degree weather—and that she needed to add something special to those brownies. She rolled her eyes at the thought, then frowned, pushing away the memories of her childhood. She’d moved to New Jersey almost the second she graduated high school, and she’d never looked back. She was over it and her parents. Mostly.

The brownies had to cool before she could cut them, so she left the oven and ambled into her living room area. As she crossed the small studio, she glanced at a photo on the wall of her aunt Katherine. Her heart twisted. She hadn’t seen her aunt in two years. They talked on the phone occasionally, but things weren’t the same. Too much was unspoken between them.

Closer to the air conditioner, she felt the sweat on her face drying. She sat down on her futon, tucking her legs underneath her. She drummed her fingers on her thigh. She didn’t have cable, and opening up her laptop and surfing YouTube would only make her feel guilty that she wasn’t working on her blog post instead. She bit her lip. Maybe it was time to get cable.

Her phone vibrated against the worn coffee table. Frowning, Rowan leaned forward for it. It was almost midnight. She didn’t recognize the number. Silencing the phone, she figured someone had probably dialed wrong—it happened.

Almost a minute later, a notification flashed across the screen. One new voicemail. Her frown deepened. She’d had enough of drunks for one night. Reaching for the phone, she plucked it off the table. Without listening to the voicemail, she deleted it.

The brownies had cooled for long enough. Hopping off the futon, she returned to the oven. Knife in hand, she brushed a strand of mousy brown hair from her face and began slicing the brownies free. She stifled a yawn. She’d better wrap up her brownie fix soon. She had a morning shift at the diner.

Balancing a plate of square brownies in one hand, she trotted to the refrigerator. She set the plate down and poured herself a glass of milk. She plucked three brownies from the plate and carried her feast back to the futon.

It didn’t take long for her to eat them. With a sigh, she brought her dishes to the sink. Then she opened up the futon. Stripping down to just her tank top and panties, she lay down. She stared into the darkness for a long time before sleep came.

It was Friday night.



When Rowan woke early the next morning, she had another voicemail from the same number. She stared at the screen of her phone for a long moment. The number had a Connecticut area code. While that didn’t necessarily mean anything—she’d bought her phone when she was still living in her home state—she couldn’t ignore the alarm bells going off in her head. Still, she didn’t have time. It was going to have to wait.

She dressed quickly and, on her way out, grabbed a brownie for breakfast. She arrived at Sean’s just as her boss of the same name was unlocking the door.

“Morning,” she greeted him.

He gave her a half grunt, half sigh in response, then a crooked smile. Pushing the door open, he motioned for her to go first. As she passed him, she couldn’t help but notice that his eyes were underlined by dark circles. His long hours at the diner were taking their toll. He’d never been a morning person, but she knew he’d stayed long after they closed the night before, prepping for the next day.

As far as she knew, she was the only server he’d scheduled for the morning. Usually, she appreciated the gesture. Though she knew it was really because he knew his sunrise customers preferred her to the other servers, it was nice to be valued. But early Saturday mornings were always slow. There was no one on their way to work. The sleepy little town caught up on rest and yard work on weekends.

With a sigh, she tied on her apron and prepared for the long day ahead. Even though she and Sean would be the only ones drinking it for the better part of the morning, she made coffee. She set tables with paper placemats and rolled silverware. When she was finished, she brought her boss a cup of coffee and perched on the counter next to him. They sat in silence for several long minutes. While she watched him prepare the register and type up the specials for the day, her thoughts again turned to her impending future. She loved the diner, but it wasn’t exactly a career.

Just before he flipped the sign to open for the day, Sean gave her shoulder a squeeze. “Everything okay, kiddo?”

“Man, I must look bad.” Though Rowan often suspected that he considered her like a daughter, he rarely asked about her personal life. She never asked about his, either, though. She knew he’d come to New Jersey a stray, too, but didn’t know the circumstances.

“You look like you’re in deep thought.” He gave her a smile, the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes crinkling.

She bit her lip. He was the closest thing she had to a father figure. Maybe he could give her advice. Taking a sip of her coffee, she watched as he sank into a chair at one of the tables. “How did you decide that you wanted to run a diner for the rest of your life?”

His eyebrows rose. “The rest of my life? Are you trying to punish me?”

“Well, you know what I mean.” Her stomach rumbled. Suddenly she regretted having eaten nothing but brownies in the last twenty-four hours.

One of his eyebrows twitched. “I didn’t really know,” he hedged, hitting the print button on his laptop. Underneath the counter, the printer coughed and spurted. The sheets that would become table tents for the day’s specials spewed onto the tray.

“You ended up here somehow,” she persisted. “What did you decide to do after finishing high school?”

Sean collected the pile of copies and began assembling them. “I didn’t.”

“You didn’t finish high school?” she teased.

“No.” His brown eyes met hers.

Feeling her cheeks flush, she managed a small “Oh.”

“Rowan, those were different days. My grades weren’t the best, and I was always getting into trouble for minor things. They didn’t really know what to do with me, to tell you the truth. So I left one day and never went back.” He finished putting together the table tents and began dispersing them to the tables.

She sighed. “I just don’t know what to do,” she said.

“Well, you graduated high school and college, so you’re two steps ahead of me.” His eyes twinkled.

The door opened and the white-haired Mr. and Mrs. Kostenko shuffled in for their morning coffee fix. Rowan grinned at them in greeting and grabbed two mugs. Her day had begun.



Halfway through her shift, she paused for a short break. As she passed Sean at the grill, he handed her a plate of food. “Eat.”

With a nod, she carried her meal to a table tucked into a dim corner of the diner. Lifting her fork, she also slid her phone out of her apron. It was the weekend and she was officially done with school. She shouldn’t spend it alone.

She meant to text a friend from the community college she’d attended, but froze. There were two more voicemails from the Connecticut number. Dread pitted in her stomach. One or two calls she could write off as a wrong number. Four were a whole other story.

Someone was trying to get ahold of her.

Glancing at Sean’s back, she lifted the phone to her ear. “Hello, this is Attorney Damien Ward again,” the voicemail began. “I’m looking for Ms. Rowan Ellis. It is extremely important that you contact me as soon as possible regarding an urgent family matter.” He left his phone number and encouraged her to call him back immediately.

She bit her lip. It sounded important, but she couldn’t discern the nature of the call from his voice. He seemed calm and collected, not the bearer of bad news. And though his Connecticut area code made her inclined to take him seriously, there was a part of her that realized he could be a scam artist.

But scam artists didn’t call repeatedly in the same day, at least not in her experience. Usually they waited twenty-four hours, or called from different numbers without leaving voicemails.

Maybe it wasn’t anything to worry about. If something had happened to her parents or siblings, one of her family members would have called. Not some lawyer. At least, she thought so. Sometimes her family acted so indifferent toward her, she supposed it was possible that they would alert her passively.

The lawyer had said “urgent family matter.” Maybe her parents were getting divorced. But they wouldn’t need her approval for that.

Her brow furrowed. There was that time her father had a questionable relationship with one of his students. A professor at Naugatuck Valley in Waterbury, he’d been spending a lot of time with an eighteen-year-old in one of his philosophy classes. Though rumors flying around said they were having sex in his office, the investigation had been dropped and he’d been cleared. At the time, Rowan’s mother hadn’t even been jealous. She suspected her parents had somewhat of an open marriage. Maybe something like that was going on again, and her father had to go to court.

She wanted nothing to do with it.

Picking up her fork again, she decided not to call Ward back.



Her shift at Sean’s ended at one in the afternoon. She escaped into the steamy summer air and headed toward her car. With the rest of the day wide open, she should hit the beach or do something equally relaxing. Every bone in her body ached for a nap, though. She’d only slept four hours the night before.

She slid into her car and gingerly touched the steering wheel. Grimacing, she pulled her hand away. She turned the key in the ignition and blasted the air conditioning. It didn’t take long for cold air to come out, but it would take a few minutes until the steering wheel was cool enough to touch. She pulled her phone out of the back pocket of her pants and reached for the cord that connected her phone to the stereo. The screen of the phone lit up, the familiar Connecticut number flashing.

Rowan sighed. As much as she didn’t want to get involved with her family’s affairs, she felt bad for wasting the lawyer’s time. It wasn’t his fault that her family was a train wreck. She pressed the phone to her ear. “Hello?”

“Oh!” He sounded surprised. “I was going to leave you another voicemail.” He chuckled. “My name is Attorney Damien Ward. I’ve been trying to get in touch with you.”

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’ve been working.” Testing the steering wheel, she deemed it cool enough to grip. Holding the phone to her ear with one hand, she used her other hand to guide the car out of Sean’s parking lot. Though it was illegal to drive in New Jersey while using a phone without a hands-free earpiece, she’d mastered the art of dropping her phone at the first sight of a patrol car.

“Are you working now?” the lawyer asked in his smooth baritone.

“No.” She turned onto the street and headed toward her apartment.

“I’m afraid I have some bad news.” He hesitated for a moment.

Rowan’s heart pounded in her chest. Suddenly she wasn’t so sure that it had anything to do with her family’s antics. Something awful had happened.

“I’m your aunt Katherine’s attorney. I handle her business affairs, and her estate,” he continued.

Rowan’s heart dropped into her stomach. She swerved onto the shoulder of the road, throwing the car into park.

“Your aunt wanted me to notify you immediately, should anything happen to her. I’m so sorry, Ms. Ellis. Katherine passed away last night.” His voice, filled with regret, was suddenly drowned out by a high pitched ringing in her ears.

A sob escaped her lips. Not Katherine. Though they had their problems, she loved her aunt. Katherine had been the only member of her family to treat her like a normal person. It couldn’t be true. “How?” she gasped.

The attorney sighed. “Cancer,” he said, voice breaking. “She didn’t want anyone to know.”

Tears gushed down her cheeks. She sat numbly, the engine still running. Cold air blasted against her face, but she didn’t feel it.

“The wake is tomorrow night,” Damien Ward said. “I’ve made all of the arrangements according to her final wishes. I’m so sorry, Ms. Ellis.”

Rowan suppressed the urge to scream. This couldn’t be real. Instead, she slammed her fist on the steering wheel. Pain jolted through her arm, but it was nothing compared to the ache in her heart. She would never get the chance to make up with her aunt. Suddenly she felt childish for running away. At the time, she’d felt double-crossed. That job at her aunt’s bakery was supposed to be hers. It was the whole reason she’d gone to a technical high school and studied culinary arts. But her aunt had given it to someone else instead, and Rowan had decided to move on, out of state. She’d barely spoken to Katherine over the last two years. Now she would never make amends. Her shoulders slumped. She’d been so, so stupid.

“Ms. Ellis?” The lawyer’s tone was gentle. “Your aunt wanted to make sure that you were taken care of in her absence. She’s left her house to you. I can meet you before the wake tomorrow to give you the keys.”

She barely heard him. It was all too much. She didn’t want the house. She wanted Katherine.

“I’m so sorry,” he said again. “I know this is a lot to absorb. But she made it very clear that I was to tell you about the house right away, so that you wouldn’t have to stay with your parents.”

She almost laughed. Even in the afterlife, her aunt was still her ally. Guilt roiled through her stomach. She’d been a stupid teenager. And now she would never be able to fix things.

Just One More Christmas, Part III

Two days left. Rowan had forty-eight hours remaining to get out of her rut. She stared wide-eyed into her coffee mug, one eyebrow lifted in defeated skepticism. There was no way she could fix this in two days. It’d been weeks.

The house that had been her aunt’s enveloped her in silence. Normally, it would be comforting. But it was four in the morning and she should be getting ready for work. Instead, she felt frozen in her seat at Aunt Katherine’s breakfast nook.

What would Aunt Katherine do?

That was the question that kept circling Rowan’s thoughts. As far as she knew, her aunt had never so much as burned a cake. She was sure a young Katherine had her share of botched recipes, but stretching back to her childhood, standing on the same bench she currently sat on while helping “Auntie” mix the batter for banana bread, she couldn’t recall a single mishap. Katherine had a gift. Rowan used to have the same gift, but it seemed as if the universe had changed its mind.

Maybe she didn’t deserve it.

She had, after all, been ungrateful. She’d run away to New Jersey after graduating high school, when her aunt gave her job away to someone else. For two whole years, Rowan hadn’t spoken to anyone in her family—other than a few phone conversations with her aunt. But she hadn’t visited, and she hadn’t called nearly as much as she should have. And then Katherine died.

Just like that.

And now Rowan couldn’t even honor her memory by winning the Christmas cheer contest.

She slumped in her seat and laid her head down on the table. The wood felt cool against her skin. Maybe she was beating herself up too much. Maybe it wasn’t really that important.

“Yeah right,” she mumbled into the table.

Still, life had to go on. She was the owner of a bakery—and it was Christmas time. There were two days left until the competition, and four days left until Christmas. Which meant that Elli’s had lots of orders to fulfill.

Good thing Matt wasn’t burning cookies.

Rowan forced herself to get up from the table. She took her mug to the sink and rinsed it out, smiling as she remembered Katherine’s cardinal rule. There was no time to wash it before she headed out, though. She could just hear her aunt chiding her.

She made it to Elli’s just as Matt pulled up in his pickup. Their routine was familiar, comfortable. She wouldn’t change a thing about their relationship. As she slid out of her car, she wondered if he felt the same. Christmas was, after all, prime engagement season. They’d only been together a few months, though. She grimaced. She thought she knew Matt pretty well, but if he planned on proposing . . .

She shook away the thoughts. Her already building anxiety could not get a full grip on her. She wouldn’t let it.

Joining Matt at the Elli’s entrance, she stood on her tiptoes and pressed a kiss to his lips. They were soft, full, and warm. She felt every atom of her skin melting into him, her lips magnetized to his. It felt like it’d been years since their last kiss.

“Come on,” he whispered against her lips. “Time to get to work.”

She pouted. “Just one more minute?”

Grinning, he unlocked the door behind her, then shooed her in. “Nope. It’s time to break that curse.”

Rowan groaned. “I don’t think it can be broken.” Still, she followed him inside.

“I’ll handle the breads and all that,” he said as she hung up her coat.

She lifted an eyebrow at him. “You don’t trust me?”

“It’s not that. I just don’t want you to feel pressured to take care of everything.”

Even though she wanted to argue, she couldn’t deny the little squeeze in her heart at his words. “Okay.”

Matt smirked. “Okay?”

“Yeah.” She donned her pastry chef jacket and rubbed her hands together. Not for the first time ever, she mused, she’d really thrown him for a loop. “Okay.” She glanced around at the kitchen. She didn’t know where to start.

“I’ll let you do your magic,” he said, disappearing into the back hall.

“Wait. Where are you going?”

He closed the office door behind him.

Frowning, she stared. Though she knew it was wrong, everything in her wanted to press her ear to that door and see what he was doing in there. But they were partners—in more than one way. She had to trust him.

She grabbed the ingredients for brownies and spread them out on the stainless steel counter. She couldn’t screw those up. Not very long ago, she’d made her newly perfected recipe for dinner on yet another lonely bachelorette night. She’d spent the evening waiting on drunk customers at the diner in New Jersey that she used to work at. A soft smile touched her lips. She didn’t miss that part of the job, but she had loved that little diner.

It wasn’t her destiny, though.

She set to it, stirring and humming, determined to wow the town with her special brownies. The recipe had even won some blog awards—though she hadn’t found out until a month earlier. She couldn’t even remember submitting it anywhere. Something told her that Matt had done it without her knowing.

Twenty minutes later, when the brownies were in the oven, Matt still hadn’t come out of the office. Rowan hesitated in the middle of the kitchen, debating. Technically it was her office too. Her birthright, even—Katherine had passed the place on to both of them, but she wasn’t Matt’s aunt. She was Rowan’s.

Not that she wanted to stoop down and play that card.

Still, the curiosity was getting to her. From behind the door, she could hear Matt’s muffled voice. He was on the phone with someone. Maybe he was just ordering from their vendors. But then why close the door? There was no reason to shut her out.

If he was going to start the ciabatta, it’d have to be soon. Lips twisted to the side, she wrestled with bursting in or listening in. They’d been dating for several months—six if she didn’t count the two months they were broken up. She’d never had any reason to not trust him.

But maybe it wasn’t about their relationship at all.

Maybe, considering her baking funk, he was looking for another job. Tilly’s Café was going to clobber Elli’s during the contest. And they had seen a decline in business—even if only tiny. If she couldn’t get it together and stop burning things, she’d lose more than her pride.

She sniffed the air.

“Dammit!”

She turned on her heels and darted toward the oven. Yanking the door open, she peered in. What was supposed to be a perfect pan of brownies was an uneven, half-charred mess.

Rowan pulled it out of the oven and tossed it onto the stove. She’d been so preoccupied, she hadn’t been watching the time or paying attention to the scent.

That was it.

She was ruined.

It was all over.

“I’m sorry, Aunt Katherine,” she whispered. She tugged off the pastry chef jacket and tossed it into the laundry bin. Only months earlier, she’d done the same—back when she’d first lost Katherine and found out she and Matt had to take the place over. They couldn’t get along, no matter how hard they’d tried. It was just too painful, given their past. Back then, she’d thought she’d have to go back to New Jersey with her tail tucked between her legs.

If she lost Elli’s after all that, she didn’t know what she’d do. There was no diner in Jersey to go back to. Her old boss, Sean, had sold the building to a certain giant diner franchise and retired on the hefty profit. What had been Sean’s was now a corporate diner with freezer-burned food and below minimum-wage pay.

And she sure as hell couldn’t get a job as a pastry chef anywhere—not with her recent trail of failures streaking behind her.

With a sigh, she left the kitchen, relegating herself to the dining room. At least up front she could put herself to use cleaning the cases, mopping the floors and, when they were open, serving customers.

That was the only solution. Matt would have to take over the baking, and she’d handle all of the administrative and customer service stuff.

Tears pooled in her eyes. She didn’t want to give up baking. It was her first love. Her only love, really—no offense to Matt. She laughed ruefully. Without baking, she was nothing.

Just another girl from New England with a useless college degree and a long record of failures.



Rowan watched her only customers for the evening walk to their car. It’d long stopped snowing, so the parking lot wasn’t slick anymore, but she still worried over them like a mother hen. They were elderly, and she couldn’t not watch them. Mr. and Mrs. Kostenko had been coming to Elli’s long before she’d been old enough to talk, never mind bake. Usually they came in the morning for their first cup of coffee of the day, but lately they’d been coming in the evening for dessert instead. Rowan suspected they were going to Tilly’s for their coffee.
She turned back to the empty front room. Though it was normal for Elli’s to have a lull at this hour, the jealous part of her imagined all of her customers over at the new bakery.

Whistling, Matt strolled into the room. He marched past her and flipped their sign to the CLOSED side.

“What are you doing?” she asked, whirling on him. “And where have you been?” He’d disappeared again, this time from the property entirely.

“Just sit.”

“Not gonna happen.” She crossed her arms. “What is going on, Matt? Are you leaving Elli’s?”

He blinked. “What? I’m not going anywhere. Please, sit.” He gestured to a table.

Brow furrowed, arms still crossed, she walked over to the table and slipped into a seat.

“Put this on.” He handed her a blindfold.

Accepting the silky cloth, she eyed him. “Is this some weird submissive thing you’ve gotten into?”

His lips twitched. “No, but maybe we’ll hang onto it for later.” He waved at her. “Just put it on.”

“Just do this, just do that. So bossy,” she said, but slid the eye mask on. The dining room disappeared. She shifted uncomfortably. Her anxiety was at an all-time high lately. The last thing she needed was to be kept in the dark—literally. “Hello?” she called.

“Just one more minute,” came Matt’s voice.

She heard shuffling around, a hushed giggle, the crinkle of tissue paper. Her frown reversed into a smile, lips pressed together to keep herself from uttering a delighted laugh. He was up to something, but it was nothing like she’d thought. It was something for her. Her heart squeezed in her chest, ribbons of delight twirling through her.

“Okay,” Matt said. “Take it off.”

She hesitated. Whatever it was, she wanted to savor it. To delight in the moment completely. Swallowing hard, she listened. Nothing in the room moved. Not a single hint. She sniffed the air. The only thing she could smell was the soft, warm scent of crisp pine, like a real Christmas tree—almost, but not quite. She pressed her lips together, trying to puzzle it out.

“You can take that off now, Ro. Really.”

“Just one more minute,” she said, and he laughed.

When she’d soaked in enough of the velvety darkness and the mysterious sparkling pine scent, she pulled the blindfold off.

The front room had been transformed into the most romantic Christmas settings she’d ever seen. Fairy lights twinkled in the darkness, creating a bokeh effect and enveloping the room in soft light. A small faux Christmas tree stood in the center, white lights sparkling. Red bows adorned its branches, and under the tree were a pile of gifts wrapped in silver paper. She’d had no idea Matt could wrap.

Most surprising of all were the people standing around the tree.

Matt, his little brother Danny, and Charlotte stood in one cluster—and Rowan’s own siblings stood in another. Though Leo and Mia looked slightly uncomfortable, the Christmas magic that glimmered in their eyes was unmistakable. Even Mia, who ordinarily unrelentingly teased Rowan, seemed content to be there.

“What is this?” Rowan glanced from face to face. Her eyes skimmed over a buffet table laden with covered food warmed by Sterno. Several of the dining tables had been set for dinner, with a small Yankee Candle lit in the center of each—Sparkling Pine, her favorite holiday scent.

Somehow, he’d known.

“This,” Matt said, “is the first annual Ellis-Hayes Christmas dinner. And Butler,” he added, gesturing to Charlotte. She grinned, bouncing a little on her heels.

Rowan tilted her head, then her eyes widened as understanding dawned. “Mom and Dad still go away for their annual cruise?”

Leo shrugged and looked away.

“Of course they do,” Mia said. “We all know they never really wanted to be parents.”

Rowan sighed. She’d felt like she and her parents—especially her father—had come to an understanding. But some people just weren’t family people. She peeked at Matt. Someday, she promised herself, she would create her own version of the family she’d always wanted.

Matt removed the lids to the trays containing food. Suddenly her senses were assaulted by all sorts of delicious scents: roasted potatoes, lasagna, ham with pineapples, and baked broccoli topped with cheese and crumbled Ritz crackers. Her mouth watered.

“Charlotte?” She gaped at her best friend. “Did you do all this?”

“Yep!” Tendrils of red hair bounced as Charlotte did a happy dance. She gestured for everyone to go get food.

Rowan let them all go ahead. She crossed the room to Matt and wrapped him in a hug. “Thank you,” she murmured, her head tucked into his chest.

Cupping her head, he stroked her hair. “Merry Christmas, Ro.”



Stuffed from Charlotte’s delicious dinner, and intoxicated by all the good cheer from gifts being opened, Rowan pushed her chair back. “I’ve gotta walk, or I’ll turn into a ball,” she said, slipping into her comfy new UGGs.

She ambled into the kitchen, running her fingers along the stainless steel counters. Katherine would love that her bakery had hosted so much joy in it. Sighing contentedly, she gazed around the room. Laughter drifted in from the front. A soft smile touched her lips. She never would’ve thought her and Matt’s families would get along so well. Even Mia had behaved, keeping her innuendos to herself and focusing on the family activities.

Maybe there was hope for her and her sister, after all, Rowan mused.

One thing had been missing from their dinner, though: dessert. After such a rich dinner, they would need something light. Fluffy, but delectable. Something reminiscent of the holiday season.

She strolled around the kitchen, plucking ingredients that reminded her of winter warmth from the shelves. Cocoa to mix into a mousse, for the nice hot cup she enjoyed after shoveling out her car. Candy canes to crush, to sprinkle along the top. Her entire body started to hum, her mind already concocting the creation as she went into The Zone—that far off rabbit hole she fell into while inventing new recipes.

Matt sometimes called it her Looney Tunes hole.

Her hands got to work, whipping and crushing and drizzling. She grabbed white mugs and filled them with the creamy creation, sprinkled the bits of candy cane on top, and drizzled it with hot fudge. She stuck spoons into each one and arranged them on a tray.

Then, body vibrating with anticipation, she carried it out to the dining room.

“I know Santa’s not real,” Danny insisted. “Just come out with it already.”

Matt sighed. “All right, fine. But can you just play along for Mom? She’s really looking forward to this. She thinks it’s going to be your last Christmas.”

“You want me to lie?” Danny’s eyes bulged.

“Santa,” Charlotte gently intervened, “is a feeling. You won’t be lying.”

Danny eyed her suspiciously.

Matt turned in his seat, his gaze snagging on Rowan. “What’s this?”

Grinning, she set the tray down on the table. “Oh, just a little something.”

The group passed the mugs around.

“Should I be scared?” Matt asked, wiggling his eyebrows at her.

“Oh stop,” she said. “It’s broken. I’ve killed the curse!”

“I’ll believe it,” Charlotte said, “when I taste it.” Slowly she lifted a spoonful of mousse to her lips.

Exchanging confused glances, Mia and Leo each took a bite.

“This is amazing, Ro,” Matt said. He pushed his chair back and swept her into his arms, swinging her in a circle. “You’re going to crush Tilly’s with this!”

“What’s Tilly’s?” Danny asked.

“A bakery,” Matt said, “that used to be our competition.”



Bouncing from foot to foot, Rowan tried to sooth her frazzled nerves. The Christmas cheer contest judging had begun. The town clerk had already set out, going from business to business with a panel of judges. Though Matt had decorated the inside of Elli’s and strung up lights outside, she was still nervous.
She’d built on her recipe from the night before, this time putting the mousse into clear tall mugs and alternating red peppermint-flavored mousse and the cocoa mousse, with the crushed candy canes sprinkled on top and a whole candy cane tucked into the side. Silver spoons were the final touch. Any minute, the town clerk would come by to taste her dessert. For all she knew, Tilly had come up with something even more dazzling. After all, Tilly wasn’t burning cakes and cookies.

Matt pressed a hot coffee into her hands. “Here. Drink this. Please.”

She shook her head. “I’m already wired.” She put the tall Starbucks cup down.

“It’ll be okay.” He kissed her temple. “Look. There she is now.”

Swallowing hard, Rowan straightened as the door to Elli’s opened. The bells jingled, but she didn’t need an announcement to let her know the town clerk was there.

Lindsay Taylor had been Watertown’s town clerk for years. She’d been the one to approve Katherine’s permit, and she’d helped Rowan and Matt get everything straightened out after Katherine’s death. Rowan shouldn’t be nervous, but she was. So much hinged on the contest.

“Good morning, Mrs. Taylor,” she called out.

“How long have we known each other?” Lindsay clucked her tongue, graying hair bobbing as she shook her head. “Please call me Lindsay.”

“Okay Mrs. Taylor.”

Sighing in theatrical drama, Lindsay made her way to the table where Rowan displayed the mugs of mousse. “These are pretty.”

The judges nodded their agreement.

Taking a deep breath, Rowan passed them around. She wanted to close her eyes, to not see their faces. She’d tasted it, of course, and knew it was good, but still. It was only mousse.

The door opened again, bells knocking into each other.

Tilly burst inside, her usually carefully arranged scarf and hat askew. “Mrs. Taylor,” she gasped. “I was just wondering when you were going to get to Tilly’s. We’re so excited to have you!”

Rowan suppressed a groan. Beside her, Matt squeezed her hand.

Lindsay frowned. “Tilly Grahn?” From her short stature, she had to squint up at the woman. “From over where Victoria’s Chocolate Café used to be?”

“That’s me!” Tilly beamed. Her eyes slid over to Rowan quickly, and Rowan swore she winked.

“Diabolical,” Rowan muttered.

“Ms. Grahn, I was planning on stopping by your establishment last. Do you realize your temporary alcoholic beverages permit has expired? I’ve sent you several notices. I see you’re still serving, though.”

Tilly blanched. “I . . . What?”

“I’m sorry, Ms. Grahn,” Linsday said, “but I’m going to have to close you down.”

Eyes bulging, Tilly stared.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s time for my annual dessert.” Lindsay winked at Rowan. “Elli’s Christmas cheer is the only sweet I allow myself all year.” Lifting the spoon to her lips, she took a bite of the mousse. A soft sigh hummed through her lips. “Oh, Rowan . . . This is amazing.” She turned to the judges.

They all nodded in agreement.

“I believe we have a winner.”

Tilly stomped out of the bakery.

Lindsay pressed a Santa-shaped trophy into Rowan’s hands, then sat down at a table with the rest of her mousse.

Feeling as if she might be dreaming, Rowan read the engraving on the trophy. “Mrs. Taylor?”

“Seriously, child. Call me Lindsay! I’m the same age as your aunt.”

“Okay, but Mrs. Taylor, this has Elli’s engraved as the winner.” She held up the trophy.

“Of course it does,” Lindsay said. “Elli’s always wins.” She turned back to her mousse.

“See?” Matt whispered, wrapping Rowan into a hug. “You’ve just got to believe in yourself.”

Leaning into him, inhaling the crisp scent of his cologne, the candles burning throughout the bakery, and the chocolatey scent of the mousse the judges were devouring, Rowan closed her eyes. Between the night before and winning the contest in Katherine’s memory, everything was perfect. She wished it didn’t have to be over so soon. “Just one more Christmas?” she asked Matt.

He lifted her chin and pressed a kiss to her lips. “I thought you’d never ask.”



The next afternoon—Christmas Eve—snow started to fall as they closed Elli’s for Christmas break. Matt walked Rowan to her car, her arm tucked into his.

“So, I don’t mean to impose, but I thought we could pick up some takeout and I’d spend the night. You know, for just one more Christmas,” he said.

She grinned. “I was actually going to suggest you stay over.”

“Okay,” he said.

“Okay what?”

“We’ll take my truck.” Changing direction, he led her toward the pickup.

“But what about my car?” She glanced over her shoulder at her snow-covered Honda.

“We can pick it up later tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

“I figured we’d have another Christmas—breakfast with my mom and Danny.”

Tugging her arm free, Rowan threw both arms around his neck. They slid on the slick pavement, gliding straight back into Matt’s pickup. She pressed him into the truck, sprinkling his lips and cheeks with kisses. “How are you so perfect?”

“Oh, just wait,” he said with a chuckle. “I’ve got a whole lifetime to devote to you.”

Though she kind of wanted to swat at him for the cheesy line, she resisted. Besides, it was working. She was practically swooning.

With his assistance, she hopped into the passenger side of his worn pickup. He slid into the driver’s side and blasted the heat. It would be a while before the old truck got moving.

She scooted across the seat and, cupping his chin, turned his face toward hers. “I love you,” she told him, heart thudding in her chest.

She did not expect him to say anything. She hadn’t exactly planned on dropping those three little words. Though she knew they both shared similar feelings, neither of them had ever actually said the phrase out loud. The moment just felt right, though.

Still, part of her hoped he wouldn’t leave her hanging.

A slow grin spread across his face. “I love you too, Ro,” he said, sounding surprised.

Lips curling into a smile, she kissed him. With the snow falling in fat flakes, and the blast from the vents brushing her hair back, the moment was perfect. Their lips met, a slow and familiar dance.

His hands went to her waist, simultaneously drawing her closer and halting their kisses.

“What?” Rowan asked.

He chuckled. “Let’s get to your place.”

As soon as they got to her house, they shed snow-covered clothing and, grabbing the warmest throw blanket from the couch, headed into the bedroom. Matt pulled Rowan into his arms, wrapping the throw around them. Pressed against his chest, her skin to his, she felt more complete than she ever had.

He backed them toward the bed, laying her down gently. Large hands closing around her breasts, he swept his tongue across her lips.

“I love you, Rowan.” His mouth devoured hers.

She felt him pressing urgently against her, the heat from their passion a barrier against the weather outside.

He trailed hot, wet kisses down her throat. “I love you,” he growled.

Her fingernails dug into the bedspread.

His lips sucked in a nipple, tongue flicking it into a firm bud. “I love you.”

Drawing in a sharp breath, Rowan’s eyes fluttered closed. “This,” she gasped, “is the best Christmas present ever.”

Matt trailed kisses down the slope of her belly. “Oh, baby, I’m nowhere near done with you yet.”

She smiled contentedly.

As their bodies connected, hearts beating as one, sparks flying between them, she saw dozens of Christmases ahead of them—each more perfect than the last. The circumstances would change. Someday they would be spending their Christmas Eve wrapping presents from Santa. The undeniable love between them, however, would only grow.

Entangled in each other’s arms, they drifted off to sleep, secure in the future they knew they would share.

The End




Thank you for reading “Just One More Christmas,” a holiday short story that takes place after Just One More Minute.

If you enjoyed this free book, please check out some of my other small town romances.

Just One More Minute · enemies to lovers bakery romance
Any Other Love · friends to lovers small town romance
The Stairs Between Us · a second chance divorce romance
set in the same small town

Stagwood Falls: Love in Ink Series
A small town tattoo shop romance
with a close-knit group of friends
Book 1: A Touch of Gold · friends to lovers
Book 2: Tattooed Heart · friends to lovers

Just One More Christmas, Part II

A frustrated cry rang through the entire Elli’s building. Matt straightened from the shelves he squatted next to. He jotted down the number of bags of flour in Elli’s inventory, listening out for further distress. Seconds dripped by, and he started to think maybe Rowan had just stubbed her toe or something. She could be clumsy at times.

Rowan swore, the string of words reaching his ears. “Again?!” she howled.

Wincing, he put down his clipboard and headed out of the little storage room. He found Rowan slumped in defeat next to a burnt batch of candy cane cookies. “Oh no.” He reached out for her, but she turned, shoulders hunching in protective despair.

“I don’t get it,” she sobbed, her hands covering her face.

His heart ached for her. It was bad enough she’d been stuck in a baking rut. Burning Katherine’s special recipe was an assault on everything she held dear. He rubbed her back. “I’m sorry,” he said, feeling helpless.

“I’m cursed,” she cried. “Ruined. I’ll never bake again!”

Matt frowned. He hated hearing her talk like that. He wrapped his arms around her, hugging her tight. “Maybe you just need a break,” he said softly, kissing the top of her head. She smelled like her usual vanilla and sandalwood fragrance, but with an additional layer of peppermint.

“No.” She sniffled. “I have to try again.”

She pulled away, and he let her go, admiring her tenacity. Or maybe it was sheer stubbornness. He loved how important baking was to her, how she could whip up recipes out of nowhere. The defeated creature that had been crying a couple minutes ago was not the woman he adored. This Rowan—the one who was already laying out the ingredients for another go—was the person he admired. She just never gave up. He smiled. She’d kick this bad streak in no time.

“No,” she groaned.

“What’s wrong?”

“We’re out of eggs. How can we be out of eggs?” She threw her hands up. “Did I really go through four dozen already?”

Matt pressed his lips together.

She turned and faced him. “I’m killing our inventory.”

“You’re just working through this.”

“I’m a financial disaster!”

“It’s just eggs.”

He watched as she checked the walk-in. “And butter. Oh my God!” She spun on her heels. “You can’t let me do this anymore. I have to be stopped!”

A smile tugged at his lips. “You’re not an abomination.”

“I’m killing baked goods. I’m like a horde of zombies.”

“You’ve been watching way too much The Walking Dead.”

She sighed. “We don’t get a delivery until next week. I’ve gotta go to the store. Again.” She glanced around for her keys.

Matt held up a hand. “I’ll go. You . . . clean something. Or watch something on Netflix. Anything other than beating yourself up.”

“Are you saying that I’m a clean-aholic?”

“Yes. But if it helps . . .” He grinned.

“Maybe I’ll just go get another coffee.”

“Good. And call Charlotte,” he said. Something about Rowan’s best friend always calmed her down. Charlotte was pure magic.

She nodded. Standing on her tiptoes, she pressed a kiss to his lips. As her warmth tingled against his skin, he sighed. Kissing Rowan was magic. His arms automatically twined around her, and he pulled her tight against him. If the opportunity wasn’t so perfect, he would kiss away her worries. But his window was limited.

He pulled away and kissed the tip of her nose. “I’ll be back soon.” He nodded to the tray of ruined cookies. “Toss ‘em. We’ll start over.”

“And what if I ruin them again? How will we win the contest?”

Matt grinned. “We’ll obnoxiously decorate the crap out of the place, and we’ll swoon them all with inflatable Santas.”

She swatted at him with a towel. “You’re insane.”

“And you’re beautiful.”

He kissed her again, then grabbed his coat and hurried out of the bakery. Outside, snow was still falling. Maybe he’d get lucky and it’d snow so hard, they’d end up snowed in for the night. Or at the very least, she’d be so into the romantic weather, she’d invite him to stay over her place. But first he had some things to take care of.

While he waited for his geriatric pickup to warm up, he sent out three texts. He almost felt guilty, like he was somehow deceiving Rowan for going behind her back. But he was desperate. He’d had months to prepare for this, yet he’d been completely unable to find the perfect gift for her.

It wasn’t like he hadn’t tried.

The girl had everything, including an entire bakery full of her favorite baking tools. What Elli’s hadn’t already had, she’d bought during the past six months with her own money. A new mixer came out in November and, before he could secretly buy one for her, she’d bought it for herself. Besides, he didn’t just want to get her a kitchen appliance. She was a strong woman, and even though baking was her passion, she was so much more than that. It’d be like a guy getting his wife of fifty years a vacuum cleaner. She deserved something amazing because she was amazing.

Buying her an engagement ring would be horribly cliché. Everyone got engaged during the holidays. It was almost expected, and when the time came, he wanted to really surprise her. Besides, he wasn’t entirely sure they were ready for that step. Things were good, but they’d barely been dating half a year. There was no rush.

He’d entertained the idea of getting her a promise ring, but he thought it was too soon. Besides, their relationship itself was a promise. Both of them knew they were it for each other. It was just a matter of time.

He needed help—and allies. Going behind her back was his only option.

Three replies came to him and he grinned. His team was assembled and ready. He threw the warm pickup into gear and pulled out of the Elli’s parking lot. Time was ticking, and he needed to move fast. If he took too long at the grocery store, she’d suspect something.



Matt picked up Leo, Rowan’s often surly eighteen-year-old brother. When Matt first got together with Rowan, she hadn’t been on good terms with her family. In the months since, she’d grown closer to them—even Leo. It turned out that, where her sister Mia was constantly trying to take everything away from Rowan, Leo adored her. He once begrudgingly admitted to Matt that Rowan had taught him all about music he wouldn’t have otherwise listened to. That, Matt knew, was a lot coming from the teenage boy.

“But don’t tell anyone I said that,” Leo had said. “I’ll deny it.”

Glancing at Leo, who sat huddled in his black Element hoodie, Matt suppressed a smile. The kid totally didn’t look like the type to listen to Kiiara, BANKS, or anything else his sister liked—especially since Rowan loved dance music and R&B. But he’d admitted it was “interesting” to listen to when he was hanging out by himself after a party, and that BANKS was actually “good at writing lyrics.”

“What’s so funny?” Leo asked, scowling at Matt.

He shook his head. “Nothing.”

He picked up his own little brother next. Danny was eleven and Matt was pretty sure he knew the truth about Santa. He figured his little brother needed every drop of Christmas magic he could get. Plus, Danny looked up to Rowan. She let him help her in the kitchen and even allowed him to lick the bowl. Matt’s mom had rarely baked during their childhood. After their dad passed away, she had even less energy to do typical mother/child activities. Danny had missed out on a lot of things. Every time Rowan handed him a spatula coated in raw brownie mix, the kid’s eyes lit up. Matt knew Danny would love to be involved with the surprise.

Danny squeezed into the tiny single seat in the back of the cab.

“You good back there?” Matt asked. The kid was shooting up. Soon he’d be too big.

Danny nodded.

“Seatbelt,” Matt instructed, glancing at Leo to make sure he put his back on. Once everyone was buckled in, he headed toward Frankie’s in Waterbury. It was the only place they could meet that he was positive Rowan wouldn’t go. She might run to Starbucks again or even a book store, but she hated the Chase Avenue traffic. Not that he could blame her. The city was still widening it and the construction choked up the already congested street. Plus, with the holiday shopping rush, it was even worse than usual. Rowan didn’t have the patience for standstill traffic. Matt wasn’t even sure he did. For the first time in months, he wished he had a cigarette.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Leo stick one between his lips.

He yanked it out of the kid’s mouth and tossed it out the window before Danny could see it.

“What—?!” Leo squawked.

Matt jerked his chin in the direction of the backseat and gave Leo a stern look.

“Oh.” Leo actually looked apologetic.

When their dad was diagnosed with terminal cancer, Danny had begged Matt to quit smoking. He’d kept his promise—and tried to shield Danny from other smokers. It bothered his little brother more than usual, and maybe it was a pointless thing to do. There were lots of smokers in the world, and not all of them would get sick with cancer. Danny was probably old enough to know that cigarettes weren’t the true enemy. But still.

The line of cars moved forward a whole ten feet. Matt could see the Frankie’s sign up ahead.

“We could literally ditch this truck and walk over there,” Leo grumbled. “I’m starving.”

Too true. “Me too,” Matt said in solidarity. “But we’re almost there, right Danny?” He smiled at his little brother in the rearview mirror.

Danny crossed his arms. “This traffic sucks.”

Apparently Danny was entering his own surly teenage years.

After what seemed like a century, the line of vehicles moved up enough so that Matt could take the left-hand turn into the restaurant parking lot. He hadn’t had Frankie’s in years. The hot dog franchise and its founding family was a Connecticut celebrity. It’d started off small during the Great Depression and quickly grown into an empire. Occasionally, Matt surmised, good things did come out of the struggling city of Waterbury.

He parked the pickup in the angled slots and jumped out. Too bad he couldn’t tell Rowan where he was. She loved Frankies’s fried broccoli.

Matt, Leo, and Danny strode inside in single file. He was the last in, and as he watched the two boys, a swell of emotion surged through his chest. They were slowly but surely becoming familiar with each other—becoming family. Maybe it was too soon to jump to such things, but he could easily see them ten or more years in the future, doing brotherly things together like playing paintball or going camping.

“We gonna order, or what?” Leo asked, bursting Matt’s daydream.

“Sir?” The young woman behind the counter lifted her eyebrows expectantly. Her brown eyes sparkled in merry amusement. The name tag on her uniform read Joan.

“Sorry.” Matt motioned for Danny and Leo to give their orders, then added his own. Again he thought of Rowan and her love for fried broccoli. If she ever found out he had some without her, she’d make him do the inventory again. Or worse. He gulped. It was a risk he was going to have to take.

It was worth it.

As they waited for their orders, the door opened and Charlotte breezed inside. She ran straight to the counter, throwing her arms around Joan’s neck. Her bright red hair bounced on her shoulders as the two women embraced.

“I haven’t seen you in years!”

“How the hell are you?!”

Matt smiled. It was truly magical, how even the smallest moments seemed so beautiful around this time of year.

“Why are you grinning like a lunatic?” Danny elbowed him.

He sighed. Somehow he was going to have to change the Debbie Downer duo’s moods.

Once the four of them had their food, they squeezed into the only table available.

“Move your elbows,” Danny said to Leo.

“I can’t help that I’m so big and need the space,” the older boy retorted. “Some of us still have growing to do.”

Danny scowled at him.

Charlotte gave Matt a knowing look from across the table. “So,” she said in between bites of her chili dog, “what have we got?”

“Absolutely nothing, which is why we’re all here.” He glanced from face to face. “You guys are just as close to Rowan as I am, if not more. I need ideas. And fast.”

“How about you ask her to marry you?” Leo smirked.

Charlotte rolled her eyes. “Cliché. You should know better than that, Leo. Rowan needs romance and swooning.”

He made a gagging face, Danny joining him.

Matt chewed a bite of his hot dog, trying not to regret bringing the boys along.

“I think,” Charlotte said, “you’re trying too hard to come up with one great big grand gesture.”

“You’re probably right,” he admitted.

“So let’s focus on finding little things, gifts that she can enjoy or use.” Charlotte pulled a notebook out of her bag.

Matt stared.

“What?”

“I just didn’t realize you carried a purse.”

She lifted an eyebrow at him. “So?”

“Rowan refuses to.”

Charlotte snorted. “Rowan is Rowan. The girl uses her car as a giant bag. Have you seen what’s in her center console?”

He shook his head.

“Dude. She has an entire extra stash of makeup in there, a Phillips and a flathead, a flashlight, and even a wooden spoon. God only knows what she’d need a spoon for while out and about.”

Matt grinned. That sounded like his girl.

“And don’t even get me started on the capsule wardrobe in her trunk. The only reason she doesn’t carry a purse is because there isn’t one on this planet that she can fit her entire life into.” Charlotte tapped her notebook. “Now, let’s focus.” She opened it to a page with a neat list.

“Wow.”

“Girl’s my best friend, Matty. You came to the right person.”

“The OCD person,” Leo said. He and Danny snickered.

Charlotte tossed them an icy look. “Now, I’ve divided this into categories: things Rowan has mentioned she wants, things I’ve noticed she really needs, and things she doesn’t need but would be really nice.”

Matt peered at the list. “UGGs?”

“Every girl needs UGGs, Matty.”

“She already has three pairs. And stop calling me Matty.”

“Yeah,” Danny said. “That’s my name for him.”

Charlotte held up her hands. “Okay, okay. Jeez.” She turned to Matt. “But seriously, these UGGs have a rubber sole with tread. She won’t go slipping and sliding in them.” She beamed.

“Okay. Boots. Great. What am I, her grandma?”

“You’re her boyfriend. It’s your job to keep our clumsy girl safe. And warm. Which brings me to this coat.” She tapped the notebook. “Ro’s allergic to wool, so she has a super hard time finding cute and warm outerwear. But I found one that’s lined with sherpa.”

His eyebrows knit together. “Isn’t that wool?”

“Nope! Sherpa is polyester fleece. Fake,” she added when his confused expression deepened. “Good thing you have me.”

“Yeah. Good thing.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Danny and Leo roll their eyes in tandem. “All right, you two.”

Only Danny looked apologetic.

“Any ideas?”

Danny dunked a chicken tender in barbecue sauce that oozed out of its container. “A Starbucks gift card?”

“Traitor,” Leo muttered.

“That’s actually a good idea.” Matt reached for his phone to start his own list.

“I’m gonna one-up you,” Charlotte said, “and suggest you get her a French press and a five-pound bag of Starbucks coffee. Oh, and a bean grinder.” She tapped her bottom lip with her pen.

Matt tried to envision Rowan going through all of that every morning. She was the most morning person he’d ever met, but the image didn’t fit. “Yeah . . . I’m gonna stick with the gift card.”

“Fair enough.”

“Leo?” Matt nodded to Rowan’s youngest sibling. Even though the kid was annoyed—or at least pretending to be—he didn’t want him to feel left out of the conversation.

Shrugging, Leo crammed fries into his mouth.

“Really? Nothing at all?”

Leo shifted in his seat, the corners of his mouth turned down. “We don’t really do gifts in our house,” he said. His gaze lowered to his burger.

Matt’s chest tightened. “You don’t celebrate Christmas?”

“No, we do,” Leo said. “It’s just . . .” His expression darkened. “Usually my parents go away. Like on a cruise.”

“And they just leave you?” Charlotte gaped at him in horror.

The teenager shrugged again. “Hey, house party, right?” He turned back to his food.

Across the table, Matt met Charlotte’s gaze. It looked like his Christmas mission had just changed.

Just One More Christmas, Part I

Rowan stared out the almost too-shiny front window of Elli’s. It’d long been replaced since the wild thunderstorm a few months earlier, but the glass was nearly reflective. She suspected it had more to do with Matt’s obsessive cleaning of the window than the actual glass itself.

She sighed. Snowflakes drifted down from the sky, painting the quiet Main Street in soft white. The scene was picturesque—or it should’ve been. Watertown’s Christmas cheer contest was in just three days, and she was nervous.

Actually, “nervous” didn’t even begin to cover it. She’d entered Elli’s—the bakery she’d inherited from her aunt Katherine—with confidence, but that was before The Curse started.

Yes, she was definitely calling it The Curse now.

It was more than a funk. She’d been in baking ruts before—where no matter what she did, she botched every single recipe—but that was years ago when she was still a student. She was a pastry chef—one with certification and her own business. She never messed up the recipes she’d made a thousand times before. It was getting to the point where Matt—her handsome business partner and boyfriend—was taking over her morning work. She was even ruining plain old bread. No matter how carefully she measured, it ended up too salty or completely flat.

She was cursed, plain and simple.

She sighed again and looked away from the pretty town. Normally, snow would cheer her up. It was almost Christmas, after all. But if she couldn’t pull it together, Elli’s would not only lose the competition, but they’d become the laughingstock of the town.

Her shoulders slumped. “C’mon, Aunt Katherine,” she whispered. “Be my angel and guide me or something.”

The bells over the door jingled and Rowan straightened in her seat. A vaguely familiar young woman strode in, a red Starbucks cup in her gloved hand. She was decked out in full winter attire: the world’s cutest knit cap, a red scarf wrapped several times around her neck, and cozy UGG boots. Rowan glanced down at her flour- and chocolate-streaked chef’s jacket. Matt should be up front greeting customers—not her.

“Hello,” she said, managing not to sound like a total Scrooge. “What can I get for you?”

“Hi there,” the other woman chirped. “I’m from over at Tilly’s.” She pointed in the direction of the little café. “I’m just scoping out the competition.” She peered into the display case, not even trying to look ashamed. “All you have are sandwiches? Where are those famous cookies and cheesecakes I keep hearing about?”

Rowan suppressed a groan. Tilly’s Café, to both her and Matt’s chagrin, had opened about a month earlier. The town only allowed three total bakeries, but Elli’s hadn’t had a competitor in years. Everyone loved Elli’s. There was no need for another place like it. But Tilly’s had roared in, taking the space where the old chocolate café had once been. The owners fixed up the inside, repaired the stage, and reinstated the open mic nights and other events the town had loved when Rowan was a kid. Elli’s couldn’t possibly compete with that vibe, considering they didn’t have enough space to add a stage.

There had been no stopping it, though. Technically Tilly’s was well within their right, and the town approved it unanimously. Competition, everyone said, was healthy.

Rowan disagreed.

Composing herself, she lifted her chin. “Gotta keep our secret weapons hidden until the big day.”

“Ah.” The woman lifted a finger. “Good plan.” She held out a hand. “We haven’t met yet. My name is Tilly. Are you surprised?” She simpered, perfect dimples appearing in each cheek.

Rowan shook hands with her and resisted the urge to gag. Tilly was sugary sweet, in that completely fake way that some women adopted. “So you’re the baker?”Tilly scoffed. “Oh no, sweetie, I’m the director. I have people baking for me.” She glanced Rowan up and down. “I’m assuming you’re the baker here. Where’s your director?”

“You’re looking at her,” Rowan said, not bothering to hide her disdain.

“Oh my. That’s telling.” Tilly shook her head and clucked her tongue in disapproval. Straightening, she sniffed the air, her delicate nose wrinkling. “Is something burning?”

Eyes widening, Rowan darted out of the front room and careened into the kitchen. “No, no, no,” she protested, yanking open the oven door. But it was too late. The pan she withdrew and placed on the counter held a dozen nearly black red velvet cupcakes. She slumped against the stainless steel counter.

“Well,” Tilly said from the kitchen entrance, “it’s been a pleasure. I’m really glad I came by.” With one last condescending smile, she turned and left.

Rowan glowered at her back. “I’m really glad you’re a total bitch,” she muttered. She shook her head at herself. That was hardly even a comeback.

“Are you talking to yourself again?” Matt strolled into the kitchen from the back room. He carried a clipboard in one hand and pushed back brown curls from his eyes with his other.

“You were supposed to be watching the cupcakes,” she accused.

“I was?” Green eyes shifted from side to side. “I thought I was taking inventory.” He pointed to the clipboard.

Jabbing a finger at the ruined goodies, Rowan scowled. “Tilly’s owner came by. She was a complete tool.” She crossed her arms.

“Sorry, babe.” Matt put the clipboard down. It clinked against the stainless steel counter. He drew her in for a hug, and she couldn’t help but relax against him. With his green eyes, cherub-like curls, and muscular arms, he was living, breathing Ativan. “Still on that streak, huh?”

She huffed. “It’s a curse.”

“Nah.” Stepping back a bit, he lifted her chin with a warm finger. “It’ll pass. You’re Rowan, Elli’s amazing baker.”

Snorting, she shook her head. “More like Elli’s walking disaster!”

“It’ll be okay.”

“Oh yeah? When? The day after the competition?” She stepped completely away and put her hands on her hips.

“It’s no big deal. It’s just a contest.”

Her eyes widened. “Just a contest? Matt, you must have amnesia. Elli’s has won every single Christmas cheer contest for the past ten years.”

“To be fair,” he said, “that’s only because we’ve been the only bakery in town.”

Rowan’s jaw dropped open. “Are you saying we didn’t deserve those awards?”

He held up his hands. “I’m just saying that there was no one else in our category. It’s been, well . . . a piece of cake.”

“I hate you right now.”

He chuckled and slapped his thigh. “Sorry, I couldn’t help it.”

Rolling her eyes, she turned back to the burnt cupcakes. “This event always meant a lot to Aunt Katherine. Christmas was her favorite holiday.” Tears stung her eyes. Exactly six months had passed since Katherine had suddenly died—well, suddenly to Rowan. She’d had no idea that Katherine was even sick. She’d been out in New Jersey, licking her wounds and hoping to sever her family ties all the way down to her DNA. She’d been so, so wrong.

Matt cupped her shoulders. “I know,” he said quietly. Those green eyes bore into hers, pulling her back from the abyss. He smiled. “What if we go through Katherine’s recipe book? Maybe you just need to try something new.”

“And botch one of her sacred recipes?” She shook her head. “I don’t think I could handle it.”

“Well, it’s better than ruining your own recipes and beating yourself up.” His lips flattened. “Actually, it’d be great if you could just stop the self-flagellation altogether. Ro, you’re a freakin’ magician in the kitchen. Everyone has a bad day now and then.”

“A two-week bad day?” she asked. Still, she bent down and retrieved the cherished recipe book from its spot, nestled in a wicker cube that also housed Katherine’s lucky apron. She eyed the apron thoughtfully. “Maybe I should put that on.” Her forehead wrinkled. “Or . . . not. It’s probably better if I don’t taint it.”

She plunked the recipe book onto the counter. It was a two-inch binder wrapped in a floral pattern fabric. Each of Katherine’s recipes was tucked into a clear sheet protector, written in her looping hand that Rowan had always loved. She flipped it open and skimmed through the contents. “What do you think?”

He drummed his fingers on the counter. “Something we don’t make very often . . . and something easy.”

“Hey.” She swatted at him.

“No offense.”

Shaking her head, she read through the list again. “What about Aunt Katherine’s candy cane cookies?” She tapped the photo with a fingernail that she’d nibbled down to the nub.

“Those are good,” Matt agreed. “She made them the first year I worked here.”

“You mean the year you stole my job?”

“Yeah. That year.” He grinned. “Anyway, she wouldn’t let me touch them. I could only watch. She was so particular about how everything was done.”

“In the best way possible.” Rowan smiled. “She always wanted to make sure you were paying attention, that you really learned how to bake with your heart.”

He nodded, then pressed a kiss to her cheek. “Bake with your heart, babe.” He picked up the clipboard again.

“You’re not going to help?”

“I believe I just did.”

“You know what I mean.” She began laying out the ingredients.

Grimacing, he continued toward the store room. “And hang around you? That’s bad juju.” He strolled away, whistling “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year.”

“Brat,” she called after him. Still, she smiled. Despite their rocky beginning, Matt was the best thing that had ever happened to her.

Rolling up her sleeves, she got to work.

She flipped on her favorite Christmas music playlist—a mix of piano-only songs on Spotify. With the cheerful tunes drifting through the kitchen, she started mixing the dough. Mixing was always her favorite part. Though she used a mixer, there was just something so soothing about watching all of the ingredients come together. She combined butter, sugar, egg yolks, and peppermint extract, watching as the paddle stirred the wet components together. Her shoulders loosened and a sappy smile played on her lips.

This was it. She was going to break the curse, if it was the last thing she did.

Switching the mixer to low, she stirred in the dry ingredients. The dough churned, becoming more and more solid with each turn. It was hard to believe that, at one point, she’d been willing to give all of this up.

Once the dough was mixed enough, she shut off the machine and separated it into two equal halves. She swaddled one in plastic wrap and set it aside. Maybe covering it completely was going overboard, but with her luck she’d splash red food coloring everywhere and she’d end up with completely red cookies instead of candy cane-shaped cookies, alternating in red and white.

She hummed to herself as she dyed the other half of the dough red. Already she could see the perfect little candy canes, positioned in the display case so that every other one of them were Js, their sugar sprinkles glistening.

Using her hands, she shaped each ball of dough into a flat square, smoothing the edges into perfection with a bench scrape.

The front door jingled again, and she cringed. “Matt,” she called.

“It’s just me.” Her best friend, Charlotte, practically floated into the kitchen. Her face glowed, and Rowan suspected it had little to do with the cold weather.

“Tell me everything,” Rowan said as she wrapped the squares, “in just one more minute.” She tucked the dough into the walk-in refrigerator, taking a moment to admire her work. Content, she hurried back into the kitchen. “Go!” she told Charlotte.

“Okay, so you remember Amarie?” Charlotte said, unable to hide the goofy grin that clung to her lips like confectioner’s sugar.

“How could I forget?” Rowan tossed everything into the pot sink for later scrubbing.

“Well,” Charlotte drew out the word, “she added me on Facebook a while back.”

“Uh-huh. I remember,” Rowan prodded.

“She hasn’t posted much lately, because of finals and all that, but . . . she’s coming home for winter break!” Charlotte clapped her hands together and bounced on the balls of her feet, her hair flying off her shoulders. Usually dyed one bright color or another, Charlotte had made no exceptions for the holiday season and had turned her naturally blonde locks into cheery Christmas red.

“That’s awesome, Char,” Rowan said with a smile. “So are you gonna make a move?”

Charlotte’s smile faded. She took a deep breath. “She’s still with Jason,” she admitted.

Rowan nodded sympathetically. “We’ll just have to plan a get-together and then you can sweep her off her feet!”

Her best friend shrugged. “I don’t know . . . I mean, I know she’s queer. My gaydar has never failed me. But . . .”

“Jason puts a wrench in the plans.”

“Exactly. I’m not into adultery.”

“They’re not exactly married,” Rowan said, lifting a finger.

“Right, but they’ve been together a while now. Over a year? Maybe even close to two. And I don’t think she knows she likes girls, too, Ro. Like, maybe deep down, but not really, you know?”

Rowan nodded. She slung an arm around Charlotte. “We’ve got to cure you of this crush, babe. It’s only going to tear you apart.”

Charlotte twisted her lips to the side. “I know it. I barely know the girl. I’ve never felt so connected with anyone before, though. It sounds freakin’ stalker-ish.”

“Nah. I get it.” Rowan shrugged out of her chef’s jacket. “How about we go get our Starbucks fix? I’m really craving a peppermint mocha now,” she said, sniffing at the faint traces of the oil on her hands.

Charlotte giggled. “So I take it your streak has ended?”

“I think so,” Rowan said. “I can feel it.” She pulled on her winter coat, a black parka that fell to her knees. Though Charlotte had tried talking her into dying her whole head green, Rowan had gone back to her natural mousy brown—just until the competition was over. She meant no offense to Charlotte, but she’d wanted to be taken seriously, and she was glad now that she knew how put-together Tilly was.

Linking arms with Charlotte, Rowan called out to Matt that they were heading out, and promised to bring him something back. Arm in arm, she and Charlotte stepped onto Main Street. It was at least a mile walk to Starbucks, but with Charlotte she didn’t even feel cold. They chitchatted as they walked, catching up on their lives. Charlotte had started bartending school so that she could be a mixologist at The 545, the lounge she was a short order cook at.

“This way I can chat up cute girls and make some extra money in tips,” she reasoned.

“Makes sense to me.”

Rowan glanced into the windows of the various shops they passed. Main Street was always cute, but it had an even more special vibe during the holidays. Each bare tree was wrapped in white string lights, the lights intertwining and forming a canopy above the sidewalk. It was pure magic, she surmised.

By the time they stepped inside Starbucks, though, her cheeks and nose were numb.

“My treat,” Charlotte said, blocking her from the chip reader.

“No, mine,” Rowan insisted. “You got the last time.”

“So?”

“Plus Matt’s ordering too. C’mon.”

Charlotte stuck out her tongue playfully and gave the barista their orders before Rowan could argue further.

“You,” Rowan told her, wrapping her in a one-armed hug.

“Me.” Charlotte beamed.

They took their coffees and sat down at a table.

“So,” Charlotte said meaningfully, dragging out the word. “Any special Christmas plans with Matt?”

Rowan tilted her head, her eyebrows furrowed. As far as she knew, they were each spending Christmas with their families. They saw each other every day anyway. They could exchange gifts any time.

“Seriously? He didn’t invite you to Christmas dinner with the family?”

“So what? I mean, he doesn’t really have a lot of family. It’ll just be his mom, his little brother, and him. He doesn’t get to spend much time with them.”

Charlotte gave her a flat look. “You guys have been together for like six months now.”

“Four, technically. Actually . . .” Rowan counted. “Three.”

Her best friend rolled her eyes. “Six,” she said firmly. “That month or whatever you were ‘broken up’ so doesn’t count.”

“Either way,” Rowan said, “it’s family time.” She suppressed a groan. “Family time,” to her parents, meant ditching their children just before the holidays for their annual cruise. “What are your plans?” she asked, changing the subject.

“The Butler family tradition: Christmas Eve mass and a stern talking-to about how God hates gays.” She rolled her eyes.

“I’m sorry, love.” Rowan reached across the table and gave her best friend’s hand a warm squeeze. “Any way you can skip?”

“Only if I’m bleeding to death. And even then . . .” She shrugged.

Rowan raised her coffee cup in a salute. “To family.”

Charlotte knocked her cup against Rowan’s. “Happy holidays.” She giggled.

A little while later, they headed back to Elli’s. Full dark had fallen in the meantime and, with it, the temperature. Rowan huddled deep into her coat.

Charlotte walked her to the door and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Good luck with those candy canes,” she said. She hopped into her warm car, thanks to her remote starter when they were still a block away, and waved as she pulled from the curb.

Taking a deep breath, Rowan hurried into the warmth of Elli’s. She hung her coat up, then went into the walk-in.

Matt bent over a shelf, his black Dickies accenting his ass.

“Nice,” she said flirtatiously.

Straightening, he turned and wrapped her in a hug. Full, warm lips pressed to hers. “Aw, look who’s cold. Let me warm you up, baby.”

“In the walk-in?” Rowan lifted an eyebrow.

He smirked. “We could do it in the kitchen instead, if you prefer.”

“Tempting,” she said, twirling away, “but I’ve got a hot date.” She grabbed her chilled dough and took it to her station, leaving him chuckling after her.

Heart thudding in her chest, she eyed the dough on the stainless steel, willing it to cooperate. “All right,” she said. “Let’s break this streak.”

Tattooed Heart, Chapter 1

“I’m curious about Goldie’s friend,” Tall, Dark, and Fine AF said to me, with full eye contact and everything.

I was curious, too—how long could he hold me up against a wall?

It was 100 percent my broken heart talking, and I was 100 percent okay with that.

Chapter 1: Big Gun

Sabella

My dad handed me my first tattoo gun when I was fourteen.

“I can’t reach this spot. You do it.”

I laughed. I thought he was kidding. The chicken drumsticks he’d taught me how to season baked in the oven, and the pot of rice and beans he’d also walked me through simmered on the stove. He was supposed to be teaching me how to cook—“Since your mama sure ain’t,” he said.

He took off his shirt and I wrinkled my nose at his hairy armpits. My mom was definitely not the picture of emotional stability, and she’d never teach me how to cook, but she had me shaving at ten and doing my own nails at thirteen. It only highlighted the fact that I lived five out of seven days a week with a very hairy man.

A man who wanted me to ink his latest girlfriend’s name on his ribs, on the opposite side of where my mom’s name had faded into his skin.

“Mira,” he said, putting the tattoo gun in my hand. “You just stretch the skin como esto, and trace.” He demonstrated, stretching the skin on my arm with one hand and drawing a butter knife over it with the other. “It’s easy. Siéntate.”

I scoffed. “No, Papi! What if I mess it up?”

“It’s just some letters. A line here, a line there.”

I gave him a flat look. “That’s cursive.”

“See? You don’t even have to get it straight.” He waved me on. “You can do it. It’s just like all the pictures you draw, except on skin.”

And I’d thought it was exciting when he let me dice the onion for the rice.

“Okay,” I said, drawing out the word while I gave him one last look—to check whether he’d lost his damn mind.

He gave me a nod, wearing the same look of paternal pride and patience he’d rocked while teaching me how to ride a bike. “It don’t matter if you mess it up, because I’m old.”

I grabbed his insulin kit from the top of the fridge.

“I’m not having a hypoglycemic episode,” he said gently.

“I know that.” Unzipping the kit, I sat back down at the table, placing prep pads on a square of table that looked clean. “I’m aiming for a zero infections streak.”

He chuckled, the sound warm and melodious, filling the kitchen as I carefully wrote his flavor-of-the-week’s name on his skin in swooping cursive, pointedly not looking at my mom’s name. He gave me a thumbs up, I pressed my foot down on the pedal, and there was no going back.

I’ve been tattooing ever since.

By the time Goldie found me, I was tattooing in our kitchen but winning big awards. Goldie gave me a chance to really fly, and for that, I’ll be forever grateful. Which is why, when she needed to move back home to Stagwood Falls, I went with her.

Well, that and my thirty-five-year-old, freshly divorced ass needed to get the hell out of the city. Almost divorced. Thanks to Connecticut’s relaxed laws, all I needed was for my ex to sign the papers, and I’d be free. Problem was, he went radio silent the second I left.

Stagwood Falls (population 1,500) was the opposite of the city I grew up in (population 150,000). Main Street looked like the set of a movie—very Instagram-ready. My girls in the city definitely would approve. I was sitting in a bar called The Main Idea—also super cute. It had an arcade in the back and more IPAs than I could ever hope to memorize. Their poor bartender. I’d grown up on blunts and jungle juice, so the novelty of the whole hipster craze hadn’t gotten to me yet.

Goldie, on the other hand, couldn’t roll her eyes far enough in the back of her head.

“Girl,” I said. “Your face is gonna get stuck like that.”

Then I realized she’d just spotted David, her least favorite person at the time.

“You didn’t say he was that hot,” I hissed. David had that olive-skinned, melty-eyed Italian thing going for him, with barber-bladed eyebrows nearly as thick as my thighs, and a hell of a smirk. He only had eyes for Goldie as he neared our table, and I knew my best friend was in trouble.

All that Italian deliciousness quite literally paled in comparison to the guy with him, apparently a close friend if I went by the way they leaned into each other, murmuring something while David ogled Goldie. Tall, dark, handsome, and nameless’s gaze swept from her to me, freezing me in place with dark brown eyes the same deep shade as his skin. They must’ve gone to the same barber, because his brows and beard were just as carefully maintained, all sharp lines to highlight prominent cheekbones that made me want to lick them. Yes, lick. I was that starved. I couldn’t ignore the meal in front of me, not when he walked with ease, carrying broad shoulders that I immediately pictured my hands gripping. He floated to our table effortlessly, as if gliding to me on a trajectory I could neither see nor avoid. While Goldie and David glared at each other, he took my hand in his, and I felt like I’d been electrocuted, nearly missing his name.

“Benton,” he said with a smile that made me forget mine. “Por favor, dime tu nombre.”

My heart nearly stopped. Since pulling up on Goldie’s building a couple weeks earlier, I hadn’t heard a word of Spanish.

“I did a lot of my social worker practice hours in Waterbury,” he explained. “Lots of Puerto Ricans.”

I squinted up at him. “How did you know?” Puerto Ricans tended to spot each other instantly. It was some kind of pheromone. He looked Black, but on the islands, Boricuas came in all shades—even ginger.

“I might’ve looked you up on the ’Gram,” he admitted. “You’ve got a little flag in your bio.”

“Looked me up?” I inquired.

“Caught again.” He chuckled. “I saw you outside while I was working, and I got curious about Goldie’s friend.”

“Curious, hmm?” I sat up straighter. I was curious, too, about very scientific matters like, how long could he hold me up against a wall with those ultra-defined arms?

It was 100 percent the heartbreak talking, and I was 100 percent okay with that.

And Goldie was 100 percent walking to the arcade in the back of the bar—with David. I checked my dark red lipstick in my phone’s camera, then turned to his best friend. “Wanna buy me a drink?”

I hated to waste an outfit.

I looked damn good in my cropped Bitch Craft T-shirt that just read Bitch after I’d gotten my hands on it. Before that night, I was not a one-night-stand kind of girl. That didn’t mean I couldn’t break that rule with Benton. It’d been a good six months since I’d let my ex-husband touch me.

I took a moment to appreciate the view as Benton carried our drinks over. He wore his button-down’s sleeves rolled up, exposing dark muscular forearms wrapped in a swooping cursive tattoo I couldn’t read from that far away. His dress pants hugged his ass, and his beard hugged his jawline. I wanted to koala-hug his body.

I moved over to the same side of the table, making sure to touch his hand as I accepted the drink.

He gave me a knowing, cocky look. “Do you want to actually drink these, or do you want to get out of here?”

We were on the same page. Good. I didn’t need to know about his childhood or what his future plans were. I just needed some dick. Lord knew I’d wasted far too much time on romance.

“So where’s your place?” I asked as we stumbled onto the sidewalk hand in hand. I liked the way our hands fit, how his thick fingers threaded through mine.

He stopped fast and I nearly crashed into him. “I figured yours is closer.”

I laughed. “Sure, if you wanna hang with Goldie’s grandpa.”

My living situation started off a little awkward, but I’d grown up around men. Goldie’s Poppy was a sweet old man, and probably fast asleep for the night, so there was no way I was bringing a guy home. It was way too awkward.

Benton hesitated.

“What, do you live with your mom or something?” I teased. Not that I cared. Until recently, I’d still lived with my dad. For most thirty-somethings, that was probably weird, but not this Boricua.

Benton shook his head.

“Then what’s the problem?”

“I live with David’s mom, okay?” Benton said. “So no, we can’t go to my place.”

There we were, in the middle of the sidewalk, debating where to bang like a couple of teenagers. I laughed.

“You don’t have to be a dick about it,” he said, pulling away from me.

“I’m not,” I said through my laughter. “Come on, Benton, it’s funny. We’re like a couple of horny teenagers.”

He scowled. “I’m a grown man.”

I had the giggles so bad. “Come on. Let me buy you another drink.”

He waved me off. “You know what, I’m good.”

I watched as he walked away, his shirt hugging the muscles of his back.

“It’s not a big deal,” I called after him. Either he didn’t hear me, or he didn’t want to, because he kept going until he was out of my sight.

Rolling my eyes, I went in the opposite direction and decided I was already over Stagwood Falls.


One Year Later

I hadn’t meant to stay. I’d planned on getting Goldie settled in and then figuring out my next move. Maybe I’d go back to the city, where I could hopefully avoid my ex. Or maybe I’d get my own place in town, if I liked it enough. So far, I didn’t really like it.

The town was cute, don’t get me wrong, but small, and people stared. It was hard to fade into anonymous heartbreak recovery when everywhere I went, people eyed me. Of course, none of them knew I left New Haven because I got dumped. They were staring at my tattoos, fishnet, and boots. I felt like someone had plucked off all my petals, leaving me stripped of the things I’d once wanted so badly. It felt like everyone could see the grief etched deep into my soul.

So I poured my energy into tattooing, all the while feeling like I needed more. I needed to get back to my roots, to hold a paintbrush in my hand and let everything I felt pour out of me, onto canvas. The problem was, I was booked solid. Since Goldie transplanted her tattoo shop Touch of Gold from the city to Stagwood Falls, my regulars were getting more comfortable with driving out to see me. Plus, we’d been expanding in our new county. Not a bad problem to have, but I wanted time to paint. I needed time to process my pain, but painting didn’t pay the way tattooing did. The only way to squeeze in my hobbies as an adult were to make them part of my work. And I had come up with the perfect solution.

I just needed to get my friends on board.

I needed a win, something that was mine. Goldie had her shop—I was happier than ever tattooing under her roof, and she involved me in more than usual, but it was her shop. I had to tread carefully, balancing friendship with work.

I stood in David’s kitchen, slicing a lemon for my vodka. Or I was supposed to be. It was just us girls for the moment, the guys still in the living room fussing over David’s new gaming setup, and I was using the break from a bloodthirsty game of Cards Against Humanity to work on my magnum opus: a text I’d been drafting for six months. Drafting and dreading. I’d tried being nice. I’d tried giving him space. I’d even tried being stern—using those boundaries that my Instagram therapist was always talking about.

She wasn’t my actual therapist. She was just an account I followed.

“At least AI can’t replace me,” Goldie said. She finished off the faux vodka Collins I’d made us—I used lemonade instead of lemon juice, simple syrup, and club soda—and held her glass in my face.

“Knife,” I reminded her, giving her a sharp look.

“What knife? Less texting, more slicing,” she said, always with the big sister energy.

Goldie and I couldn’t be more different. She was raised by her grandparents, I was raised by my dad. She was all Black, I was half Puerto Rican, half white. She’d left marketing in her mid-twenties to become a tattoo artist, and I’d grown up with a tattoo gun in my hand. Despite our different paths, we were both driven women determined to make it in a male-dominated world, which was why I liked her the moment I met her. Leaving New Haven and coming to Stagwood Falls with her was simple for me: I didn’t want to work at anyone else’s shop, and I definitely didn’t want to stay in a city full of reminders of my biggest failure.

“Until they invent some vending machine thing where you select your piece and it tattoos it on, right then and there, like a 3D printer,” Kinsley—her actual little sister—said.

“Don’t say that.” Goldie fake vomited.

“Oh, it’ll happen,” I said, using the ten-inch knife to twist out the seeds from each slice of lemon.

“Damn, girl, easy with that thing,” Goldie said, “and whose side are you on? Artists or robots?”

“I’m just saying.” Dropping the slices into our glasses, I grabbed ice and the bottles of vodka and lemonade. “It’ll never replace having a real, talented artist design a real, personal piece, though.”

“You say that,” Kinsley said darkly, “but what about all the generative art apps?”

“Hurry with that vodka,” Goldie pleaded. “We need to get past stoned, eerily philosophic Kinsley and bring out drunk, dancing Kinsley.”

“I heard drunk dancing,” Benton said, shimmying into the kitchen. “What’re we dancing to?” Even though I was closer, he took Kinsley’s hand and spun her into a dip.

“We’re dancing?” David pulled Goldie into him, tipping her chin up for a kiss.
Couples. Kill me.

Grabbing my phone, I threw on the last thing I’d been listening to.

“Doja Cat? Really?” Benton complained without even looking at me.

“Whatchu got against Doja Cat?” Antoni backed up on me until his ass almost touched my thigh, then dropped it low, “twerking” in a squat. He was less twerking and more just shaking.

I shoved him away, laughing. “You’re doing it wrong. Let me show you.”

“Please,” he wheezed. “I think I pulled something.” He straightened, dusting his hands on his jeans.

Placing my hands on my hips, I demonstrated. “It’s all in the hips, li’l Ant. Not your back. You were on your way to the ER.”

“Are we learning stripper moves, or are we playing cards?” Benton interrupted, tapping his watch.

“You got something against sex workers? Besides, I was in cheer, not on a pole,” I told him. “Have another drink, or hit that.” I nodded to the blunt Kinsley held a lighter to.

“Some of us have work in the morning,” he said, still not looking at me.

I rolled my eyes. “Tattooing is work. Not my fault the three of you got suckered into the nine-to-five life.”

“We all work hard,” Goldie intervened, “which is why we agreed we need low-key Thursday night game nights, spending quality time together, sans sniping. Right?” She gave me a stern look. I’d never told her about the night Benton and I met, but she was getting more and more curious every time the two of us went at each other.

“Right.” Downing my vodka, I gathered my courage. “Speaking of work, I want to run something past you guys.”

“Running man? I only just got the hang of twerking,” Antoni shouted over the music. He held onto the counter, practicing what I’d shown him and still doing it wrong.

I turned down the music and cleared my throat. “I need all of your help,” I said, looking pointedly at Benton. “Even you.”

“I see we’ve moved on to the drunken dramatics portion of the evening,” he muttered.

I stood taller to show him I wasn’t drunk, wobbling only a little.

“What’s up?” Goldie asked.

My best friend. She’d stood by my side through everything the past six months. Every time I second-guessed myself, thinking I’d made the wrong choice, she reminded me that I’d absolutely chosen right. I’d been more than happy to return the favor by supporting her move to Stagwood Falls, then seeing her through almost losing her building and David. We always had each other’s backs, which is why I had no doubts she’d have mine.

“I want to teach a community art class,” I announced, “and at the end of it, throw an art show.”

All five of them stared at me.

“Like…a festival?” Goldie asked.

“Nothing big, obviously,” I said quickly. “Just something to showcase the pieces my students work on. Our students,” I added. “We could host it at town hall, or even the shop…”

“I’m still on ‘community’ and ‘class,’” Antoni said. “You want this to be a legit town event?”

“Very much,” I said, clasping my hands. “Like for the community. Kind of like an art therapy thing.”

Benton cleared his throat. “You can’t practice without being licensed.”

“I know that,” I told him. “I’m not looking to give anyone therapy. I’m thinking more like in a therapeutic vein.” I struggled for words. Maybe I was drunk.

Antoni scratched his head. “What’s the difference?”

“Therapeutic,” Kinsley repeated. “That too big a word for you?”

“I like big words and I cannot lie.” With a devious grin, he aimed his terrible twerking at her.

“Get your cute li’l white butt outta here,” she said, laughing. I caught the way her gaze lingered on him, though.

“So what do you guys think?” I looked from face to face, already brimming with plans swirling through my head. Ever since I’d first thought of the idea, I practically had the curriculum laid out. I couldn’t wait to get started.

“How will it bring in money?” David asked. “Who’s going to pay for the supplies and stuff?”

“Money?” I repeated. “I was thinking this could be like a free thing. Everyone’s been on such hard times these past few years. I wanted to give back.” I turned to Benton, the town social worker. Surely, he got it. He was always late to drinks at The Main Idea, always staying behind at town hall to finish up “just one more thing” for one of the town residents. As big a baby as he was, he had an even bigger heart.

As much as I didn’t want to admit it.

“We don’t really have any room in the budget for a new program,” was all he said.

“Seriously, guys?”

But someone—probably Antoni—turned the music back up, and a moment later, I heard the slap of cards being shuffled.

I rubbed my temples. I’d thought I had it in the bag.

“Here,” Goldie said, pressing a fresh drink into my hand.

“You really don’t like my idea?” I asked her.

“It’s not that I don’t like it,” she hedged. “It’s just that so much has happened. We’re still getting on our feet here. I just don’t have the bandwidth. Sorry, girl.” Squeezing my shoulder, she left me to my thoughts to join the rest of the group in the living room.

She was probably right. We both had a lot going on. The guys, too—logically I knew Benton wasn’t giving me a hard time for nothing. They had their hands full trying to keep the mayor from selling the lake out from under the town.

“That’s why we need the arts,” I muttered to the empty kitchen.

Almost empty. Kinsley stood at the sink, washing the cutting board and knife I’d used.

“Oh, I got that,” I said, moving to take her place.

“I don’t mind.” She placed them in the drain and dried her hands. “For what it’s worth, I think it’s a good idea.”

“You’d be the only one,” I said with a sigh.

“Pitch it again, when everyone’s sobered up. Maybe take them one on one, like a strategic conquering.” She laughed. “But don’t give up. You know how stubborn my sister can be. You just have to crack her.”

“She is pretty stubborn,” I agreed. “I don’t know. It’s probably better if I leave it be.”

“Just think about it,” she said. “Now let’s go wreck these motherfuckers in Cards Against Humanity.”

As soon as she left, I pulled my phone out again. My vision blurred, just a little, key phrases jumping out at me.

Six months.
Space.
Please.
Move forward.
Please.
Healthy.

I considered adding one more “please,” then decided I’d already used two too many. Every text I sent always resulted in the same thing: a delivered, then read notification, then no response.

Childishly, he thought if he ignored me and didn’t give me what I needed, I’d change my mind and go back to the city, back to him. The problem with that strategy was, I couldn’t. Not in a million years.

Just like I couldn’t abandon my art program baby. I’d convince my friends that it was a good idea. In a time when everyone was hurting, it was exactly what the town needed.

Goldie was stubborn, but I was stubborn en español.

I held my head and drink high and began plotting my takedown.


Tattooed Heart Cover Reveal

It’s that time again! I’m so excited to share the cover for Tattooed Heart with you!

For this cover, the Kobo Originals team—shoutout to Jessica and Vanessa—worked with Ukrainian designer Miblart to match the cover for A Touch of Gold (the first book in the series). This time, they chose red roses to match Sabella’s character, who’s covered in rose and other red tattoos. The roses once again have a stunning illustrated style, all while remaining alluring yet discreet—fitting for this spicy romance.

For fun, I made a 3D paper version of the cover for a reveal Reel. Check it out on my Instagram!

But first, here’s the official cover, which I’m officially obsessed with.

Tattooed Heart
Stagwood Falls: Love in Ink Series, Book 2

Sabella makes a living covering up people’s bad tattoos, creating art out of regrets and mistakes. When she finds herself divorced from her high school sweetheart turned heartbreaker, she doesn’t just go into hiding; she takes her best friend up on an offer for a fresh start at her new tattoo shop and runs all the way to Stagwood Falls, an idyllic town reinventing itself after its own heartache. It’s the perfect place to hide, and it’s where she finds a new purpose: teaching the healing power of art to a community that’s desperate to move on. Unfortunately, to put her plan into action, Sabella must enlist the help of one sexy, sensitive town social worker, Benton Rhinehart—AKA the guy who wants nothing to do with her after their first encounter ended in hurt feelings and a wounded ego.

Benton gives everything to the people of Stagwood Falls, but the bank still took all he had when the recession hit. Instead of rebuilding himself, he eagerly dove headfirst into solving other people’s problems. So when Sabella comes to him with her community art program plan, Benton doesn’t hesitate to throw himself fully into it, even if that means working with the woman who shamelessly snubbed him the first time they met.

Despite their rocky start, it’s hard to ignore that Sabella and Benton make a great team. Their business relationship quickly turns into a friendship they both desperately need. Even though they’re better off as friends, the more time they spend together, the harder it is to ignore that there’s something much deeper going on. But when Sabella’s ex comes to town saying everything she wants to hear, she has to choose between her heart and her dream. Both feel like the same thing, and choosing wrong is one mistake she won’t be able to cover up.

ARCs go out November 14th via NetGalley. Get on my email list for updates!