Dirty Bad Boys Box Set: Forbidden Romance Collection

Mom laughs, letting out a sigh. It’s the same sigh she often lets out when she’s caught in the middle of a deadline and brought back to reality.

“Okay, you have my attention.”

“Mom,” I yell in frustration. “What’s the big news?”

“Your brother will be in town tomorrow. He has some news, and has asked if you can come home.”

My brother, Ashley, hasn’t been home since last year, busy with his own life and career. This proved a point—as his twin sister—that we do not have the ESP thing going on. The last text he sent me was yesterday, and it was a picture of his injured foot which completely grossed me out.

“He’s gay, is that it?” I joke.

“Your brother gay? The tabloids have a fascination with his love life which all involve women. I don’t know how I raised a man-whore child.”

I laugh softly. “Because it’s in your blood. You write romance novels, Mom. You’re a New York Times bestseller. Even when you’re not writing, you’re sending out this romantic vibe to everyone around you.”

“Romance is one thing, kid, your brother is entirely another.” She chuckles. “So, can you fly back tomorrow?”

My parents live on the east coast, in a small town just outside of Connecticut with my younger sister Tayla. As much as I miss being home and the quiet life, flying out is always a hassle. Over the past year, paparazzi have had a fascination with my movements and followed me wherever I go. A reason why I reduced the trips back home.

“I guess I can swing it. We’re not filming till next week, and Wes is flying to Amsterdam for a photoshoot tonight.”

“Great! I’ll get Daddy to pick you up at the airport. I miss you, kid, it’s been too long.”

“I know, Mom.” I sigh, hanging up my cell after saying goodbye.

You’d think that being a twenty-six-year-old woman I’d have my big-girl panties permanently on, but on occasions like this when something seems off and not right, I miss my mom a lot. Living across the country might as well be across the ocean. We have a relationship most people envy as I can easily call her my best friend. We text several times a day, anything and everything she knows about my life. I respect her opinion, and we rarely argue about anything unless it’s who might win The Bachelor.

Growing up with a mother who writes romance has its ups and downs. I didn’t know it at the time, but Mom’s one of the most respected and successful romance writers in the world. Her books have been translated in every possible language, and she often attends signings across the globe.

My first memory of her leaving us for the weekend was when I was five. I cried because Dad’s a shitty cook, and I didn’t want anyone to cook besides her. Self-centered and a brat.

As I grew older, I became fascinated with her career and began reading her books in my teens. The only thing I skim is the sex scenes. Mom’s a great writer, but some things are best left a mystery in my opinion.

People often ask her, “Where do you get your inspiration from?” and “I bet you live an exciting life.”

Sure, Mom and Dad love each other, but Dad’s always the beer-drinking, nut-eating dad that yells at the television when his team lets him down. He’s a sports fanatic, who has very little time for romance. At least, that’s my observation.

I make my way slowly to the interview room to find Wes waiting for me.

Something’s amiss.

His normally styled hair looks like he’s just run a marathon—it’s sweaty and stuck to his forehead. He’s quick to shove his cell in his pocket, focusing his attention on me. “Em, we have to go. My flight leaves tonight, and I’m not packed.”

“Yeah, okay,” I respond while he reaches out for my hand. “Mom called me. She wants me to fly home for the weekend.”

“To Connecticut?”

“No, to the moon. Yes, to Connecticut. Something about my brother being in town with a surprise.”

“I don’t like you going there alone.”

“Well, I don’t like you going alone to Amsterdam, but you insisted,” I argue back.

He squeezes my hand tighter, plastering a fake smile knowing all eyes will be on us when we leave the room. Not saying another word, we scurry past the few fans lined up and climb into the car. We buckle our seatbelts in unison then he starts the engine quickly, checking the rearview mirror before speeding off.

“There’s just so much I need to do for the photoshoot, Em. I didn’t work out yesterday or today because of all these interviews. I’m not in my best shape.”

I am not buying the excuse, and instead remain tight-lipped avoiding another argument. All we seem to do lately is argue. I’m fed up with his unorganized trips, and for some reason, he’s become more possessive over our relationship which frustrates me. We’ve had a few fights on camera which the both of us were forced to reconcile and put on a united front. I don’t know what it is about us, but I’ve pinned it down to the fact we’re engaged, and now sitting on top of our shoulders is a wedding which the network executives are eager to pay for knowing it’s their gold mine.