Second Chances: A Romance Writers of America Collection (Stark World 2.50)

When she opens the door that night, I nearly drop the bunch of flowers I've got clutched in my fist. Emmy is wearing a short dress and boots. Her hair is loose, spilling over her shoulders. She stares up at me like she knows me, like mine was the face she's been looking down the drive for, waiting on.

Emmy takes the flowers, thanking me with a peck on my cheek. We nearly had sex on the boat last night, but tonight she's a picture of sweetness, leading me into the kitchen, where it smells like bubbling tomato sauce, basil, and garlic bread baking in the oven.

"How was your day?" she asks.

"Good. Quiet."

She hums, nodding, and I watch as she puts the flowers into a vase and sets the whole thing on a windowsill.

Emmy turns, moving to the fridge and sliding her hand over my stomach as she passes. It's such a casual intimacy, and my heart is racing.

"Want a beer?" she asks.

I glance to the kitchen island and see she's got a glass of wine. "Sure, thanks."

The cap hisses as she pops it off with a bottle opener

mounted to the fridge, and her fingers slide across mine when she hands me the bottle.

I wish I had more grace, but the question hammers at my thoughts until I can't keep it in anymore: "Are we gonna do this?" I ask her.

With a little smile, she looks up at me. "Do what?"

I don't even know the word for it. "Date? Stop wasting time?"

She shakes her head, smiling. "I don't want to date."

My brows pull together. "I didn't realize."

"Date, to me," she says, "means we're casual. It means we see other people, too."

I am far, far out of my element here. But Emmy doesn't seem to mind. I tell her, "I have no idea what it means since I haven't really done it, but ... I'll put it out there, Em. I'd like to be with you, however you're willing."

She takes a step back, and then another, pushing herself on the kitchen island only a couple of feet away. "Then yeah, we're doing this," she says.

"There may be cameras sometimes," I remind her, following her on my crutches, and stepping between her legs when she reaches out with those boots, pulling me closer.

"We'll deal with it. But no cameras come into my bedroom."

I lick my lips on instinct, the way I might before taking a bite of fruit. "Do I come into your bedroom?"

She looks at my mouth, and her hands move to my chest, unbuttoning my shirt as she goes. "I think you can come anywhere you want."

I feel my face heat as the meaning of her words hits me like a whip. "Emmy, are you going to kiss me with that filthy mouth, or what?"

Her lips curve in a smile just before I capture them in a kiss. She's so soft, so sweet; kissing her reminds me of pressing honeysuckle to my lips as a kid, sucking out the nectar. Like this I pull sounds from her, realizing in a burst of heat that she's got this tiny dress on, with tiny lace underneath, and things like pasta sauce can just sit on the stove and be patient for a while.

Christina Lauren is the combined pen name of long-time writing partners/besties/soulmates Christina Hobbs and Lauren Billings. The number one international best-selling coauthor duo writes both young adult and adult fiction and together have produced fourteen New York Times best-selling novels. They are published in over thirty languages, have received multiple starred reviews from Kirkus Reviews and Library Journal, won both the Seal of Excellence and Book of the Year from RT BookReviews, and have been featured in publications such as Forbes, The Washington Post, Time, Entertainment Weekly, O, The Oprah Magazine, and more. Their third YA novel, Autoboyography, will be released in September, followed by a contemporary romance, Roomies, in December.

London, 1830

THE TOWNHOUSE WAS LIT like a bonfire, every sconce that could contain light ablaze. Laughter and music spilled through the air, the temptation of revelry too much to refuse an invitation to the Maddern ball, though it was a week before Christmas and as cold as the Arctic. Guests entered the foyer through the heavy oak doors, bitter cold brightening their cheeks as they shed their cloaks to reveal the finery beneath, and footmen scurried among them, burdened with discarded cloaks as they ushered the arrivals in the direction of the ballroom.

Shoulder against the wall, Edgington observed the activity. He'd accepted the invitation to this ball purely on a whim though he'd known it would be tedious, and nothing in the time since his arrival had disabused him of this notion. After an obligatory turn of the ballroom, he'd stationed himself in the entrance hall, gaining some faint amusement from the arrival of those so desperate for society they ventured out on a night like this. Ah, but then, what did it say about him that he was among their number?

A couple passed him, close enough he could almost discern their conversation. Tittering behind her gloved hand, the female glanced at him. Edgington met her eyes. The woman blanched, her gaze quickly skittering away as she urged her partner toward the ballroom.

He smiled faintly. His reputation was in full effect, it seemed.