One Day Fiance

“I take it that’s not going well?” Jasmine asks from the kitchen.

“Or it’s going really well?” Daysha adds, drying a glass I don’t remember using. “Turmoil makes for good books. But I can’t tell if you’re using your real life as inspiration in a good way or in a ‘you’re gonna get sued for defamation’ way.”

“Maybe both,” I confirm, sighing. “I’m just . . . I’m mad because he’s had to leave for a little while.”

“Why?” Aleria asks, and I see Jasmine and Daysha give each other a pointed look. But before I can answer, Becca comes back with Nut and Juice, who are panting hard alongside her.

“Hey, ran them hard to get out some of their pent-up energy,” she explains, grinning and pink-cheeked. “Ooh, that smells good, Jasmine!”

“Becca!” Daysha shouts. “You were saying, Poppy? Something about Connor leaving?”

“Oh, shit,” Becca hisses, plopping onto the other end of the couch. Nut and Juice, the traitorous fiends, curl up at her feet.

“Yeah,” I reply, not mentioning the details. They know he swiped my laptop, but fine art theft? Nope, I promised Connor I wouldn’t tell, and I’ll keep that promise no matter what. Even with the girls. Even when he’s pulled a disappearing ghost act.

Right now, I wish I hadn’t told them about his stealing the laptop because that could get sticky. Especially if they hear about The Black Rose going missing from the same event. It wouldn’t take any of them longer than a split second to put that together and come up with Connor.

This is fucking complex. And dangerous.

“Look, I need you girls to promise me something,” I tell them quietly. “About Connor . . . what I tell you is a secret. You gotta swear.”

Bless them all, my friends immediately all swear without even questioning. Aleria even places her hand on her heart, a signal she doesn’t take lightly since she follows her heart always.

“Okay,” I whisper, taking a deep breath. “He's had some trouble. And I don’t know where he went, how long he’ll be gone, or even if . . . if he’s coming back.”

I expect pity, maybe even a bit of blame for losing my heart to a criminal. What I don’t expect is the universal anger around the room.

“Men are pigs.”

“That’s why I write aliens!”

“That’s why we all write fictional heroes.”

“True that.”

It helps, even if I think they’re wrong. Or at least I’m hoping they’re wrong. Because I believe deep in my heart that Connor is worth this pain . . . and not lying to me about a secret wife and kids he’s got hiding out in another town, which was Daysha’s twisted thought.

For the rest of the afternoon, the girls help out. Jasmine makes me a delicious bowl of spaghetti while Daysha and Becca go through my rough draft with a fine-tooth comb.

My backup computer and thumb drive come in handy as I get into the swing, sprinting through scenes and chapters while my W3AS sisters help.

“Open wide,” Becca orders at one point, popping a donut hole into my mouth. “Good girl!”

“What’s that for?” I mumble around the mouthful of donut.

“Every ten pages, you get a reward,” Becca tells me, patting my head. “Now back to it!”

“You know you’re treating her like the two rug rats,” Jasmine says, looking over at Nut and Juice. “You going to take her for a walk later, too?”

“If I have to.”

The moonlight shines through my window as I sit on my couch. It’s long after the girls have left, and I’m sipping decaf. Frankly, stripping coffee of caffeine is an affront against nature and downright evil as far as I’m concerned, but the bitter coffee suits my mood and I do want to sleep tonight.

Suddenly, Nut and Juice go crazy, growling and barking at the door. I didn’t hear anything, but they’re obviously riled up at something.

“Connor?”

I peek out and see a vehicle in his driveway, but it’s not his big King Ranch truck. This one is a black Suburban. And the front room light is on, glowing warmly.

“Fuck no. I will destroy you before I let you hurt him,” I vow to the empty room. Surging off the couch, I don’t bother tying my robe or putting on reasonable shoes. Nope, I run right over in my fuzzy slippers with my robe flying out behind me like a cape. I’d look like an avenging angel if I weren’t wearing cartoon character PJ pants and carrying Gary the Golf Club.

I don’t knock. I swing the front door right open, Gary on my shoulder and ready to swing as I stomp into the living room.

“Who the fuck is in here?”

A man, tightly built with blond hair and all black clothing, whirls, aiming a small handgun at me. “Freeze.”

“Back atcha, asshole.” Gun versus golf club doesn’t put me in the winner’s column, but I’ve got fury and concern on my side. Plus a considerable lack of self-preservation. “Who are you?”