Famously Mine: A Contemporary Romance Box Set Page 26

  “I’ll still want to,” I say, and she blushes.

  “I’m talking about getting engaged,” Sienna says. “Not sex.”

  “I’m talking about getting married, not engaged.” I say. “But now that you mention sex…”

  I try to steal a kiss, and she leans farther away from me, laughing. I’m laughing too, as I catch and lift her, spinning us in a circle. Sienna’s hair flows out behind her, silhouetted against the sunset. Her smile quiets as she looks down at me with something approaching wonder. She traces my face gently.

  “This feels like a scene from one of your movies,” Sienna says.

  “Nah,” I say, lowering her down to the ground. “I don’t do romantic comedies.”

  “You do now,” she says.

  I’m not sure who starts the kiss this time, but now that we’ve found each other we can’t seem to stop. The pink of the sunset envelops us and the wind tangles her hair and wraps her scent around me.

  God, this woman. My hands slide up her silken red dress, touching every place a man can get away with touching in public.

  Although… we’re not that public.

  “When you said no to sex on the beach,” I say, and my voice is husky and happy, “were you saying no because it was the first time or because you have a fundamental opposition to sex on the beach?”

  Sienna grins slyly, adjusting her glasses which got knocked crooked during a kiss, “Well, on the one hand, sand in all the places you don’t want sand to be, and it’s technically a public area, and it will get cold soon. On the other hand… you.”

  And that pretty much sums it up for me. On the one hand, all the reasons why we shouldn’t work, why we shouldn’t have ended up together, all the chaos we’ve wreaked on each other’s lives. On the other hand… her.

  I hold out my hand, “Let’s go find out.”

  She takes my hand, and we walk down to the sunset together.

  Epilogue

  Sienna

  “Please! Let me see it, let me see it, let me see it. One last time before bed. Pleeeeeeeeeease!” Poppy’s jumping up and down, begging me, and I can’t help but smile. She’s eleven now, and normally too cool for this level of excitement, but it’s the night before her dad’s wedding, and even a cool pre-teen can get caught up in the excitement of something like that.

  To mark the occasion, we’re having a girls sleepover at Jax’s apartment, a.k.a. the apartment I was living in when I met Joshua. Jax’s decor involves a lot more hot pink than mine did, but there’s still a part of it that feels like home.

  I look over Poppy’s head at Brittney, who’s sipping a martini and wearing a t-shirt that says I was a Bridesmaid in My Ex’s Wedding and All I Got Was This F****cking Shirt . The asterisks are because Poppy got in trouble for dropping an f-bomb at school, and we’re all trying to be better role-models.

  Well, everyone but Elinor Swift. She’s on her third movie with King Productions — this time as a co-producer — and on more than one occasion we’ve caught her telling Poppy that the art of swearing is something every true lady should learn. Elinor helped Poppy craft her toast for our reception tomorrow, and if I’m honest I’m a little terrified.

  “What do you think, ladies?” I ask. “Should we look at it one more time?”

  “It’s your party,” Brittney says, and then takes off on a rendition of Lesley Gore’s “It’s My Party,” changing the lyrics to be about trying on your wedding dress. It’s possible she’s had one too many martinis.

  “You are not trying the dress on!” Jax says. “You’ll wrinkle it, or rip it, or spill something on it, and I won’t have time to get it fixed before your wedding. No.”

  Poppy deflates.

  Jax has gotten surprisingly militant about her duties as Maid of Honor. I think it’s because she’s been spending more time with Darian. Which, actually, now that I think about it, she’s been spending a lot of time with Darian...

  I eye Jax speculatively.

  “What?” she says.

  “I was just wondering how it went picking up the flowers with Darian yesterday. You guys were gone a long time.”

  “Let’s go see the dress!” Jax says brightly, grabbing Poppy’s hand and racing upstairs.

  I watch them go, trying to hold my laugh in. I’m dying for details, but I can respect a secret. Sometimes fragile things need the shelter of a shared secret to grow.

  I turn to see Brittney watching me, looking surprisingly serious for a woman on her fourth martini.

  “What?” I say.

  Brittney shrugs, and smiles, then tosses back the last of her martini, “I’m just glad it’s you. If I was gonna pick a step-mom for my kid…”

  I swallow, surprisingly touched.

  “You should go up and look at the dress,” Brittney says.

  “I’ve seen it before,” I say, heading to the kitchen to refill the cheese plate.

  Brittney rolls her eyes as she follows me, “Poppy didn’t just want to look at the dress.” Brittney pours herself a glass of water. “She wanted to look at it with you. The smart, beautiful woman with a kick-ass career who is the reason she finally stopped asking me how old you had to be to get contacts.”

  “Oh.”

  Brittney props a hip on the counter and sips her water, “She’s pretty excited to have you officially join the family.”

  “Then I should…” I gesture in the general direction of the thumping and giggling happening upstairs.

  “Yup.”

  On an impulse, I give Brittney a hug, “I’m glad I’m joining your family too.”

  She scoffs, but she does let me hug her for a whole five seconds before developing a sudden need to call her manager.

  I’m marrying into a family of artsy workaholics, who I know from experience will absolutely wake me up at 3:00 a.m. to tell me about the idea they just had or the shoot they just finished. And I couldn’t be happier about it. Because at the end of the day, they always choose the people they love.

  I head upstairs. Jax has wandered off — I have a sneaking suspicion she’s hiding in the bathroom texting Darian — leaving Poppy sitting reverently in front of my dress.

  It’s hanging on the back of Jax’s closet door, and I have a sudden memory of another dress that hung there, years ago. A red dress, that meant I could still have a vivid, meaningful life after Joshua. And now, in its place, a white one, that means it will still be vivid and meaningful, but in a host of beautiful ways I never could have imagined when Jax and I were buying that red dress.

  My wedding dress is a simple silk gown, modest except for the fact that it pours over every curve I have like water. It’s smooth and delicate against my skin, and I love the way it flares out when I twirl.

  I can’t wait for Joshua to see me in it.

  I can’t wait for Joshua to see me out of it. We’ve been living together for two years now, and the man still has a way of looking at me that makes me feel like we’re on a first date.

  Well. Maybe a third.

  Poppy reaches out and runs a careful thumb along the bottom of the dress, “Remember that time, when we were in the ballroom, and you said that sometimes we need to make our own magic, and then we danced together?”

  A wave of tenderness washes over me, “Yeah, honey. I remember.”

  She pushes her glasses up her nose and turns to look back at me, “Can we do that now? Because I’m so happy it feels like all I can do with it is dance.”

  I crouch down next to Poppy, a.k.a. the second love of my life, and wrap my arms around her. I kiss the top of her head, “Yes, Poppy. We can absolutely do that now.”

  Five hours later, I collapse into bed next to a snoring Jax. Poppy and Brittney are curled up together on one of the couches downstairs.

  I’m happy and exhausted, but it’s a good exhausted. After the most epic dance party ever, we watched cheesy movies until Poppy fell asleep. And then Jax and Brittney and I migrated to the balcony, where we stayed for hours talking and drinking wine and i
n general having the kind of heart-to-heart that can bond you to a person for years to come.

  Tomorrow is my wedding day. It is my literal, honest-to-God, wedding day. And I’m marrying Joshua King, the love of my life. When I stop to think about it, the whole thing feels fragile and improbable. But when I think about Joshua, it feels like it couldn’t have happened any other way.

  All I have to do now is fall asleep.

  But after an hour of tossing and turning I’m about to give up. I can’t fall asleep without Joshua. It’s as simple as that. I miss his scent, and his warmth, and the way his slow, heavy breathing calms me down when my mind is going a mile a minute.

  This probably bodes well for the rest of our lives, but not particularly well for me looking rested in the wedding pictures.

  That’s when I hear it.

  A light chink on the window. At first I think I imagine it, but then there’s another. And another.

  I’ve heard that sound before.

  My heart beats like a kid at Christmas as I quietly get out bed and step out onto my moonlit balcony.

  Joshua is standing in the street below, broad and strong and beautiful and dear. He’s a man wrapped in starlight, waiting for me to come to him, and I want to freeze this moment so I never forget.

  He smiles as soon as he sees me, and my heart melts. It utterly melts.

  “Joshua, what are you doing here?” I call, my voice soft so as not to wake anyone.

  “I couldn’t sleep without you,” he says.

  “Well, there’s no room for you here,” I say.

  “Then come down and run away with me,” he jokes.

  I bite my lip. It’s ridiculous. I’m supposed to be here at the apartment getting ready in seven hours. Leaving will mess up Jax’s entire schedule.

  Plus, Joshua and I will have the rest of our lives together. It is completely, utterly ridiculous to throw a carefully orchestrated public event into a tizzy just because Joshua and I are sappy, dramatic, lovestruck fools.

  On the other hand, it’s worked pretty well for us before.

  “Come on, Sienna Bridges,” Joshua coaxes. “Come down from that balcony and let me love you until neither of us can think straight.”

  You know what? What the hell. Brittney’s right. It’s my party, and I know exactly where I want to be tonight.

  I go inside, and I’m so giddy, I almost forget to leave a note on the kitchen counter telling the others where I’ve gone. I don’t bother to get dressed, I just throw a jacket on over the giant wedding-themed t-shirt I’m sleeping in. I grab my wallet, my keys, and my phone, and slip out the front door.

  I realize as soon as the door shuts I’m still barefoot, but I don’t care.

  I run down the grass to Joshua, who’s standing under the streetlight, watching me like he’s the happiest man in the world. And I suddenly I get a glimpse of what he’s going to look like when I’m walking down the aisle to him tomorrow.

  Well, technically today.

  Joshua greets me with a kiss that wakes me up and shoots tingles down my spine. I’m definitely not falling asleep now. His hands slip under my jacket, pulling me in close against him. His jeans clad leg presses between my bare ones, and I shiver, feeling deliciously exposed, an echo of our first time.

  He breaks away to look down at what I’m wearing. Or more precisely, what I’m not wearing.

  “Shit,” Joshua says. “You’re not wearing pants. Or a bra.” He glances down, “Or shoes.”

  I can tell when he notices what’s written on the t-shirt, because his eyes narrow.

  I married Joshua King and all I got was this f***cking t-shirt.

  “I’m going to kill Brittney.”

  I laugh.

  Without warning, he scoops me up, like an old-timey hero carrying his bride over the threshold. I wrap my arms around his neck on reflex.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  “Taking you to the car. And then home. Where I will strip that shirt off your body and pin you to our bed and drive you wild until you’re begging for me. And then I’m going to make you list all of the things you’re getting out of this marriage.”

  Honestly, that sounds amazing, especially because I know how much fun it will be when Joshua eventually cracks and lets me drive him wild in return. I’m already wet just from that bossy tone in his voice. But it’s the last night before we get married, and I don’t feel like teasing him.

  I feel like loving him with my heart wide open.

  I take his face in my hands, and he stops in his tracks.

  “I know exactly what I’m getting out of this marriage. You,” I kiss Joshua with everything I have, and without an ounce of hesitation, he kisses me right back.

  Read the next book in the series…

  Famously First: A Second Chance Romance

  Famously First: A Second Chance Romance

  Go undercover as his tour photographer.

  Dish the dirt on my now famous ex.

  Cash that big fat check.

  Fall in love again…

  Wait what!? - That IS NOT part of the plan.

  Ten years ago he was my first boyfriend.

  Now he’s my ultra rich rockstar boss.

  He dropkicked my heart all the way to misery-town.

  That jerkface will not be singing his way in to my panties again.

  Except…

  He’s still an A+ hottie.

  Yeah he trampled my feelings,

  But his touch melts away the last ten years

  And makes me ache for him.

  And he knows it.

  Can I forgive him for wrecking my heart?

  What will happen if he finds out I’ve been lying this whole time?

  1

  Charlie

  I’m zoomed in, carefully editing out a model’s nose hair on photoshop, when there’s a shout from the other side of the wall. I flinch, taking out a chunk of the model’s nose.

  “Shit,” I hit undo and look around for my headphones. “DAISY, KEEP IT DOWN!!!”

  When I imagined my life at 28, I did not imagine a roommate who liked to shout—at the t.v., at the neighbors, during sex. She’s a very vocal woman, Daisy.

  I also didn’t imagine how much it costs to live in New York City, or how difficult it is to make a living as a photographer. When an old boss of mine retired last year, I took over most of her clients and went independent. I’m slowly, slowly building a reputation for high quality portraiture and for advertising shoots. And every now and then, I do get to do really fun stuff. A few months ago I shot the season images for a local ballet company.

  But mostly it’s a lot of editing nose hairs. I didn’t mind at first, when I thought it was just a career stage I had to work through until I could make the art I want. But hell, New York is competitive. My old boss had to retire and move to fucking Jersey before she could finally do her dream project.

  If I’m honest, I’m beginning to fear I’ll never make it. I’ll spend my life doing corporate photo shoots to sell shit no one needs for the next fifty years, listening to my roommates have lives on the other side of the wall.

  Except I don’t like being afraid, so I convert it to rage—at Daisy, at my more obnoxious clients, at you-know-who when his stupid song comes on the radio.

  Rage is a comfortable emotion, especially in New York. It’s like black clothes—we don’t hold it against you if you’re into happiness and color, but we all agree that unless otherwise prompted, the natural state of the city is mostly black outfits and barely repressed anger.

  I put on my headphones and take a deep breath.

  One day, I tell myself. One day I’ll have the clout, and the money, and the time to take the kind of projects I really want.

  I click on a moody rock playlist to drown out Daisy and go back to work. I’m playing up the blue in the photo to make the model’s eyes pop, when the song changes, and his voice fills my ears.

  That distinctive rough, untrained tenor. You know he means eve
ry word. Lyrics that are by turns sarcastic, romantic, clever, then just when you think he might have a heart, viciously sarcastic again. It’s a Finn Ryan song all right.

  I yank my headphones off. I’ve dated a lot of asshole men, but only one broke up with me to become a fucking rockstar, and then actually succeeded.

  My phone buzzes, and I reach for it, grateful for the distraction. It’s the photo editor from False Prophet, a national music magazine that thinks it’s cooler than it is. They’re famous for doing vicious exposés that bring down moguls, producers, and rockstars alike. They also do overly glowing interviews with up and coming indie artists, which is where I come in. I’ve shot portraits for said indie-artists a couple of times. I answer the phone, hoping they’ve got another job for me.

  “Charlie! How are you? Living that wild young-in-the-city life?” Shaun Coleman asks. He’s an overly gregarious middle-aged man who thinks he’s interesting because of where he works. But he hires me every now and then, which is something I appreciate in a man.

  “You know it,” I say, rolling my eyes at my sad, messy bedroom. My social life and I are basically strangers at this point. I lean back and put my feet up on my desk. “How can I help you, Shaun?”

  “That’s my Charlie, straight to the point! Heh-heh, right, well …”

  He’s taking so long to spit it out I worry there’s something wrong with the last batch of photos I sent in.

  Finally Shaun says, “Have you ever thought about photojournalism?”

  I sit up straight, my feet crashing to the floor. Have I ever thought about photojournalism? Only since forever. It’s why I first got into photography. I love fading into the background, capturing people as they really are. Photo shoots are fun, but they’re fiction. Photojournalism? That’s the truth.

  “Absolutely, and I have some experience,” I hasten to add, which is sort of true, if you count my college newspaper.