Truly Madly Deeply: A Grumpy x Sunshine Romance (Forbidden Love Book 1)

“I’d Do Anything for Love (But I Won’t Do That)”—Meat Loaf

Dylan was pregnant.

Eighteen months pregnant by the look of it.

With triplets.

Holy shit, her belly was huge. Who was the father? Hodor? When had she gotten married? How come no one had told me?

“Mom,” I whisper-shouted, tugging on her sleeve, feeling the full weight of the entire continent pressing against my sternum. “Why didn’t you tell me Dylan got married?”

Terror laced through my veins. I was entirely unequipped to face the Casablancas siblings. Especially Dylan, who had ripped my heart out of my chest the last time we’d spoken and stomped on it until it had dispersed into dust. And what was Row doing here, anyway? Didn’t he have a reality TV contestant to yell at about their stew tasting like a diarrhea puddle? Because that had actually happened. I remembered watching that episode in horror and thinking, I had this man’s salami stuck in my canal.

Mom dazedly stirred her gaze from her sponge cake to the door, where people clamored around a ridiculously glowing Dylan.

“Married?” She frowned, her mouth clamping around an airy piece of buttery cake. “No, Callichka. Dylan didn’t get married.”

“She’s pregnant.” I gestured to my ex–best friend, as though this fact couldn’t be detected from Neptune. I knew I sounded judgmental. Plenty of people had children out of wedlock. This wasn’t the forties. But Dylan had always wanted a grand wedding. With a golden carriage and unicorns and white doves and five different dresses. She’d had ripped Vogue pages folded neatly inside her underwear drawer with flower decoration inspiration, like Pinterest didn’t exist.

“That’s right, Callichka. But the wedding ceremony isn’t how babies are made. I thought you knew that?” She frowned, cocking her head. “We never discussed the birds and the bees, did we?”

“Whose baby?” I looked around us frantically.

She stared at me like I was insane. “Why, Tucker Reid’s, of course. Who else?”

Who else? Good question. Maybe anyone who didn’t threaten to wedgie us all throughout high school.

Were they together now? When had it started? The night she’d caught me and Row? And how had Row even agreed to this? He was very trigger-happy when it came to guys he deemed unworthy of his sister. Which was every human alive, by the way. I was pretty sure Tucker’s nose and Row’s fist were intimately acquainted.

Also—Dylan had sex with Tucker Reid? He was a shithead but…kind of hot? I wanted to dissect that piece of juicy information immediately and at length. Problem was, it was Dylan I wanted to discuss it with.

Tucker. Freaking. Reid. I couldn’t get over the revelation.

He was our bully. Well, I guess now, technically, he was only my bully. Evidence suggested he no longer unpinned the Goosebumps pinback buttons from Dylan’s JanSport and “accidentally” sneezed into the food on her tray at the cafeteria.

As if sensing our presence, Row and Dylan turned their heads in unison, catching sight of me and Mom.

Forever a responsible, sensible adult, I decided now was a good time to swivel toward the person behind me and launch into an avalanche of incoherent words to appear busy and unaffected. I didn’t want either of them to know how terrified I was of a showdown with them.

My poor victim was Lyle Cooper, a tiny carpenter in his seventies who used to have fish and chips with Dad every Sunday over beer.

“Lyle. Wow. Haven’t seen you in a long time. Let’s catch up!”

I was acutely aware of Row and Dylan as they sliced through the throng, ambling to my corner of the room. More accurately, Row was ambling and Dylan was wobbling. They stopped to talk to Mom, who stood right beside me, and I tried to simultaneously converse with Lyle and eavesdrop on their conversation.

“…sorry for your loss, Mrs. Litvin. Mom sends her regards…” Dylan.

“…pain can only be dulled by time, and you know we’re always here for you…” Also Dylan.

“…Artem was the first person to truly believe in me,” I heard Row say in his bottomless baritone that licked at my skin like fire. “He saw my potential, made me work for things; they say every kid needs one grown-up to love them and one to believe in them. My mother loved me. But Artem? He believed in me.”

My mouth kept on moving, and it occurred to me that I was talking to Lyle and that he was listening, though not with great enthusiasm. A troubled frown engraved his crumpled forehead, and he kept sloping his head back and forth. Was I even speaking in English?

“…all I’m saying is Meat Loaf shouldn’t have called it ‘I’d Do Anything for Love (But I Won’t Do That)’ because what’s even the point?” I rambled. Oh God. Someone shut me up. Immediately. “Well, Mr. Meat Loaf, clearly, you won’t do anything for love. There’s no exception to the word anything. Everything is kind of baked into the cake, you know? The song should’ve been called ‘I Would Do Most Things for Love.’ But I guess that would have been less catchy. It’s all about the marketing.”

In my periphery, I caught Row pressing his knuckles to his mouth, enjoying my first-degree murder of whatever coolness I had left.

“Ya know, I was never a big Meat Loaf fan.” Lyle took a pull of his Coors, his eyes searching for an escape route from the conversation. “The dish? Sure. Not so much the artist. Springsteen fan, myself.”

His eyes crinkled with affection, like I was a six-year-old trying to spell a new word. “Don’t worry, Calla.” He patted my arm, and I forced myself not to wince and jerk away. “You don’t need to be smart. You’re mighty pretty, just like your ma.”

Dylan chose that moment to unzip her colorful, wet windbreaker and shake it in my general direction. Raindrops caught my dress and peppered my eyes.

“Oops. Clumsy me,” Dylan singsonged, no trace of regret in her airy tone. “It’s been raining like a bitch today, huh?”

So much for giving me a break because I’m newly fatherless.

I turned around, coming face-to-face with my former best friend.

Her face alone made me want to cry again. She was so…Dylan. Her skin smooth to the point she looked like an AI figure. Every feature perfectly proportioned and Apollo-like. With a wide, dimpled Julia Roberts smile and the long, spidery legs of a runway model. She had that Eva Mendes glow that made her look sexy doing anything, including staring me down like I had just battered a baby panda with its own bamboo stick.

My gut pretzeled into itself a hundred times over.

I missed her.

I missed her, and I still wanted her forgiveness. Her love, acceptance, and quirky jokes.

“Not a problem. Mistakes happen.” My eyes twitched four, five, six times. Not even ten seconds had passed, and I already had a tic. I extended a hand for her to shake. “Thank you for coming.”

Row was standing next to her, but I had yet to muster up the courage to look directly at him. Dylan rolled her eyes, not taking my hand. “Ugh.” She looked disgusted with herself for even looking at me. “Come here, you annoying…piece…of…Cal.”

Using my outstretched hand, she tugged me forward. I crashed against her belly. She gave me a crush-your-bones hug full of reassurance. It felt like she’d put an oxygen mask to my face, breathing life into me.

“I’m still mad, but I’m also in pieces for you,” she mumbled into my hair, stroking it softly, the touch achingly familiar and comforting. “Artem was our bestie. Remember when he let us practice our makeup skills on him?”

“Yes,” I choked out, the memories flooding me like a river. “We weren’t even that young anymore. Thirteen, right? Totally past the cute stage.”

“The man could rock a blue winged eyeliner like nobody’s business.”

“So true.” My chin wobbled. “It really made his eyes pop.”

The waterworks officially began. I’m talking Bellagio fountain show. My eyeballs were leaking as she rubbed circles on my back. She smelled like old Dylan: Libre by YSL, bubblegum, and that scent that always lingered at the Casablancas’ household of hearty Italian food.

“Dylan,” I gasped, melting into her hug, breaking into a million pieces and knowing somehow, she’d hold me together. “It hurts so bad.”

“I know.” She kissed my ear, wet with salty tears. “I lost my dad three years ago.”

Doug Casablancas had died? And I hadn’t been there to comfort her?

I pulled away, wiping my face quickly. “What? I’m so sorry. I had no idea. Mom and Dad…no one said a thing to me. I would’ve dropped everythin—”

“It’s me.” She stepped back, and it seemed like we both sobered up from that hug. “I asked them not to. It fell on your second semester finals.”

“Who cares?” I asked, horrified. “I’d have dropped everything to be there for you. No questions asked.”

“I cared. One of us had to do something productive with her life. Even though…” Her eyes swept over me. “Looks like neither of us did. What happened to your fancy degree?”

Ouch. I chewed my inner cheek. “Working on a game plan right now.”

“You always needed a little push in the right direction.” A small smile tugged at the corners of her lips. “Admit it, Dot, my pep talks were your fuel.”

“Yeah, well, I was short on those in the past five years.” My nose twitched. There was an awkward pause. My mother drifted to a nearby group of people to give us some privacy.

“Whatever, you know?” Dylan blew out air. “I mean, you were a shitbag for screwing my brother. But…maybe the timing was convenient for me too.”

“How do you mean?” I frowned.

“It was a great excuse to cut ties with you before you cut ties with me.” Dylan stared down at her Adidas Superstars, biting hard on her lower lip. “Once you realized the big city was full of supercool people you could hang out with. I didn’t want to deal with the rejection. Didn’t want to feel like I wasn’t good enough for you anymore.”

She was crazy if she thought anyone I’d met in NYC could rival the awesomeness of her, but I could tell she didn’t want to talk about us. I grabbed her hands. They were limp against my own. It was time to change the subject.

“You’re pregnant!” I announced.

She looked up, her face awash with mockery. “Whoa. What gave it away?”

I chewed on the side of my lip. “Tucker’s?”

She nodded sheepishly before awarding me with her signature eye roll. “It’s lobster season, so he’s away on the boat for three to four weeks. Depending on the catch.”

“Tucker is a fisherman?” My eyebrows jumped to my hairline. I was so far out of the loop.

“Well, NASA reached out for the aerospace surgeon position, but he said the Texas weather didn’t agree with him.” She waved her hand to her face, fighting her pregnancy sweat. Dammit, I’d missed her sense of humor. “I mean, he’s a hunk, but not the brightest bulb in the chandelier. I’m pretty sure half the lobsters he catches are smarter than him.”

“I’m sorry,” I blurted out.

“Don’t be.” She ran a hand over her belly. “Remember when we did those exams in ninth grade? My IQ is above average, so I think the baby will be fine.”

“I meant I’m sorry he is out in the ocean, risking his life.”

“Oh. I’m not,” she answered airily. “All he does when he’s around is watch football, drink beer, and complain I don’t fulfill my ‘womanly’ duties. Team Ocean all the way.”

There was a beat of silence as we both stared at each other. Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. I mouthed, You had sex with Tucker Reid, Dylan. Ohmigod.

That made her snort out a laugh. She slapped a hand over her mouth, frowning sternly. “Shut up. I’m still mad at you. I’m not here to make amends.”

“Not even if I beg really hard?” I wiggled my brows.

“Ask again after I eat. I’m hangry.” She glanced around the room, taking inventory of the people and dishes. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to make myself a pregnant lady plate and devour it while listening to a complete stranger reciting horror birth stories to me. Last time I socialized, Melissa told me about her two inductions, steroids shots, and emergency C-section. Hard to top that, but I have faith.”

She sauntered away, leaving me with my heart in my throat and a pathetic determination to make things right between us. I had let her down once, but I wasn’t gonna do it again. A Dylan-less life was unthinkable now that I had another taste of her presence in my universe.

“Dot.” A husky voice drifted straight into my bloodstream, and I knew exactly who it belonged to. “My sincere condolences.”

Reluctantly, I sloped my head all the way up, extending my neck to stare Row in the eye. He was nearly a foot taller than me. Nausea twisted my stomach upside down.

He was so gorgeous. I was so screwed.

Row Casablancas had always been a showstopper, but this? This was the face of my feminism leaving my body permanently, buying a one-way ticket to Bora Bora.

The chiseled planes of his jawline, the dent in the center of his lower lip, the crinkles fanning his heavily lashed eyes. What business did he have being so attractive?

His lips moved, and that was when I realized he was talking to me while I was imagining myself riding that mouth like the future of the nation depended on it.

“Can you say that again?” I cleared my throat, thunderstruck by his features.

“Sorry about Artem,” he drawled in a tone normally used to announce first-degree murder verdicts. “My aversion to his daughter aside, he was truly one of a kind.”

We were definitely not on the same page. I wanted to climb this man like a tree. And he wanted me to fall from one and break my spine. It was obvious he wanted to be polite and move on. His body was already half-tilted to give me his back and walk off. My eyes ticked.

“Yeah.” I slipped my hair behind my ear. “I mean…I, uhm, agree.”

That’s not even a sentence, Cal. Just a collection of filler words.

He turned around, about to walk off and leave me there. Something compelled me not to leave it at that. Guilt, maybe?

“Do you remember much about him?” I blurted out.

Everyone who graduated from Staindrop High knew Dad. He was that teacher. With the checked shirts, nine pens in its breast pocket, and a fanny pack he’d gotten for free from his insurance company. But Dad had never discussed his relationships with other students with me. He’d cared about their privacy just as much as he had about his own.

“All the good parts.” His eyes crinkled. “Physics and chemistry were my favorite subjects in high school.”

“I didn’t…know…that.” This was awful. Looking at his face and trying to English properly at the same time. On second thought, it was time to wrap it up. “Well! Thanks for coming, I better—”

“I visited him the day before he passed.”

He had? I hadn’t even known he was in town. How had Mom failed to mention that?

Well, she didn’t know he took your virginity and whatever was left of your soul the night before you moved to NYC.

I stared at him, too shocked to pick up my jaw from the floor. “You did?”

“He asked if I was going to attend his ‘real fun.’” Row quoted with his fingers. That was what Dad had called his impending funeral. Real fun. Because he’d wanted people to be happy that he’d lived, not sad that he’d died. “Said to remind you that he isn’t in pain anymore. That he is probably in heaven right now, playing chess with Leonid Stein and Abe Turner and eating Beluga caviar.”

I blinked at him, registering his words. That was the most Dad thing I’d ever heard. “He didn’t believe in heaven.”

“He said you’d say that. And to tell you that he was wrong. The first and last time that happened.” Row half shrugged.

Tears stung my eyes, but I was smiling. “What else did he say?”

“He asked you not to call it a celebration of life because that always feels like rubbing it in to the dead person.”

I felt my chin wobbling. “And you remembered his exact words?”

“Well, it is three sentences,” Row said coolly, glowering. “And I’m not a fucking idiot.”

“Is there anything else? Something more he wanted to tell me?”

“That’s all she wrote.”

I started laughing and crying simultaneously. Somewhere between touched and moved and completely shattered. Row said nothing. Just stared at me dispassionately with his liquid gold eyes. I wiped my face quickly. I hated that every encounter with this man involved me looking and acting like a hot mess. He twisted again, about to walk off and leave me. Man, he couldn’t stand me. I was going to keep him here and talk to him just to piss him off. How dare he? He took my virginity and it was my dad’s funeral. He was going to be nice to me if it was the last thing he did in his life.

“So how’s Paris?” I sniffled, wiping at my eyes.

He stopped mid-step. Growled in dissatisfaction. Turned to look at me. “Don’t know. Ask someone who lives there.” He spun to pluck a clean plate from a stack on the table, piling it with food. He was downright arctic. Whatever grace he might’ve given me as a teenager did not extend to my adulthood.

“I asked you.” I tried peering into his face, dread blooming in the pit of my stomach. “Because you live there. Wikipedia says so. So it must be right. It’s right, right?”

“Great, another stalker.” He scowled, stabbing a piece of prosciutto with a plastic fork, loading it onto his plate.

Another? How many were there?

“You’re famous and I grew up with you. Of course, I jealousy-googled you. It’s not like I stole your sperm. And hey, I actually had the chance.” I really needed to shut up. The sooner, the better. Twenty minutes ago would’ve been ideal.

“I live in Staindrop now,” came the reluctant answer. “Though ‘live’ is an exaggeration. This place doesn’t even have a fucking Whole Foods.”

We were going to be neighbors? Lovely. Things just kept getting worse for me. And I’d spent this morning picking up my father’s ashes from a crematorium. Sliding over a clean plate, I joined him, pretending to examine the options I myself had arranged there only an hour ago.

I wanted to make amends with Dylan. I’d just lost an important person in my life and craved to balance it out by returning a special someone to it. The way to Dylan’s heart passed through her brother’s approval. So maybe he and I occupying the same town wasn’t such a bad idea.

“Why’d you move back?” I piped out.

“Opened a restaurant here about a year ago.” He grabbed a piece of cherry pie, shoving it into his mouth without tasting it. “Descartes.”

His French accent was on point. So were my nipples, which apparently approved of his grasp of the French language. “Really? I hadn’t heard.”

“The Michelin people did. Gave it three stars. The first restaurant in the state of Maine to receive the honor. Just won the James Beard Award for it, actually. Guess that levels things out.”

Sarcasm was a good look on him. Hell, a trash bag probably would be too.

Also, why did he have to be good at everything he touched? It was completely exasperating to someone like me, whose life was a string of failures, interspersed by bodega runs and late-night trips to the laundromat.

“Why the name Descartes?” I munched on the corner of my mouth.

“Taco Bell was taken.” He rubbed his thumb over his lower lip, and my nether region clenched in response.

“No, what I mean is, why him of all philosophers?” Descartes was known for the connection he had made between geometry and algebra. My father had been fascinated by him and had spoken of him often.

“Are you always so full of questions?” he seethed.

“Are you always so full of attitude?” I sassed back.

“Yes,” he said simply. “Made an entire career based on it. Asshole is my entire personality.”

“You weren’t always like that,” I pointed out, my gaze holding his. “Once upon a time, you were the best part of my day some days.”

My confession frightened me. It was too honest, too raw. Row’s face remained blank and unimpressed. Not one muscle twitched. “What a crappy adolescence you must’ve had to put so much stock in someone who didn’t give a shit. Go back to torturing Lyle with your VH1 trivia.”

“You know, I think I’d rather torture you. You’re closer, and unlike Lyle, I don’t like you. So I guess you’re stuck with me.” I didn’t care about his scary reputation or the fact that I was usually a ball of anxious sunshine just trying to get along with everyone—I couldn’t let him get away with this kind of behavior.

Row’s eyes flicked over my frame briefly. He pushed another piece of unidentified food into his mouth. “You changed your hair color.”

“Just the tips.” I felt myself blushing and was surprised that I did. Yes, I’d had a crush on him when I was a teenager, but I was over him. I’d only thought about him whenever he popped up on my TV screen or in glossy magazine covers. “Indigo. It represents sadness and mourning.”

“Didn’t ask.”

“Didn’t care,” I fired back. “You won’t offend me with your offhanded attitude. I’m not one of your TV protégées.”

“If I stop answering you, will you go away?” He scrubbed his jaw with a frown.

I pressed a hand to my chest. “You wound me, Ambrose. I thought we could catch up.”

He said nothing, piling more food onto his already overflowing plate. Over the years, Row had opened and helmed upscale restaurants across Europe that were booked six months in advance, but that didn’t make him a food snob. He still liked mac-and-cheese casseroles and his momma’s famous lasagna.

Me? I chose my meals like I chose my paths in life—badly. Junk seemed to be the recurring theme in both of those fields, and I always ended up feeling like crap.

“I pick the color by my mood,” I heard myself drone on, even though Row certainly wasn’t keen for me to elaborate. “So, before Dad died, the tips were yellow. I was feeling kind of confident. Brave about the week ahead. I thought I had a few more days with him.”

He harrumphed to show me that he had heard me but offered no words of consolation. Wetting my lower lip, I said, “You know, I will be in town for a while…”

“Not interested,” he quipped, tone wry.

“Cocky much? I was going to say I’d really like to reconnect with Dylan.”

“You do? Huh, the feeling doesn’t seem to be mutual.” He brought a piece of Walmart pie to his lips, chewing slowly. If he found the flavor lacking, he didn’t show it. He stared at me indifferently. “She despises you.”

All thanks to you, slimeball.

Fine, that wasn’t fair. I took full responsibility for what happened. I’d played that night hundreds of times in my head over the past few years, and the only excuse I could come up with was a moment of sheer madness. It was like gambling away your entire life savings at the casino.

“She might forgive me.” I slammed a bread roll onto my plate.

“I might become a space cowboy.”

“No, you won’t.”

“My chances are better than yours, though,” he replied flippantly, popping a piece of cheese between his lips. “If Dylan’s forgiveness is what you’re after.”

“You seem to be taking a lot of pleasure in my misery over my fallout with your sister.” I squinted at him.

“A lot? No. A very modest amount? Sure, I’ll stand behind that.”

Lyle and Randy—the owner of the local food mart—whooshed past us in the cluttered living room, cutting the line to the quiches. Randy sent Row a fuming glare that concentrated enough hostility to fuel a nuclear bomb, baring his teeth at him.

“Hey, Casablancas. Come to ruin another fine piece of this small town?” he all but spat at Row’s feet as we stood on the buffet-style line along a table.

Whoa. What the hell? Row was royalty in this place. Staindrop’s golden boy. He had been handled with adoration and respect before he’d gone on to become the American Alain Ducasse. His shitty attitude added to his mysterious aura and bad-boy persona.

“I think I’m going to spare her.” Row dunked a sponge cake in an unidentifiable syrup, sniffing it before tossing it into his mouth. “Not my type and talks a mile a minute.”

Too stunned to be properly offended, all I could do was stare at him, jaw on the floor.

“I wasn’t talkin’ about Calla. I was talking about this house.” Randy balled his free fist, taking a step in Row’s direction.

“Talk all you want about either. As always, no one’s listening.” Row smirked defiantly.

Randy shoved his plate in Lyle’s chest, stepping into Row’s vicinity with his fist raised above his shoulder. “You got somethin’ to say to me, Chef?”

“Yeah, actually.” Row ate the rest of the distance between them, dropping his plate at the table with a loud clank. “Eat. Shit.”

Gasps erupted from every corner of the room. Whispers and loud shrieks ensued. And poor Lyle, who still looked only half-recovered from our Meat Loaf conversation, pushed Randy to the other side of the room, shoving at his chest like he was breaking up a bar fight.

“Knock it off and show some respect to Artem. Now’s not the time to discuss such things,” Lyle hushed his friend, and the two were immediately swallowed by a human frock of gossipers. Everybody’s eyes hung on Row’s face, and nobody came to his defense.

“What things?” I turned to look at Row, awestruck. “What did you do to make Lyle and Randy, two of the sweetest people on planet Earth, mad?”

He turned to glower at me. “Why don’t you ask them?”

Wasn’t it obvious? “Because I’m incapable of starting a conversation without turning it into a lovefest for everything nineties related, and I will probably give both of them a ten-minute lecture about the origin of ‘Kiss from a Rose’ by Seal, which, by the way, is one of the greatest songs of all time. Ask anyone with ears.”

“You can’t help yourself, can you?” He gave me an exasperated look, shaking his head. “Well, I think I’m gonna let you brew in the unknown a little longer.”

“What an ass.”

“You know, I had the same thought when I walked into this place and you had your back to me.”

“Are you flirting with me or ridiculing me?” I stomped. Actually stomped. The man was insufferable.

“Neither.” He picked up his plate and resumed his feast. “Just fact-stating is all.”

Tapping my finger over my mouth, I asked, “How come you didn’t kick Tuck’s butt for getting together with Dylan?”

“Who says I didn’t? Relocated his nose the first time they got together. Then closed the trunk door on his fingers, breaking four out of five, after their post–pregnancy test breakup.” Pause. “Accidentally, of course.”

“No, you didn’t.”

A somber nod. “He’ll never be able to jerk off again. His fingers look like deep-fried Cheetos.”

“Also—no, he didn’t.” I cupped my mouth, realizing Tucker had tried to weasel his way out of taking responsibility for that pregnancy.

“Tried to.”

“Whoa.” My eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets. “Ballsy.”

“That was the next item on my list of bodily organs to destroy if he didn’t man up.”

“Are they together now?” I was thirsty for tidbits about Dylan’s life.

“Why don’t you ask Dylan…oh, that’s right.” He snapped his fingers, nodding. “Because she hates your guts.”

That was it. I’d had enough of his behavior.

“That she hates my guts, I understand completely, considering the circumstances.” I tossed my plate into the trash can under the tableclothed table in fury. It wasn’t like I had an appetite anyway. “But why do you loathe me? What did I ever do to you? I gave you the greatest gift of all.”

“Pretty sure you moved away because of college, not as a gesture of good faith.” He popped an olive into his mouth.

“I’m talking about my virginity, you swine.”

“That was a gift?” He squinted at a piece of Muenster cheese dangling on a toothpick with the utmost concentration. “What’s the return policy on that?”

Absentmindedly tidying up the table to do something with my hands, I continued, “I was wrong to do that to Dylan, but I didn’t hurt you in any way. Yet you’re the one who can’t stand me. Why?”

“I can stand you fine.”

“Is that why you’re being sarcastic with me?”

“I’m being sarcastic with everyone, Dot. Ain’t nothing special ’bout you.”

“You weren’t sarcastic with me back when I was a kid.”

“Spared you then.” He turned to tap my nose, his grin unbearably patronizing. “New rules now. You’re a commoner like everyone else.”

“What? Why?” Did he just Meghan Markle me?

“You really wanna know?”

“Yes!”

His jaw locked, and he appeared to be grinding his molars to dust. Still, through the tension, I detected some pensiveness too. Like he was contemplating giving me a real, non-sarcastic answer.

I held my breath. I was in dire need of some truth bombs. I was back in a small, close-knit town, unfamiliar and unfriendly, and didn’t want to make any more mistakes.

Row opened his mouth to say something. As soon as he did, my mother announced loud enough to wake the dead, “All right, I’m tired and my favorite K-drama is about to start. Everyone can leave now.” Pregnant silence. “Other than Calla, I suppose.”

It completely ruined my moment of truth with Row. He clamped his mouth shut, turning around and striding in her direction.

I chased him, refusing to admit defeat. “Hey, wait. What were you going to say?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Does to me!”

The human ocean of grievers parted for Row, but the looks the townsfolk gave him no longer oozed awe and admiration. Everyone seemed put off and wary by his presence. This made no sense. Did they not see what I saw? A disgustingly accomplished businessman? An artist? A sex icon? The celebrity who put Staindrop on the map?

“Marina.” Row planted a hand on Mom’s shoulder, kissing her cheek earnestly. “I’ll be around. Let me know if there’s anything I can do for you.”

“There’s something you can do for me.” I tapped his back persistently. “Answer my damn question.”

Mom melted under Row’s touch, patting his hand on her shoulder. “Oh, Ambrose, you sweet boy. Tell your mother I send her my regards.”

“Sorry she couldn’t make it. Still down with the flu.”

“That’s all right. I know Zeta always means well.”

He shook me off his shoulder and disappeared. People began swarming around me and Mom, offering hugs and words of encouragement before taking off to their griefless lives. I thanked them, my eyes frantically searching for Dylan in the room. She was nowhere to be found. Nor was her colorful windbreaker. She had probably taken off with Row. Did she still live at her parents’ old house? Surely Mom would know.

Once our living room emptied out, Mom closed the door, pressing her forehead to the wood with a shaky exhale. “I’m going to dash upstairs and change into something more comfortable and watch Crash Landing on You before we start cleaning this place up. I need to decompress.”

“Decompress away, Mamushka. I’ll do the dishes in the meantime.” I nodded, sashaying to our kitchen. I opened the door. Our kitchen was a charming thing, with slim shaker cabinets, copper pot rails, blue geometry wallpaper, and a farmhouse sink. It was quaint, lovely, and cozy.

If you didn’t include the beastly man that stood inside it, filling up the entire room.

“Please tell me you are an unfortunate hallucination caused by my lack of sleep.” I stepped into the kitchen in a daze. Row was there, washing the dishes at the sink like he wasn’t a famous, stunning human with pictures of him in a tux available for download on Getty Images.

Suds of soap coated his sun-kissed, veiny forearms. The black sleeves of his dress shirt bunched around his elbows, straining against his thick arms. He had tattoos. Two full sleeves of delicious ink. All culinary inspired. Knives, herb roots, and a human-looking pig in a chef apron butchering a piece of human flesh.

“You’re not hallucinating.” He frowned at a pan, trying to scrub a dry piece of potato and cheese from it. “This time, anyway.”

“What are you doing?” I glowered.

“The dishes. I thought it was self-explanatory.”

“Do you always do the dishes in people’s houses without asking?” I parked my hands on my waist, committed to being his bitter enemy. I wished we could be friendly. I really did. But Row had chosen war.

“It’s a fetish” came his lazy drawl. “Don’t tell Sheriff Menchin. He let me off on a warning last time.”

I fished my phone out of my dress’s pocket—yes, it was awesome and had pockets—pretending to punch in a call. “Hello? Nine-one-one? My emergency is an unwelcome guest who won’t leave.”

He ignored me, scrubbing dirty dishes with gusto.

“Seriously. I can take it from here. Kindly evacuate my premises.”

“Not your premises.” Row slid a sparkling roasting pan into the rack by the sink.

“Excuse me? Yes, they are.”

“Is that what the deed says?” He picked up a dirty plate from the water-filled sink, leisurely scrubbing.

“It’s what my mouth says.”

“Your mouth just spent forty minutes talking about Meat Loaf.” He scowled at the bubble-coated plate he was cleaning. “It’s obviously only good for one thing, and that thing ain’t an appropriate topic for conversation.”

“You’re unbelievable!” I screeched.

“You’re incoherent,” he slapped back.

“I don’t know why I gave you my virginity.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I think I deserved it even less than that Grammy.”

Right. I almost forgot. Row had managed to win a Grammy for rapping for five seconds in a song by a famous artist. Screw him and his rock-star lifestyle. The most glamorous place I’d ever been to was the first-class lavatory on a plane to Dallas, and even that was because I’d had to bypass the angry flight attendant to projectile vomit.

Leaning against the wall, I folded my arms over my chest. “I see Staindrop has caught up with your personality finally.”

He grunted in response, too busy wrestling a lasagna stain from the plate to pay attention to me.

“What did you do?” I demanded.

“You’ll catch up.”

“Catch me up.”

He shot me a disinterested look, before sliding the plate onto the rack. “Nah. That would require speaking to you, which is low on my to-do list.”

I was livid. Livid because we were both about to occupy the same town. Because my stomach still felt funny around him, and my stomach never felt funny. Unless I had kidney beans. Which I knew better than to eat (other than that airplane incident). But mostly because being next to him made my eye tic less prominent for some reason.

I stood there, watching him being sexy and helpful and sarcastic, and just couldn’t take it. He had no right being all those things under my roof. In my house. It was time to assert power and control over the situation. “Please leave,” I said one more time.

“Please shut up.” He picked up another plate to clean.

I jumped on his back, lacing both my legs over his waist from behind, seizing his neck in a chokehold.

That, at least, was the plan. But I had miscalculated it gravely. Because his huge, muscular shoulders got in the way of choking him.

Embarrassingly, even as I was wrapped around him, he continued doing the dishes, like a fly had just landed on his back, as opposed to an entire human. His whole body was stone-hard, warm, and delicious. “Go away!” I screeched into his ear. “You’re unwelcome here.”

“Anyone ever told you that you sound like the ignorant, angry townsfolk in a Disney movie?”

“Don’t patronize me.” I squeezed my fingers around his neck—which was the width of an ancient oak tree—grunting from the physical effort. “Leave,” I commanded.

When my pleas didn’t achieve the desired effect, I began poking at his eyes with my fingers.

Now that made him stop. Probably because I got his eyeball once or twice.

“Cut it out.” He turned off the tap and shoved the clean plate into the rack, trying to swat my hands away from his face. Soap bubbles landed on the tips of our noses and eyes. “What are you? Two?”

“Twenty-three.” And he was twenty-seven. Birthday was May sixteenth. I remembered because he had total Taurus vibes. He clasped my wrists, prying me away as he staggered back from the kitchen sink. Ha. Being a stage-five clinger had its advantages. He couldn’t get rid of me.

Row reversed all the way to the wall, where he plastered my back against it, prying my arms off. I clung tighter, octopusing around his body.

“Don’t wanna hurt you,” he warned solemnly.

“Newsflash, you already did.” I knotted my legs over his torso from behind. “When we had sex.”

“You asked me to have sex with you.” He slid us both down to the floor, where he leaned his back onto my body, then flipped himself over, so we were missionary style, him on top of me. “You came on to me.”

“I was drunk!” I lied, swinging my fists toward his face.

He dodged me effortlessly, hemming me in between those Thor arms and the floor. “No, you weren’t.” His lips thinned, and he looked genuinely pissed off now. “You didn’t have more than one drink in you that night. I know you drunk. I know you sober. I know you in every fucking state. Besides, I thought you didn’t want—what was it again?” He looked up, squinting as he tried to remember that night. “A broccoli-haired trust fund baby who makes experimental techno music to take your V-card.”

“I was young and impressionable.” I writhed beneath him, twisting and thrusting, our bodies touching everywhere. My heart hammered and not from fear for a change. “Why’d you listen to me?”

“Because you were a willing woman of legal age, and I was twenty-three with a pulse.”

I wormed to the right, attempting to roll under him, but he was quicker. He pinned me to the wooden planks by thrusting his nether region to trap my legs against the floor, and just like that, I came sex-to-sex with his massive erection. He bracketed me between his thighs and nailed my wrists together above my head. My nipples brushed his chest each time I panted.

My eyes narrowed. “Let me go.”

His gaze dropped to my lips. “Been trying to do that all afternoon, and you keep coming back.”

“Sounds about right,” I bit back. “It’s the only way I come with you.”

“Baby.” He released a slow, taunting smirk that made me melt into a puddle, constricting his grip on my wrists a smidge. “Just say the word and I’ll destroy your pussy and your chance of ever coming with any other man.”

Joke’s on you. No one other than my Magic Wand has ever made me come.

“I’m serious, Row. If you don’t let me go right now, I’m going to do something really awful.”

“Like what?” A spark of interest ignited in his eyes.

Ugh. Good question.

“Bite you?” I twisted my mouth uncertainly.

“Don’t threaten me with a good time, Litvin.”

“I’ll sing! You’ve never known pain until you hear me belt out ‘Hello’ by Adele. I try to hit all those high and low notes. I also do the echoes, for full effect.”

He was fighting a grin, and satisfaction filled my chest because I had almost made him smile and nothing made this man genuinely smile. Not even the supermodels he was flaunting all over the globe.

“Say the magic word, Dot, and I’ll set you free.”

“Plea—”

“Nah. Our magic word. The one we came up with together.”

Oh shit. He was doing that whole routine we’d used to do growing up. Whenever Dylan was busy and I was bored, I would wander into his room and rummage through his stuff. If he caught me—which he rarely did, because he was always out doing big, lovely Row things—we would grapple until he would inevitably press me against his bed or the floor and have me beg him for mercy. Only I hadn’t used the word please. I had used another word that used to make him laugh.

What the hell was the word? Think, Cal, think!

“Asshole?” I let loose a snarky smile. I knew what would happen if I didn’t say the word.

He exhaled somberly, like a disappointed teacher. “Not the first hole I have in mind, but I’ll take it. Two more shots.”

“Banana?” I remembered it was some type of fruit. Or maybe a vegetable? It was definitely food related.

He shook his head again. “Nope, but I see where your mind is going, and I’m not mad about it.” His dick twitched between my legs. Okay. Yeah. This was definitely one hell of a welcome back.

Also—I wasn’t half as freaked out about what was happening right now as I should have been.

“Give me a clue,” I demanded, wriggling. “Is it a fruit or a vegetable?”

“Fruit,” he said stoically.

Pear? Passionfruit? Guava?

“Give me another clue.” The weight of him was delicious. To the point my mouth watered, my nipples puckered, and I was ninety-nine percent sure I was on the verge of a mini-orgasm.

“Nice try. You didn’t deserve the first one.”

Fair point. Too bad we were chafing everywhere and an insistent, tingly pressure mounted in my core. Something that horrifyingly resembled the Big O. And I’m not talking about Queen Oprah.

“One more chance to get it right, Dot. What’s our magic word?”

“Mango!” I tossed the word in his face, flustered.

“Wrong answer.” His voice was calm, flat, and resolute. “The word you were looking for was tomato.”

“You said it was a fruit!”

“Tomato is a fruit.”

“How can it be a fruit if you put it in salads? Fruits are fun.”

“So is payback,” Row deadpanned. “Enjoy.”

He used his free hand to tickle my armpits and neck, feathery fingers skimming all my delicate areas, and my writhing became violent, frantic thrashing. I was the most ticklish person on planet Earth. It was a medical condition. I could pee myself. I swung upward, trying to bite him in retaliation. “Let go of me!”

I was squirming, laughing, and begging, tears prickling my eyes as I tried to escape his fingers, but they were everywhere. My ribs, my neck, and behind my ears. I was horrified and delighted that the grumpiest human alive had managed to put a smile on my face on the saddest day of my life.

I was dangerously close to peeing my pants and coming, and needed Mom to come down right now before I did something I would never recover from. Desperate, I sent a silent prayer to the universe.

Dear God,

I know I’m not much of a devout Christian. I also know I only gave up something for Lent once, and it was Skittles (and even that was because I’m allergic to Red Dye 40), but I really need a solid right now.

Please make Row stop tickling me. I really can’t handle another humiliation, and I have a feeling beginning my stay in Staindrop with a pee stain the shape of Nebraska on my dress and convulsing with an orgasm while he wrestles me into submission is going to make my time here challenging to say the least.

I promise to be good. To donate what little I have to charity. And to not shut the door in Jehovah’s Witnesses’ faces when they tell me You want me to do something special with my life.*

*Is starting a true crime podcast special enough? Just being pragmatic here. Your girl has bills to pay and has a scented-candle addiction to subsidize.

Faithfully, Cal

P.S.

Please send my regards to Jesus and tell him I’m sorry he died for my sins just so I could sleep with my bestie’s brother, then borderline assault him in my mom’s kitchen the day of my dad’s funeral. He deserved better.

—C. x

God must’ve had a slow day because he heard me. Suddenly—eureka!—Row’s front pocket began vibrating. His phone flashed through his dark pants, and we both stopped, staring at it.

Fine, I was staring at his baseball bat-sized hard-on. His zipper looked so strained it was a wonder it didn’t dislocate to a parallel universe.

Row leaned backward on his shins, releasing me from his grip as he pulled out his phone and swiped the screen, scowling. “Now what?”

Dude made the Grinch look like Phoebe Buffay.

His jaw clenched, and he straightened his back, running a hand through his floppy, shiny hair. His shirt rode up, offering me a glimpse of his rock-hard, bronzed abs. “You’re shitting me,” he bit out.

“That explains the smell,” I quipped, smoothing my dress down and patting my wild hair into submission. Row ignored me. The person on the other line continued talking. My archenemy rose to his feet, letting out a puff of air as his frown deepened.

“I’m going to make a nutcracker out of their bone cartilage.” Oof. “On my way.”

“Hey, where are you going?” I growled. “You didn’t even apologi—”

He grabbed his jacket from the back of a dining chair, not even bothering to put it on. The door slammed abruptly, shaking on its hinges. Leaving me to pant on the floor, feeling empty, confused, and with two brand-new pieces of information to digest: 1) Tomato is a fruit, and 2) Row Casablancas was hotter than ever and burning with hatred for me.