Baby & Bump (The This & That Series) (31 page)

Acknowledgments

              There’s nothing in this world more important to me than my family. My husband, my kids, my brothers & their families, my mom, and my motley crew of mismatched friends. They’re all part of
what makes me who I am. I really tried to create that same feeling in Lexie Baump’s world. This plethora of people, who all bring their own brand of chaos to the table, but all support and love her in their own way. I hope I succeeded.

             
The idea for
Baby & Bump
came from a Facebook comment someone left on my page one day. A girlfriend (Hi, Tanya!) made a remark about how awkward it would be to have a hot obstetrician. That one random comment turned into an idea in my head that grew and grew and grew until Lexie Baump and Fletcher Haybee had become real people to me. I owe Tanya, and all of my Facebook fans and friends, a huge debt of gratitude for all of their awesome feedback and support. All of my best book ideas come from all of you, and your interesting lives.

             
A big, fat thanks also goes out to my beta readers (and friends), Jess McCallan and Katie Fox, because if I didn’t make you guys laugh and beg for more stories… then it would be back to the drawing board for me. A good author is nothing without feedback, suggestions, and room to grow. Like I always say, the minute I stop listening to feedback is the day I give it all up, and become a podiatrist. Which would be awkward, considering how much I hate feet.

             
At the risk of sounding melodramatic,
Baby & Bump
really wouldn’t be worth a second glance without the critique, feedback, support, and wicked editing skills of the
incredible
Meggan Connors. Seriously, I gave up on this book at least a dozen times. True story. But Meggan never did. Every time I came back to it, she just smiled, read it, and offered me tips, and then patted my head affectionately when I quit again. You know, she and I have come a long way from that pitch fest group at ECWC all those years ago, and our relationship has evolved from writing acquaintances to full on friends. She listens to me gripe about my weight, and she laughs when I send her inappropriate pictures of men in kilts. Meggan’s the real deal, folks, and I’m pretty lucky to work with her. Thanks, Meggan.

             
As always, I have to thank my five darling little monsters. Without each of you, I wouldn’t have muddy shoes to pick up or a bazillion loads of laundry to fold. I wouldn’t be fat, and I wouldn’t have an extensive knowledge of all things Star Wars and Disney XD. But I would also be half the person I am today. So I’m pretty lucky, eh?

             
Half the reason I write romance is because I am living a romance novel every day. I mean, sure… my nerd and I spend most of our time fighting over the remote, listening to mind-numbing tween music all the time, and laughing at the idiocy of 80’s movies, but nobody loves me the way he does. And nobody accepts me the way he does. It’s so weird, it’s almost as if my husband
likes
the fact that I can’t ever shut up and I laugh at my own jokes. Thanks for being my own romance hero, old man.

             
I hope you all enjoyed the first book of the
This & That Series.
It was a joy to write… even if I did start and stop about twelve times. Stay tuned for Marisol’s story next!

             
                                          ~Brooke

Apples & Oranges

Book 2 of the This & That Series

One broken four-
inch heel, two sweat marks on a Micheal Kors cowl neck blouse, three chipped fingernails, and a broken down BMW 3 Series convertible. Not exactly a fun way to top off my debunked luncheon with my mother.

             
“
Inútil pedazo de mierda de coche
,” I hissed as I hiked across the busy street.

             
A woman pushing a stroller in the crosswalk glared at me. “Nice language.”

“How was I to know you’d understand?” I snapped. It wasn’t my fault she’d heard me calling my car a piece of
you-know-what
.
Besides, who walked their baby around in ninety-degree weather? “Buy a minivan, breeder.”

A car honked their horn at me, but I ignored it. The “walk” sign had long since started flashing red, but I couldn’t move any faster, thanks to my busted shoe. Add
in the fact that I’d left my iPhone under the napkin at the restaurant so I couldn’t call for a tow, and the unseasonably warm May weather was making my most recent blow-out worthless, and my surly attitude was multiplying. Being forced to walk to the nearest auto shop was the icing on the crap cake that was my day.

I didn’t
walk
places. I drove places. Walking was what tree huggers did because they thought car exhaust was the devil. The only time I ever walked was when I was cooling down on the treadmill after a work out, which usually involved my gorgeous trainer, and in that case, I didn’t mind. But in ninety-degree heat with a messed up shoe?
I minded.

By the time I hobbled into the first garage I’d come across in this sketchy neighborhood—because when do cars ever break down in nice, gated communities with manicured lawns and luxury cars parked in the driveway?—I resembled a limp piece of lettuce. My hair was flat, my clothes were wrinkled and soaked, and I was pretty sure I’d sweated most all of my makeup down into a bronze ring at the base of my neck.

Limping past the door of the corrugated metal shop with a red roof, I headed straight for the open double garage doors. There was no time to chitchat with some sort of dimwitted receptionist, and there had to be some grease monkey underneath one of these pieces of crap. I’d just spent forty-five minutes across a table from
my mother,
and
if that wasn’t enough to put someone on edge, I didn’t know what would.
My stomach dropped as I passed the mirrored glass door. I never went in public looking like this.
Ever.

“What can I do for ya?”

              Jumping, I tripped over a crack in the cement, and stumbled into the garage. Standing before me was a kid, likely in his early twenties, with a prominent nose and dark, shaggy hair. His coveralls were oil stained and greasy, and he was peering up at me from underneath the hood of a beat up truck that looked like it should’ve been laid to rest a decade ago. It was clear he was going to be gorgeous one day, once he’d gotten the chance to grow into his Mediterranean features, but for now he was sporting the awkwardly cute appearance of someone who knew not the full extent of his capability. I remembered those days.

             
“Yeah. I need help.” I said, tugging off my other shoe and tossing both of them into a nearby trashcan with a thunk. The back of my blouse was completely plastered to my skin.

             
His eyes widened. “Hey-yo. I can help you. What seems to be the problem, pretty lady?” Standing upright, his head whacked into the truck hood. He blushed and rubbed his tousled head sheepishly. “Ow. Sorry.”

             
I would’ve laughed, had I not been on the verge of heat exhaustion. When his eyes roamed from the top of my head, down to my toes, and back up again, I added, “Is it take your son to work day today?”

             
Years and years ago, I’d left the seventh grade in May with the body of a pubescent boy, then returned in September with the body of a Playboy model. I’d inherited my mother’s fondness for surgically enhanced boobs, and my father’s Cuban good looks, and whether I liked it or not, men took notice. My mom eventually took me shopping, introducing me to the fun of lingerie shopping and four inch heels, and by the time I was sixteen, I’d grown fond of the leering stares and the way I could control men with the flip of the hair or the jut of a hip. Now that I was in my thirties, I used my inherited looks to my advantage for everything from lowered insurance premiums to free mochas. Hey, you work with what you got, right?

              The kid in the coveralls smirked. “Yeah, right. My dad doesn’t work here.”

             
I raised an eyebrow. “You’re what? Sixteen? Seventeen, kid?”

             
“Nineteen,” he replied with a grin.

             
“Tempting, big guy.” I lifted my dampened hair off of my neck, and his eyebrows rose higher on his forehead. “But really, the sign says family owned and operated. Who runs this place?”

             
He straightened his shoulders. “Who says I don’t? Want a tour?”

             
This kid was persistent, I had to give him that. But I didn’t do the cougar thing. Not with boys
that
young, anyway. The youngest I dated was twenty-two, a full decade younger than me. I’d only done that because Candace had declared it inappropriate and morally wrong, and, well, I couldn’t let her win that argument, could I? We’d only gone out a few times, before I realized I was in competition with the guy’s Xbox, and that wasn’t gonna fly. I stuck to my own age bracket, or older, now.

             
“I’ll pass on that tour.” I pulled my wallet out of my handbag, then slid my platinum card out of his worn slot. “But seriously, my car’s broken down on Manito Boulevard, and I need a tow.”

             
He laughed. “That sucks.”

             
“Sure does.” This kid was getting on my nerves. Pressing my lips together, I glanced at his embroidered nametag. “So…
Trey,
do you think you could find someone to run out there and get it?”
              Trey put his hand on the edge of the truck and leaned back casually. It slipped, making him stumble, then right himself with a grin. “I might be talked into it.”

             
I tilted my head to the side. “Are you joking?”

             
Now, normally I enjoyed being flirted with as much as any girl—maybe even more—but today I wasn’t interested. Not only was this boy out of my preferred age bracket, but I was also an hour late getting back to work the day before a three hundred guest wedding, and I still had to get someone to tow a car that I’d signed the lease on thirteen months ago.

             
He shook his head. “No, ma’am.”

             
Aggravation crept up the back of my sticky neck like a spider, so I put my hands on my hips and leaned closer to the kid. He gulped. “Listen up. I’ve got a dead car holding up traffic out there, and a business partner who will fillet me and serve me up with capers if I don’t get my ass back to work. Understand?” He nodded, so I went on. “So how’s about you call your tow truck guy and let me borrow a phone, m’kay?”

             
Trey furrowed his dark eyebrows at me. “You don’t have a phone?”

             
“I left it at a restaurant, okay?” I snapped, wiping my brow. “Seriously, would it kill you guys to air condition this place?”

             
“Too expensive,” growled a low voice from the back of the shop, making Trey stand up straight and tuck his hands into his pockets like a good boy. “There’s a recession going on. Or haven’t you heard?”

             
Snarling, I peered around the edge of the truck. “How long have you been over there?”

             
There was a scraping sound as a creeper rolled out from underneath a Honda Civic. “Judging by those fancy shoes you threw away, I don’t imagine someone like you understands the concept of a recession.”

             
“Excuse me?” I snapped.

             
“That’s my uncle.” Trey’s voice cracked, and he covered it up with a cough. “We’re business partners.”

There was a scoff from underneath the Honda. “Hey, Trey, why don’t you stop flirting with the woman and tell her whose name is on the lease?”

Whoever it was under that Civic, he needed a throat lozenge. This uncle’s voice sounded like he’d been gargling with broken glass for a decade or so. With a labored (or was that annoyed?) sigh, a man stood up and ambled towards me.

“Oh, my,” I said under my breath, dropping my hair and smoothing down the front of my skirt.

This guy was appealing. And by that, I meant
straight shot of heat right to the center of my belly hot
. He was tall, taller than me in a pair of four inch Jimmy Choo’s, which meant around six feet, and that was enough to make me want to turn a backbend right there on the cracked cement floor.

“You are, Uncle Demo.” Trey pronounced the name like
Thee-mo,
the traditional Greek dialect rolling off his tongue like butter.

Oh, they’re Greek?
I thought to myself as this Demo character sauntered towards me with a scowl. His dark eyes were hooded with thick black eyebrows, and a trimmed five o’clock shadow decorated the bottom half of his face. His dark hair, peppered with silver strands above the ears, was dampened at the nape of his tanned neck, and stood in all directions. His coveralls were undone down to his waist, then tied in a knot at his hips, and all that he wore on the top half of his body was a white wife beater that practically sang next to his dark olive skin.

Demo, proprietor of Triple D’s Garage, was a bonafide
Mediterranean stud. Not that I ever dated the work-by-the-sweat-of-his-brow type. My mother called dating men like that “slumming it,” but I wouldn’t go that far. I just didn’t find the rough hands, scarred skin, covered in sweat thing to be hot. No, I usually stuck with doctors, lawyers, and executive types. The kind that wore suits made out of Italian wool and drove cars as nice as min, or better. The kind who spent their days immersed in paperwork and strategy meetings, not axle grease and transmission fluid.

Hey, I’m not stupid. I knew it was shallow, but the apple didn’t fall far from the tree, I supposed. Squaring my shoulders, I turned my attention away from the horny kid and onto his buffed up relative. Maybe sticking with the guys in suits was overrated. My friend Candace always said her ophthalmologist husband, Brian, was at his hottest when he was mowing the lawn shirtless. Maybe she had a point. Slumming it couldn’t be that bad, when guys like this were up for grabs.

Apples & Oranges: Book 2 in the This & That Series

Coming soon from Brooke Moss