“Oh, sweetheart, you’re so ready to come,” he rasps.

  He’s not wrong.

  In seconds, I’m moaning under his touch, gasping as his fingers glide across my pussy.

  I do my best to be quiet, to keep my sounds and murmurs all to myself.

  But Harlan is just what I need.

  He’s the antidote to my busy days and nights.

  He’s the opposite of my dating life.

  Interesting, confident, entertaining—he’s a bright, shining star in a dimly lit night sky.

  Hot sex with a handsome stranger who’s hardly a stranger?

  Yes, please.

  The man’s hands are masterful. Long, strong fingers stroke me, teasing at my clit, rubbing in tantalizing circles.

  Ohhhhh.

  So good.

  Yesssss.

  I don’t have to help things along with a finger on the pink button. This man knows his way around my body. Everything he’s doing is just right—so right that I’m vibrating with pleasure.

  I grab hold of his arms, clasping his big biceps. “I’m so close,” I whisper, squeezing my eyes shut as his fingers fly.

  A shudder speeds through my body on a breakaway sprint. My orgasm has a mind of its own, building strength, intensity, then . . . exploding in one delicious, mind-bending frenzy of bliss.

  I cry out, but before more words escape, his lips are on mine. He swallows my cries, keeping me quiet as he kisses me through the wild spread of pleasure.

  As my orgasm ebbs, I open my eyes, woozy and sex drunk, then meet his gaze.

  He’s smiling, looking satisfied and happy.

  Harlan drops another kiss to my lips, all soft and sweet. “Thank you for giving me the best fifteen minutes I’ve had in ages.”

  I grab my lip gloss and reapply it. “Those fifteen minutes were pretty darn good for me too.”

  Harlan walks me to the hotel lobby, standing outside with me while I wait for my Lyft.

  We’re quiet until he reaches for my hand. “I can’t wait to see you again. I want you to know how much I’m looking forward to getting to know you.”

  The feeling is so very mutual. Sure, Harlan’s a playboy, if I believe the media and gossip blogs. And yes, I’ve seen pics of him with beautiful women. But I’m not bothered. Why wouldn’t he enjoy the perks of his fame? A gorgeous, talented pro athlete beloved by the city? He’s not hurting for offers from the fairer sex.

  Good for him.

  And now, good for me. I can handle whatever this is, whether it’s a date or a prelude to sex.

  “Me too,” I say.

  Though, a tiny part of me is curious if he’d be interested in more. Maybe another date, maybe seeing what comes of it?

  A pang in my heart is hungry for a little something more.

  I wince.

  “What’s wrong, sweetheart?” Legitimate concern imbues his tone.

  It’s so real, so tender, and I like it so much. Perhaps he also feels all this yummy possibility.

  “Nothing,” I say with a smile. “Just had a good time tonight.”

  “Me too,” he says, grinning back, then he brings me close again, tucks my hair around my ear. “I mean that. And I truly do want to see you again. We’re going to have a great time.”

  “We are absolutely going to.”

  A red Nissan pulls up. As I check the plates, Harlan says, “Give me your number.”

  Quickly, we exchange digits, and then he kisses me goodnight, and puts me in the car. The driver pulls away. Already, I miss Harlan.

  I don’t have room in my life for more, and yet I just might want it.

  As the driver pulls onto 19th Avenue, making his way to the airport, my phone beeps.

  I expect it to be my sister. But it’s Harlan.

  Harlan: Call me crazy, but that was the best unexpected first date I’ve had in ages.

  It’s like he can read my mind.

  Katie: Me too.

  Harlan: Also, I have your lip gloss. You left it behind. And it’s in a glass tube. Fitting, Cinderella.

  I grin like an idiot.

  Katie: Tonight was kind of like a dirty fairy tale.

  Harlan: It sure was, sweetheart. Let’s turn those pages some more.

  I can’t get Harlan out of my mind, but I have to the next day when my sister and I meet with a potential business partner about our yoga studio and the new style of classes that we’ve brainstormed.

  It’s an incredible meeting, and now I’m feeling all kinds of fairy-tale-ish—in business and in romance.

  Everything seems possible.

  7

  HARLAN

  The best night ever is followed by a great weekend.

  Texting with Katie.

  Flirting with Katie.

  Winning a football game.

  Making plans for Tuesday.

  I’m not in the market for a relationship, but there was something about her that was impossible to ignore. A spark. A possibility.

  A connection I want to explore.

  I haven’t felt this in a long time with anyone.

  When I leave the field on Sunday and head home, I’m ready to crash, but I send her a text first.

  Harlan: Still can’t wait to see you.

  An hour later, she replies.

  Katie: I can’t wait to see you too. But I can’t make our date this Tuesday. The business partner wants to fly us both to Los Angeles to look at possible studio space there. She loved the classes that we’ve planned.

  Harlan: That’s fantastic news! And no worries, sweetheart. You let me know when you can reschedule.

  Katie: I promise, sexy man. I need that lip gloss. Need you to mess it up for me.

  Harlan: And I will. We’ll have that double scoop of Sexual Tension Swirl and Swoon.

  Katie: *licks lips in anticipation*

  A couple nights later, another text lands on my phone.

  Katie: Sooooo . . . the business partner made us a crazy amazing offer . . . the kind of offer that sweeps every other plan off the drawing board. This is last minute, but I’m moving to LA. This weekend. Raincheck sometime?

  Whoa.

  Harlan: Moving moving? As in moving to LA . . . now?

  But even as I send the text, I know the answer. She’s made it clear, although I still can’t quite believe it.

  Katie: Yes! I’m excited, but I’ll miss our date, and you. We have to do a raincheck.

  My shoulders sag, and I sigh. The sad kind. But what can you do?

  Harlan: Definitely.

  I don’t hear from her again, but that’s okay. It was one night. I don’t text her, either, because there’s no point. Nor does she text me. But I hear from Jones and Jillian that she’s happy in Los Angeles, building her yoga empire with her sister.

  So it goes. Sometimes you have one perfect night, and that’s all.

  And sometimes you meet again more than seven years later.

  The next time I see Katie, I’m a single dad with a six-year-old daughter, and it’s Katie’s wedding day.

  Katie and Harlan’s romance continues in the full-length novel A Wild Card Kiss! Turn the page…

  A WILD CARD KISS

  1

  KATIE

  I wasn’t one of those girls who imagined her wedding day from the time she was small.

  Or at any time.

  I didn’t fantasize about walking down the aisle and into the arms of the Prince Charming of my dreams.

  No way.

  For one, I was agnostic about the existence of Prince Charming. And two, I was emphatically atheistic about princesses.

  Didn’t believe in being one, acting like one, or becoming one.

  When I was growing up, my dreams were pragmatic—make friends, be awesome, and kick unholy ass.

  I blame my dad.

  He instilled in me a belief that I could do anything I set out to if I used my brain and heart.

  Getting married was never on my vision board.

  But today I am that person.

  It’s my wedding day, and I just can’t wait to say I do. Hell, I’ve been floating on air since Silvio proposed four months ago, after two mere months of dating.

  “Fair warning. You three are going to have to stop me from running across the lawn and into Silvio’s arms,” I say to my crew as we get ready, my hairstylist working on my updo.

  “Ah, so you’re going to be one of those brides,” Emerson quips as she fishes in her makeup bag in the suite at the Legion of Honor, where I’ll be doing the aforementioned forty-yard dash into my tall, dark, and handsome groom’s arms.

  I smile, owning it. “Yup. It’s going to be so cheesy, but so romantic, and none of you will be able to stop me. In fact, you’ll all melt into puddles of swoon,” I say.

  Ever so briefly, a memory rushes over me.

  A pint of Swoon.

  But I push away the imaginary ice cream flavor. It’s bad form to think of past men on your wedding day, even for a second. And why would I when my main man might as well have stepped straight out of Central Casting and into the role of my Romeo?

  My heart flutters.

  I’m getting married.

  The girl who never fantasized about dresses or I dos is ready to skip to her guy in about an hour.

  Hold me back, world.

  As my stylist clips the sides of my hair into a silver barrette, I can’t stop smiling stupidly at my reflection in the mirror. Karissa surveys my peeps—Jillian is perched on the couch; my sister, Olive, sits on the desk; and Emerson stands next to her, still sorting through a makeup bag. Skyler ran out to refill a water bottle but she should be back soon.

  “Say the word, and I’ll arm wrestle Katie till she stops waxing on about her groom,” Karissa says to my friends.

  Jillian taps her chin, deep in thought. “I’m tempted simply because of the arm-wrestling match.”

  I pinch Karissa’s toned biceps. “She’d win. She’s got Gal Gadot arms.”

  “I moonlight as Wonder Woman,” Karissa says as she runs a flat iron over one of my blonde curls. My hair has darkened a bit over the years. It was bright blonde when I was younger, golden in my twenties, and now it’s heading into a dark blonde palette. Seems fitting—I still feel perky and bold, but stronger, surer of myself, and maybe a touch more vulnerable too. Time has done its thing. So, letting my natural color shine through fits who I’ve become in my mid-thirties and who I want to keep being—the best me possible.

  “But seriously, I am so happy for you I could cry rainbows,” Karissa says as she squeezes my shoulder. “You’re going to be the most gorgeous bride in all of San Francisco. I swear, Silvio won’t know what hit him.”

  “I don’t know what hit me.” I lean back in the chair, catching Emerson’s knowing look as our eyes meet in the mirror.

  “What hit you is a smoking-hot Italian artist who’s a real-life Romeo,” my good friend says. Her smile tells me she’s thrilled for me. She has been since he swept me off my feet the night I met him—New Year’s Eve.

  Jillian straightens her shoulders, tucking strands of silky black hair over her ear. “And who treats you like the goddess you are.”

  “And who’s almost too good to be true,” Olive chimes in as she ties a bow around a bouquet of sunflowers. She holds it up for praise. “What do you think? Maybe if the whole numbers thing doesn’t work out, I could become a florist.”

  “Hey! Don’t panic the bride on her wedding day,” I say, only part joking. “I need my numbers wunderkind.”

  “I would never abandon Sassy Yoga,” she replies and ties the twine in a bow just so. She can’t help herself. She has a penchant for crafts. “But if I was to start a floristry side hustle, I would never sell sunflowers. They kind of stink.”

  “Mom begged me to have them,” I say with a shrug. “She said they’d be perfect, and pretty much got down on her hands and knees. It was easier to let her have her way than to argue. I’m not a big flower person, anyway.”

  “You’re a tiger lily,” Emerson announces. “That’s what you should have.”

  “Thanks. I’ll have tiger lilies at my next wedding,” I deadpan.

  Emerson crosses the suite, stops in front of Jillian, then swipes the brush down my college bestie’s nose. Emerson taught herself classy wedding makeup through YouTube tutorials. No surprise—she loves YouTube.

  And I love my friends.

  This is my dream come true. A pack of women. Good friends through thick and thin.

  “I’m so glad you’re all here,” I tell them, love and happiness rising to bring a shine to my eyes.

  “You say that like we’d be anyplace else,” Olive quips, adding a ta-da when she finishes another bow.

  “Well, you have to be here. You’re family,” I say to her.

  “So’s Mom, technically, but I’d say she doesn’t have to be here.” Olive laughs drily.

  “C’mon, you know she can’t resist a wedding,” I tease.

  “Who can’t?”

  I tense everywhere as my mom’s voice carries across the suite. Is she a freaking cat? I didn’t even hear her enter. But now she saunters in, head held high, clasping a pretty white ribbon and a garment bag, which I presume holds her mother-of-the-bride dress.

  I hope she didn’t hear me. She’ll go full drama llama, tears and all.

  “No single she in the universe can resist a wedding.” Olive jumps in, and I could kiss her for taking that grenade for me. If my mom knew I’d thrown shade on her love of weddings, she’d fling a hand on her chest, fall to the floor in a fit of tears, and demand to know what she’d done wrong.

  I can’t. Not today.

  She hangs the garment bag on the hook on the door. “I love weddings. I just do,” Mom says, with a dramatic sigh, and maybe she’s why I never imagined my own nuptials growing up. I witnessed too many of hers.

  But this is not the day to think about her four failed marriages.

  Today I will zoom in on my one marriage, and the only wedding I plan to have.

  My mom crosses the carpeted floor, her dyed red hair styled in a stunning updo, clearly professionally done. She flicks a hand lightly against a few wisps, drawing attention, silently fishing for compliments.

  “You look great,” I assure her.

  “Thanks. The mother of the bride should look stunning.”

  Olive rolls her eyes.

  “But do you think I should add this white ribbon to my hair?” she asks.

  “No. White is for the bride, Mom,” Olive answers.

  Mom ignores her, then parks her hands on my shoulders and plants a kiss on the top of my head. Karissa snaps her gaze up from the front of my hair. “Careful, there. Don’t want to knock a hair out of place. Just let me finish.”

  Mom pulls away, scoffing. “I didn’t mess it up. I just gave her a kiss.”

  Karissa shoots Mom a sympathetic smile. “Of course you didn’t mess it up. But we want the bride’s hair to be fabulous.”

  “Her hair looks perfect,” my mom says, bristling, as Karissa silently returns to her work.

  The suite goes quiet. Too quiet.

  My friends know not to argue with someone who’s always right.

  But my mother can slice through any silence with her voice. “Anyway, let me know what else I can do as the mother of the bride,” she says to the room. Then to me in the mirror, she adds, “Since, apparently, I can’t give you away.”

  Again? We’re doing this again? “Because no one is giving me away,” I say calmly. I’m opting out of some rituals. “Just like I don’t have a dowry. Just like we both have engagement rings.”

  “And I disagree. Your father and I should give you away. Wouldn’t that be fair? Aren’t you a feminist?” Mom asks, like feminist is the equivalent of a nose-picker.

  But I won’t take her bait.

  “Sometimes I am. Mostly on Wednesdays. On Wednesdays, we smash the patriarchy,” I say with a shrug.

  Olive snickers.

  Jillian reins in a laugh.

  Emerson just smiles.

  “But it’s Saturday,” my mother points out, flummoxed.

  I sigh. “I know. It’s a saying. My point is, this is what I want.” I won’t let her win this battle. This is her tenth time trying. “I’m paying for the wedding myself. No one is giving me away. I’m an independent woman. I’m good with this, Mom. The only thing I want that I didn’t get is axe-throwing at the reception.”

  She scoffs at me. “Who would do axe-throwing at her wedding?”

  “Who wouldn’t? It’s crazy fun.” I had suggested it to Silvio for the reception, but he politely declined. He also politely declined my suggestion that we have a small wedding by the Pacific Ocean, then do bowling and sushi with our closest friends. But hey, I can’t complain about the Legion of Honor and champagne. Or a honeymoon in Dublin, visiting the countryside to take pics, rather than Kauai doing an adventure tour.

  “I doubt it’s that enjoyable,” Mom says about the axe-throwing.

  “We’ll go do it together sometime, Mom,” I offer as an olive branch. I’m in the mood to spread love, not spew snide. “I swear, you’ll enjoy it more than giving me away.”

  “Fine. Don’t let me give you away. I’ll survive,” Mom says as Karissa runs a brush down my bangs, giving them a wispy look. “But I ask you this, darling—are you one hundred percent sure you want to marry Silvio?”

  I flinch and hold up a hand to ask Karissa to stop. Then I turn around in the chair, eyeing the redhead who raised me. “Why are you asking this now?”

  Olive wheels around from setting the smelly sunflowers on a table. “Yes, Mom. Why?”

  My mother squares her shoulders. “It’s important to be certain. Isn’t that what you two preach in your yoga practice?” She gestures from Olive to me and back.

  I answer in a rush. “It’s not a religion. We don’t preach it. Also, our brand is yoga that doesn’t take itself too seriously.” There Mom goes again, winding me up, getting me off-topic. “But why are you asking if I’m certain about Silvio?”

  Her question irks me. Earlier this year, I’d asked myself plenty of times if he was the one, but that’s normal—it’s smart to make sure you’re making the right choice. I asked myself over and over if yoga was the right business for me before I launched my company. Natch, I’d do the same for marriage.