“Me too. I want to stay here like this forever. I feel like I’ve been hibernating for decades and have finally woken up to find that the world is colorful and bright and full of amazing opportunities. I want to experience them all with you. Your light, your heart, your attitude.”

  “Wow,” she breathes, and then she’s kissing me.

  Her lips taste like chicken, sweet tea, and the future. I want to fall into that, into her, and stay there, letting the rest of the world drift away. I lick along the seam of her mouth, and she yields, opening for me. Our tongues tangle together, ramping up our passion.

  With every breath and press of our lips, Tiffany is muttering, “Sweetest . . . strongest . . . love you . . . heart . . .”

  I’m not sure exactly what she’s saying, but I understand her anyway. “Me too, Tiff.” I press her back to the blanket, lying beside her to cover her mouth once more.

  I dip below her sweater, tracing up her side with a delicate touch to find her breast. I cup the soft mound, kneading her flesh and rubbing my thumb over the hard peak of her nipple.

  “Tell me what you want,” I growl.

  Tiffany pants, blinking to focus her eyes. “The truth?”

  I dip my chin, giving her a hard stare. “Always. I want you to always tell me the truth.”

  She smirks, already well aware of that. “I want you to fuck me, hard and rough, right here on the ground, with nothing and no one but the stars to see. I want our shouts of ecstasy to fill the whole valley because that’s what I feel in my heart for you . . . that and so much more.”

  Despite her sweet words at the end, her hips are bucking, searching for me to fill her.

  “Fuck, Tiffany, you sure? Here?”

  I’m not an exhibitionist. In fact, I prefer to do my lovemaking and fucking in private. But if she wants me now, she’ll get me now. I’ll do anything for Tiffany. And part of what I like is that she pushes me out of my comfort zone.

  She reaches for the hem of her sweater, preparing to pull it off when something catches my eye. Another light, this one bouncing left to right in a crisscross pattern.

  “Fuck,” I hiss.

  “I’m trying to,” Tiffany teases.

  “No, there’s someone coming.”

  That gets her attention, and she drops her sweater to sit up. “Should we hide?”

  “I’m the CEO of the company. I could be out here doing naked moonlight yoga and it’d be my right to do so. I’m not hiding because I’m having a picnic dinner with my girlfriend.”

  She covers her open mouth with clenched fists, silently screaming in joy. “I’m Daniel Stryker’s girlfriend!”

  I chuckle at her excitement over a label that feels infinitely small compared to what I feel for her.

  “Who’s there?” a voice shouts, and I recognize that it’s Mac.

  “Game time, Tiff. You sure about this?” She nods, her eyes wide and watching me. Louder, I call out, “It’s me, Mac. Daniel.”

  “Oh, Mr. Stryker, you scared the bejesus outta me. I thought you were upstairs working. Heard you had some drama today. Sorry I missed—” He’s been getting closer with every word, and Tiffany and I are sitting on the blanket, ready for him.

  “Uh, Miss Young? Tiffany? What’re you doing here . . . oh, shit! Shit, sorry, guys!” He’s reversed course, backing up.

  I hold up a hand. “Mac, it’s okay. Tiff brought me dinner, and we’re having a picnic because like you said, today was rough.”

  Tiffany waves. “Hey, Mac. Pretty night, huh?”

  He stammers, “Yeah, uh, pretty.” He looks back and forth from me to Tiffany, all the pieces falling into place, and his face goes professionally blank. “Sorry for interrupting. If you two are going to have a picnic” —he does air quotes with his fingers despite there being two boxes of fried chicken sitting right there— “give me a heads up. There are cameras aimed out here, but they’re not very good. More for coyotes than anything else. I can shut them off, though.”

  It’s a kind offer but one I won’t take him up on. No, I plan to take Tiffany in a bed, against the door, over the couch, on the kitchen counter . . . anywhere but outside where we might get caught.

  “We will, Mac,” I assure him. Part of me wants to ask him to keep this to himself, but I know that’s pretty much the fastest way to ensure that everyone knows. “We’ll make sure to check in with you before we go.”

  “Okay. Goodnight, then,” Mac says, turning around and walking back toward the building.

  I look at Tiffany, who’s got her lips pinched together hard and trying not to giggle. Me, on the other hand? I feel like a teenager who just got caught by my parents. “Busted.”

  Tiffany laughs, nodding. “Yup. Totally.”

  “So . . . okay, admission time, but getting busted’s kind of a boner killer for me,” I tell her. “Think we can go inside, let me wrap up my work, and then . . . see what happens?”

  “Absolutely,” she says. “But I’m telling you now, if Mac’s totally cock blocked you for more than a few hours, I’m going to be highly upset with him.”

  Chapter 24

  Tiffany

  This week is going to be the death of me. I mean, I’m busy almost all the time, but this week? It’s a super-sized serving of tasks, and not all the good stuff, either.

  Luckily, I traded in my ‘plate’ for a turkey dinner-sized platter so that I can keep everything balanced. But it’s still overfull and stacked tall with to-do list items. I wonder if instead of a platter, I’m better off with a tower of spinning plates like one of those circus performers. Maybe I’d get more done that way?

  I’m down for whatever it takes because none of the things I’m responsible for can fail.

  First, the wedding. I feel like there’s more and more every day that needs to be done. Meanwhile, Harper is remarkably calm, saying that everything will get done. If I didn’t know her better, I’d give her a piss test for weed. She’s that chill.

  But every time I bring something up, she says, “All that matters is that Ace and I are at the altar to get married. And we already booked the church.”

  Yeah, she says that now, but I’ve seen her planner and her Pinterest boards. She has several—a ceremony one, another for the reception, and then individual ones for dresses, floral bouquets, and something called ‘unique memories’.

  She’s going to regret it if things aren’t perfect. And I won’t let that happen, to Harper or to Ace.

  But at this rate, the reception guests are going to be served Burger King and wine coolers and dancing to music played on a Bluetooth speaker.

  So, I’m picking up the slack here, there, and everywhere I can to save her the hassle. I’ve booked a caterer, I’ve booked the band, the videographer . . . about the only thing I haven’t done is cut checks to these people yet. Harper is going to have to handle that herself.

  Second, the fill-in FedEx guy is worse than Arnold, which I would’ve never thought possible. I don’t even know his name because he didn’t introduce himself. He just came in with a glower on his face and a monotone demand to know where the packages are.

  Megan and Stephanie have taken to calling him Arnold 2.0, not because he’s like Arnold the usual FedEx guy but rather because he’s like Arnold Schwarzenegger in The Terminator. Seriously, if he ever tells me he’ll be back, I’m running up the stairs to avoid the inevitable truck through the front window of the building.

  I can’t believe I’m thinking this, but I miss our original Arnold and the swish-swish chorus of his polyester-clad thighs as he power walks.

  And last, but certainly not least, the gossip grapevine around the office has grown roots and shoots and taken off faster than bamboo.

  Thirty-six inches an hour?

  Hell, we had that beat before the first cup of coffee with everyone talking about Mark and Brandon’s fight. Stuff like that just doesn’t happen at Fox.

  And while Mac hasn’t said anything that I know of, people are putting two and two together about Daniel and me. They see the way Daniel looks at me and the way I look at him. They’re noticing that he’s stopping by the front desk now, whereas before we weren’t even a speed bump on his path to the office. So far, no one has said anything to me, but I’ve definitely felt their curious eyes and have walked into some cube farms that go silent the instant they see me.

  So with my overflowing platter of to-do items, my stress eating has reduced my food intake to just my favorite peanut butter crackers for the last few days. I’m going through six packages a day and could still eat more of their perfect mix of salty-sweet goodness.

  Right now, in fact, I’m in full-blown squirrel mode when Ricky and Billy come into my office and plop down, Billy in my one guest chair and Ricky on my desk. “Is that your lunch?” Ricky asks, his nose crinkled in distaste.

  I don’t stop munching as I answer, “Don’t talk smack about my goodies. It’s too bad for you that you can’t respect their deliciousness.”

  I swallow my mouthful and lick the salt off the top of the next one in the package salaciously, giving Ricky an uncomfortable amount of eye contact, knowing it’ll annoy him.

  Billy laughs as Ricky turns away, crossing his arms and huffing in exasperation. “Are you done yet? We’re going for burgers. You know, real food? I could bring you one back if you want?”

  The thought of a greasy burger, even if it is wrapped in crunchy, fresh lettuce, turns my stomach, and now I’m the one crinkling my nose. “Blech. No way, thank you. You know those are like, horrible for your arteries, right?”

  Ricky, who obviously knows more about health and diet than I do, turns back and looks at me seriously. “What’s happening with you, Tiff?”

  I shift in my chair, feeling very uncomfortable under his scrutiny. “Uh, nothing. Just working.” I gesture at the stack of paperwork and the split screens on my monitor. “If I’m being bitchy, I’m just really busy.”

  Ricky looks at Billy, and they have an eyeball conversation I presume to be about me as if I’m not sitting right here. Finally, Billy looks at me. “You playing dumb or actually dumb?”

  “What the fuck, Billy?” I ask, immediately offended. “I am neither, as you are very well aware. What the hell is going on with you guys?”

  “She turned down a good burger,” Billy tells Ricky, resuming talking about me rather than to me. “So actually dumb. I’m surprised.”

  “You owe me fifty bucks, dude,” Ricky says, and Billy nods.

  I’m still just as confused as when this conversation started. Maybe more so, and getting pissed off by the second because of it. “You two have three seconds, and I mean three seconds, to tell me what the hell is going on and why you’re betting on my intelligence before I use the paper cutter to turn you both into ‘takers’ and not ‘givers’ in the bedroom for the rest of your lives.”

  Schhnick.

  I mime the guillotine action of the cutter, adding my own sound effect, which should be threatening as hell.

  Ricky laughs, wholly unconcerned. “If it’s Miranda doing the giving, I won’t mind.”

  “Ugh, dude, I don’t need to know that,” Billy complains. A split second later, though, he lifts a brow and whispers out of the side of his mouth, “You really tried that? Pegging is . . . I don’t know, man.” A shiver works its way through his body.

  “Later,” Ricky tells Billy, unconcerned as he reaches in his back pocket, pulling something long and thin out. I sit back, alarmed.

  “Are you pulling a knife on me?” I spit out, pushing back from my desk to add space between us even though his arms would probably reach the wall behind me easily. He’s like a condor that way—heavy and big, but with freakishly long wings. I mean, arms.

  Is armspan a thing? I wonder. And why is my first reaction that Ricky, of all people, would pull a knife on me? What is going on in my head?

  Ricky shakes the thing in his hand in front of my face, getting me out of my thoughts. “No, dumbass. I’m giving you this.”

  He hands me a small white stick with a blue cap. I turn it over in my hands, wondering for a moment if he’s handed me a vape pen or something, but I’m totally flummoxed. “I don’t get it, Ricky.”

  “Dumbass,” Billy repeats, this time singing it. “It’s a siiiign.”

  Ricky places a hand on my shoulder, seeming concerned. “Tiffany, don’t freak out, but you need to take that to the ladies’ room and use it. Right now.”

  I look down and realize what he’s given me. There’s a little window on one side, and next to it, a plus and a minus . . . “This is a pregnancy test.” I snort. “I don’t need to take a pregnancy test.” I throw the stick to the desk and scoot away from it, curling into myself like it’s a snake that might bite me.

  Ricky looks at me with pity. “Tiff, you’re eating weird and acting weird . . . even for you.”

  Suddenly, my stomach rolls. I grab a cracker, shoving the whole thing in my mouth at once. Around the cracker bits, I say, “Why would I need a pregnancy test? There’s no way I’m—”

  I freeze, the words lost in the half-chewed cracker that suddenly tastes like sawdust. “Oh, fuck!” I say, spraying crumbs everywhere.

  “That’s how it usually happens,” Billy jokes. “Now you’re catching up.”

  He waves his hand, encouraging me to hurry up and grasp what they’re saying, but Ricky holds up a calming hand in his direction. “Give her a minute, dude. She’s obviously blindsided, and I mean, it is tight timing.”

  “Whatever,” Billy says, sighing. “We all know it takes just one time. They taught us that shit all the way back in middle school or something.” Actually involving me in the conversation finally, he says, “You really should track these things better.”

  With advice like that, I wish he’d go back to ignoring me. Especially because my internal freak-out meter is redlined and shaking.

  Oh, my God, oh, my God. Think, Tiffany. Aunt Flo, I know we’re not always on the best of terms, but where are you?

  Ricky nods. “He’s right, Tiff. There’s an app Miranda showed me. I track hers now so I know when to come home with ice cream and give her a massage.”

  “Man, you are so whipped, sucker,” Billy says.

  “I’m game for anything that helps my woman feel better. Besides, hot water and orgasms also help with the cramps, which makes clean-up a breeze,” Ricky says matter-of-factly. “And FYI, I happen to like being her sucker.”

  Billy cups his hands over his mouth, imitating an arena announcer. “Tonight, playing center for the Red Wings, Ricky Stryker! Stryker!”

  “Guys! I’m freaking out here,” I plead, also more than a little disgusted. “Could we not talk about red wings when I . . .”

  When my voice trails off, Ricky prompts me gently, “When you what?”

  “I think she’s finally getting it,” Billy says.

  “I haven’t gotten my period!” I hiss.

  Ricky winces. “How late are you?”

  I think back, tallying up days on my fingers because I can’t think clearly enough to count to thirty.

  “A week? Maybe two?” I admit hesitantly.

  Billy holds up two fingers, and I skewer him with my sharpest glare. Instead of shrinking from my ire, he shrugs casually, as if it’s normal for him to know when I’ve got my red tide or not.

  “Do you go around tracking everyone’s periods? What kind of creepy shit is that?” I snap.

  “Calm down, woman. And no, not everyone’s. But my job is to protect Daniel against anything and everything, even you and Elle,” Billy says evenly. At my grimace, he grins diabolically. “Yep, knew what was up with her when she was here too. Not so much now with the distance and the baby. But a heads up about any chance you might go ballistic is always a good thing.”

  “I don’t go ballistic,” I argue hotly, not exactly proving my point.

  “Maybe not. But you also wouldn’t have been pissy about getting flowers or chocolate either, now would you?” Billy argues. “Take the test, Tiffany.”

  I don’t have a response to that because of course, flowers and chocolate are good any time, but when I’m a little extra hormonal, they would’ve been extra appreciated.

  Knowing he’s won that battle, Billy moves on. “I was waiting for you to figure it out on your own. How was I to know this guy would figure it out before you did too?” He points at Ricky.

  I look at the white stick, suddenly fearful of what it might say.

  “I bought you the easiest one out there. You just gotta pee on the end under the blue cap,” Ricky says helpfully. “Put the cap back on, wait three minutes, and boom.”

  “They made it that way so even Ricky would know if he’s pregnant or not pregnant,” Billy teases, earning a muttered ‘fuck you’ from Ricky.

  “Guys, stop mansplaining pregnancy tests to me!” I snap. “I know how a pregnancy test works!”

  “And do you remember how unprotected sex works? Because if not, we really need to have a chat. They’ve got videos online about this stuff.”

  “It wasn’t unprotected!” I shout and then realize that is definitely something I shouldn’t be saying so loudly. Lower, I growl, “For all your intel, you should know that I’m on birth control pills.”

  I don’t know why I expect that to pierce Billy’s demeanor, but it bounces off him without effect. “So a statistics lesson then?”

  Just to get away from Billy and his condescending pratter, I grab the test from my desk and stuff it in my bra, unwilling to walk to the lobby restroom with it in my hand. That would surely get the rumor mill rolling fresh again with me as the primary topic. People gossiping about Mark and Brandon suddenly sounds like a lifeline if it keeps the focus off me.

  In the bathroom, I quickly lock the door and prepare myself. I stare at the stick like it’s offended me, my bladder suddenly shy. Or in denial.

  If I don’t pee on it, I won’t know. If I don’t know, I won’t have to think about it. I can pretend I never had that conversation with Billy and Ricky.

  But knowledge is power. I truly believe that. And I am a strong, ‘face shit head-on and handle it’ person. I won’t let fear stop me.