“Yes, yes, yes.” I cup his face, grinning. “You, big bad thief. You stole my heart.”

  I hear snickers from the table and realize that might’ve sounded a bit like bedroom talk, but I’m too happy to care. Especially when Connor plays along, growling, “I didn’t steal it. It was mine all along.”

  Oh, fuck yeah, my next male main character is going to be a growly-possessive sort inspired by Connor because my baby makers are exploding like fireworks right now. Can it be possible for sound to trigger ovulation? Right now, I’m pretty sure it can.

  In fact, the story is already writing itself in my mind . . . an asshole not looking for love and a spontaneous, crazy girl who believes in fairy tales. There should be twists and turns, with someone almost dying. Oh, and a lovey-dovey scene on the beach where they express their deepest, sweetest emotions. Yeah, that sounds like a bestseller!

  “Poppy?”

  I come back from my mental journey into my next book to see him looking at me with worry marring his brows. Relieving his stress, I smile and kiss him. “Can we elope to the beach like Caylee said? I think it’ll be good research for my next book.”

  He shakes his head, his brows rising in question. “Anything you want.”

  “Even if I say I want the Mona Lisa?” I tease, making it an impossible job.

  He shrugs as if I just asked him to get me a Slurpee down at the corner store. “The one in the Louvre is already a replica. The real one is stored away for safekeeping. Which one you want?”

  We all laugh, but I’m not sure he’s actually kidding. I guess it doesn’t matter because my art thief is retired, and his one-day fiancée is going to be a forever wife.

  Epilogue

  Connor

  “Put it on speakerphone!” I tell Poppy.

  Finally, the call’s here. I don’t think I could stand the stress any longer. I’ve handled numerous thefts, done business pitches now, even mock stole something from the freakin’ Pentagon.

  But I can’t take this any longer. She’s been waiting on this call all day. I’ve tried to keep her distracted, but now that the phone is ringing, I’m nervous too.

  She answers, her hand shaking slightly. “Hello.”

  Hilda’s on the other end of the line and is panting with excitement even before the first words come out of her mouth. “Poppy Woodstock! Are you sitting down?”

  Poppy sinks to the coffee table, the nearest flat surface. I sit on the couch in front of her, framing her knees with mine and placing my hands on her thighs. I believe in her, and Hilda’s voice is encouragement . . . but sometimes, you just gotta hear the words.

  Poppy, too. “I am now.”

  “Trouble in Great Falls is officially a Times bestseller! Better than book one, even, which is rare for sequels. It’s at the top of the charts, and sales are still going strong. You did it, Poppy!”

  Poppy’s eyes are as wide as saucers, her jaw is hanging open, and a strange ‘ahh’ sound is coming out of her mouth. After a few moments of this continuing, I clear my throat. “Ah, I think she’s excited, Hilda. She’s frozen, but in a good way. Let it go, Pops. Let it go.”

  “Oh, hi, Connor!” Hilda greets me like a casual bar buddy, which is funny since we’ve only ever met face to face twice so far. “Well, when she comes to, tell her the publisher wants to discuss what’s next . . . after the conclusion of the Great Falls trilogy. I think they’ll consider anything she wants to write at this point. I’ll just need something to pitch, and I bet they’d be sending over a contract before you know it.”

  “Will do. Thanks, Hil. We’ll call you tomorrow.” I hang up the phone and cup Poppy’s face in my hands, running my thumbs over her cheeks soothingly. “Honey? You okay?”

  “Uh-huh. Did Hilda say better than book one?” she quotes vacantly.

  “She did. Did you hear the rest?”

  Poppy nods, and her whole face lights up from within as everything sinks in. She squeals, jumping into my lap in excitement.

  “Oh, my God!” she gushes, pumping her fist in the air. “I did it! We did it! Aaaahhh!”

  Her words turn to gibberish and sounds of joy as she shakes me by my shoulders. At our feet, Nut and Juice are barking and howling, feeding off our energy. After all, if Poppy’s going crazy, then everybody’s going crazy.

  “We should celebrate,” I tell her when she pauses to take a breath. “Get dressed, and I’ll take you to dinner. I’ll even call the girls and have them meet us.”

  I expect her to jump from my lap and run to get ready. This is a celebration-worthy moment. But she doesn’t. She leans in and kisses me.

  “Or we tell the girls tomorrow at lunch, and tonight, we get naked and celebrate,” she says. “Just the two of us.”

  There’s only one answer to that. “I like the way you think.”

  I pick her up as I stand and carry her to the bedroom, kicking the door closed to lock Nut and Juice out. I’ve come to love the rug rats, but I do not have sex with an audience.

  Instead, I spread Poppy out on the bed—our bed now—and we truly celebrate.

  Just the two of us.

  Her and me, celebrating her success, my new career, and most importantly, our life together.

  Happily ever after.

  I hope you enjoyed One Day Fiance! If so, make sure to grab the bonus chapter here!

  Read on for the first two chapters of my book Drop Dead Gorgeous. If ODF was your jam, you will love it too!

  Excerpt: Drop Dead Gorgeous

  Zoey

  I pull up to the one-story brick house, noting the property. Out here in Williamson county, there’s no fancy area of McMansions, but this is probably as close as it gets. Small homesteads of an acre or two, just enough room for residents to have space to breathe. Definitely different from the mobile homes and fixer-uppers that never get fixed that dot the majority of the county.

  I shut off my engine and get out, also noting to myself the four sheriff’s department cruisers out front. Must be a slow day to have that big of a gang here.

  Calling all crooks, calling all crooks in Williamson County. It’s open season on all crime! Everyone’s too busy here to care about your speeding or bank robbing! A rich dude croaked. That’s more important than your piddly shit!

  I go around to the back of my car for my gear bag, noticing there’s one deputy out front wrestling with a large reddish-orange dog as he tries to attach a leash to its collar.

  “Rusty, stop!” he yells, obviously getting frustrated. “Sit! Heel! Goddammit, chill the fuck out!”

  I can’t help but grin at the silly antics as the man and cute beast battle for dominance. Obviously, Rusty never went to obedience school, or he just doesn’t give a shit what some deputy dawg tells him.

  “Looks like he’s handing you your ass,” I say with a laugh, adjusting my bag on my shoulder so I can lend a hand if need be. “You good? Need another pair of hands?”

  Usually, someone getting shown up by a dog that looks like he could be in a dog food commercial would welcome some assistance. Anything to end the shame and limit their chance of becoming a meme. You take help from anyone for that. But not from me, apparently, because the deputy pales as though I’m scarier than the dog and stutters, “Nope, all good, Zoey. You go on inside. I’ll keep Rusty over here, away from you.”

  It sounds like he’s protecting Rusty from me, not the other way around. And he’s practically falling onto his ass backpedaling from me.

  Ugh. Thankfully, my hat covers my eye roll, although I’m pretty sure they could hear it on the other end of the county with as hard as I did it.

  Inside the entryway, I take the time to pull on my gloves before passing by Jeff. He’s the sheriff, so I’ve worked several cases with him, but our paths don’t cross too often. I give him a head nod, just trying to be professionally friendly, one he nervously and grudgingly returns.

  The scene’s deeper in the house, and as I make my way toward it, I notice the officer with Jeff, a young, blond, Ken-doll type guy I haven’t seen before. As I look for a clear space to put my bag, he whistles softly. “Damn, I’d like a piece of that.”

  Jeff snorts and schools the rookie. “No, you don’t. That’s one to stay far, far away from. They call her Drop-Dead Gorgeous, ’cuz she kills ’em and then takes care of the bodies, if you know what I mean.”

  Jeff makes it sound like I’m some evil witch who burns bodies under the light of every full moon. I can feel the newbie’s eyes appraising me, deciding whether I’m worth the risk of my reputation. Honestly, I’m not offended. If anything, Jeff is doing me a favor by directing the newbie away before I have to.

  It’s for his own good. And for mine too.

  I might come in relatively attractive packaging that gets attention, my dark hair silky and shiny even in its functional low bun, my blue eyes sparkling in the interior lighting, and my skin creamy and smooth. I’ve been compared to Snow White once or twice, but people tend to run for the hills as soon as I open my mouth.

  If I even get to a first date, usually blind ones, the initial ‘get to know you’ phase is inevitably my downfall.

  “What do you do for a living?”

  “I’m a county coroner.”

  “Uh, does that mean you play with dead bodies all day?”

  “Well, no. But I do work with cadavers.”

  “Same difference.”

  It’s not, at all, but no one ever cares. I’m an investigator, a detective in a way, only all of my cases involve death. I help families find peace after a loved one has passed on, answer the inevitable ‘why’ questions, and act as the final storyteller for my patients’ truths. What I’m not doing is playing dress up with the dead instead of Barbie dolls.

  I’ve gotten used to dates being cut short with an awkward joke about “hope to not see you anytime soon.” That’s fine. I gave up on dating ages ago, anyway. And that’s just the half of it. Too long a story to get into while I’ve got work to do, but let’s just say me and Death became best buds a long, long time ago.

  I can’t help but smile sweetly at the rookie and wave two fingers, though, pretending that I have no idea what Jeff is talking about.

  Rookie uncertainly smiles back, and I switch modes in an instant, my smile morphing into a growl as I bite my teeth together with a clack and my fingers turning into claws. Grr! I’m a tiger that’ll eat you for breakfast, and not in the morning wood-good way. He recoils quickly, stumbling into the mantel above the fireplace and knocking down a figurine that looks like an old-school tin soldier.

  I laugh. That was too easy.

  I see Jeff grimace and mutter, “Told you so. She’s a bit . . .” He doesn’t finish the sentence aloud, instead completing it by circling his finger by his ear to indicate that I’m crazy. “Talks to the stiffs, ya know.”

  Pfft. As if he doesn’t talk to his stiffy too.

  Okay, so his is a bit different, but you can’t tell me Jeff doesn’t talk to his dick every day, because I’ve heard him tell his daily breakfast donut ‘come to Daddy’ more times than I can count. And if he’s talking to food, he’s talking to Mr. Woody, and I’m not unpacking that level of crazy for all the money in the world.

  Nope, I’ll just keep talking to the dead bodies, filling in their side of the conversations in my mind, and that does not make me crazy.

  Weird, I’ll admit. But not crazy. I mean, fuck, at least they’ve usually still got their ears. Except for that one time . . .

  Entering the kitchen, I see a guy hunched over the dining table, his breakfast plate of scrambled eggs and toast still sitting in front of him. Actually, make that under him. He’s literally nose-down in eggs. The orange juice glass has been righted, probably to keep it from rolling off the edge, but the spill of liquid is still dripping off the table into his lap, soaking his tie.

  Time for ‘work brain’ to take over.

  Male. Early fifties. No obvious signs of trauma or foul play. He’s just dead at the dining table, eyes staring unblinkingly and unseeingly at now-cold and congealed eggs.

  And they say breakfast is the most important meal of the day.

  Okay, enough jokes. Assess, take pictures, and make notes. It’s all old hat, my hands working by habit, snapping pictures from nearly every angle I can think of. The county buys me a new memory card for every case, so I’ve got plenty of room on here for video and photo.

  As I work, in my mind I’m talking to Mr. Toast-and-Eggs, just like I do with all my bodies.

  “So, how’s your day been?”

  “Pretty shitty, to be honest.”

  “Yeah, sorry about that. I’ll do my best to get you out of here quickly and wipe that OJ off.”

  “Not too worried about the OJ being cold. Don’t think shrinkage matters now, but there’s a corner of toast poking me in the cheek.”

  “Oh, I can fix that in just a second.”

  “No rush. Not like I’ve got anything better to do now.”

  Pics and video done, I do more assessing. Toasty was dressed for work, it appears. There’s a slight bulging in his neck veins, possible indications of heart problems. I lift my head to look around for any medications or anything helpful. None, but I’ll check the bathroom cabinet later.

  Through the doorway, my eyes land on a woman sitting on the couch. She looks like this could be a house party, sitting cross-legged and calm as can be while people mill around her. She’s wearing jeans and a low-cut V-neck T-shirt, so not a police officer, not one of my crew, so . . . who is she?

  Her eyes tick from person to person, silent and watchful. Eventually, they land on me and we lock eyes for a moment. She takes a deep breath and begins to cry . . . instantly loud and dramatic wailing.

  Jeff’s rookie sits down beside her, patting her shoulder comfortingly, but she amps up her wailing.

  “My Dickie! He’s gone! Nooooo, Dickie Boo!”

  I lift an eyebrow. “Dickie Boo?”

  Jeff, who’s followed me in, squats down beside me and the body of the dead guy. “Yeah, DB’s name is Richard Horne. His parents must’ve hated him something fierce before he was even born. And then they made it even worse by nicknaming him Dick.” He snorts, covering it with a cough, before explaining, “Dick Horne. Toot, toot, tootle-toot.”

  Out of professionalism, I don’t laugh, but I do agree that this guy’s parents weren’t winning awards for that one. Maybe some people would find it wrong or rude that we’re joking around at a scene, but a macabre sense of humor is shockingly common in our profession. I’m not sure if investigative work attracts morbid people or if our sense of humor is a coping mechanism. Probably both.

  “That’s the wife, Yvette Horne,” Jeff continues, lifting his eyes toward the blubbering woman.

  “Hmm.” She does seem rather upset right now, but the image of her sitting calmly and watchfully hasn’t disappeared from my mind. That didn’t seem like shock but more like a high school drama kid realizing they missed their cue and launching in full bore.

  But she’s not my concern right now. The body of Richard “Dickie” Horne is.

  There isn’t much else to be learned right now, so I finish my assessment, double-checking my list even though it’s an automatic habit after doing this job for so many years. I’m the coroner in the county, so literally every body comes through my morgue.

  It’s a heavy responsibility, one I was taught to take seriously.

  “All right, I’m done for now. Let’s transport.” Jeff nods and waves a hand at the paramedics, who’ve got a body bag and gurney waiting. If we were a full-service unit, we’d hire specialists, but out here, we all do double-duty. Paramedics sometimes hurry live ones to the hospital, and sometimes, they move my DBs to the morgue. They come close, wearing ponchos and full protective gear because you never know what’s going to happen when you move a body. Sometimes it’s clean and easy, and sometimes it's . . . not.

  And that’s all I’ll say about that.

  I stand up, giving them space. “Take him in. I’ll meet you there.”

  The senior paramedic nods. “Sure thing, Boss.”

  Outside, the sun is shining and there’s not a cloud in the sky. Birds are even chirping. It seems like the sort of day where nothing bad could happen. But I think Mr. Horne would disagree with that assessment.

  Maybe Mrs. Horne too. Her overly dramatic wailing echoes in my ears.

  Before I get in my car, I go over to pet Rusty on the head, rewarding him for being calm, cool, and collected now that there’s not a stranger in his yard. “Yeah, I didn’t like that guy, either,” I tell the dog, who’s downright purring like a kitten under my palm.

  At least dogs like me.

  Blake

  Traffic. I hate traffic.

  More than 38,000 people die in car accidents in the US each year. And yet, people take it in stride while freaking out over a couple of dozen people choking on gummy bears or something similar. I won’t be one of them—the car accident victims, not the gummy bear chokers—even though I’m running late. But that’s my fault for not expecting an overflow of cars out here on the rural highways surrounding the city.

  Are we stuck behind a tractor with a maximum speed of twenty? Or maybe a big truck hauling a double-wide trailer?

  I mentally cuss my sister out again, wondering if this crazy idea of hers is truly worth driving all the way out here. But I keep my hands at ten and two, radio on low, and eyes on the cars in front of me, alert for brake lights. I creep along, making barely any discernible progress until . . . finally, the roadway opens up and we start moving.

  Pressing down on the gas, I keep my eyes fixed on the Mitsubishi Mirage in front of me, wondering why anyone would drive the number-one most unsafe car on the road. Sure, it’s cute and pink like an adult version of a Barbie car, but no way would I put my wife or daughter behind the wheel of a go-kart on a highway filled with Hummers and monster-truck-sized SUVs.

  Not that I have a wife or daughter, but the point remains the same. The Mirage doesn’t even have the safety features of similarly sized cars in its class.