Author: Kristan Higgins

“Jesus, you guys, can’t you do it in the backseat of a limo like everyone else?”

It’s Parker. She grins and puts her hands on her slim hips, raising an eyebrow. My face is on fire, guilt fanning the flames of lust, and I nearly choke on the sudden clamping of my throat.

“Hello, Parker,” Ethan murmurs calmly, not letting go of my arm.

“Tsk, tsk,” Parker says. “Making out at a wake? Shame on the both of you!” Glancing over her shoulder, she smiles. “I found them, Mrs. Lang.” My stomach rises in abrupt horror, and I clap a hand over my mouth. Then Parker looks back at us. “Just kidding, guys,” she says with a flashing smile. “You’re safe for the moment. But seriously, straighten up and get out of there, you wicked children, you.”

With that, she closes the coat room door and, I presume, leaves.

Which leaves me with Ethan. I take a wobbly step away from him. His hair is rumpled, his cheeks are flushed, his shirttails hanging out. I swallow convulsively. So classy, making out in a funeral home. Quite the aphrodisiac, apparently, to those of us pervs who enjoy shagging our brothers-in-law.

“Lucy.” Ethan hasn’t moved. His voice is low.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, looking at the carpet. My hands are clenched into fists.

“Look at me.”

I nod and force myself to obey.

Ethan’s face is calm. He tips my chin up a little farther, and man, it’s hard to look into those gentle brown eyes. But I do. “Give me a chance,” he says quietly. A cold fist squeezes my heart. “Give me a chance to be with you. The right way this time.”

I open my mouth, then shut it, then try again. “Ethan, you know I…”

“You have to.” His gaze is steady and sure.

My heart, which wasn’t too regular a few minutes ago, knocks wildly around in my chest. I do have to. I know it. It’s just…

“Okay,” I whisper.

He cups my face in his hands, and just looks at me. Then he smiles, and my dopey heart surges out to him, even as my stomach churns. “It’ll be all right. You’ll see.”

My knees buzz painfully, and numbness seems to have gloved my hands. The pebble in my throat is more like a fist right now.

Ethan kisses my forehead, and I close my eyes and put my hand over his heart for a second, then step back and adjust his collar. He grins, tucks his shirt back in and then opens the door and peeks out. “All clear,” he says, looking like his old mischievous self.

“See you around, cowboy,” I mutter, then totter down the hall on wooden legs to rejoin my family. For the rest of the night, I can barely hear. I feel slightly ill.

I believe I’m in deep trouble.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

I WALK HOME AFTER THE WAKE, hoping to settle down. My stomach’s been a wreck since Ethan kissed me—well, since I kissed him, to be fair.

I don’t know what I’m doing. Ethan is not the type I want. He’s much too…too…lovable. I swallow sickly and head off down the street. Past Nubey’s Hardware, past Zippy’s Sports Memorabilia. Haven’t seen a customer go in there in months, and I wonder idly when Zippy will give up the ghost, if the Black Widows will be able to find another tenant. It’s eight-thirty, and Mackerly is quiet, Aunt Boggy’s wake being about the extent of socializing in this town tonight. And here’s Bunny’s. See you in a little while, I think, looking forward to the quiet balm that is bread baking, the sweet yeast smell of the dough, the warmth of the oven. Odd, to be so fond of a place, but I do love the bakery. I just wish it wasn’t slowly dying.

I head around the park, trailing my hand along the brownstone wall, its rough surface scraping against my fingertips. The temperature is dropping, and the tips of my ears grow cold. A seabird cries, mournful and shrill, and the smell of low tide sharpens the air. The wind catches the hollow spot under the bridge, and a lonely, soft howl comes from below. Or maybe it’s Captain Cook’s wife, like Bob said.

I go straight to Ethan’s. He answers on the first knock.

“Hey,” he says. His suit jacket is off, his shirt unbuttoned a couple. He smiles, then stands back to let me in. I don’t move, as my head is in the emotional equivalent of a spin cycle. “Come on in, Lucy. Want a glass of wine?”

“Sure,” I answer, obeying abruptly. “Thanks.”

As Ethan goes to the kitchen to pour me a drink, I look around the living room. His apartment’s layout is identical to mine, but being one story higher, his view is better. Now, though, there’s nothing but a few lights sprinkling the town, the deep black of the ocean beyond that. A tiny glow flickers on the horizon—a fishing boat. Someone’s out tonight, rocking on the sea, checking lines. It seems so cozy out there, far away from shore. A blue glow from the Aronsons’ house indicates they’re watching TV. Rose made a cake for their fiftieth anniversary party last month. Fifty years.

Turning away, I almost jump at the sight of Ethan, standing there with two glasses of wine in his hands. “Here you go,” he says, offering me a glass. Our fingers brush, mine cold against the warmth of his skin. “To Aunt Boggy,” he adds, clinking my glass.

“To Boggy,” I return, then chug the wine. It’s red, a cabernet, I think, and it might have a nice body and an intricate web of flavors, but I can’t really tell, as I’ve glugged it all down. I let out a breath. Ethan’s eyebrow raises.

“Liquid courage?” he suggests, the corner of his mouth rising.

“Maybe,” I agree, taking a seat on his couch. It’s a nice couch. Brown leather. Ethan furnished his apartment in one mighty swoop at Restoration Hardware. Manly dark furniture, very nice, very solid. Aside from the many photos of Nicky (and a few of Nicky and Parker, and even one of the three of them), his place looks like a catalog. He takes a seat in the matching club chair adjacent to me.

“You don’t have any pictures of Jimmy,” I observe. I’ve noticed it in the past, commented on it, even.

“I’ll have to ask my mom for one. Now that I’m here full-time.”

“You must miss him.”

Ethan looks at me a beat or two. “I do.” He sets his wine-glass down on the coffee table and links his hands loosely in front of him. “Do you want to talk about Jimmy? Or would you like to talk about you and me?”

My heart does a slow, sickening slide. “They’re kind of intertwined, aren’t they?” I ask.

Ethan nods. “I guess they are.”

“I’m your brother’s wife, Ethan. Are you sure you want to be with me? There’s a lot of baggage, obviously.”

“You’re my brother’s widow, Lucy,” he corrects, and his voice is a little sharp. “We’re not committing adultery here.”

“I know, Ethan,” I return, just as sharply. “But this is not your normal situation, either.”

He doesn’t move for a second, then comes to sit next to me, angling himself so he can see my face, though I can’t look at him just right now. He slides his hand across my neck. “How do you want this to be, this thing between us?” he asks, his voice gentle.

I don’t want it to be at all, Ethan, I’m petrified. I risk a glance at him, those gentle brown eyes. “You have to swear,” I whisper, “that we’ll still be friends, Ethan. No matter what happens. If we work out, great. But if we don’t…I can’t…I’ve missed you these past few weeks.” My eyes fill. It’s an unreasonable demand, but I can’t help it.

“Okay,” he says quietly. “I’ve missed you, too.” He drops a kiss on my shoulder, and I swallow hard. “What else?”

“I don’t know,” I admit. His hand stays on my neck, and I’m not sure if I like it or if I want a little space. “I don’t want to tell your parents right away. Or my family, either. Not till there’s something…definite. Okay?”

Something flickers in Ethan’s eyes. “Okay.”

“And maybe we should wait to…you know. Sleep together.”

He nods once. “Okay. That’s probably a good idea.”

“That’s it?” I ask, perversely irritated that he’s so damn agreeable. “Just ‘okay’ to everything? Anything you’d like to add?”

“Thank you,” he says, tilting his head, that damnably appealing smile curling on his lovely mouth.

I blink. “What for?”

“For giving me a chance. I know you’re scared, and I know you’re not a hundred percent sure, and I’m grateful. That’s all.”

“Dang it, Ethan,” I whisper. “You’re such a prince.”

I can’t help it, I kiss him, soft and slow, and I feel like I’m falling, falling and the only solid thing to hang on to is Ethan. His arms slip around me, one hand cups the back of my head, and he feels so strong and safe, and he smells so good and tastes like wine. And just like before, I’m suddenly starving for him, a junkie getting her fix. I pull him down with me so that I’m half lying on the couch, and wrap my arms around him, bringing him closer, and God, he feels so good. His hand slides under my sweater, burning my skin, and I suck in a breath. The prickle of his beard, the softness of his lips, the heat of his mouth…

Then he breaks the kiss and pulls back, flushed, breathing hard, his eyes smoky and dark, and it’s like I was drowning and didn’t want to come to the surface.

He touches my cheek with one finger. “No sleeping together,” he murmurs. “So who’s hungry?”

And with that, he rolls off me, leaving me limp and horny, and staggers into the kitchen.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

“SO YOU’RE GOOD, SWEETHEART? You’re happy?”

“I’m doing pretty well, Mom,” I say into my cell phone, earning a glare from my own mother. She never liked it that I occasionally called Marie Mirabelli the same thing I called her. “How is it out there?”

I can almost hear the shrug, perfected by generations of Italians, a sort of who knows, what can you do, I’m suffering but I won’t complain gesture. “It’s hot,” she admits.

“It’s Arizona,” I say, opening the oven door to check my beautiful loaves. Two and a half more minutes ought to do it, both with the bread and my mother-in-law. “How’s Gianni? Getting in some golf?”

“Oh, him,” Marie says. “Golf. You’d think maybe he could relax, but instead he’s at the grocery store all day, buying enough food to feed an army. People don’t eat out here, Lucy. They exercise.” It’s clearly a dirty word. “It’s shameless! They want me to go to a yoga class. Yoga! Me! Like I want to twist myself around like a snake!”

“It sounds nice,” I answer, smiling. “All the things you’ve been too busy to do.”

She sighs. “Who said I wanted to do yoga?” She pauses. “How’s Nicky? You were an angel to send pictures. Has he grown?”

“He’s great,” I answer. “The sweetest boy in the world. And yes, he’s sprouting up. Ask him to sing you the Halloween song when you call. So cute.”

“Oh, I miss that little guy.” She sighs again. “And Ethan? How’s he?”

I grimace, wishing Ethan called his parents more often, since I’m often left shoveling them information on their son. “Ethan’s good.”

“Do you think he’s getting back with Parker? The two of them…I don’t understand. A beautiful child together, but they won’t get married. And now with Ethan living there all the time, what’s stopping them?”

I glance at my mother, who continues to eavesdrop shamelessly. “I…I’m not sure,” I fib. This would be the perfect moment to say something. Actually Ethan and I have been seeing each other a bit…