Mo Mabie ~ One of my favorite hookers. I’m so happy that we found each other because now that I have you, I’m never letting go. Thank you for your never-ending support and for never judging. I can’t wait to cuddle soon!
Aly Martinez ~ My other favorite hooker. Who knew after I found you signing your books in a bar that we’d end up here? I’m still not sure how you do everything you do, but I’m blessed to be a part of it…even if you did make me the old, crotchety neighbor woman. Thank you for being a part of my every day and for always making me laugh.
Natasha ~ My cheerleader. My Crew lover. My whore. I finished my third book!! Aren’t you proud of me? Thank you for being the craziest person I know. Thank you for loving my characters, possibly even more than you love me. Thank you for being a part of my bubble.
Alison, Michelle, & Allison ~ My kick-ass betas. Thank you all for reading along with me, for taking this journey with me. Even the days you hated me ‘cause I left you hanging. This story is a better story because of each of your inputs, and I’m so very grateful.
Kayla ~ My awesome editor and Twinnie. I think I’ve said it all before, but you’ll never know how much I appreciate your fabulous work, how you deal with my sporadic submissions, and your friendship. Seven books down together, seven thousand to go…
Steph ~ My Smoops. Thank you for always being there for me.
Jessica ~ My writing date. Thank you for always being in my corner, even when we’re in a round room. I love our brainstorming sessions and our writing dinners.
CM Foss ~ My Clare Bear. Let me count the ways I love you. You never cease to amaze me (in the best way possible, of course) and I’m so very blessed to call you a friend.
Street Team ~ You ladies are the bomb. I can’t ever thank you ladies enough for your continued support and constant pimping.
Bloggers ~ The hardest working people in the business that get little credit and no pay. I greatly appreciate the time you spend reading, reviewing, and/ or promoting the books we authors pour our heart and soul into. We couldn’t do it without you.
Readers ~ I have the most incredible readers ever. I absolutely love getting feedback from you and visiting with you on a daily basis. You’re the main reason I continue doing this! Love you all!
Prologue
Holding my breath, I carefully eased open the lid of the small velvet box, barely able to contain my excitement. The afternoon sunlight streaming through the windows of our downtown Nashville loft hit the diamond ring, speckling the walls with tiny prisms.
Damn.
The air left my lungs in a surprised whoosh. That was some rock. I plucked the ring with the larger-than-expected center stone from its blue cushioned bed, pinching it between my thumb and forefinger, and examined it the way one would inspect a dropped contact lens. The cushion-cut center diamond had to be at least two carats. And the side stones, another carat easily. “Wow,” I whispered, fighting the huge smile overtaking my face. I thought about slipping the ring on, wanting to see how it would nestle between my fingers, but I held back. I would only have that first moment once, and it should be after I said yes.
Slipping the ring back inside the box, I replaced it exactly the way I’d found it, tucked under a stack of trouser socks in my boyfriend’s top dresser drawer, next to a tangle of power cords and chargers for his various pieces of tech. A laptop, iPod, GoPro camera, and two different sized tablets littered the top of his dresser.
I knew it. Asher was planning to propose. I squealed and jumped up and down like a little girl. When I’d gotten home early today – my scheduled afternoon photo shoot had to be canceled after an early morning thunderstorm soaked the outdoor venue – I couldn’t resist taking advantage of the empty apartment to do a little snooping. Asher had been acting funny the last few weeks, fiddling with his computer and that top drawer, stopping whatever he was doing immediately when I walked in the bedroom. I had been suspicious at first, but, really, this was Asher.
Predictable was Asher’s middle name.
He’d graduated summa cum laude two years ago from the University of Tennessee, his parents’ alma mater, and immediately returned home to Nashville to join his father’s prestigious accounting firm. He got his hair cut at the same place he had since he was seven. Ate the same turkey-and-cheddar sandwich for lunch every day. Had the same best friend since middle school. He was solid and steadfast, and I loved that about him.
Asher took the trash out. Opened my car door. Let me pick the radio station. Always paid the check. He was the epitome of what mothers hoped their daughters found in a man. Security, sweetness, and respect wrapped up in a lightly muscled, perfectly combed package. And predictable didn’t mean boring. We heated up the bedroom twice a week, occasionally spicing it up with lingerie or strawberries and cream, on Tuesday and Friday. Sometimes Saturday too, if it was football season and the University of Tennessee won their game. On those nights, Asher would yell, “Touchdown!” as he came inside of me. It was cute.
He was cute.
We were cute.
We were that couple. Best friends in high school who turned into more at college. The one that never argued and had already picked out the names of our future children – first a boy with his daddy’s charm named Michael, then a sweet apple-cheeked girl named Molly. Even our siblings got along. His older brother and mine had been college roommates at Vanderbilt.
I was the more rebellious one. Secretly getting a tattoo at seventeen. Earning a management degree at Vandy, like my brother Simon, but starting up a photography business upon graduation instead of joining my parents and brother in the music business like everyone assumed I would. Asher had been unwaveringly supportive, urging me to move in with him so he could help me out financially while I got my company off the ground. Never complaining about my crazy hours. Helping lug all my equipment around to shoots until I made enough money to hire my own assistant. Tolerant of my frequent visits to the South Carolina coast to visit Rue – my college roommate and best friend – for long weekends of girl time.
Beaming at the realization that I would most likely be engaged to the perfect guy in the next three weeks, I floated aimlessly around the loft, daydreaming, absently touching the few hodgepodge holiday decorations we had scattered around. I bet he’d tuck it in my stocking, I mused, as I unpacked the new 800-thread-count sheets I’d bought us earlier in the day, an early Christmas present to ourselves. I was going to put them on the bed and don a red bra-and-panty set to be the bow on top of his surprise gift – it was Tuesday, one of our usual frisky days. The new satiny soft sheets had felt sensual when I picked them out, a nice little change from the standard cotton percale we had now.
As I fluffed the last pillow, I heard the apartment door opening. Confused, I glanced at the clock. It was only 2:15, and Asher didn’t normally get home until 5:30. I heard Asher’s voice echo through the loft, and I started to answer when I realized he wasn’t talking to me.
“Dude, that last video was smokin’! When’s the next one?” I recognized the voice of Jameson, Asher’s best friend. I bet Asher would ask him to be his best man. And then Jameson would walk Rue down the aisle. They’d look cute together. Maybe dark pink and black for wedding colors. What kind of flowers were dark pink? Not daisies. Lilies? Roses, maybe?