He’s so… male.

“You don’t have any pictures of him on Facebook,” I blurt out, releasing Collin’s hand and wiping any traces of him off on my white shorts.

He studies me then, awareness prickling the back of my neck. We regard each other intently before he turns towards his sister, his eyebrows going up quizzically. “You don’t have any pictures of me on Facebook? Why the hell not?”

She laughs and smacks him in the arm. “You said you hate when I tag you in pictures. Besides, you haven’t even been in town the last two years. So I have almost no recent pictures of you. Unless you count the ones where our whole family’s wearing matching Christmas pajamas.”

He chuckles then, deep and low and manly. God, his voice is sexy. His hazel eyes shine and my breath hitches for the second time today. “Fair enough.” He regards me then with another grin. “She’s right, I do hate when she tags me in pictures.”

I shake my head, miserable. “I’m sorry, Grey. I can’t believe I thought…”

She nods, understanding. “I know what you thought, and I don’t blame you.”

I’d feel so much better if she called me an asshole. Or an overreacting jackass.

I deserve it.

“Yeah, it’s just. When I saw you touching him…” I let my judgment trail off suggestively, glancing back and forth between the two of them with raised eyebrows to emphasize my point. “You and him, my imagination ran a little wild.”

If only she knew how wild my imagination really was.

“Ya think?” Collin deadpans beside her.

Greyson ignores him, shaking her head before reaching over, pulling me in for a hug. “Collin just accepted a job offer,” she murmurs into my hair. “He just moved back to the city from Seattle. I’m helping him buy a bunch of stuff for his new condo.”

All I can muster is a weak, “Oh,” when she pulls away. Then meekly, I say, “In my defense, except for the eyes, you two look nothing alike.”

“Thank God,” Collin jokes, and Greyson playfully smacks him again.

“Hey!”

“Sorry, but you’re the least attractive of mom’s three children.”

Greyson rolls her large hazel eyes. “Anyway, I feel horrible you thought that me and him... I mean. Look at him—so not my type.”

Oh, I’m looking alright. As if I could stop myself.

I fidget with the toiletries in my arms awkwardly, speaking cautiously. “Grey, could we… can we not tell anyone about this?”

She hangs her head and shakes it ruefully, patting me on the arm. “No can do, Tabby. This one is just too too good to keep a secret.”

B lare Wellborn wasn’t always this guarded; she was fun and outgoing and loud. But she had a secret, one she was hiding from everyone she cared about—the one thing that brought her the most joy, was the one thing she couldn’t tell to anyone.

Blare freezes in the aisle of the store, not sure which direction to head in first. She didn’t come for cosmetics, but the glittery display of mascara beckoned her. Man, was she a sucker for new products, and she loved getting dressed up. These days, though, there wasn’t much opportunity, and she heaved a loud sigh when she snatched up a hot-pink mascara tube and tossed it in her basket.

Biting down on her lower lip, she studied her choices, not paying any attention when someone brushed past her and bumped into her shoulder, causing her to drop her purse. “Oh!” She gasped, startled. “I’m sorry.” Blare was always apologizing, and mentally kicked herself for doing it now. After all, she wasn’t the one who had smacked into her.

They both bent down, grabbing at her bag. Hands touching. Fingers grasping. Then, “Oh…” Hazel eyes stared back at her, a tuft of shockingly dark brown locks brushed away by a masculine hand. “Don’t apologize. I bumped into you.” His voice. His lips. That ruggedly handsome face, those kind eyes. They regarded each other then, something passing between them: recognition. Attraction. Definitely attraction….

Leaning back in the high-back chair, satisfied, I hit SAVE on my laptop, pleased with the progress on my second novel.

My. Second. Novel.

Two novels that I wrote, all by my freaking self.

Me!

A romance writer.

I can hardly believe it, and if someone had told me a year ago that I’d be publishing a book—let alone two—well, I wouldn’t have believed them. I might have even laughed in their face. Not very ladylike, I know, but there you have it.

My parents would be shocked. And horrified—not because I’ve written a book, but because they’re fifty shades of smut. I don’t even want to imagine what I’d say to my grandparents.

And if Cal found out? I would never live it down.

I grin, imagining the tasteless jokes and innuendos my brother would throw down if he discovered my secret, but also saddened by the knowledge that I’m hiding it from him, because I know he would support me. Be proud.

My biggest fan.

Ironically, despite his rough exterior and grumpy disposition, Cal has always been my biggest cheerleader. When I was a teenager and became obsessed with animals—stray dogs at the pound in particular—he helped me raise money to donate to the shelter. Together we went to buy pet supplies the shelter needed with the cash I’d raised.

When I went through my boy band phase, it was Cal who went with me to stand in line at the radio station, overnight, to enter a contest for a chance to win tickets.

And every spring when we mulch our parents’ landscaping, I always weasel my way out of working in the yard by faking an injury, and he’s never once ratted me out.

Heaving a loud sigh at the memories, I reach over the side of my chair to root around the tote next to my table for a pen, feeling around inside the bag blindly with one hand and coming up empty. I lean over farther to yank it open and peer inside.

Ah-ha, there it is.

I pop the pen cap off with my teeth and admire the paperback proof for my first book—which hasn’t even been officially released yet—resting on the table next to my soy latte, trailing my fingers across its sleek cover and glossy design. I turn the paperback this way and that, admiring the two entwined, naked bodies in the heat of passion, the shocking red title, and my name in bold letters splashed across the front.

My name!

Well, my pen name, anyway.

A pair of blue ear buds dangle from my lobes and down the front of my white tee shirt, and I reset my music playlist before flipping open the proof copy of my book, pen poised and ready for edits.

Disappointed, the first page—the title page—is pixelated, so I circle it and add a note in the margin for my formatter. Thirty pages in I find a typo, and a few chapters further, too many spaces between paragraphs, a sentence that’s meant to be italicized. There are narrow margins in the epilogue.

I circle them all.

I forgo acknowledgements in this book because, well, who am I going to thank?

No one knows I wrote it.

And if none of my family or friends know I wrote it, who’s even going to read it? Probably no one. But I didn’t write it for them or for strangers; I wrote it for me.

It’s something I’ve always wanted to do; it’s always been my passion. My career goals never included working for my parents. Don’t get me wrong—I love them to death and I like my job, but…

…the construction company is their passion. Their vision. Their dream.

Not mine.

But my parents count on me—always have—trusting that Cal and I will take ownership of their company when they retire. They have confidence in us, put us through Business School at Ivy League colleges, and rely on us to continue their legacy.