The extra series 1, p.26
The Extra Series, #1, page 26
And with you, I want to add, but I still really have no idea why he’s here and I don’t want to embarrass myself further than I already have. Neither of us touch our spoons. There’s this awkward silence wherein I know that whatever it is, he’s dreading telling me. Is he going to want me to just be his friend? Invite me to meet the Willowy Blonde? Ask me to be in their wedding party, or the godmother to their children?
“It’s okay if you’re seeing someone,” I blurt out, with so much force that Will leans backward. “I mean, unless it’s Sarah. Although it’s also okay if you got back together with Sarah. I mean—if you guys really worked it out. If you’re really happy! That’s what I mean. I just want you to be happy.”
Will looks even more stunned than he did when I walked in. He puts his face in his palm and shakes his head.
I actually look behind me to see if Sarah is somehow standing there listening to all of this.
She is not.
“God,” Will says. “I am so bad at this.”
I press my lips together. “Bad at what?”
“At telling you why I lured you here,” Will says. He winces. “Lured. Like some kind of creepy stalker. It really did sound a lot better in my head.” He rests his elbow on the table and looks up at me like he has no idea what he’s doing here.
That makes two of us.
“So why did you?” I ask. “Decide to stalk me, I mean,” I add with a tentative smile to try to soften the nervousness that’s more palpable in the air than the smell of today’s lunch special: Sweet and Sour-kraut.
Will takes a deep breath, and folds his hands in front of him on the table, in exactly the same pose my dad assumed right before he told us my grandma’s cat Simon had been run over by a school bus. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking since I saw you last,” he says. “About myself, and about my relationship with Sarah, and about how everything went wrong.”
Uh-oh. I am definitely that thing that went wrong. I want to stop him. I want to tell him that he doesn’t owe me an explanation and, really, it’s just fine if we never see each other again—even if in reality I know that wouldn’t ever be fine for me at all.
But I am New Gabby, so I just lean back against the seat of the bench, look into Will’s deep green eyes, and wait.
“I realized,” Will says, “that it’s been a long time since I knew who I was, without Sarah to tell me who I’m supposed to be, you know? It wasn’t that way in the beginning, but somewhere along the line I stopped trying to work things out with her and started just letting her choose everything. She stopped giving me direction, and instead she was just pointing me and giving me a push.”
“Like taking the job writing for a soap opera,” I say.
Will nods. “Exactly like that. I mean, she had a point that managing a bookstore was neither lucrative nor the best use of my skills. But instead of being inspired by that, I just let her shove me into the first opportunity that came along, rather than take the risk of trying to figure out what I really wanted.”
I identify with that. “I think that’s what I was doing with my long string of very short jobs,” I say. “I just grabbed at the first opportunity, so I wouldn’t have to do the scary thing and admit I had no idea what the hell I was doing.”
Will nods. “Exactly.”
Despite the freakout currently in my head about how the safer option was definitely to have run away the moment I saw him, I can’t help but smile. Even if we don’t see each other again after this, it’s nice to have this moment.
For the first time, I feel like I’m actually being a good friend to Will, instead of just wanting to be, and it’s a peaceful feeling. Ten points for New Gabby.
“So I thought,” he continues, “that I needed to figure out what I really wanted, you know? I mean beyond finishing the novel, because that is really not a life plan, at least not in the short term. And I thought after I figured that out, maybe I’d be ready to have a relationship again. Maybe that would mean I could do that without making the same mistakes.”
Despite New Gabby’s newfound zen, my voice comes out strangled when I ask, “Did you figure it out?”
Will shakes his head. “No,” he says. “And I think I know why.”
My heart stops. I’m pretty sure literally. I at once must know the answer to this question, and am terrified to hear it.
“I think it’s because of my feelings for you,” he says.
Our eyes meet, and an electric current travels down my body. I’m not sure what he means by this—is this an exorcism of those feelings, or does he—
“The way I feel about you is so strong,” Will says, “that it’s hard to think about anything else. I’m trying to figure out who I am without Sarah to tell me who to be, but I think the truth is that who I am is a person who’s in love with you. I’m trying to stand on my own and be true to myself, but I can’t, because if I’m going to be true to myself, I have to admit that what I most deeply want is to be with you.”
My brain is still stuttering somewhere back around the word love, chugging through each of these proclamations like a computer that has run out of processing power. And before I catch up, Will reaches under the table and pulls out a top hat.
The top hat.
The one that I sent him a month ago, with that note.
“Will,” I say, because I’m suddenly at a loss for any words that aren’t his name.
And then he reaches under the table again and pulls out a huge stack of paper, setting it on the table. I’m a little afraid that my first words to Will after he’s said that he loves me are going to be to ask if he’s decided that his new life plan is to be a magician, what with the top hat and all the things that are appearing from under the table.
Instead, I reach across and take his hand in mine. His breath catches, and then he smiles. Warmth spreads through my body, warmth and a shy, burgeoning feeling of pure happiness, and I lace my fingers through his.
He pushes the stack of paper toward me. “So this is me,” he says. “Taking the risk. Doing the scary thing. Laying my heart out on the table for a chance at what I want.”
I look down at the pages. “Is that . . . ?” I slide the note off the top and see the words typed in that old-fashioned type-writer font that the Passion Medical scripts were written in:
The Lost Starship
By: Will Bowen
My eyes wide, I look up to see him watching expectantly—hopefully, even. And while I want to tell him all the things—that I love him, that he’s what I want, too—this is too big of a thing to go unremarked on. “You did it! You finished your book!”
His grin stretches wider than I’ve ever seen it. “Yeah, I did. Thanks to you.”
“Thanks to Mr. Peanut, you mean.”
He laughs, but shakes his head. “No, really, Gabby. I kept wanting to give up. Just like I’ve done over and over and over again for years. But I kept reading your note and thinking about how much you believe in me. How much you always have. And I didn’t want to let you down.”
My heart pounds, and my throat feels strangely dry. He’s squeezing my hand and I’m squeezing back, like our fingers are working out their own version of Morse code to say all the things we have not yet said. “I’m glad. But don’t give me too much credit. You did all the actual work. You’re an easy person to believe in.”
“You are too,” he says. He lets out a little breath that sounds like relief and smiles, his thumb brushing gently over my knuckle in a way that sends tingles up my arm. Then he raises an eyebrow at me, his expression mischievous. “So are you ever going to answer my question, Gabby Mays? What do you really want to do with your life?”
I take a deep breath, and let go of Will’s hand. His smile falters as I stand up, those green eyes widening. But I smile back at him—maybe even managing to do so flirtatiously!— and I slide in next to him. He’s still wearing that stupid top hat, and though I’ve never found Abraham Lincoln’s dressing choices particularly hot, Will makes it look like the must-have accessory for gorgeous guys, especially with that look in his eyes, like he wants this every bit as much as I do. My insides are shaky and my legs feel numb, but I no longer need New Gabby to tell me to go for it anyway.
Because I am New Gabby, and I’m willing to take risks for what I really want. I know what I really want.
“This, for one.” I lean forward, closing my eyes, and suddenly his lips are on mine, and his hand pressed just under my ear, and this time, I know for sure it’s me he’s kissing, me, with no one else in his mind, no regrets, no rebounds. My whole body feels warm and happy and whole, and I wonder how I’ve ever settled for any lesser kiss in my life. I lift myself onto my knees on the booth, and Will’s arms wrap around my waist, and all my brain cells are firing at once like it’s the Fourth of July.
I am Gabby Mays, and I know exactly what I want to do with my life, and nothing is going to stop me from doing it, even the sound of the waiter slamming the check down on the table. We stay there, brazenly making out in Fong’s, until the Breakup Tub we have somehow not yet touched is a puddle of melted ice cream and floating cookie dough chunks, and Will’s top hat has long since fallen off to roll somewhere under the table, and the glaring owner comes out to tell us it’s time to close.
I realize, as we walk out with his arm around my shoulders and mine around his waist, laughing like we’re drunk about the look on that waiter kid’s face, that I may never be welcome back to Fong’s again.
But it’s okay. Will’s worth it.
Plus, they deliver.
Acknowledgments
There are so many people we’d like to thank for helping make this book a reality. First, our families, especially our incredibly supportive husbands Glen and Drew, and our amazing kids. Thanks also to our writing group, Accidental Erotica, for all the feedback, and particularly to Heather, our first genuine superfan.
Thanks to Michelle of Melissa Williams Design for the fabulous cover, and to our agent extraordinaire, Hannah Ekren, for her love and enthusiasm for these books. Thanks to Dantzel Cherry for her help with brainstorming and outlining, and thanks to everyone who read and gave us notes throughout the many drafts of this project—your feedback was invaluable and greatly appreciated.
And a special thanks to you, our readers. We hope you love these characters as much as we do.
Janci Patterson got her start writing contemporary and science fiction young adult novels, and couldn’t be happier to now be writing adult romance. She has an MA in creative writing, and lives in Utah with her husband and two adorable kids. When she’s not writing she can be found surrounded by dolls, games, and her border collie. She has written collaborative novels with several partners, and is honored to be working on this series with Megan.
Megan Walker lives in Utah with her husband, two kids, and two dogs–all of whom are incredibly supportive of the time she spends writing about romance and crazy Hollywood hijinks. She loves making Barbie dioramas and reading trashy gossip magazines (and, okay, lots of other books and magazines, as well.) She’s so excited to be collaborating on this series with Janci. Megan has also written several published fantasy and science-fiction stories under the name Megan Grey.
Find Megan and Janci at www.extraseriesbooks.com
Other Books in the Extra Series
The Extra
The Girlfriend Stage
Everything We Are
The Jenna Rollins Real Love Tour
Starving with the Stars
My Faire Lady
You are the Story
Beauty and the Bassist
Su-Lin’s Super-Awesome Casual Dating Plan
Exes, Lies, and Videotape
Turn the page to read Anna-Marie’s adventures
in book two of
The Extra Series!
One
I can always tell how good a guy is going to be in bed by the type and quality of his sheets.
My roommate Gabby rolled her eyes when I first proclaimed this to her. “Come on, Anna-Marie,” she said. “Just because a guy doesn’t have a ton of money to buy nice sheets doesn’t mean he’s bad at sex.”
But really, how materialistic does she think I am? (She wisely didn’t answer that.) The truth is, this has nothing to do with how much money a man makes. I’ve been with guys who lived in crappy apartments in WeHo who manage to keep a modest but respectable four hundred thread count cotton blend over the mattress that sits directly on the floor. And I’ve been with guys who drive Ferraris and wear Armani suits and live in impeccable lofts who cheap out on scratchy nylon/polyester nightmares that would be better used as campfire kindling.
I can tell you right away which of those guys are going to get a second night with me and which ones are going to have to find some other girl to brag to over foie gras about their diversified stock portfolios. And don’t get me started on the sleaze-ball guys who think satin sheets are a classy idea.
But then there’s Josh Rios.
The moment my bare ass first hit this pristine white Egyptian cotton with a single-ply thread count higher than the SAT score of your typical Harvard attendee, I knew I was going to be spending a lot of quality time rolling around in this bed.
What I didn’t quite count on was how much I’d enjoy waking up here, too.
I sigh contentedly and stretch out against those perfect sheets, taking in the sight of the guy sleeping next to me. A lock of dark hair has flopped over his face, but I can still make out the stubble along his jaw, the curve of those lips that can become the most amazing, heart-stopping smile—and can do a fair number of other heart-stopping things, as well.
I roll over and turn off the alarm on my phone before it has a chance to go off and wake him, but my movement must have done that anyway, because he scoots closer and slings an arm around my waist.
“Mmmm, it can’t be morning yet,” he mumbles sleepily and mostly into his pillow.
“And yet it happens every day. Damn rotation of the planet.” Despite how very warm and nice his arm is against my bare skin, I have a ridiculously early call time at work, and so I peel away from him and out of the bed.
He groans. “You’re sexy when you talk science. Maybe I’ll join you in the shower.” But he’s barely finished that last word before his breathing goes deep again and he’s back asleep, his arm stretched across the bed where I was seconds before.
Josh Rios is many things, but a natural morning person is not one of them. Before his first cup of coffee, he’s basically a beautiful Puerto Rican coma patient.
I smile and grab my purse, digging through it for my sleepover essentials. My extra-large blue Kate Spade bucket bag works well for this. It can hold my Southern Heat script (which I pull out and set on the bed so I remember to look it over on the way to work), my toiletries and makeup bags, and a rolled up spare shirt and panties. I’m going straight to work, where I’m going to be changed into something else anyway, but I’d rather avoid the complete “walk of shame” feel.
Then I pad quietly out of the room and into the kitchen, where Josh’s state-of-the-art coffee machine has just finished automatically brewing the perfect cup of hazelnut roast. I pour us each a cup and breathe in the heavenly scent.
Last week, I suggested to Gabby that I could buy a coffee machine like this for our place.
“We can’t replace Bertrude. She has personality,” she’d said, looking over at the appliance like she was concerned it might have overheard my blasphemous suggestion.
Yes, our coffee machine is named Bertrude, a name I vaguely remember coining on one of our weekly Wine and Doritos nights, probably after far too much of both those things. And Bertrude does indeed have personality—the personality of someone who makes coffee that tastes like tar and does so with great reluctance and loud grinding noises.
It’s a good thing I don’t actually drink that much coffee.
I lean against the granite counter top, taking a sip as I look over Josh’s condo. It’s still dark—despite my comments about planetary rotation, the sun seems to agree with Josh that it’s way too early to make an appearance—but the track lighting under the cabinets reflects against the stainless steel of the chef-quality appliances I doubt actually see much use.
The kitchen opens directly into Josh’s spacious high-ceilinged living room, which is decorated with lots of heavy, old-world-style furniture. The first time I’d been here, two months ago, I’d been duly impressed with his style. I’d figured he’d have a nice place—or at least I did once I’d realized the gorgeous man I was flirting shamelessly with at the bar was super-agent Josh Rios, number three on Entertainment Weekly’s “Top 10 Hottest Behind-the-Scenes Industry Professionals.” I knew he was a guy who did well for himself.
Most of the younger rich guys I’ve dated tend to go for a more sleek, modern look—which can be cool, but is only one weird vagina-shaped vase away from officially trying too hard. Josh’s place is decorated in a way that’s more classic, and it’s a nice change of pace. Even if the constant bubbling of the fountain beside the couch always makes me need to pee.
Now, though, as I look out over the place, something about it makes me feel unsettled. Like it’s missing something, though I can’t put my finger on what.
Oh well. That’s a problem for his interior decorator to solve, not a girl who occasionally spends the night—no matter how much she rocks his world when she does. I grin and bring the coffee back into the bedroom, setting his on the nightstand, so he doesn’t have to zombie-shamble out into the kitchen in his boxers in order to become a functional human.
Even though it’s downright adorable to watch.
I take a shower that’s not nearly as long as I’d actually like, given that Josh’s shower, unlike mine, has enough room to turn in without knocking over every single bottle of shampoo and conditioner and Moroccan oil we have. (Contrary to Gabby’s complaints, I do not have too many hair care products. I just have very demanding hair.) Then I towel off—another sign of a quality guy are these first-rate fluffy towels that are so comfy I want to wear one as an avant-guard summer dress—and throw on my new shirt with the skirt I wore to dinner last night. I don’t bother blow-drying my hair, since my stylist will mess with that plenty anyway, but I do put on makeup. I’m a confident girl, but I’m still not about to face a guy as hot as Josh Rios (who will likely be caffeinated and fully awake by now) without at least some mascara and lip gloss.
