Page 62 of Letting Go

Lorna holds up her hands. “Apparently in depositions and diaper hell. Enlighten me.”

I let out a breathy laugh, mostly to cover the way my face heats. “He’s… a complication.”

Hannah snorts into her sparkling water. “He’s tall, broody, and hot enough to melt your spine. That’s not a complication. That’s divine intervention.”

I groan, but a reluctant smile pulls at the corner of my mouth. “I hate how much you love this.”

Lorna leans forward, predatory gleam in her eyes. “Tell. Me. Everything.”

Hannah opens her mouth, clearly about to launch into her version, probably with embellishments and glitter and embarrassing details I never actually said out loud, but I cut her off before she can really dig her claws in.

“Caden is the new CEO of Marx Corp,” I say, a little too evenly, like I’m trying to make it sound casual. Like I didn’t have sex with him, on this very couch yesterday.

Lorna lifts her brows. “Marx Corp, as in multi-billion dollar, owns-practically-everything in Chicago Marx Corp?”

I nod, trying to stay cool while inside, my stomach is doing nervous cartwheels like we’re back in eighth-grade cheer try-outs. “That one.”

Hannah, naturally, cannot let it end there. She leans forward, giddy and traitorous. “They’ve been talking on the phone for days,” she sings, dragging the word out like she’s starring in a rom-com montage. “You should see her, twirling her hair around her finger, biting her lip, the whole thing. Like she’s picturing him naked.”

My mouth drops open. “I do not bite my lip.”

“You literally chewed your bottom lip so hard last Thursday you were bleeding.”

I gasp. “Traitor.”

She grins. “Just saying. It was giving full smut novel heroine.”

Lorna chokes on her wine, clearly loving every second of this. “Oh my God.”

I shrug, a little smug, a little dangerous. “Well… I don’t really have to picture it anymore.”

Silence.

Then Lorna lets out a scandalized cackle, practically launching off the couch. “You didn’t!”

Hannah gasps so loudly I think it startles the dogs. “Wait, that’s new. You didn’t tell me that!”

“Because I knew you’d react like this,” I say, laughing and burying my face in my hands, warmth flooding up my neck. “And because it just happened. And also, possibly ruined my ability to feel anything for any other man ever again, so thanks for that, universe.”

Hannah fans herself dramatically. “I need a name. And a photo. And a prayer.”

Lorna clinks her glass against mine. “Oh honey. You better not mess this up.”

I snort. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“What type’s this dog, anyway?” Lorna asks, lazily scratching behind the puppy’s ears with the exact level of casual disdain only someone trying very hard not to fall in love with a dog would have. She’s beencuddling the little fluffball all night, won’t admit it, of course, but the evidence is currently sleeping in her lap, belly up, like they’ve been soulmates since birth.

I smirk. “The mom’s a Pomeranian. Dad’s part German Shepherd. Don’t ask.”

Lorna blinks, clearly trying to do the genetic math. “Seriously?”

Before I can explain further, Hannah gasps so hard I think she might choke on her mocktail. “Wait, what?! She’s so tiny! How does that even work?”

I’m drunk on wine and feeling a little feral, so I just raise my glass and gesture at her. “You’re five-foot-two and your husband is a seven-foot Viking. How did that work?”

Lorna spits her wine back into her glass. “Oh my God.”

Hannah turns bright red, half laughing, half sputtering. “That is not the same!”

---