A MONSTER LIKE ME by Pamela Sparkman

Heart of Darkness series #2

HELLO STRANGER by Lisa Kleypas

The Ravenels series #4


Companion to the Full Tilt series


Heartbreaker Bay series #7

UNWRITTEN by Jen Frederick

Woodlands series #5

Cross My Heart by L.H. Cosway

Hearts series #5.75

MOONSHADOW by Thea Harrison

Moonshadow series #1

Sunday, March 5, 2023

Blog Tour with Excerpt: Johanna Porter is Not Sorry by Sara Read

The headlines dubbed it the art heist of the decade…


Series: n/a
Publication date: March 7, 2023
Published by: Graydon House / Harper Collins
Genre: women's fic

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Twenty years ago, Johanna Porter was a rising star in the art world. Now she’s an unknown soccer mom. When an invitation arrives for an elite gallery opening for her former lover, the great Nestor Pinedo, Johanna wants to throw it in the trash where it belongs. But with some styling help from her daughter, she makes an appearance and comes face-to-face with the woman she was before the powerful and jealous Nestor ruined her.

La Rosa Blanca is a portrait of Johanna herself, young and fierce and fearless—a masterwork with a price tag to match. When she cuts it out of its frame, rolls it up and walks out, Johanna is only taking back what was stolen from her.

Hiding out with La Rosa Blanca in a shack on the Chesapeake Bay, Johanna digs into the raw work of reviving her own skills while battling novice-thief paranoia, impostor syndrome and mom guilt. But Johanna doesn’t just want the painting—she wants to paint again. To harness her powerful talent, she must defy everyone’s expectations—most of all her own—for what a woman like her should be.

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The Pinedo family cordially invites you
to a private party to celebrate the opening of
the Nestor Pinedo Retrospective.
Friday, January 20. Nine o’clock.
Shimon-West Gallery,
North Capitol Street, Washington, DC.

I do hope you will join our little gathering. Father is finally starting to feel his age and hopes very much to see you again. There are so few friends left from the old days. Time comes for us all, no?

     Fuck their party. Fuck this expensive invitation which some unpaid intern probably agonized over for weeks. Fuck Nestor Pinedo and his retrospective. Fuck Pilar Pinedo and her little personal note in her elegant handwriting. Fuck their amazing champagne and their interesting friends and all of Nestor’s glorious paintings.
     Fuck all of it. I am not going.
There’s half a bottle of the good whiskey left in the cabinet above the fridge. I climb up there for it, then pour a glass, neat. Here’s to telling Pilar and her heartless troll of a father to piss off. I slap the invitation down on the counter, which is none too clean, cross my arms and stare at it, as if it’s not quite safe to turn my back.
     Dear Pinedos, Johanna Porter warmly requests your presence at leave-me-the-fuck-alone.
Dear Pilar, For the sake of the young women in attendance, please ensure that Nestor keeps his withered old dick in his pants. My regrets.
     Dear Nestor, My body will already be present on your canvases. The presence of my Self was never particularly important.
     She doth protest too much—I know that’s what you’re think­ing. And yes, I doth. (Have you ever tried this whiskey, Tem­pleton? It’s delicious.)
     A preopening party? Friends from the old days? Since when was I a “friend”? Not since twenty years ago, and even then—not exactly how I would characterize myself and Nestor. And Pilar hates my guts.    Yet I still can’t throw this invitation in the trash where it belongs.
     Johanna Porter disrespectfully declines.
     There will be no paintings by me at that show, but there will be paintings of me. I refill my glass. As much as I detest Nestor and Pilar, they form a direct line to the years when I was on fire. When I felt my own greatness. When I very nearly made it real.
     But I failed. The fire is dead. I’m nobody. They are invit­ing me back inside—god knows why—but all that’s in it for me now is great champagne and beautiful people and big, clean galleries full of someone else’s art.
     I hate galleries. They make me want to cry.
     It’s not that I didn’t like to sell. I was good back then. I held a six-figure check with my name on it once. But now no one knows me. Not even me. I snatch that sophisticated square of cardstock from the counter, sloshing liquor on my wrist in the process.
     Boo-hoo. Pity the unfulfilled housewife. That’s what you’re thinking now, right? I am not a housewife. I’m a single mother with a job. But fine, I am unfulfilled. The very peo­ple inviting me to this party strangled my career—my call­ing—in its cradle. It’s been twenty years of exile and decline ever since. (Okay, I am getting drunk and dramatic. So be it.)
     Actually, let’s call it nineteen years of exile and decline, overlaid with seventeen years of my baby girl, Mel. That’s her, clomping down the hall to our apartment, still wear­ing her cleats from practice. I set my drink and the invita­tion on the counter and try to clear up the frown lines I can feel on my face.
She drops her duffel bag by the door and comes to the kitchen. Seventeen years old, nine feet tall, and built like the goddess of the hunt with a face to match. Not exactly, but that’s how she reads to a room. More like five nine, all long, lean muscle, and glorious hair. She towers over me as I hug her firm, sapling waist.
     “Any plans tonight?”
     At least half the time Mel comes over for her weekends, she takes a shower, transforms herself from warrior-athlete to sweet-smelling ingenue with a few swipes of powder and a hair tie, and is back out the door before I can even get a good look at her.
     “Nothing tonight.” She heads for the refrigerator. “You coming on Sunday?”
     Home game at ten. “Yep. I’ll be there.”
     She drinks some milk straight from the carton and forages a cheese stick from the dairy drawer.
     “What’s the matter?” she says, not even looking at me.
     “What do you mean?”
     “Mom.” She turns and raises an eyebrow. I have never been able to do that.
     They say predators can smell fear. Mel Porter can smell ex­istential distress. If I’m just pissy about the dishwasher being broken, she barely notices. But if something is grating at my soul, she’s all over it.
I pick up the invitation. Holding it up by a corner, I let her read it.
     Her brow crinkles. “I thought he was dead.”
     “Not dead. Just old.”
     “Who’s Pilar?”
     “His daughter. And publicist. She hates my guts.”
     “So why the note?”
     “My question exactly.”
     She takes the invitation and turns it over. Looks at the matte detail from an early Pinedo on the back. Chews her cheese stick in contemplation. “Are you going?”
     “I don’t know.” I may be expert at lying to myself, but I’ve never been any good at it with Mel.
     She looks at me with those teddy-bear brown eyes. I wish I’d had half her emotional intelligence when I was her age. Or now, for that matter.
     “What if you looked really smoking hot?”
     I can’t help a good laugh at that. “Mel, this body does not do smoking hot.”
     “It could. I mean for your age, with the right dress and some badass boots?”
     I am writing mental Fuck you notes. Mel is already going shopping.
     Mel goes to bed early, giving me some alone time as I get ready for bed myself.
     If it were just an invitation to see Nestor—a dinner or a cocktail party or something—I wouldn’t still be thinking about it. But it’s a gallery. And not just any gallery. Shimon-West is the elite gallery in the city. A shrine where Art and Money go to get married. No matter the passage of time, I am not over the lure of a place like that.
     My invitation does not include a plus-one. I would gate-crash a date, but honestly it would all be too much to explain, even to Mel. If I go, it’s just easier to go alone, even if I have to manufacture a smile and carry the weight of heartbreak in my chest the whole night.
     Hanging on the wall in my room is a painting I did a year and a half after Nestor. As I’ve done many times before, I take it down and hold it in my lap. It’s only twenty by thirty and unframed. A self-portrait, mother and child, me and my Amelia. My baby Mel.
     No, she’s not Nestor’s baby. She’s Ben’s baby. As much as a girl can be like her father Mel is, down to the big dreamy eyes and the shimmer of anxious energy.
     I painted this one looking in a mirror with Mel at my breast. A local collector offered me decent money for it at the time, but there was no way I’d part with it, then or now. It’s part of my soul. We have a weightless quality in this paint­ing, almost hovering, but with the gravity of Mel’s body on mine. Highly saturated shades of blue and purple predomi­nate. In the near background, a vase of red flowers bursts through the midnight tones. The brushstrokes are subtle and confident. The arrangement of our bodies has both languor and energy, and the way my head is tilted says everything about how wholly I loved Mel, but also how I was burdened.
     I shouldn’t, but I run my thumb over my signature—in that corner, the paint is wearing thin—then hang it back above my bed. My own mother died when I was seventeen. On my bureau I keep a picture of her in a glass frame. She is wearing ice skates and standing by the entrance to the rink, her cheeks pink with cold, and her smile winter-bright. I never got a chance to paint her portrait from life.
     In the morning, I startle awake to the sound of Mel mak­ing a smoothie in the kitchen. Staring hard at the ceiling, I contend with the truth.
     Right in the center of who I am, a fire once burned bright. It has been dormant a long time. Most of Mel’s life. She brought me a long way from the broken young woman I was, accidentally pregnant at twenty-six, but she is almost a woman herself now, and when I held that goddamn invi­tation to Shimon-West in my hand, an ember sparked and glowed to life. I tried to drown it with whiskey, but it’s te­nacious.    And it’s hungry for a source of fuel. Who am I kid­ding with my snark and resistance?
     I find Mel at the breakfast table, feet up, looking at her phone.
     “I’m going to that party.”
     She puts down her phone and claps her hands. “Yes. I knew it.”
     At a gallery party you either need to look like you make art or like you make money. Thus, smoking-hot women who used to be artists (“Still are, Mom”) do not go to private Pinedo parties in Gap dresses. Not even Anthro dresses. No. While working artists can and do wear practically whatever they want, smoking-hot women go to Pinedo parties in Ro­darte dresses, Miyake suits, and handmade shoes.
Mel understands this. She also understands that smoking-hot former artists who teach art at her high school do not shop anywhere within a mile of Rodarte, so she has located a consignment store downtown. I may still spend half my pay­check on a garment, but according to Mel we will achieve a high-class-kiss-my-ass look that will make me feel like I’m doing them a favor showing up at their fucking party.
If only a dress could do that. But I do know that a dress can buy a person that crucial hour of self-confidence that will get her through the door. And once I’m in, I’ll sip some champagne, flirt with rich men, and let the Pinedos see I’m fine, thank you very much.
It’s gray out but mild for January, and Mel and I take a comfortable walk with coffee in hand down the block from the subway. She finds the building and the narrow door, and she leads us up a flight of stairs to the boutique. The pro­prietress, sixtyish and slender with a gray updo and amazing eyeliner, nods at us as we enter.
     I’ve been in a lot of used clothing stores, and I have no idea how this one got rid of that smell that all the other ones have. Instead of dust and stagnation with an undertone of feet, this place smells like a boudoir. And it’s not jammed with clothes the way they always are. We move easily between racks of slacks, blouses, cocktail dresses, gowns, coats. The side wall is tastefully arranged with shoes and accessories, and win­dows in front let in a gentle light. Behind the antique desk that serves as a counter, a large reproduction of Beardsley’s strange art nouveau drawing John and Salome gives the whole place an air of sex and conflict. I love it here.
     Mel holds up a velvet minidress. I shake my head. I’m too old for mini. I examine the garments, feeling like I should have washed my hands. Gucci, Chanel, Ford, Herrera. I lift a long-sleeved black gown off the rack.
     Mel frowns. “You’re not going to a funeral.”
     “Can I help you find something?” the lady with the eye­liner says from her desk.
     Mel waves her over. The woman is about my height and less intimidating than I first thought.
     “She’s going to a private party at a fancy art gallery,” Mel says. “Like really upscale. And she hates everyone who’s going to be there, so she needs to look smoking hot. But not like she’s trying. Like she just is.”
     Lady Eyeliner laughs. Where Mel learned to talk to sales­people I have no idea. It has to be genetic, and not from my side. Mel is wearing slides, baggy sweats, and her father’s fleece pullover, and her bun is coming loose, but this so­phisticated woman takes to her immediately.
They stand me in front of a full-length mirror, and to­gether they size me up, clearly confident that they can pull this off. I wish I felt it myself. All I see are dark circles under tired eyes. Narrow shoulders and a smallness in my posture. A woman who does not command space. Mel brings over a dress that looks like a full-length slip in blood red. I shrink some more.
     Lady E understands me better. First a black strapless. She shakes her head before I have a chance to.    Too plain. She comes back with a military-style shirt dress. Mel grimaces.
     Finally I retreat to the fitting room and try on a minimalist gray knit. Too big. Then a color-block shift.      Not bad, but Lady E says, “Cliché.” I unzip myself from it and sit on an upholstered stool in my underwear. This is supposed to be fun, and I suppose it is. Fancy shopping with my daughter is always fun. But this time the fun competes with the voice inside that says Fraud. Poser. I could find the perfect dress, but all it will take is someone asking me that most miserable of cocktail-party questions, What do you do? for it to all fall apart.
     “Can you do one-shoulder?” Lady E calls from across the store.
     “I guess so.”
     In a moment she slips a black velvet dress through the door. The zipper is stiff and sticks in a couple of places as I get it open. Then I step in and shimmy the dress up over my hips.
     “Do you need help?” Lady E says. I crack the door, and she steps in.
As she works the zipper closed, the dress embraces my body like it’s known me carnally. Fitted around the ribs and waist, it angles from the shoulder sharply across the bust, showing one collarbone. The skirt is gathered at a seam below the waist where the velvet falls in sculptural folds.
     “What do you think?” Lady E smiles at my reflection. She turns me so I can see the back.
     “I think I like it.”
     “Oscar de la Renta.” Her voice is gentle, and I wish she were my friend. She smooths the skirt. “This wrap here is such a nice detail. Like an upside-down tulip.”
     I smile back at her. It’s the strangest thing, a dress like this. It makes me feel like it could be possible. It could even be fun.

    Excerpted from Johanna Porter is Not Sorry by Sara Read, Copyright © 2023 by Sara Read. Published by Graydon House Books. 

Praise for Johanna Porter is Not Sorry:

“Laugh out loud funny and poignant, this gem of a debut novel has it all, a messy soccer mom on the run, an art heist, dubious choices, and a heartwarming love story. I loved it! Sara Read is a writer to watch.”
—LORI FOSTER, New York Times bestselling author


Originally from Washington, DC, SARA READ tried the nine-to-five life for about a nanosecond before moving to rural Virginia to become a flute-maker’s apprentice and traditional fiddle player. Childbirth led her to a career in nursing. A cancer survivor herself, she now has the distinct privilege of caring for cancer patients. She is co-founder of #momswritersclub, a biweekly YouTube and live Twitter chat for writers. Sara lives in Charlottesville, Virginia, with her husband, two teens, a terrier, and three snarky cats. She loves a long run, a long road trip, and a long talk with a friend. www.sararead.net

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Friday, February 24, 2023

Blog Tour: Artfully Yours by Joanna Lowell

Sparks fly between a lordly art critic and a lady forger in this enthralling Victorian historical romance from the author of The Runaway Duchess.

Artfully Yours by Joanna Lowell

      Series: Standalone
Publication date: February 21, 2023
     Published by: Berkley Romance
                  Genre: historical romance

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Nina Finch isn’t suited for a life of crime. Raised by her art-forger brother, she can paint like Botticelli. But she’d so much rather be baking gooseberry tarts. She finally has the money she needs to open her own bakery. Unfortunately, her brother’s carelessness lands her—and their forgeries—directly under the nose of London’s most discerning art critic, Alan De’Ath. De’Ath knows the paintings are fake. He doesn’t know that Nina had a hand in their creation. In fact, he offers her a job in his household. Accepting it is the most dangerous thing she has ever done….

Alan takes pride in seeing things other people miss. He plans to catch the forger and cement his reputation. There’s only one problem: the closer he gets to the beguiling woman he hired, the less he trusts his perspective. Nina isn’t what she seems. But despite their false start, she just might hold the real key to his heart. 

As Nina and Alan’s attraction grows, divided loyalties threaten to pull them apart and shatter their worlds. They’ll lose everything, or discover how powerful true love can be….

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Praise for Artfully Yours:

“Lowell's playful period language creates a strong sense of place. This cute, quippy romp is sure to win romance fans.”
—Publishers Weekly

“A delight…readers are rewarded with multidimensional characters and an unusual and engrossing love story."


Joanna Lowell lives among the fig trees in North Carolina, where she teaches in the English department at Wake Forest University. When she’s not writing historical romance, she writes collections and novels as Joanna Ruocco. Those books include Dan, Another Governess / The Least Blacksmith, The Week, and Field Glass, co-authored with Joanna Howard.

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Tuesday, February 14, 2023

Blog Tour with Review and Excerpt: End of Story by Kylie Scott

New York Times bestselling sensation Kylie Scott's sexy, smart and unconventional opposites-attract love story looks at what happens when fate refuses to give up on what's meant to be… 

END OF STORY by Kylie Scott
Series: Standalone
Publication date: February 14, 2023
Published by: Graydon House/HQ
Genre: romance, magical realism

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When Susie Bowen inherits a charming fixer-upper from her aunt, she’s excited to start living her best HGTV life. But when she opens the door to find that her contractor is none other than her ex’s best friend, Lars—the same man who witnessed their humiliating public breakup six months ago—she isn’t exactly eager to have anyone around whose alliance is with the enemy. But, beggars can't be choosers and the sooner the repairs are done, the sooner she can get back to embracing singledom.

Things go from awkward to unbelievable when Lars discovers a divorce certificate hidden in a wall and dated ten years in the future—with both their names on it. It couldn’t possibly be real…could it? As Susie and Lars work to unravel the document’s origins, the impossibility of a spark between them suddenly doesn’t seem so far-fetched. But would a relationship between them be doomed before it’s even begun?

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“This is awkward.”
     The big blond man standing on my doorstep blinked.
     “How are you, Lars?” I gave him my very best fake smile. “Nice to see you.”
     “Susie. It’s been what…five, six months?” Setting down his toolbox, he gave me an uneasy smile. It was more of a wince, really. Because the last time we saw each other was not a good night. Not for me, at least. 
     “Something like that,” I said.
     “This your new place?” He nodded at the battered arts and crafts cottage. “The office said you had some water damage you wanted to start with?”
     “Yeah, about that. I was told Mateo would be doing the work.”
     “Family emergency.”
     He gazed down at me with dismay. The man was your basic urban Viking marauder, as his name suggested. Longish blonde hair, white skin, blue eyes, short beard, tall and built. I was average height and he managed to loom over me just fine. In his mid-thirties and more than a little rough around the edges. Nothing like his sleek and slick bestie. An asshole whose continued existence I’d prefer to be reminded of never. But we don’t always get what we want.
     I took a deep breath and pulled myself together. “Why don’t you come in and I’ll show you…”
     “Don’t worry about taking your boots off. The shag carpet isn’t staying.”
     Heavy footsteps followed me through the living room and into the dining room where we turned left to enter the small hallway. From this point we had two options, the bathroom or the back bedroom. We headed for the latter.
     “The water was getting in through a crack in the window for who knows how long,” I explained. “I only inherited the place recently. There were all these boxes piled up in here. No one could even see it was an issue.”
     He grunted.
     “I spent the first month just sorting through things and clearing the place out.”
     Beneath the window frame, a large stain spread across the golden-flecked wallpaper. As if it weren’t ugly enough to begin with. That was the thing about my aunt Susan; she wasn’t a big fan of change. The two-bedroom cottage had belonged to her parents and everything had pretty much been left untouched after they passed. Apart from the addition of Susan’s junk. Which meant that while the wallpaper and carpet were from the 1970’s, the bathroom was from the 1940’s, and the kitchen cabinets from the 1930’s. At least, that’s what I’d been told. The place was like an ode to 20th century interior design. The good, and the bad.
     He got down on one knee, inspecting the damage. “The bottom of this window frame is warped and needs replacing.”
     “Can you do that?”
     “Yeah,” he said. “I need to have a look behind here. You attached to the wallpaper?”
     “Heck no.”
     He almost smiled.
     “The sooner I can repaint and get new flooring down, the better.”
     Nothing from him. A knife appeared from the tool box, sharp-pointed with jagged teeth. He punched the blade through the drywall with ease and started cutting into the wall.
     “How is he?” I asked the dreaded question. Curiosity was the worst. “Enjoying London?”
     “Yeah,” was all he said.
     “And how’s Jane?”
     “We’re not together anymore.”
     Not a surprise. Lars went through various girlfriends during the year I’d been with what’s-his-face. Neither he nor his friend were down with commitment. Which was fine if you just wanted to have fun. But Jane was a keeper, smart with a wicked sense of humor. Lars definitely had a type. All of his girlfriends were petite, perfect dolls who behaved in a ladylike manner. The opposite of buxom, loudmouthed me.
He pried a square of drywall loose. “You thinking of living here permanently or flipping and selling the place, or what?”
     “Haven’t decided.”
     “Great location. A bit of work and it’d probably be worth a lot of money,” he said, keeping the conversation on the business at hand. As was good and right.
     Using the flashlight on his phone, he inspected the cavity. The man was all handyman chic. Big ass boots, jeans, and a faded black tee. All of it well-worn. And the way his blue jeans conformed to his thick thighs and the curves of his ass was something. Something I hadn’t meant to notice, but oh well, these things happened. Maybe it was the way his tool belt framed that particular part of his anatomy. For a moment, I couldn’t look away. I was butt struck. Which was both wrong and bad. It would not be smart for me to notice this man in the sexual sense. Though it was nice to know my thirst meter wasn’t broken.
I don’t know if Lars and I were ever really friends. We had, however, been friendly. Though that was romantic relationships for you. One moment you had all of these awesome extra people in your life and the next moment they’re gone.
     I tugged on the end of my dark ponytail. An old nervous habit.
     “At this stage, it looks like the damage is only superficial,” Lars said. “These two sections of drywall have to go. Once I’ve done that, I’ll have a better idea of what we’re dealing with.”
     “But it wouldn’t surprise me if some or all of that one needs replacing too.” He pointed to the wall the bedroom shared with the bathroom. “See how there’s bubbling along the joins of the wallpaper there?”
     “Do I have your approval to get started?”
     I nodded.
     None of this was exactly unexpected. Old buildings might have soul, but they could also have heavy upkeep. Renovations cost big bucks. While my savings were meagre, lucky for this hundred year old house, my aunt left me some money. Which was a point of contention for a few of my family members. Like any of them had time for Aunt Susan when she was alive. Besides being my namesake, she was also the black sheep of the family. A little too weird for some, I guess. But weird has always been a trait that I admired.
     “I’m going to make myself coffee,” I said. “Would you like some?”
     “Yeah. Thanks.”
     “How do you take it?”
     “White. No sugar.”
     “You’re sweet enough, huh?” And the moment those words were out of my mouth, I knew I’d made a mistake. Talk about awkward.
     He snorted, then said, “Something like that.”


     Lars didn’t mess around. By the time I returned, he’d removed the first two panels of drywall. Hands on hips, he stood staring at the interior of the wall with the problematic window. Mostly it looked like a lot of dust and a couple of cobwebs. But then, I’m not a builder. When I handed over his mug, he gave me a brief smile before taking a sip.
     “How is it looking?” I asked.
     “Your house has good bones.”
     “As long as the damage on that wall is due to the moisture spreading from the window and not a leaky bathroom pipe, this should be pretty straightforward,” he said.
     I’d taken over the main bedroom, but this room still held a lot of sentimental value for me. Whenever Mom and Dad were busy or needed a break from us kids, my brother would stay at a friend’s house and I’d be packed off to Aunt Susan’s—to this bedroom in particular. Which was fine with me. Andrew was an outgoing jock while I’d been kind of awkward. In this house, I was accepted for who I was. A nice change. With my parents divorced, growing up between three households and living mostly out of a school bag sucked. But Aunt Susan gave me the security that was lacking elsewhere.
     “Is the floor okay?”
     “Let’s pull up some carpet and see.” He set his coffee on the windowsill. Then, knife back in hand, he got busy with the shag. It was impressive how the tool became a part of him. An extension of his body.        “You’ve got good solid hardwood under here.”
     “Ooh, let me see.”
     He tugged the tattered underlay back further. “Oak, by the look of it.”
     “Wow. Imagine covering that beauty up with butt ugly brown carpet.”
     “No sign of water damage. You were lucky.”
     I smiled. “That is excellent news.”
     “Now let’s see what’s behind this.”
     I took a step back so he could start removing the next section of drywall. He had such big capable hands. Watching him work was pure competence porn. As a mature and well-adjusted thirty year old woman, I definitely knew better than to have sexy times thoughts again. The best friend of my ex is not my friend. Confucius probably said that.
     “Looks like there’s something back here,” he said, setting a panel of drywall aside.
     “Something good or something bad?” I winced as a big hairy spider scurried out of the cavity. “Ew.”
     “It’s just a wolf spider. Nothing dangerous.”
     “But there might be more.”
     Without further comment, he reached down and picked up a piece of paper. It looked old. Which made sense. Lord only knew how long it had been in the wall. It was kind of like opening a time capsule.
     “What is it?” I asked, more than a little curious.
     His gaze narrowed as he read, his forehead furrowing. Next his brows rose and his lips thinned. His expression quickly changed from disbelief to fury as he shoved the piece of paper at me. The open hostility in his eyes was a lot coming from a man of his size. “Susie, what the fuck?”
     “Is this your idea of a joke?”
     “No. I…” The paper was soft with age and the writing was faded but legible. Mostly. Superior Court of Washington, County of King was written at the top. There was also a date stamp. This was followed by a bunch of numbers and the words Final Divorce Order. “Wait. Is this a divorce certificate?”
     “Yeah,” he said. “For you and me. Dated a decade from now.”
I scrunched up my nose and ever so slightly shrieked, “What? Hold on. You think I put this in there?”
     “No,” he said, getting all up in my face. “I know you put it in there, Susie.”
     “Take a step back, please,” I said, pushing a hand against his hard chest.
     He did as I asked, some of the anger leaching from his face. Then he grumbled, “Sorry.”
     “Thank you.”
     “Why would you do that? Actually, it doesn’t matter. Find someone else for the job,” he said, gathering up his tools. “I’m out of here.”
     “Can you just wait a second?”
     Apparently the answer was no. Because the man started moving even faster. “I don’t know what game you’re playing. But I’m not interested in finding out.”
I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I did not put this in the wall, Lars. Think about it. You’re a builder. Had any of the wallpaper or drywall been disturbed in the last forty or fifty years?”
     “You could have accessed it from the other side. I don’t know.”
     “I didn’t even know you were coming here today.”
     He grunted. “Only got your word for that.”
     “And I’ve only got your word that you didn’t put this in in the wall for some stupid reason,” I said, thinking it over. How did that not occur to me? “Of course you put it there. I wasn’t the first one to have access to that space. You were. A quick sleight of hand is all it would have taken. This is so unprofessional.”
     “Very nice. I’m sure you prepared that speech at the same time you planted it, knowing I’d inevitably be the one who first touched it.”
     “And I’m sure you prepared that speech at the same time you planted it, knowing I’d suspect you.”
     He glared at me. “Why the hell would I, Susie?”
     “Why the hell would I, Lars?” I bellowed. “This is ridiculous. I just want my house fixed. That’s all. And I specifically asked who would be doing the job because I didn’t feel the need to see you again.”
With his back to me, he paused.
     “No offense. But I knew it would be wildly uncomfortable.”
     “Why’d you use the company I work for then?”
     “Because I know they’re reputable and do good work. You yourself said that’s one of the main reasons why you’ve stuck with them. Because they don’t encourage you to cut corners or use shoddy materials and they treat their staff well. Also, they pretty much do everything. These things matter.” I raised a finger. (No. Not that one.) “Take car repairs for instance. Because I know little to nothing about cars, I get ripped off by repair shops—I’m sure of it. I didn’t want that to happen here.”
Another grunt. What an animal.
     “I wish neither to marry nor divorce you, Lars. And I’m pretty sure the feeling’s mutual. So this piece of paper I’m holding in no way benefits me. Look at me. Am I laughing? No, I’m not. Nor am I enjoying all this drama. Confrontation stresses me the fuck out,” I said, my shoulders slumped. “I don’t know what else to say. This is ridiculous.”
     “You already said that.”
     “It’s worth repeating.”
     He gave me a look over his shoulder. “If you’re messing with me…”
     “I’m not. Are you messing with me?”
     “Then what the hell is going on?” I asked the universe.
     Without another word, he got to his feet and strode out of the room, heading straight into the bathroom next door. There he made quick work of checking everything. The tiling and paintwork, around the white pedestal basin, inside the mirrored cabinet set into the wall, and the end of the claw foot bath tub. Then he turned around, face set to cranky. “Access point for the attic?”
     In no time flat, he had the ceiling hatch open and the ladder down. Then up into the darkness he went.    His cell phone doubled as a flash light again.
“Lot of stuff up here,” he commented.
     “That does not surprise me. My aunt was kind of a hoarder. Not as bad as the people on those TV shows, but…yeah.”
     He sneezed. “A lot of dust, too.”
     “Bless you. I haven’t even been up there yet,” I said. “Cleaning and clearing space out down here has taken all of my time.”
     His big boots disappeared up the last rungs of the ladder while I waited below. After all, I’d only be in the way. It had absolutely nothing to do with my fear of creepy crawlies. Someone had to wait below with the weird ass document. The sounds of him stomping about and things being shifted came next.    Something heavy was pushed aside. Something else fell and glass broke.
     “Sorry,” Lars called.
     “I’m sure it was nothing valuable. Hopefully.”
     Then his face appeared in the dark hole overhead. “Looks like they built the attic to use as another bedroom or office at some stage. The floorboards and everything are tight. No real access into the walls below.”
     “Plus there’s about an inch of dust on the ground and no sign of any footprints other than mine.”
     “Good work, Nancy Drew,” I said. “Is the basement next?”
     He gave me a flat, unfriendly look. “Yes.”
     Maybe I’d be better off finding another builder. In fact, I knew I would be. Though it would only be trading one peace of mind for another. While Lars would no longer be in my face, I wouldn’t be able to trust the new builder’s work to the same degree. Which would be anxiety-inducing and possibly costly. Talk about a no-win situation.
     Back into the dining room then through to the kitchen at the back of the house, we went on our not-so-merry adventure. I opened the door to the dingy staircase. “I like to call this the murder room. Dark, dank, dangerous. It’s got it all.”
     No response from him as we made our way down. Tough crowd. It was just a basic concrete room with a boiler, laundry area, and more assorted crap. But the old boiler, the one before this one, used to make creepy noises. Hence my childhood fears of the basement. Helping with the laundry was always an ordeal.    I usually avoided it by offering to do the dishes instead.
     Lars began examining the ceiling.
     “When did you find out you had this job?”
     “Around eight this morning. The office called,” he said. “Mateo’s boyfriend got hit by a car riding to work.”
     “Is he okay?”
     “A few bumps and bruises and a sprained wrist.”
     “Yeah,” he said. “The job I was on was close to finishing and they could spare me, so they asked me to come here.”
     “What gets me is that the paper looks old. I mean, the way the text is faded and everything.” I carefully turned the certificate over in my hands. “I wonder if we could get it tested, somehow.”
     He scoffed. “You don’t actually think it’s real?”
     “I honestly don’t know,” I said. “What I do know is, if you didn’t put the certificate there to mess with me—and I guess I believe you when you say you didn’t—then I can think of no rational explanation for how it got there.”
     He frowned harder and kept right on inspecting the ceiling. Even he had to admit that it was highly unlikely I’d put the decree of dissolution in the wall. Surely.
     “Does your middle name start with A?”
     “Alexander. Yes.”
     “So the details are right, at least. No money judgement ordered. No real property judgement ordered.     This marriage is dissolved. The petitioner and respondent are divorced. Not much information there to go on.” I chose my next words with care. “You know, my aunt, she was kind of eccentric. She was always burning candles and buying crystals.”
Looking back over his shoulder at me, he raised a questioning brow.
     “The thing is, she used to talk to the house sometimes,” I finally said. “Like it was an actual living breathing entity. And yes, maybe she was lonely or a little strange. Please don’t say anything mean or dismissive about her.”
     “I’m not going to say anything about your aunt.”
     “Thank you.”
     He didn’t even blink. “But it’s not supernatural, Susie. This was no ghost or spirit or whatever you’re suggesting.”
     “Okay. Fine. I just thought I’d put that out there,” I said. “Did you find anything down here?”
     “So now what?”
     Face set, he walked over, staring into my eyes as if he could read my soul.
     “I want to believe you when you say you had nothing to do with it. You always seemed like a pretty honest person to me,” he said. “A bit too honest, sometimes.”
     “How so?” I asked, only mildly annoyed—although I was exercising great restraint.
     “Some of the stuff you come out with sometimes is…unnecessary.”
     “Let’s agree to disagree,” I said.
     He shook his head.
     “I would point out, however, that I’m not brutal. Ever notice how people who say they’re just being honest usually are?”
     His nostrils flared on a deep breath. How that was in any way attractive I had no idea. Something must be wrong with me. Guess my vibrator was getting a little boring. Maybe it was time for me to get out there and meet some men. Then again, not dating for the rest of my life would also be great.
     “For the last time,” he said, speaking nice and slow, “did you put that piece of paper in the wall?”
     “No. I swear.”
     “Fuck,” he muttered.
     “Fuck,” I agreed.
     He sighed. “Someone’s messing with us.”


     “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I thought you just said that you couldn’t find any way for someone to slip the certificate into the wall,” I said, confused.
     “I’ve got to be missing something.”
     “Like what?”
     “I don’t know,” he said, voice thick with frustration.
     “Let me think.” I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Why don’t we go pull off the other panels on that wall? See if they left anything else for us to find.”
     He gazed off at nothing for a moment before nodding. “Good idea.”
     Nothing about this made sense. I couldn’t think of anyone who might have put the divorce certificate in the wall to mess with me. The other thing was, I’d made the choice to not get married a long time ago. My parents divorced when I was five. They’d given up on having children about a decade before, when my brother arrived out of nowhere. They then compounded the problem by having me. I read a study once that showed that children of divorced parents are almost seventy percent more likely to have their marriage end in divorce. While I dreamed of finding The One, there would be no big white dress for me. And I didn’t need one. If love and commitment weren’t already present in the relationship, then a marriage certificate wasn’t going to fix a damn thing.
     It took no time at all for Lars to remove the next section of drywall in the second bedroom.
Nothing. Just more dust and cobwebs. But as for the third…
     “There’s a hole down at the bottom of this one,” said Lars, bending to inspect the drywall. The hole was about the size of his hand and cunningly hidden behind a flap of wallpaper.
     “Notice how the carpet is darker?” I asked, pointing. “There used to be a set of drawers here. No one would have even known the hidey hole was there.”
He cut into the drywall once again, revealing the house’s insides.
     “Bingo,” muttered Lars.
     “What is it?”
     He brushed off the front of the magazine. “Porn.”
     Sure enough, a blonde hippy wearing a sheer floral dress contemplated her toes on the cover. Bet she had natural bush and everything. And good for her.
     “Playboy. April 1972.” I inspected the thing. “Oh, good God. Do you know what that must be? My father’s teenage masturbation material!”
     He bit back a smile. “Probably.”
     “At least the pages aren’t stiff.”
     “That’s not funny,” I said, tossing the magazine onto the ground. “I need to go bathe in bleach.”
     He returned to the wall. “The drywall is well-attached to the studs. Not much room to slip anything through.”
     “Studs are the pieces of wood making up the frame of the house?”
     “That’s right.”
     “Even if you could get your arm in the hole, I don’t see how you could get a piece of paper past the first stud, across the space between, then past the second stud to place it where we found it.”
     “No.” He scratched at his short beard. Or maybe it was long stubble. “I’m out of ideas. How about you?”
     I shrugged and slipped the folded up certificate out of the pocket in my black cotton dress. Because in a right and good world, dresses should have pockets. “I can’t think of anything.”
     “Why don’t I get back to work?”
     “You’re really going to stay?”
     His turn to shrug. Then he picked up his now cold coffee and downed half of it.
     I smiled. “Okay. I’ll leave you to it.”


     While the sawing and hammering commenced in the bedroom, I got busy with my own work. First I responded to comments on today’s posts. Defused an angry customer with a twenty dollar gift card. Then I started working on future promotions. Such was the joy of being a social media manager. I got to work from home the bulk of the time. But I had to be friendly, funny, creative, a problem solver, and available just about around the clock. My main clients were an organic and recycled clothing company, a fleet of coffee trucks, and an online menstruation products store. I loved my job.
By the time I took a lunch break several hours later, I was ready to return to solving this whole mystery divorce certificate thing. I was also ready to eat. “You hungry?”
     Lars gazed up at me. “Starving.”
     There was a certain satisfaction in seeing a man on his knees. Too bad it was only renovations-related. But I digress. “BBQ?”
     “Let’s do it.”
     Thanks to the magic of delivery, we were soon sitting on the front porch with our food in hand. It was a typical pleasant summer’s day. Blue sky, birds, the usual. The mountain was out which meant you could see Mt Rainier. Always a nice thing. While Seattle was known for its rain, we do get some good weather. And all of the wet meant the grass and trees were a shade of green I’d never seen anywhere else. The plot of land the cottage sat on was about the size of a postage stamp, but there was room for a small garden in the front and back. I’d killed more than my fair share of houseplants. Perhaps this was my chance to develop a green thumb.
     “Thought of a few questions,” Lars said, piling up his fork with coleslaw. “Who’s visited since you moved in?”
     “Didn’t we already establish that there was no way someone could have hidden the certificate without the drywall being removed?”
     “Humor me.”
     “Okay.” I took a sip of water. “It’s not like I’ve been throwing parties  or anything. The place isn’t ready for that yet. My friend Cleo has been over a few times.”
He gazed out at the quiet street for a minute. “Don’t think I ever met her.”
     “No, I don’t think you did either. And leaving that in the wall isn’t something she would do. It’s not even like I would have mentioned you to her.”
     “You were the best friend. Not the boyfriend.”
     “Women only talk about relationships?”
     I wrinkled my nose in disgust.
     “What?” he asked.
     “That question was just so stupid I honestly don’t know how to answer it.”
     He gave me a dour look.
     “Women talk about a lot of things, Lars. I just didn’t particularly talk about you.”
     “All right,” he said. “Who else?”
     “Just my family.”
     “Do they know about me?”
     “Maybe I mentioned you in passing,” I said. “But certainly not to the degree that they’d feel the need to pull a stunt like this.”
     “Is there anyone in your life who would?”
     “I have an uncle who put fake dog poop in my shoe once. I was twelve at the time.” I wiped my mouth with the napkin. “But that’s about it as far as tricksters go.”
     “What about neighbors?”
     “What about them?”
     “Do you know any of them?”
     I shook my head. “Aunt Susan knew some of them, but…”
We ate in silence for a moment. Then he held up his half-eaten plate of brisket, coleslaw, and cornbread.    “You want to swap?”
     I passed over my pulled pork, mac ‘n’ cheese, and collard greens. No idea how it started, but swapping meals was something Lars and I used to do when we all went out to dinner. Double dating or whatever. We had similar tastes and this meant we could sample more of the menu. After all, who wouldn’t want to try two different desserts?
     I tapped my fork against my lips, thinking deep thoughts. “Just to reiterate, no one knew you were coming here today before eight o’clock this morning?”
     “Right,” he said.
     “This is so bizarre. It’s like something out of a movie.”
     He took a bite of cornbread and nodded. After he swallowed he said, “This isn’t the first time we’ve found stuff behind walls during renovations. Newspaper for insulation, tools that got dropped when the place was being built, old bottles from Prohibition, even.”
     “One job I heard about, they found a gun and some money.”
     “Wish we’d found money.”
     “What would you have done with it if we had found ten grand?” he asked.
     “Something frivolous. Like go to Paris or buy a pair of Prada heels.” I smiled. “What about you?”
     “Nothing. Your house, your walls, your porn collection. The money is all yours.”
     “Say we’d have split it down the line.”
     “In that case, add it to the fund for my business startup.”
     “How sensible and mature.”
     “You say that like it’s a bad thing,” he said. “We’re old enough, we should have our act together.”
     “I have a house.”
     “Not because you saved up and worked for it.”
     “Ouch.” I opened my eyes painfully wide. “I’ll have you know, I’ve been building up my business for years.”
     “Sounds like I hit a nerve.”
     “Oh, you think?”
     He cocked his head, and didn’t say a word.
     “You make me sound like some profligate,” I said.
     “I didn’t mean–”
     “Yes, you did. And it’s true, I enjoy pretty things, but I work damn hard for them. I invest back in my business often and my credit card and car are paid off in full.”
     “Okay,” he said.
     “Men like you do my head in. You know, you call yourself nice guys. So laid back and easy going. But then you sit back and judge the absolute shit out of people. And more often than not, those people are women.”
     For a moment he just stared at me, then he sighed. “I’m sorry.”
     “Are you?”
     “Yes,” he said. “You’re right. I was out of line.”
     “I’m glad you see that.”
     “You and I have a bad habit of rubbing each other the wrong way. Always have.”
     “Guess we do.”
     He shoved an agitated hand through his golden hair, pushing it back off his face. He had a nice face. High cheekbones and a sharp jawline. Too bad he could be an utter jerk. The Ex had a tendency to see things in black and white too. As if the world were full of absolutes. Small-minded people terrified me. Imagine thinking you already knew everything there was to know. That you were never wrong. How the hell would you ever learn anything new?
     “I’m no longer wondering why we got divorced, at least.”
Lars did the raising one eyebrow thing again. “It’s not real, Susie.”
     “I know, I just…” I watched a butterfly fluttering around the lavender plant by the front steps. “We don’t even have any chemistry.”
     He paused. “I wouldn’t say that.”
     “Wouldn’t you?”
     “No.” And he said it so matter-of-factly.
     My eyebrows all but kissed the sky. “Huh.”
     “Not that it matters,” he said. “You dated my friend so there’s no way.”
     “Ah, the bro code.”
     “That’s right.”
     “You dudes, you’re so principled. I love that about y’all,” I drawled.
     The hint of amusement was back in his gaze. “Susie, in another life, if we actually got together, I honestly think we’d kill each other. Don’t you?”
And then he smiled. He had a great smile. Dammit. So maybe there was something there. Just not anything that would ever be acted upon. That much was certain.


     “That’s wild,” said Cleo later that night on the phone. She was a photographer, and a kindred spirit. We met years ago through work.
     “Do you think the house is haunted?”
     “I love that you ignored logic and jumped straight to that conclusion.”
     She laughed. “There’s a reason we’re friends.”
     “I was thinking that the hole is a split in the space-time continuum.”
     “That would work,” she said. “Though that would also require you to marry and divorce him at some point in the future.”
     “Not if it was from a parallel dimension.”
     “Okay. I’m buying it. Carry on.”
     “You know, I tried to tell him it might be supernatural and he wouldn’t listen.” I lay back on my bed, staring at the ceiling. Plain white, thankfully. Unlike the walls and floors, it had escaped any ugly interior trends from bygone eras. The certificate lay on the mattress next to me. I had carried it around all day. As if the strange thing might disappear if I took my eyes off it. “Though the house isn’t haunted, that I’m aware of. I mean, it creaks now and then. But all old homes do that, right?”
     “It’s not like I’ve sensed Aunt Susan’s presence or anything,” I said. “I think I’d like to see a ghost, but    I’d also be terrified to see a ghost.”
     “Maybe we should have a séance.”
     “Knowing our luck, we’d accidentally open a portal to hell,” she said. “And my mama would be appalled we were messing with that sort of thing.”
     “Right. No séance.”
     “It’s certainly a very odd discovery.”
     “Lars is convinced someone is screwing with us. Which is the most likely conclusion,” I said. “I just can’t imagine why.”
     “You definitely don’t think he put it there when you weren’t looking?”
     “No, I don’t.” I frowned. “At first, he was baffled like me, but then he was furious. Like I was playing a game or stirring up trouble. He was ready to walk out until I talked him down. Not that I actually want him here. I’ve only just gotten over his idiot friend dumping me in front of everyone that he knew. Having Lars around is not my idea of a good time. Too complicated. Too many memories. He basically called me fiscally irresponsible and immature today.”
     “What a poopy head.”
     I laughed.
     “And if you wanted payback against your fool of an ex you’d do it in a mature and sensible manner.”
     “Like egging his house or something.”
     “Actually, that sounds fun. How are you doing in the condo on your own?”
     “I’m turning your old room into my office,” she said.
     “Good work.”
     “Josh wants to move in with me.”
     “Oh, yeah?”
     “It would help with the rent,” she said. “And I don’t mind him.”
     “Aw. True love.”
     Cleo laughed. “Maybe. I don’t know. It’s a big step and I’m enjoying having the place to myself. After the divorce I didn’t think I’d want a man in my space again. Of course, I didn’t think I’d ever want to date.”
     “There’s no rush.”
     “No.” She sighed. “Guess we’re both divorcees now.”
     “Sure. Sort of. Though mine is still out there lurking in the future, apparently.”
     “You better have asked me to be your bridesmaid.”
     A plaintive meow had me turning my head. “There’s a cat sitting on my bedroom windowsill staring at me.”
     “Little pervert,” she joked. “Are you dressed?”
     “He’s grey with pretty green eyes. I wonder who he belongs to,” I said as the animal sat back and starting cleaning its belly. “Oh, he’s a she. Thanks for the view, friend.”
     “Probably belongs to a neighbor,” she said. “What did you find in today’s boxes?”
Cleo helped me unpack the first few weekends after I moved. We scrubbed and vacuumed and sorted. With Mom in Michigan with her new husband, Dad having moved to head office in Florida, and my brother in a state of woe over having been left out of aunt Susan’s will, Cleo’s been a life saver. Now that I’m on my own, I’ve been going through a box of Susan’s junk a day. Separating the important from the trivial, from the puzzling. Making way for the future by clearing out the past. That’s how I tried to look at it. The idea of this task had quietly terrified me for years, but now that I’m neck deep in it, it’s been bigger than I ever imagined.
     “The one I opened had holiday and birthday cards from the eighties. A stack of projector slides from the seventies documenting family holidays. A pair of cracked white leather knee high disco boots, some cool and colorful plastic bead necklaces, and the ashes of a dog named Rex.”
     “Rest in peace, Rex.”
     “Amen. I wish she was here to tell me the stories behind some of this stuff.”
     “At least now the main floor of the house is clear,” I said. “Anything that still needs to be sorted has been put down in the basement. Though there is the attic. I may just pretend it doesn’t exist.”
     “That’s not a bad idea. We still on for lunch on Thursday?”
     “Absolutely,” I said. “How are the shots for the florist shop coming along?”
     “Should be finished with the final edits tomorrow. The client was happy,” she said. “You know, maybe whoever left the fake certificate in the wall will come forward. Point and laugh at you. That sort of thing.”
     “At least then I’d know what was going on.”
     “I watched this court room TV drama one time where they had a forensic document examiner,” she said. “They gave testimony about a birth certificate being falsified. Maybe that’s the sort of person you need.”
     “Maybe. Or maybe one of the ghost-hunters from those TV shows.”
     “Keep me updated,” she said. “I love a good mystery.”


     To my great disappointment, no one has come forward to claim responsibility. Though it’s only been one day since we found it. And no more documents appeared while Lars continued working yesterday. Which was probably for the best. Sandra Bullock and Keanu Reeves might have been cool with sending messages through time in that movie, The Lake House, but I found the experience to be less romantic and more of a mind fuck.
     Lars arrived bright and early the next day. He immediately got busy fixing the warped window frame. The man said few words, but whenever our paths crossed he gave me sideways glances. Super sketchy ones. And if he wanted to go back to doubting me about the divorce certificate then there was no way I would be making him coffee. We ignored each other until it was time for my lunch break.
Any other contractor/handyman I could have largely ignored and left to their own devices. But Lars existed in a gray zone. He sort of felt like a guest in my house rather than a worker, but not really. It was complicated.
     “I’m making lunch,” I said. “Would you like a sandwich?”
     “Fine,” I snapped.
     You don’t mess with a woman when she’s pre-menstrual and hungry. Everyone knows that. Lars, unfortunately, was an idiot. Because he gave me another of those dubious as all hell sideways glances. The bastard.
     “I can’t believe we’re back to this again,” I said, hands on hips. “Do you have something you’d like to say?”
     “You’re sure about that?”
     I smoothed down the front of my black tank top, and straightened the waist of my cropped jeans. The black polish on my toes shone bright, which did wonders for my confidence and looked great with my strappy flat leather sandals. “Let me guess, you went home last night and your little brain started working overtime. Where could the divorce certificate have come from? I didn’t put it there. Susie was the only other person present. It must be her. Burn the witch!”
     He gave me a dry look.
     “No one knew I was going to be here,” he growled. “It’s the only thing that makes sense.”
     “Give me strength. No-one, including me, knew you were going to be here. And this leads you to believe I must have planted it. Where’s the logic in that?”
     “It’s like they say on that TV show. If you rule out the impossible, then whatever’s left, however improbable, must be the truth.”
     “If you really believe that, then pack your things and get out,” I said. “Ask your office to bill me for the work that’s been done. We’re through here.”
     He froze. “Are you serious?”
     “You bet your ass I am. I don’t need this tension in my life. In my home while I’m trying to work. If you honestly believe I’m up to something, that I’m trying to mess with you, then go.”
Today he wore a faded Pearl Jam tee which was kind of the uniform in this town. And he wore it well.    “It’s like you said yesterday. Another builder might rip you off. Not do the work right.”
     “What do you care?”
     For a long moment, he just looked at me. Then he sighed. “I always liked you.”
     I didn’t know what to say.
     “Not like that.” He hung his head. “I just…this shit is wild. It makes no sense.”
     “I agree. But how about instead of turning on each other, we do something constructive?”
     “Such as?”
     I crossed my arm and leaned against the doorframe. “A friend gave me an idea about how best to ascertain if the document is real.”
     “It’s not.”
     I shrugged. “Fine. So we send it to the forensic document examiner and rule out the possibility.”
     “But it’s not real. There’s no point.”
     “Do you have any better ideas?”
     “No,” he admitted, eventually.
     “I already called them and got a quote. I’m doing it.”
     “All right then.” His expression spoke clearly of the suffering he endured at the hands of womankind.      “Whatever you want, Susie.”
     “Good answer, Lars.” I gave him two thumbs up. “In the future, why don’t you just lead with that?”
     In response, he cracked his neck. “I lied. I would like a sandwich.”
     “Of course you would.”


     “What are your plans for out here?”
     We sat out back in the two old Adirondack chairs beneath the Japanese maple to eat lunch. The area consisted of a patch of grass and a collection of bright ceramic pots filled with various herbs, a tomato plant, green onions, beans, and lettuce. I hadn’t managed to kill them yet. Fingers crossed.
     “I’d love a small fire pit,” I said. “Make it a nice space to hang out at night.”
     He nodded. “What about the exterior?”
     “It definitely needs a fresh coat of paint. I was thinking some shade of blue. That way if I do decide to sell, it has broad appeal.”
     Another nod.
     “Don’t look now, but we’re being stalked.” I nodded to the side of the house where the gray cat sat watching us.
     Lars smiled and took a bite of his sandwich. Roast beef, mustard, cheese, tomato, and lettuce. Comfort food was the best. Then he tore off a bit of meat and tossed it to the feline. I’ve never seen an animal move so fast. Or look so happy.
     The messenger from the forensic document examiner had already picked up the document. But it would be two weeks before her report on the divorce certificate would be ready. A bummer since patience had never been my thing.
     “What’s the plan for removing the wallpaper and carpet?” I asked.
     “Mateo and Connor will be on site tomorrow to help with those jobs. This afternoon I’m going to measure some of the siding that needs to be replaced. Maybe take a look at that front step that’s a little loose.”
     “You’re a useful man.”
     A grunt.
     “So what have you done with your life in the last six months?”
     “What have I done?” He raised a brow. “Let me think…worked on this cool houseboat that a friend bought. That was fun.”
     “And I’ve been doing some hiking.”
     “How athletic of you.”
     “Went on a winery tour the other weekend. That was okay.”
     “That sounds like a date,” I said. “Who’d you go with?”
     “Just a friend.”
     “And you’re such a friendly guy.”
     He gripped the back of his neck. “I forgot how much you like to bust my ass.”
     “Oh now, don’t feel special. I do it to everyone.”
     “I don’t know. Seems like you were always pretty sweet to–”
     “Do not say his name.”
     For a moment, he said nothing. “What about you? What have you been up to?”
     “My aunt passed soon after the last time I saw you. That was hard.”
     “I’m sorry,” he said in a low voice.
     I nodded. There were a lot of things you could say about losing a loved one. But there wasn’t a single word that would bring them back. “Work has been good. Busy. This place has taken up most of my time.”
     “Must be strange, dealing with all the debris from someone else’s life.”
     “It is,” I agreed. “There’s a lot of history here. I’m the third generation of our family to live in this house. No one but me is really interested in any of it. Guess that makes it easier in some ways, deciding what to do with it all. What to keep and what to rehome. But it’s sad too, you know?”
     He just watched me.
     “Are you close to your family?”
     One side of his mouth turned upward. “Yeah. I’m the oldest of three. My sister’s married with two kids down in San Diego. I share a condo with my brother.”
     “You live with your brother? I didn’t know that. Are you enjoying it?”
     “I am.” He gazed around the little yard. “We have a couple of investment properties together. It’s all part of a business plan we’ve been working on for a while. Eventually we’ll get sick of living in each other’s pockets. But for now everything’s good.”
     “That’s great. I’m glad.”
     “Me too.” Something started buzzing and he pulled out his phone. The expression that crossed his face… I couldn’t read it. “Excuse me.”
     Then he was up and out of his chair, walking away. “Hey, man. How’s London? What time is it over there?”
     I stared at him as he wandered around the side of the house out of listening range. Not that I wanted to hear a damn word. Shame on me for relaxing for a moment and forgetting. Lars and the Ex were tight and had been since he moved in next door at the age of eight. No way could I ever trust someone who had such appalling taste in besties. It was a fundamental flaw in his character. There was no getting past it. Therefore there was nil chance I would ever marry or divorce him. Guess Lars was right about getting the document examined, after all. A total waste of time and money. 
     End of story.

Photo Credit: Annie Ray

Kylie Scott is the New York Times, USA Today, Wall Street Journal and international bestselling author of 19 novels including the Stage Dive series, the Dive Bar series, the Larsen Brothers series, and West Hollywood series. Her most recent release, Pause, debuted on the USA Today bestseller list. Her books have been translated into fourteen languages, and she has sold over 2 million copies worldwide.

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End of StoryEnd of Story by Kylie Scott
My rating: 3.5 of 5 stars

I've read a few of Kylie Scott's books in the past, but it's been a long time in between books. When I saw this new release pop up that was giving me The Lake House vibes (one of my favorite Sandra Bullock movies) I was excited to check it out. Obviously I was not off-base with that feeling because the author actually makes a reference to the movie in the book. There is the same mystical, mysterious, magical realism slant to this story. I'm not sure how I managed to sign up for three arcs scheduled one after another that have this element as well as a house that contains some sort of magic but once again I'm writing a review about that topic. One thing I enjoyed more about this book over the others was that the romance is definitely front and center and it's a very light, fast read.

This story is about Susie Bowen, our main protagonist. It is told from her point of view (1st person) as she has an awkward encounter with her ex-boyfriend's best friend, Lars. Her break up was fairly recent, public, and extremely uncomfortable. Lars happened to witness the public humiliation that she suffered from her bonehead ex so he is the last person she wants to have to see. Although they had an amicable relationship while she was dating his friend, of course things are incredibly awkward now. Unfortunately, he works for the company she hired to help her do repairs on the home she inherited from her aunt. Susie is not one to wallow though, or tiptoe around people, so she decides to make the best of a bad situation and deal. Until Lars breaks open one of the walls to start a water damage repair and encounters something that shocks and disturbs both of them. A divorce certificate. Dated ten years in the future.

Let's just say all hell breaks loose. Both are suspicious that the other planted it there. Both are angry, distrustful, and utterly confused. Why would anyone play such a prank? How was it even placed within the walls and aged so convincingly? Obviously anyone would automatically not believe it because it's just not realistically possible. However, they decide to just try to ignore what it could represent and carry on with work as usual. It's just that once you see something like that, you can't really get the mystery of it out of your head. They both fear that if it somehow really is real, are they doomed to fall in love and fail? The big question is: is fate something you ultimately have control over or not? Can your destiny be changed if you work hard to avoid it?

Lars and Susie go through stages in trying to deal with their possible future divorce. Denial, pushing each other away, problem solving, and friends with benefits. The latter is something that personally annoyed me a bit as that is not one of my favorite tropes. The idea was pushed by Susie because she was scared to commit to a real relationship with him if it would only end in pain in the future. I did get why she was scared to explore a romance with him, but she did force him into this FWB situation when it was clear that he wanted to give a committed, full relationship a chance. That always makes me sad for that character and feel as if they are accepting less that what they deserve. This was an odd and unusual situation though, so it didn't bother me as much as it usually does. You can see that Susie has growing feelings for Lars all along, she is just very scared to acknowledge this because of her failed romances in the past and her perceived failure in the future.

Susie tries to tackle the mystery of the divorce papers using several methods. She tries to authenticate it, she tries consulting a psychic, and she seeks out the firm who handled the divorce to see if it exists. All of these things are logical ways to try to make sense of an inexplicable situation. In the end, there isn't really a solid explanation (Honestly, how could there be?) so you just sort of have to make what you will of it. There is a vague explanation about echoing pain reaching through time and her aunt treating the house like it was a "living breathing thing." Other than that, you just have to believe that the unbelievable can happen and chalk it up to fantasy. Would I have liked a little more development there in order to make it more believable? Yes. If you're going to add an element of fantasy, build a solid foundation so that I'm all in.

One thing I enjoyed about this novel was the endearing characters and the humor. Both Susie and Lars were good people trying to make sense of a very odd situation. They felt relatable in their past relationship challenges and fears. Kylie Scott does an excellent job making you root for the two of them to work through their fears and learn from their past mistakes. I loved the little details of their growing romance-the way they shared each other's food, and worked hard to find a common interest that they could enjoy together. They were totally sweet and supportive of each other once they made their mind up to be a part of each other's lives.

Overall, this was a cute story with a sweet HEA. I did feel that the last couple sections of the epilogue entitled "beginning of the end" were totally unnecessary and didn't tell us anything we didn't already know. I'm not sure why it was added, but the "Ten Years Later" section was the perfect ending giving the story closure and a proper goodbye to these characters. If you are intrigued by the synopsis like I was, definitely give this one a shot if you like stories with elements of magical realism paired with a solid romance.