Fix Her Up

“Fine,” Stephen finally grumbled. “I’ve got my own problems to deal with right now.”
Kristin shot to her feet. “Oh, I’m a problem now?”
“No. No, honey, I . . .” Stephen shoved a hand through his wet hair. “Can we talk about this at home?”
His wife crossed her arms and waited.
Their brother shifted in his boots. “I missed your chicken like hell, Kristin. I was going to tell you all about how leaving it behind ruined my day, but then I got to looking at the calendar. You know, the one that says when you’re . . .” He cleared his throat loudly. “It says when you’re, you know, ovulating. So I was trying to get the day cleaned off as fast as I could, so we could . . . uh. I wanted to—”
“I think we’re good here,” Georgie said, raising her hand. “I’m pretty clear on what happened and don’t need any more details. Who’s with me?”
Everyone’s hand went up besides Kristin’s and Stephen’s.
“You may take me home now, Stephen Castle,” Kristin said, lifting her chin. “Girls, you can keep the muffins.”
She’d barely finished her sentence before Stephen scooped up his wife and left the way he’d come, kicking the door shut and leaving the room awash in silence.

“Why do women believe they need an occasion to dress up? Dress up for life, goddammit!”

I’m going to feed you before I introduce you to God.

Last night, after the limousine dropped them back at her house, there had been no question he was staying the night. That’s what boyfriends did, wasn’t it? And it turned out his girlfriend often slept in these tiny flannel shorts that went straight up her ass—he’d found them in the back of her sock drawer while digging for something to keep her feet warm. He’d coaxed her into modeling them and now he was borderline obsessed. When he imagined Georgie in front of the fireplace he was building, she wore nothing but those booty huggers and a smile, her skin lit up from the flames.
You don’t have to hold back because I’m so tight.
“Christ

Kristin told us all that this club is about empowering ourselves. But she also confirmed the rumor that you’re dating Travis Ford. He was at a family dinner and everything.” She crossed her arms. “It’s no secret Travis goes through women like water. How are we supposed to listen to your advice when you can’t even follow it yourself?”
A murmur went up around the room.
Bethany took a position in front of Georgie. “Bad form calling her out in front of—”
“No,” Georgie said, patting her sister’s shoulder. “It’s okay. She’s right. But seriously, Kristin, you’re, like, two seconds away from getting voted off the island.”
Kristin slumped against the kitchen wall and stuffed an empanada into her mouth. “Oh,” she sniffed. “These are so much better than my corn muffins.”
No sooner had Kristin taken her second bite of the empanada than Stephen came striding into the house—once again with wet hair. He said nothing as he hustled his wife out the door. And his scowl ensured that nobody tried to stop him

“Did you always complain this much?” Travis decided that didn’t need an answer and Stephen wasn’t waiting for one anyway. “I’m trying to get Kristin to give . . . strong consideration to children. I thought this might encourage her.”
Travis frowned as a woman waiting to cross the street blew a kiss at him. “This conversation is above my pay grade.” He could feel Stephen wanting to say more and sighed. “She’s not considering having kids? Isn’t that the first thing a married woman living on Long Island considers?”
“Kristin is complicated,” he explained patiently. “She wants me to work for it

“You’re not doing it,” Stephen grunted at Kristin, before softening his tone. “Please.”
Kristin firmed her chin. “We’ll see

“Kristin,” Rosie started. “Maybe he just had that tired work brain. He probably would have opened the fridge sooner or later and remembered he forgot to take your chicken.”
“Also,” Bethany chimed in with mock sincerity, “we’re literally talking about chicken here, so—”
“Pecan chicken,” Georgie cut in smoothly, patting Kristin’s arm and trying not to show how ridiculous she found the complaint. “One of his favorites, right, Kristin?”
“I don’t know.” She looked up at the ceiling. “I just don’t know anymore.”
Across the circle, Bethany mouthed a silent countdown. Three, two . . .
Outside the house, a vehicle screeched to a halt, followed by a door slamming and angry boot steps storming up the walkway. The door to Bethany’s house opened without preamble and in stormed their brother in flannel pajama pants and a sweatshirt, his hair still wet from the shower. “Get in the truck, Kristin.”
His wife stood her ground—or sat it, rather—refusing to turn and look at him. “You’ve done it this time,” she called dramatically. “Enjoy your life of deep-fried potatoes and fake meat.”
Stephen pointed at Bethany. “This is your fault. Putting ideas into her head.”
“You’re the one that forgot her pecan chicken!” Bethany burst out. “That shit is important.”
“Oh, now she thinks so,” Georgie drawled, reaching for the tequila.
“You’re one to talk, Georgie. This”—he waved an angry hand around—“girls’ club has taken away your common sense

“Do you think I’m more than a clown?” She swallowed. “Professionally and . . . figuratively.”
He ran a hand down her hair. “Of course I do, Georgie.”
Cool relief slipped beneath her skin. “See? People can be wrong. They can treat you one way when you deserve another, but it’s their fault. Not yours.” His frame was beginning to stiffen against her, so she rushed to finish. “I’m sorry if you were treated like less than you are.”
For several heavy beats, he didn’t move or breathe. “All right,” he said finally, removing his arms from around Georgie and rolling onto his back. “That’s enough.”
Georgie banished the pinch of hurt. “Don’t be so romantic.”
He stacked his hands behind his head. “You’ve got the wrong man for that.”

When sex was over, it usually—always—meant parting ways after the sweat cooled. He’d never been anything but fine with that outcome, because he barely knew the women to begin with. Panic niggled at him now, though, refusing to give up. If Georgie tried to leave or make him leave right now, he wouldn’t like it at all. No, he would hate it.
She wouldn’t leave him, would she?
“Whoa,” she whispered at his ear, her fingers threading through his hair. “Porn sucks.”
His fear eased, a smile beckoning at the corners of his mouth. There was some insecurity in Georgie’s expression, probably thanks to his silent panic attack. So he framed her beautiful face in his hands and kissed it right off her mouth. “Nah. We’re just that good.” He dropped his forehead to hers. “How do you feel?”
Her catlike yawn made his throat hurt. “Like that.” She smiled, somewhat shyly. “But I also feel spoiled because that was better than . . . wow. Than I ever expected. And smug because you look spoiled, too. Are . . . you? You know, spoiled?”
“I can barely feel my fucking legs.”
The smile bloomed, spreading to her cheeks, eyes. Gorgeous. “We brought it.”
Could she hear his heart hammering? “Damn right we did,” he managed through the notch in his throat. “Come on, let’s get you to bed.”