“Ha. I’m sure she would rather have gone with one of her book-club friends, but I had a task to complete. Other than the authors I met in person, I have been in correspondence with a few for some time, and used Gigi’s many creative connections to persuade the rest.” She paused her matter-of-fact recitation and flicked him an uncertain look, one that wrapped around his heart like a fist and squeezed. “I don’t want presents, you understand.” He believed her. She looked mildly horrified by the idea. “I’m very pleased with dinner and I’m very pleased with you. And maybe anal, since we’re celebrating,” she added thoughtfully.

“Noted,” Zaf murmured, still feeling dazed.

“But what I really wanted was, erm . . . I suppose, to do something that would make you . . .” She trailed off with a slow smile, then pointed at his face. “Yes. That. I wanted to do something that would make you look absolutely thrilled. So, mission accomplished.” She clapped her hands and beamed, clearly impressed with herself.

“Dan,” he said slowly. “You didn’t . . . you didn’t have to do this.”

“I know.” She came to kneel in front of him, her hands on his shoulders. When their eyes met, he saw a fierce, burning love in hers that reflected everything inside of him, and when she spoke, he heard it in her voice. “I know I didn’t have to do this, Zaf. I never have to do anything with you. But you make me want to. You make me feel like myself, and you make me feel like I’m enough, and you even make me feel like I would be just fine without you. The thing is, I don’t want to be without you, and so I don’t ever plan on it. We are going to have many more anniversaries, and you will continue to make me dinner, and I will continue to make you smile, and I believe that is what they call—”

He arched an eyebrow. “Living happily ever after?”

She nodded. “Sounds about right.”

Don’t miss the next steamy, fun romantic comedy from Talia Hibbert . . . The last Brown sister finds love in Spring 2021!

Read on for a sneak peek at Eve’s book . . .

CHAPTER ONE

Eve Brown didn’t keep a diary. She kept a journal. There was a difference.

Diaries were horribly organized and awfully prescriptive. They involved dates and future plans and regular entries and the suffocating weight of commitment. Journals, on the other hand, were wild and lawless things. One might abandon a journal for weeks, then crack it open one Saturday evening under the influence of wine and marshmallows without an ounce of guilt. A woman might journal about last night’s dream, or her growing anxieties around the lack of direction in her life, or her resentment toward the author of the thrilling Ao3 fanfic “Tasting Captain America,” who hadn’t uploaded a new chapter since the great titty-fucking cliffhanger of December 2015. For example. In short, journaling was, by its very nature, impossible to fail at.

Eve had many journals. She rather liked them.

So, what better way to spend a lovely, lazy Sunday morning in August than journaling about the stunning rise and decisive fall of her latest career?

She got up with a stretch, clambered off of her queen-sized bed, and drew back the velvet curtains covering her floor-to-ceiling windows. With bright, summer light flooding the room, she tossed off her silk headscarf, kicked off the overnight tea tree and shea foot mask socks she’d slept in, and grabbed her journal from her bedside table, leafing through the gold-edged pages. Settling back into bed, she began.

Good morning, darling,

—The journal, of course, was darling.

It’s been eight days since Cecelia’s wedding. I’m sorry I didn’t write sooner, but you are an inanimate object, so it doesn’t really matter.

I regret to report that things didn’t go 100% to plan. There was a bit of a fuss about Cecelia’s corset being eggshell instead of ivory, but I resolved that issue by encouraging her to take a Xanax from Gigi. Then there was a slight palaver with the doves—obviously, they were supposed to be released over Cecelia and Gareth for the photographs, but I discovered just before the ceremony that the dove’s handler hadn’t fed them for two days so they wouldn’t shit all over the guests. I may have lost my temper and released them all. Unfortunately, the handler demanded I pay for them, which I suppose was fair enough. It turns out doves are very expensive, so I have had to request an advance on my monthly payment from the trust fund.

Finally, Cecelia and I have sadly fallen out. It seems she was very attached to the idea of the aforementioned doves, and perhaps her tongue had been loosened by the Xanax, but she called me a selfish jealous cow, so I called her an ungrateful waste of space and ripped the train off her Vera Wang. By accident, obviously.

Knowing the lovely Cecelia as I do, I’m sure she’ll spend her Fiji honeymoon badmouthing my services on various bridezilla forums in order to destroy my dream career. Obviously, the joke is on her, because I have no dream career and I have already erased Eve Antonia Weddings from the face of the earth. And Chloe says I lack efficiency!

Hah.

Eve finished her entry and closed the journal with a satisfied smile—or else, a smile that should be satisfied, but instead felt a little bit sad. Hm. Apparently, she was in a mood. Perhaps she should go for a walk, or read a romance novel, or—

No. Breakfast. She must begin with breakfast.

Decision made, Eve chose her song for the day—“Rain on My Parade,” to cheer her up—hit Repeat, and popped in one of her AirPods. Soundtrack established, she got up, got dressed, and headed down to the family home’s vast marble-and-chrome kitchen, where she found both her parents in grim residence.

“Oh dear,” she murmured, and stopped short in the doorway.

Mum was pacing broodily by the toaster. Her pale blue suit made her amber skin glow and really highlighted the fiery rage in her hazel eyes. Dad stood stoic and grave by the Swiss coffee machine, sunlight beaming through the French windows to bathe his bald, brown head.

“Good morning, Evie-bean,” he said. Then his solemn expression wavered for a moment, a hint of his usual smile coming through. “That’s a nice T-shirt.”

Eve looked down at her T-shirt, which was a lovely orange color, with the words sorry, bored now written across her chest in turquoise. “Thanks, Dad.”

“I swear, I’ve no idea where you find—”

Mum rolled her eyes, threw up her hands, and snapped, “For God’s sake, Martin!”

“Oh, ah, yes.” Dad cleared his throat and tried again. “Eve,” he said sternly, “your mother and I would like a word.”

Wonderful; they were in a mood, too. Since Eve was trying her best to be cheerful this morning, this was not particularly ideal. She sighed and entered the kitchen, her steps falling in time with the beat of Barbra’s bold staccato. Gigi and Shivani were at the marble breakfast bar across the room, Shivani eating what appeared to be a spinach omelet, while Gigi stole the occasional bite in between dainty sips of her usual Bloody Mary smoothie.

Unwilling to be contaminated by her parents’ grumpiness, Eve trilled, “Hello, Grandmother, Grand-Shivani,” and snagged a bottle of Perrier from the fridge. Then, finally, she turned to face Mum and Dad. “I thought you’d be at your couples’ spin class this morning.”

“Oh, no, my lovely little lemon,” Gigi cut in. “How could they possibly spin when they have adult children to ambush in the kitchen?”

“I know that’s how I approach disagreements with my twenty-six-year-old offspring,” Shivani murmured. When Mum glared in her direction, Shivani offered a serene smile and flicked her long, greying ponytail.

Gigi smirked her approval.

So, it was official; Eve was indeed being ambushed. Biting her lip, she asked, “Have I done something wrong? Oh dear—did I forget the taps again?” It had been eight years since she’d accidentally flooded her en suite bathroom badly enough to cause a minor floor/ceiling collapse, but she remained slightly nervous about a potential repeat.

Mum released a bitter laugh. “The taps!” she repeated with frankly excessive drama. “Oh, Eve, I wish this issue were as simple as taps.”

“Do calm down, Joy,” Gigi huffed. “Your vibrations are giving me a migraine.”

“Mother,” Dad said warningly.

“Yes, darling?” Gigi said innocently.

“For God’s sake,” Mum said . . . rage-ing-ly, “Eve, we’ll continue this in the study.”

The study was Mum’s office, a neat and tidy room on the ground floor of the family home. It had an atmosphere of focus and success, both of which Eve found singularly oppressive, and the only comfortable chair in the room was the vast leather one behind Mum’s desk. Of course, Mum sat in that particular chair, Dad standing behind her like a loyal henchman, which left Eve to perch on the edge of the stiff-backed guest seat opposite. It wasn’t the most comfortable of positions, physically or metaphorically.

“Where,” Mum asked, straight to the point as always, “is your website?”