Excerpt:
Angela picked up the matchbook to light the
candles. Her hand shook as she held the flame to the wick.
She'd spent hours trying to figure out the exact words
to say and still drew a blank. Looking around her economy
apartment, she wondered whether she was bordering on insanity
to attempt to live with two men who were such polar opposites.
They all lived alone, had their own quirks.
Will we all be ready to kill each other in a month?
She sank into a chair. "This is crazy. I'm nuts."
Fidgeting, she straightened one of the butter knives by
a plate, silently congratulating herself for being wise
enough not to cook anything that required sharper instruments.
The oven timer dinged at the same time she heard a knock.
Jumping up, she ran to the door. A peek told her Blaine
was as punctual as always. Big breath, she opened the door.
"Hey, Angel."
With a bouquet of flowers in one hand and a bottle of their
favorite wine in the other, he leaned in for a kiss. Their
lips touched as the beeping timer registered in her brain.
"The lasagna! Come in. The flowers are gorgeous...and
the wine. I'll be right back." She darted for the kitchen.
Blaine chuckled. The door clicked shut.
She snatched her hand back with a muttered curse, having
forgotten to grab the oven mitt in her haste. "I'll
be out in just a sec. Make yourself at home." She set
the pan of pasta on a hot plate and turned on the tap, then
dug under the kitchen sink for a vase.
"Angel?"
She reared, bumping her head on the cabinet. "What?"
Rubbing the sore spot, she filled the vase with water.
Sarcasm laced his words as he asked, "Are we expecting
a guest for dinner?"
She carried the crystal vase out of the kitchen to see
him standing by the table set for three. "Well..."
A key turned the lock. The front door swung wide.
Garrett strolled in. "Hi, honey, I'm...Fuck me."
"I'd rather not," Blaine said through gritted
teeth. "But apparently my angel has."
Her gaze jumped back and forth between the two men she
loved more than life itself, and knew she'd made a huge
mistake. Blaine in his tailored charcoal Armani looked like
he'd just been slugged in the gut, while Garrett, endearingly
rumpled in jeans and black t-shirt, looked like a thundercloud
ready to strike.
How could she have ever thought this would work?
