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WENDY MARKHAM
is a pseudonym for New York Times bestselling, award-winning novelist Wendy Corsi Staub. She has written more than fifty fiction and nonfiction books for adults and teenagers in various genres—including contemporary and historical romance, suspense, mystery, television and movie tie-in and biography. A small-town girl at heart, she was born and raised in western New York on the shores of Lake Erie and in the middle of the notorious snowbelt. By third grade, she was set on becoming a published author; a few years later, a school trip to Manhattan convinced her that she had to live there someday. At twenty-one, she moved by herself to New York City and worked as an office temp, freelance copywriter, advertising account coordinator and book editor, before selling her first novel, which went on to win a Romance Writers of America RITA® Award. Slightly Single was one of Waldenbooks’ Best Books of 2002. Very happily married with two children, Wendy writes full-time and lives in a cozy old house in suburban New York, proving that childhood dreams really can come true.
To my beloved husband and our two beautiful children.
And, in gratitude, to “Will,”
without whom this book wouldn’t have been possible—
and without whom I have lived happily ever after.
Slightly Single
Wendy Markham
MILLS & BOON
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This book wouldn’t exist if it weren't for my old and new friends at Silhouette, whose encouragement and enthusiasm made the writing and editorial process a pleasure. With warmest gratitude to everyone who played a role, especially Joan, Karen, Cristine, Margaret and Tara! I would also like to add sincere thanks to my agent, Laura Blake Peterson, for her constant support. And, of course, I must fondly acknowledge all the fabulous city gals who crossed my path during my own Slightly Single era, always there to share margaritas, cigarettes, dance floors and wee-hour cabs to the boroughs. Cheers to all, wherever you’ve landed!!!
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
One
Here’s how my life will turn out: I’ll marry Will. He’ll become a big stage star and I’ll give up my advertising career to stay home with our children. We’ll stay in New York rather than going South or West (because I desperately have to have all four seasons), and someday we’ll turn into the kind of senior citizens you see sharing the same side of the booth at Friendly’s. Not that I’ve ever seen a Friendly’s in Manhattan, or that Will and I have ever sat on the same side of any booth in any restaurant, ever.
Will, after all, needs his space.
In restaurants.
In general.
I, on the other hand, need no space.
Which is exactly what I tell my friend Kate, in response to her infuriatingly serene “Everyone needs space,” over Tall Skim Caramel Macchiatos at Starbucks.
“I need no space,” I tell Kate, who rolls her fake aquamarine pupils toward her dyed-blond hairline. Kate grew up in the Deep South, where it’s apparently best to be a skinny blue-eyed blonde. Actually, speaking as a well-padded brown-eyed brunette New Yorker, it’s probably best to be a skinny blue-eyed blonde any place.
“Yes, you do need space, Trace,” Kate insists, with only a hint of the antebellum drawl she’s worked so hard to lose. “Believe me, you so wouldn’t want Will in your face every second of every day.”
Okay, the thing about that is…
I so would.
Do I seem pathetic? I do, don’t I? So I’d better not admit the truth to Kate, who has already declared that she’s worried about me. She thinks my relationship with Will is one-sided.
“No,” I lie, “not every second of every day. But that doesn’t mean I want him blowing out of here for summer stock in the Adirondacks for three months without me.”
“Well, I don’t think you have a choice. I mean, it’s not like you can tag along.”
At that, I focus on my beverage, attempting to stir the sweetened foam into the darker liquid below. It refuses to harmonize, clinging in wispy clumps to the wooden stirrer like the cottony clusters of mealy bugs on my sickly philodendron at home.
“Tracey,” Kate says in a warning voice, clearly on to me.
“What?” All innocence, I toy with my yellow plastic Bic cigarette lighter, flicking it on and off, wishing for the good old days when you could smoke anywhere you damn pleased.
