Shout Out To My Ex: (The Ever After Agency Book 2)

Five minutes turns into twenty, giving me enough time to poke around Leo’s beautifully decorated office while second guessing if we’re doing the right thing. By the time he returns, I’m close to leaving.

‘Sorry about that. Couldn’t convince Linda you weren’t some sort of… Never mind. She’s gone now. They’re all gone.’

‘Have they seen all the stuff in the media? Your team?’

He shrugs, seemingly unbothered – or maybe, like me, he’s wearied by it.

‘Lovely office,’ I say, looking about – my feeble attempt to change the subject.

‘Elle…’ Leo draws nearer and despite the kiss we shared just a short time ago, I feel self-conscious being here like this. I’m also overcome with a strong sense of foreboding, as if consummating this… this… whatever this is will blow up in our faces and lead to our ruin. Professionally, yes, but also emotionally.

I don’t know if I could bear losing Leo a second time.

I also haven’t told him about Cassie and Poppy and the Ever After Agency. There’s so much we haven’t talked about and right now, it’s a lot – unbearable even.

I should go.

‘It’s a lot, isn’t it?’ Leo asks.

‘How do keep doing that?’ I whisper hoarsely.

He comes even closer. ‘Know what you’re thinking?’

I nod.

‘I know you.’

Three simple words, yet the most complex of sentiments. In many ways, Leo does know me – even after all this time apart because, at my core, I’m still me.

And he’s still Leo.

‘I’m scared too,’ he says, his body barely an inch from mine.

‘Why are you scared?’

‘Because…’ He looks away for a moment, a small furrow appearing between his brows, then meets my eye. I home in on the gold flecks in his large, grey, soulful eyes. ‘I don’t want to lose you again.’

He’s scared of the exact same thing I am.

His frown intensifies. ‘But we don’t have to if you don’t wa⁠—’

I grab the back of his neck with both hands, pulling him to me and landing a kiss. It’s rough and wanting. Our teeth clash and my lips will be bruised later but I don’t care. I want him, I’m desperate for him. He returns the kiss, just as hungry for me, and enfolds me in his arms, making me feel both desired and safe.

We move awkwardly to the sofa, still in our embrace, me shuffling backwards. I wait for him to lower me onto it, but instead he stops, easing away and looking down at me, his breath rapid.

‘Ellie…’

‘Oh,’ I say, understanding immediately, ‘I’m on the pill.’

‘Oh, good. I mean, I have something, but…’ He has something? Does he regularly bring women up here? Oh god. I attempt to withdraw, tugging against the confines of his embrace.

‘Hey, not like that… Sorry, I feel like I shouldn’t have said anything.’

‘No! It’s me. My mind plays these tricks where it imagines the worst or thinks I don’t belong…’

‘You do belong. You belong here with me.’

I look away, deflating. ‘I’ve ruined the mood now, haven’t I?’

He jostles me gently and I peer up at him through my lashes. He drops a soft kiss on my lips – a perfect, beautiful, romantic kiss.

‘Before…’ he says, lifting his lips to my cheek and gently kissing it. ‘When I stopped us…’ His lips lightly trail across to one eyelid then the other, where he presses two more kisses. ‘I just wanted us to take our time…’

My eyes now closed, I bask in the timber of his voice, the feel of his hands against the small of my back, his woody, masculine scent. The next kiss lands on my forehead, inducing a soft mewl of a sigh.

He cups my cheek, and my eyelids flutter open. He’s watching me.

‘You are so beautiful,’ he whispers. And then his mouth is on mine again, and we clasp each other tightly. Holding me, kissing me, he lowers me onto the sofa. I’m consumed by longing and knowing and mystery all at once, the pleasure of familiarity and the excitement of the new converging.

A thousand moments pass as we kiss and caress each other, locking eyes, then squeezing them tightly as the pleasure takes hold. We share a chuckle at his particularly stubborn jeans, which refuse to lower over his hips. And then it’s just the two of us, our bodies entwined, skin to skin, and it’s almost enough just like this. Almost.

‘Leo,’ I say, my voice infused with want. He slips inside me and a moan escapes – his, mine, I couldn’t say – but it expresses everything – the past month together, a decade apart, four years of loving each other, and very possibly our future.

Poppy

I arrive home before Tristan, and our automated system has already turned on the lights and set the temperature to 23°C. I dump my handbag on the hallstand, toe off my shoes, and call for Saffron.

She wanders into the main room, a combined living–dining–kitchen, blinking and stopping for a downward-dog-style stretch. She’s obviously been sleeping on the bed in the guest bedroom – something we gave up trying to train her not to do by day four. We’re fairly certain she thinks she’s a person and that it’s her bedroom.

I scoop her up, which she barely tolerates.

‘Sometimes, it’s not about you, Saffy,’ I coo at her when she starts wriggling in my arms. ‘Mama’s had a shit day and needs a furry cuddle.’

She responds by contorting herself into a pretzel, and I set her down. It’s time to feed her anyway.

‘You are the most spoilt cat in the world,’ I say affectionately as I prepare her dinner of high-end kitty kibble and raw rabbit. If we were living in Australia, this would be kangaroo.

Of course, now that I’m about to feed her, she’s doing figure eights around my legs – the suck-up.

The key turns in the lock – my darling is home! Saffron must think the same thing, because as soon as Tristan appears, she trots over to him, the tip of her tail flicking. He lifts her up one-handed while setting his keys and wallet on the hallstand. I can hear her purring from here.

‘She is such a little flirt,’ I say. ‘Barely tolerates my affections, but leaps into your arms the moment you get home.’

Tristan chuckles and, still holding a smug-looking Saffron, comes to kiss me hello. And even though he’s got an armful of cat, and my hands are covered in rabbit goo, it’s hot. Tristan’s kisses are always hot. He must have gone to kissing school or something.

Saffron tires of our spousal affection and leaps to the floor. I set down her dinner, wash my hands, then give my entire attention to my husband, who snakes his arms around me and squeezes my bum with both hands.

‘You’re very sexy when you’re in the kitchen,’ he says, his voice low and gravelly.

This is a long-running joke between us because, at best, I assemble food – salads, sandwiches, putting the cat food in the bowl. Tristan is the one who cooks. Apparently, pre-me, he rarely bothered making anything more exciting than steamed veggies and a plain chicken breast. But with Jacinda’s encouragement – and a few of her recipes – he’s become quite the home chef.

On that…

‘I, husband, have had a rubbish day,’ I say, peppering my words with kisses, ‘and am absolutely starving.’

He pulls away, clearly concerned.

‘Why was it a rubbish day?’

I shake my head, not wanting to burden him with my failings as a matchmaker.

‘Darling, tell me.’

I’m about to say I’d rather put it out of my mind – at least until I get to the agency tomorrow morning – when he shifts into Tristan-the-perfect-husband mode.

‘How about this? You run a nice hot bath, I’ll put together a little tray for you – something to nibble on, a glass of wine – and while you’re relaxing, I’ll make us a yummy dinner?’

‘I don’t deserve you,’ I say.

‘You absolutely do. Besides, you always look after me when I’ve had a rubbish day.’

‘Except the cooking part.’

‘Yes, no need to pile on and make a day worse,’ he teases.

‘Hey, not nice.’

He grins at me and shoos me off to the bathroom, giving my bum a pat as I go.

An hour later, after I’ve soaked my worries away while nibbling on olives and drinking a glass of Pinot, we sit down to plates of steak and homemade chips – and steamed broccoli, because (Tristan’s) old habits die hard.

But even though this is one of my favourite meals, my appetite has disappeared. Unable to put work out of my mind any longer, unease flows through me unfettered. In just over twelve hours, I will be facing the music. It won’t be pretty.

‘Work still on your mind?’ Tristan asks as he cuts into his steak. It’s perfect: medium rare – exactly how we both like it.

‘We had to tell the client today – the one who didn’t know I was a matchmaker – that her sister was working with Ever After.’

‘Oh, I see. Is it⁠—’

‘Yes, it’s as bad as it seems. I’ve never had to do that before. Paloma’s called an early meeting tomorrow to formulate a PR plan, but there’s still the chance Saskia will shut down the case entirely. I’ve put the agency at risk. Well, the case has. If anyone connects my client and the love interest and all the shit that’s going on in the press to the agency, it’s… I don’t want to catastrophise, but…’

‘It could have dire repercussions,’ he says.

‘Yep. And there’s the impact all this has had on my client. Her career is on the line as well – not just mine.’

He reaches for my hand and gives it a squeeze. ‘Sorry, Poppy. I hope Paloma’s solution does the trick.’

‘Me too,’ I say with a sigh. I’m about to cut into my steak when my phone chimes, notifying me of a message.

‘You should go ahead and check that, darling,’ he says. Even though Tristan and I have a ‘no phones at the dinner table’ rule, it ends up being more of a guideline, as we both we need to be reachable after work hours.

I retrieve my phone from the hallstand, dreading what this might be. Seeing the message, I break into a relieved smile. I hold up the phone as I walk back to the dining table. ‘It’s Jass,’ I say. ‘She’s got it in her head to stage an intervention for Shaz.’

‘An intervention?’ he asks, clearly baffled.

‘To move her into Lauren’s place before Lauren gets back from Finland.’

Tristan’s mouth quirks. ‘Jacinda missed her calling – she should have been a matchmaker.’

‘I’ve told her that too. Anyway, it’s Saturday. You and Ravi are the brawn.’

‘Making Jacinda the brains and you the beauty.’

‘Hah! Flattery will get you everywhere, Mr Fellows,’ I say with a coquettish smile.

‘Oh, I hope so, Ms Dean, because after dinner, we progress to phase three.’

‘Phase thr⁠—?’

His eyebrows raise suggestively.

‘Oh, I like phase three already. And phases one and two,’ I add, thinking of the bath and dinner. My appetite has now returned, and I cut into my steak.

I love being married to Tristan. He’s my soft place to land on nights like this. My thoughtful, clever, super-hot soft place to land.