Page 156 of Lemon Crush

“It does to me too.” Chick patted his chest, drawing my attention to the expensive and stylish suit that he’d said was a subtle homage to the chaotically neutral sorcerer I’d added into my second series with him in mind. All black, apart from the white rose in his lapel and the diamond-encrusted lemon that matched the small fruits scattered in my bouquet, because we’d decided the race deserved an honorable mention in the day.

It looked gorgeous on him.

“She has a new life, a new dog, a soon-to-be new husband and she’s a successful author again. Not to mention branching out into a new genre,” Chick continued. “It’s a lot to take in, but I’ve always known it would come to this.”

“I don’t think she’s freaking out about her career five minutes before her wedding,” Bernie said doubtfully.

“Gene said she’s on the road to making more with this book than her previous two contracts combined.”

I goggled a bit at Morgan’s words, but if Gene said it, it must be true.

Then I frowned at Chick. “What do you mean, you knew it would come to this?”

“I didn’t know you’d write romance,” he admitted, “but I knew from the moment we met you were romcom-heroine materialwaiting to happen. Clumsy, cute and nursing a king-size crush on the unattainable guy back home. Tale as old as time.”

I couldn’t argue with him there. Iwasclumsy and I’d never forgotten about Wade. I couldn’t. He was in all my books.

“All the tropes belong to you,” he continued with a humorous twist of his lips. “The off-limits friend of your sister. Only one bed.”

“That didn’t turn out the way I expected it to.”

“The Mrs. Roper trope.”

“That’s not a trope,” I argued. “And honestly? Can we all agree it should never be one? Ladies perving on skewed power dynamics is just as disturbing as the reverse. Why are we even talking about this?”

“To stop you from freaking out while we wait for Phoebe to get back,” he said without batting an eye. “You’re welcome.”

I laughed and wrapped my arms around him. “I love you, Chick.”

“I’m not sure why no one told me about the only-one-bed trope,” my sister said to a slightly out-of-breath Phoebe.

“Because you’re the sister,” Bernie told her. Then her eyes widened and she turned to me. “I’mabout to be the sister too.”

“I’ll still tell you things,” I promised.

“Not as much as she’ll tell me,” Chick added with a sly smile. “I mean, you’re stillhissister.”

The radio that had been standing silent on a nearby table buzzed with static. “Wedding Master to Little Sister.”

“Oh good lord, we can’t escape it,” Morgan said, rubbing her temple.

I reached for it with an apologetic shrug. “Whatcha got for me?”

“You still don’t understand how this is supposed to work. Music starts in two minutes. Get ready.”

I instantly started sweating again. “Why did I fall for a manwho lives in the cowboy equivalent of the Amazon? It shouldn’t be seventy-something degrees a few days before Christmas.”

“Too late now.” Morgan sounded suddenly cheerful. “The roots are planted and you are stuck. Especially since Gene’s friends have clearly adopted you.”

I had roots now.

And it wasn’t only Lucy and Rick. A surprising number of people from the Lemons community had wanted to participate in Mom’s Viking funeral, which thankfully wasn’t illegal since Rick managed to get us a permit. Several boats were on the water as we blasted Edith Piaf and Lee Marvin and gave Sam Retta the dramatic, musical bonfire of a sendoff she’d always wanted.

Some of them were still sending me messages online about the next race, despite the fact that I’d adamantly declared my intention to never get into a racecar again.

But I had agreed to a rally, and as far as they were concerned, that meant there was still a chance I’d change my mind and join them in That Lemon Life.

Chick clapped his hands together as Phoebe joined us again. “Last looks, ladies. It may be warm, but at least your colors are holiday themed. You look like a breathtaking group of beautiful Christmas balls.”

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