Suburban Secrets
Grace Becker needed to get a life…And thanks to '80s night, one too many Flaming Togas and a game of Truth or Dare with her girlfriends, this woman who has let her Day-Timer rule her life has found excitement in spades. Rather than reveal the truth–she's done time for forgery–Grace opts for the Dare: giving her undies to a total stranger. A smoking-hot, almost-half her-age stranger who's been making eye contact with her all night.Can life get any more peculiar? Well, it does when the hot stranger slips her his room key–along with a computer memory key linked to identity theft. And when she's taken into custody by a sexy Secret Service agent. And when her knowledge of Eastern Bloc cuisine lands her an undercover assignment cooking for a Russian mob boss….Suddenly her old life as a suburban soccer mom is looking like heaven!
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“Nick, I have a confession.”
Grace decided that since this was a game of Truth or Dare she’d just tell him the truth. “Do you see those women over there?” She pointed to her friends. They all stared back as if they were watching a bad reality-TV show. “They dared me to come over here and give you something.”
Nick grinned. “Like what?”
“Like my underwear.”
He didn’t look the slightest bit surprised. She guessed women offered him their underwear on a pretty regular basis. She sidled closer, dangling her panties in front of him so the girls could see.
Nick gave her panties an appraising look. Then he grabbed her around the waist and pulled her close. “Wanna give your friends something better to watch?”
Oh, my.
The DJ was playing The Cure’s “Just Like Heaven,” and the beat reverberated through the bar beneath her elbow. Nick’s lips were mere inches away.
What was it the Romans used to say?
Oh, yeah. Carpe diem.
Donna Birdsell
Donna Birdsell lives near Philadelphia, where she absolutely doesn’t get any of her ideas from her perfectly normal family, friends and neighbors.
She’s addicted to reality television and chocolate, loves a good snowstorm and cooks to relax.
She spent many years writing press releases, newsletters and marketing brochures until a pregnancy complication kept her home from the office. She needed something to keep her busy, so she started her very first novel.
Five years later her dream of becoming a published fiction author came true when The Painted Rose, her first historical romance, was released.
She is excited about this, her first book for Harlequin NEXT.
You can reach Donna through her Web site at www.DonnaBirdsell.com.
To all the girls who kept my secrets.
We sure had some good times, didn’t we?
CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 1.5
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 2.5
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 3.5
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 4.5
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 5.5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 6.5
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 7.5
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 8.5
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 9.5
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 10.5
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 11.5
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 12.5
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 13.5
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 14.5
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 15.5
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 16.5
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 17.5
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 18.5
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 19.5
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 20.5
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 21.5
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 1
Friday, 7:17 a.m.
Weird Eggs
“Kevin, let’s move! It’s 7:17.”
From the bottom of the stairs, Grace Becker heard the telltale thump of a body rolling out of bed. Jesus. They had thirteen minutes. She’d better find something he could eat on the way to school.
Megan and Callie were already in the kitchen, poking the food around on their plates.
“Finish your eggs,” Grace said.
Callie stuck out her tongue. “What’s in them?”
“Camembert and shallots,” said Grace. “Why? Don’t you like it?”
“What’s wrong?” said Megan.
“What do you mean, what’s wrong?” Grace grabbed a Pop-Tart from the pantry and stuck it in the toaster.
“You always cook weird stuff when you’re upset,” Megan said. “So, what’s wrong?”
Grace bit the inside of her cheek. What was she supposed to say?
Well, girls, I’m upset because your father left me for his older, less attractive assistant; he’s been a complete dirtbag about the divorce; we’re probably going to lose our house; and the closest thing Mommy’s had to a date in the last ten months was drinking a Dixie cup of warm Gatorade with your field hockey coach, Ludmilla?
She sighed. “Nothing’s wrong. Eat your breakfast.”
“Mom, nobody eats breakfast. And I mean nobody.” Megan, at twelve, had some sort of detailed list in her head about what everyone did or did not do, which she checked with agonizing frequency.
“They especially don’t eat eggs for breakfast,” Callie added.
“Yeah?” said Grace. “When I was your age, I would have killed to have eggs for breakfast. But it was cold cereal and a vitamin pill everyday for me. Grandma actually had a job.”
“You could get a job,” Callie suggested.
“Be careful what you wish for.” Grace tried to draw a deep breath, but it got stuck halfway down.
She was going to have to get a job. But where? She hadn’t held a position outside her yoga class in thirteen years.
Everything in her life had revolved around Tom, his career and their kids. His bosses had loved her, his coworkers’ wives had envied her, and his clients had jockeyed for invitations to Becker parties. She’d been the events coordinator, secretary, moral support beam, taxi service and butt kisser extraordinaire, all without ever drawing a paycheck.
But it was time to face facts. Tom was gone. He was making a new life, with a new woman who would be all those things.
So who would she be now?
She forced a smile. “If I get a job, who’ll take care of you guys?”
Megan rolled her eyes. “Please, Mom. I’m almost thirteen. I think I can get my own breakfast.”
“What? A handful of grapes and a Diet Coke? I don’t think so. You’re going to have a decent breakfast if I have to give it to you through an IV. You’re not going to end up looking like Lara Flynn Boyle.”
“Who?” said Callie.
“The walking corpse on Twin Peaks.”
“Twin what?”
“Never mind. Eat your eggs.”
