By Kristan Higgins
Lucy Lang is not trying to find fireworks.She's searching for a pleasant, first rate guy. an individual who'll mow the garden, turn poultry at the barbeque, educate their destiny little ones to play football. yet most crucial: a person who will not encourage the slightest stirring in her heart…or at any place else. a tender widow, Lucy cannot probability that sort of loss back. yet sharing her existence with a cat named fats Mikey and the Black Widows on the kinfolk bakery isn't really sufficient both. So it is see you later to Ethan, her sizzling yet completely irrelevant "friend with privileges" and hi to a guy she will be able to marry.Too undesirable Ethan Mirabelli is not going anyplace. so far as he is involved, what she wishes could be correct less than her nostril. yet can he persuade her that the following smartest thing can particularly be without end?
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Even before my dad died, and long before Jimmy, I’d hated the cemetery, and for good reason. When I was four, Iris’s husband, Uncle Pete died (esophageal cancer after a lifetime of Camels Unfiltered). I hadn’t been allowed to see him in the hospital—the hospice ward is no place for a kid—and so I didn’t realize how thin and wasted he’d become. The casket was closed at the wake, and pictures of a younger, healthier Pete had adorned the funeral home. At any rate, we all went to the cemetery, the men somber in their suits, black umbrellas provided by the funeral home hovering above the mourners.
Then, before I know it, she seizes the offending hair and yanks. “Youch! Rose! ” I press a finger against the now smarting hair follicle. “Don’t worry, honey, I got it. ” She gives me a conspiratorial smile, then holds my whisker up to the light. “I’m thirty years old, Rose,” I protest weakly. ” I brush the whisker from her fingers. The whisker was a fluke. I’m not menopausal. I can’t be. Could I? Granted, I’m feeling a bit…mature today, given that my younger sister has had a baby before I did… Rose scrutinizes my face for another hair.
The boy is kissed and hugged and worshipped. He grins at me, and I wave, my heart swelling with love. He is a beautiful boy, the image of Ethan. ” he asks, and my mother and aunts lead him to the back to sugar him up. “Frosting’s not good for him, Parker,” my sister points out, wiping the nursing-induced sweat from her forehead. “It’s all sugar. ” She smiles at me. ” “Hi, Parker,” I return, smiling back. Maybe it’s because she was the first friend I made after being widowed, one of the few people in town who hadn’t known me before, maybe it’s because I generously ignore the fact that she’s tall, slim, gorgeous and rich, but Parker and I are friends.
The Next Best Thing by Kristan Higgins