OTHERWISE ENGAGED

Standalone Women's Fiction

A twisty, tender and wise look at how secrets can transform the powerful—and sometimes problematic—bond between mothers and daughters, from #1 New York Times bestselling author Susan Mallery.

When Shannon gets engaged, her beloved mom, Cindy, is the first person she wants to tell—and the last. Cindy’s engaged, too, and has already hinted at a double wedding. The image of a synchronized bouquet toss with her mom fills Shannon with horror. She’ll keep her engagement a secret until Cindy’s I-dos are done.

Victoria has never been proper enough for her mother, Ava, so she stopped trying. She lives on her own terms and amuses herself by pushing Ava’s buttons. Ava loves but doesn’t understand her stuntwoman daughter. When a movie-set mishap brings Victoria home, Ava longs to finally connect.

Chance brings the four women together at a wedding venue, where a shocking secret comes tumbling out. Twenty-four years ago, desperate teenager Cindy chose wealthy Ava to adopt her baby—then changed her mind at the very last second. The loss rocked Ava’s world, leaving her unable to open her heart to the daughter she did adopt, Victoria. As Shannon and Victoria deal with the fallout from the decisions their mothers made, they wrestle with whether who they are is different than who they might have become.

Chapter One

“How does the horse look?”

Victoria Rogers pressed her good arm to her very bruised, almost broken ribs. “Dad, don’t,” she said, trying to stay as still as possible. “You can’t be funny. It already hurts to breathe. It wasn’t a horse.”

Her father frowned. “I was told you were thrown off a horse.”

“I was thrown out of a truck.”

“Then how’d you get the black eyes?”

“The ground was a little bit pissy when I hit it and punched me back.”

There wasn’t a part of her that didn’t hurt. The good news was that now that the medical staff had determined she didn’t have a head injury, they were going to give her drugs to help with the pain. She’d already said she didn’t want any of that weak-ass pill stuff. She wanted a nurse to give her a shot of something that would work instantly and let her rest. Because in addition to the bruised ribs, requisite scrapes and contusions, she had a broken left leg and a sprained wrist. Her previously dislocated shoulder also throbbed, but that was kind of the least of it.

As she lay in her hospital bed, feeling like death on a tortilla, she had the thought that maybe stunt work wasn’t for her. Injuries came with the job, but this was the third time in five years she’d landed in the hospital. The first time she’d messed up, so that was on her, but the other two had just been plain bad luck. The incident with the truck had come about because one of the tires had blown, causing the however many ton vehicle to jump the curb—an action that had sent her flying up and over the side. Gravity, being the bitch it was, had flung her onto the sidewalk. Hence the injuries.

Her father studied her, his brows drawn together in concern. “None of this makes me happy,” he told her.

The incongruous statement nearly made her laugh. She remembered—just in time—that her ribs wouldn’t appreciate the subsequent movement and they would punish her big-time.

“Today isn’t my favorite day either,” she admitted, trying not to groan. “I didn’t wake up with the thought that I should try to get thrown out of the back of a pickup.” Although technically getting thrown out of the truck had been the stunt. Just not when it had happened and without warning or a plan.

“I’m worried,” her father told her.

“I’ll be fine.”

“This time.”

She winced, and not from pain. “Now you sound like Mom.”

Her father, a handsome man only a few months from his sixtieth birthday, brightened. “Thank you, Victoria. That’s such a nice thing to say.”

Given her weakened condition, she let that comment slide. Honestly she didn’t have the strength to deal with it right now, even though she knew her father understood exactly what she’d been saying. He was only pretending to not get it.

“If you’re going to act like that, you should go,” she said, then amended what could be construed as a catty comment into something more kind. Mostly because she only had the emotional energy not to get along with one of her parents, and her mother had already claimed that prize. “Besides, they’ll be bringing my drugs any second. I plan to surrender to sleep, so I’m not going to be very conversational.”

As if to prove her point, one of the nurses walked in with a syringe. “Ready to feel better?” he asked cheerfully.

“Yes, and let me say, you’re my favorite person ever.”

He winked. “I get that all time.”

He slowly injected whatever the medication was into her IV. Victoria drew in a shallow breath as she waited to feel that first blurring of the edges of the pain. Modern medicine was a miracle she intended to embrace.

The nurse left. Milton took her good hand in his.

“I’ll let you rest,” he told her. “But I’ll be back later tonight.” He squeezed her fingers. “Tomorrow, when you’re released, I’m taking you home.”

Ugh. Victoria knew that her father wasn’t talking about the pretty condo he’d bought her when she’d turned twenty-one. Instead he meant the house where she’d grown up. The one where her mother still resided.

“I don’t need to move back,” she protested, feeling the first telltale easing of the pain. “I have a few bumps and bruises.”

“Along with a broken leg. And what about your ribs? You can barely move without wincing.”

“I have zero pain tolerance. I’m a total wimp.”

He frowned. “You’re tough and stoic. If you’re showing signs of pain, it’s bad. You’ll stay with your mother and me until you’re well enough to be on your own.” He pointed at her. “I mean it, Victoria. You don’t get a vote.”

Her father was rarely stern with her, so his sharp tone warned her he wasn’t kidding. And she knew from twenty-four years of experience that arguing with the man would get her nowhere. Milton didn’t take a stand very often, but when he did, he was the immovable object.

“I wish you loved me less,” she murmured, feeling a little floaty and stumbling over her words. “Okay, I feel drugs. Let me enjoy the experience of breathing without, you know, wanting to die.”

“Oh, baby girl. You’ve always been difficult.”

“I know. It’s one of my best qualities.” Her eyes drifted closed. “Love you, Dad.”

“Love you more.” He kissed her cheek. “I’ll see you tonight.”

“Come alone.”

His soft chuckle was the last thing she heard.

#

Shannon Van Horn pulled into a parking space in front of the construction trailer that was the main office of her boyfriend’s gardening business. She clutched the steering wheel tightly and gave in to the scream that had been building for the better part of the morning. Unfortunately the cry that echoed through her ten-year-old Corolla did little to make her feel better.

She was a mess. A total and complete disaster of a person. Sure, she was basically nice, and if she ever used public transportation, she would absolutely give up her seat for someone in need—although this was Los Angeles, and everyone drove, so it was more of a spiritual assessment than a reality, but still. She would do it.

But being a nice person didn’t make her any less of a mess, and wasn’t that a kick in the head?

She grabbed her bag and the folder she’d brought from work, stomped up the three steps to the trailer and flung open the door.

“My life is chaos,” she announced to Aaron, her boyfriend of eleven months. “Why do you date me?”

Aaron, a tall, rangy guy with curly brown hair and one of those cute mischievous smiles, rose and started toward her. “Because I think you’re sexy and I feel good when I’m around you.” He kissed her. “I can give you more reasons, if that’s why you stopped by. I’ve got about a million.”

While she appreciated the kind words, they weren’t going to help. Not when things were so awful.

“Look,” she said, flinging the folder on his desk. “Look! It’s so horrible.”

He gave her a slightly confused look but opened the folder and stared at the single sheet of paper inside.

“This is a…” He glanced at her. “Help me out here.”

“It’s an actuarial table.” She waved toward the chart. “Like for insurance and stuff. They updated the employee plans at work for profit sharing and our 401(k).” She pointed at the offending document, wishing she had the power to laser it with her eyes and turn the paper into ashes on demand.

“Okay,” he said slowly. “I’m still not getting the problem.”

“That shows how much money I’ll have in profit sharing and my 401(k) when I’m sixty-five.” The last four words came out in a shriek. “That’s forty-one years from now, Aaron. The actuarial table assumes I’m going to keep working there for forty-one years. I can’t do that. I don’t want to do that. But time is marching on, and somehow I forgot that. I left college over three years ago. Three!”

Technically she’d flunked out, but she wasn’t comfortable using that particular F-word.

“I took the job working for my mom because I didn’t know what to do with myself. I thought I’d be there a few months while I figured it all out, but it’s been three years, and I’m still there. I tell myself I can’t live my life like this, and yet I do nothing to change.”

She threw up her hands. “I need to pick a direction, but then I don’t. I’ve been drifting. I’m a drifter. And saying that should galvanize me, but somehow it doesn’t. I lack direction and purpose, and I work for my mom.”

She paced to the end of the trailer, then turned to face him. “I love my mom. She’s great. And she’s a really good boss, but this isn’t my life. It’s an interim. I’m living an interim. I’m twenty-four. I should be all-in with the goals and plans and dreams. And you know the worst of it?”

He waited, knowing an answer wasn’t expected.

“The one person I want to talk to about this is my mom. But I can’t because...