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  “You have a point.” I narrow my eyes, but even I’m skeptical. “You think they’d move in with my family?”

  Millie winces. “I don’t think they’d have much more privacy there.”

  Alex shared an upstairs with Abuela his whole life. I doubt he’d be eager to pick that up again. And then there’s Mami. And Aunt Lucinda. And the cousins. They don’t live there, but some days, they might as well.

  “Honestly, I think they’d pick the twins if it came down to it.”

  Millie sniffs a laugh then releases me. She bends down and snags Mateo before whipping off his shirt and jeans. Socks and underpants go flying. I’ve got Marco stripped an instant later.

  We get both boys in the tub and waste no time dropping to our knees. The first order of business at bath time is to wash the twins’ hair—which they hate above all other things. All conversation ceases while we simultaneously rinse, lather, and rinse again. Well, all conversation except Marco and Mateo’s shrieks of protest. It’s fast—and it’s furious.

  When their heads are clean and dripping, Millie and I sit back on the floor, facing each other. The look of exhausted satisfaction on her face isn’t the one I ache to give her, but “the shampoo shitstorm,” as she calls it—or the “S.S.” if the boys are around—is behind us once again.

  We’re leaning back on opposite walls while the boys forget their troubles with Boon jellies, and Millie taps her bare foot against my knee.

  “I do have an idea, though.”

  I reach forward, grab her foot, and run my thumb along the bottom. Her breath hitches.

  “What kind of idea?” My voice stalks like a predator.

  She arches a brow. “Not that kind,” she says, but she doesn’t pull away, so I let my thumb retrace the move, and I’m rewarded with her sigh of pleasure. “I mean…” She blinks and regathers her focus. “About Mattie and Alex.”

  I sit forward, pull her foot into my lap, and get to it with both hands. Millie moans. It’s one of my top three favorite sounds.

  Her moans.

  Her laughter.

  Her calling my name.

  Not just then. Anytime. Every time.

  “You gonna share?” I tease. Because she’s slipping down the wall, puddling just a little under my touch.

  “Mmmm.”

  I grin, pleased with myself for being able to give her this right now. For seizing this moment to make her moan—even if it isn’t strictly sexual—in the middle of this nightly chore. With a house bursting with family.

  She narrows her eyes at me. “You and your dimples,” she mutters, shaking her head. “What about that three bedroom that’s for sale on St. Louis?”

  My hands still. St. Louis is the street behind ours. The house she’s describing is behind us, two doors down.

  That would be great but… “They couldn’t afford that. Not right now.” Even getting an apartment would be tight. It’s why I want to offer them a place here until they can get on their feet.

  Millie shrugs, looking up at me with irresistible blue eyes. “They could if we bought her out.”

  I blink. “Of the house.”

  She nods.

  The Delacroix’s house—this house—belongs to all four of Eloise and Hudson’s children. The plan has always been to keep it at least until Emmett leaves for school. Since that’s still about six years away, we haven’t really thought past that.

  But as far as I’m concerned, this is home.

  And if I had any doubts, the look in Millie’s eyes would stop them cold. She wants this house. She wants to raise our babies here. All of them.

  My smile grows, and I nod toward her belly. “We know it’s big enough for us.”

  She gives me a wry look. “Well, for now, anyway.”

  “Three babies in four years,” I say with a shrug. “If we run out of room before Emmett moves out, they can double up.”

  Millie tilts her head back and laughs. Then she meets my eyes again. “That’s never scared you, has it?”

  I lean forward. Come up on my hands and knees. And prowl up the length of her body. “You mean filling this house with our babies?” My knees are anchored on either side of her thighs. “Never.”

  She reaches for me again, her gaze soft with something like wonder. I go a little crazy when she looks at me like that. “I’ve always liked that about you.”

  I drop my mouth and brush my lips against hers. I trail them to her ear. “I want as many babies as you want to give me.”

  Her arms tighten around me. “Luc,” she whispers my name against my ear, and it’s just the way love is supposed to sound. She draws back and looks me in the eye, hers now hazy with desire. “So we can offer? To buy her out now?”

  Millie is still part-time, but Valencia & Sons has grown in the last four years. And it doesn’t hurt that we’ve never had a house note. “If that’s what she wants, we’ll make it happen.” Then a thought occurs to me. “Do you think Harry and Emmett will mind? Us owning half the house and, let’s face it, planning to buy them out later?”

  She shakes her head. “We’ll ask, but they’re a long way from needing a five-bedroom house. And if we’re here, at least their childhood home will stay in the family.” Her gaze moves to my lips before she kisses them. Millie looks back up at me. “I think they’ll be happy about it.”

  I grin. Her gaze lowers again, and I know she’s looking at my dimples. “And you?”

  She grins too. “Oh, I’m pretty happy.” Her eyes flicker with a wicked gleam. “Almost as happy as I’ll be later.”

  My brows lift. “Later?”

  She bites her bottom lip and nods in a way that makes my spine tingle. “I think I’m gonna be pretty happy then too,” I muse.

  Her eyes heat. “I think so.”

  Turns out… she’s right.

  THE END

  Acknowledgments

  When writing a book, help and inspiration come from many quarters, some more obvious than others. My husband and I are in the habit of giving our dogs “old lady names.” We think it’s sort of funny, and Gladys and Mabel don’t seem to mind. I’ve kept up the practice for some of my canine characters, like Clarence, and I even have a dog named Millie in Leave a Mark. When a childhood friend of mine named Millie read that novel, she laughed and told me that the only other Millies she knew were old ladies or dogs. Clearly, that stuck with me. I know only two Millies who are my age, and I had a great-aunt named Mildred who went by Mim. She never married and lived to the age of 97 in her childhood home along with three of her sisters. As a kid, this seemed like a horrific fate (no offense to my three sisters). Back then, I also thought Mildred was the worst possible name. I can’t say I’m all that fond of it now, but I’m ever so grateful for the inspiration.

  Although I wish I did, I don’t speak Spanish, and I would not have been able to write the Valencias as well without the help of Heather Lamarche, Beth Acevedo, Juan Alvarez, Tatiana Milton, and Bria Lozada Wolf. Also, for the second book in a row, Bria has served as an invaluable alpha reader, and I am so grateful.

  Millie Delacroix may be fictional, but Loftin Veterinary Clinic is not. In fact, Dr. William Loftin performed the very same cruciate repair surgery on my Gladys years ago as is described in Chapter Twelve (and the dog named Millie here is really Gladys in disguise!). And I owe Sarah Loftin a debt of gratitude for encouraging me to use the clinic as part of my setting. Thanks for that AND the chocolate dipped strawberries!

  All of Millie’s veterinary know-how came from my sister Emily Thomas, DVM. Not only is she always there for me and our many canine emergencies, she graciously answered all of my questions about sacculectomies, surgeries, feline abscesses, and the like. Thank you, Dee.

  At the Valencia’s Thanksgiving dinner, Luc’s cousin Natalia teaches all the kids to balance spoons on their noses. For this delightful tradition, I must acknowledge my dear friend Michael Frederick and his lovely and talented wife Zabryna Guevara (seriously, look her up and watch her latest show Emerg
ence on ABC). They have to be the world champions of nose-spoon-balancing.

  Thanks to my friend and fellow author Kimberley O’Malley for all of the recommendations and the many shout-outs. The same goes for author Lexi C. Foss. Thanks to grammar goddesses Nicole Lobello and Karen Ladmirault. Once again, thanks to the amazing and intrepid Kathleen Payne. I treasure your talent, but I’m also so grateful for your cheerleading! Jena Brignola, thanks again for your time and expertise. To the incredible Cayla Zeek, thank you for giving Millie and Luc a cover that looks just like them! Thanks also to Marie Force’s Formatting Fairies and InkSlinger PR for their services and support. You ladies are amazing!

  On a much more serious note, I’ve dedicated this book to my dear friends Tara and Shane Breaux and their angel baby Rebekah Grace. After losing Rebekah Grace midway through pregnancy, my friend Tara, who has a heart big enough to hold all the mommies, daddies, babies, big brothers, and big sisters who have traveled this devastating road, started a Forget Me Not Walk to Remember in Youngsville, Louisiana. She did this because she knew other mothers and families had to be carrying the same grief she and her family were, but searches online yielded almost nothing about support and community. The first time Tara held the walk ten years ago, she had eighty participants. This year, more than eight hundred took part. Her tireless dedication to this walk and her support of grieving families continue to inspire me. October is pregnancy, infant, and child loss awareness month. If you are living with this kind of grief, know you are not alone. If you can’t find a community of supporters in your area, be the first to start one. You will be filling a great need.

  As always, thanks to my daughter Hannah and my husband John. I can’t even list the many ways you both help me to be a better writer and a more evolved human.

  Finally, I’m so grateful to each and every one of my readers. I hope you enjoyed Luc and Millie’s love story. It isn’t really kind of cursed, but it is kind of magical. If you post a review, someone else will see it, pick up the book, and maybe fall in love with it. And that’s kind of magical too.

  About the Author

  Stephanie Fournet, author of nine novels including Leave a Mark, Shelter, Someone Like Me, and Kind of Cursed, lives in Lafayette, Louisiana—not far from the Saint Streets where her novels are set. She shares her home with her husband John and their needy dogs Gladys and Mabel, and sometimes their daughter Hannah even comes home from college to visit them. When she isn’t writing romance novels, Stephanie is usually helping students get into college or running. She loves hearing from fans, so look for her on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, Goodreads, and stephaniefournet.com.

  Other Books by Stephanie Fournet

  Fall Semester

  Legacy

  Butterfly Ginger

  Leave a Mark

  You First

  Drive

  Shelter

  Someone Like Me

  Anthology:

  Block & Tackle

  Turn the page to read a sample from Stephanie Fournet’s novel

  Someone Like Me

  Someone Like Me Chapter 1

  DREW

  I don’t want to get out.

  This place is surrounded on three sides by the Mississippi River. The fencing everywhere else is topped with razor wire. But in the last eight years, I’ve never needed those to keep me in.

  This is where I belong. And everybody knows it. Ma. Annie. Grandma Quincy.

  But out of the sixty-three hundred inmates here at Angola, I’m the one being released today.

  It’s morning, but it’s not time for roll call yet. I know because, for Hickory, it’s quiet. There’s no such thing as silence in a dorm with eighty bunks to a hall. That’s eighty men who talk, whisper, snore, fart, cough, jack off, and whatever the hell else they can get away with during lights out. But in the hour or so before dawn, like now, this place is as quiet as it ever gets, so I know I’ve got a little time left ahead of me.

  Just not enough.

  The thought of the outside world has my stomach clenching under the thin sheet. In a few hours, they’ll process me out, and then I’ll walk through the doors of Reception. Annie will be there, and that’ll be okay. That’s not the part I’m dreading.

  We’ll get into her car — I have no idea what she’s driving; we’ve never talked about that — and we’ll make the two-hour trip down Highway 61 and along I-10. That’s not the part I’m dreading either. Because that’s just road and sky. There’s plenty of sky here. I’m used to it. Nothing to be afraid of.

  For the last five years, I’ve worked in the auto tech shop. Assistant to the foreman for the last two. I know I could swipe a six-inch screwdriver and sink it into a guard’s thigh. Buy myself a whole lot more time.

  I’ve thought about it. Really, I have.

  But that would only be more blood on my hands, and I have enough already.

  Enough already.

  I’ve been able to picture the ride with Annie, I can get as far as crossing the Atchafalaya Basin Bridge, but as soon as I try to see us pulling off I-10 onto University Avenue, my mind shuts the fuck down.

  I roll onto my back. The ceiling above me is a washed out gray in the pale, pre-dawn light. Top bunks are a trade off here. On the bottom bunk, you feel like the world is closing in on you. And with a two-hundred-pound man sleeping in the bed above you, on a noisy heap of springs and feathers, it’s not hard to imagine all that shit coming down on you every time that bastard rolls over.

  On top, there’s nothing there to crush you, but it’s hot as fuck up here. I may not be ready to get out and face everything and everyone waiting for me, but I’m not gonna lie. I’ve missed air conditioning. It’s September, and September in Louisiana is like the inside of a baked potato. Steaming and still.

  Today is September 18th. Eight years to the day the fool I was walked in here.

  Walking out, I’ll still be a fool, but I’ve learned some things inside. Back when I was eighteen, I had no idea that in the state of Louisiana an aggravated burglary conviction got you one to thirty. My lawyer made sure to tell me that ten years was a sign he’d done his job.

  I’d said nothing to that. I would have taken the thirty if it hadn’t been for Annie and Grandma Q. My sister said if I went away that long, I’d miss seeing her have kids, miss seeing them grow, and Grandma said I’d miss her altogether. Those are the little details I have to remember.

  I shake my head at the ceiling. What’s wrong with me? Those details aren’t little.

  But it’s hard to remind myself that there are a few people I care about who don’t want me to pay anymore for my crimes. And the fact that I disagree with them only makes them suffer more, and that’s the last thing I want.

  They are the reasons I “good-timed-out” when I had the chance. For them. Not for me.

  The creak of springs and rustling of sheets snag my attention. I glance down to the bottom bunk on my right and find A.J. smiling up at me.

  “It’s here,” he whispers, grinning. “Ya big day.”

  In spite of myself, I grin back. A.J. Lemoine is a goofy ass mother, and he makes me laugh at least six times a day.

  “It’s here,” I whisper back, glad that seeing his smile makes my own show up. A.J. and I are tight, but I haven’t told him how I feel about getting out. Like almost three-fourths of the inmates at Angola, A.J’s here all day. A lifer. Second degree murder. No possibility of parole.

  You can’t tell a guy who’ll never get out that you want to stay in. That’s just cruel. In fact, half the guys I know have been smiling my way all week, happy for me. It gives them hope.

  I feel sick just thinking about it, but I can’t let on.

  “Annie comin’ for ya?” A.J. asks, his voice so low I almost can’t make it out over the tide of snores that surrounds us.

  I nod. A.J. first met my sister six years ago on a visiting day when his son was here at the same time. Since then, A.J. has asked about her almost as much as Annie’s asked after him.
<
br />   “She’ll be happy,” he says, nodding with approval. Then his eyes lock on mine like he’s been seeing through my mask for weeks. “And everythin’ else will work out alright.”

  I don’t care what he did. A.J. doesn’t belong here. A lot of guys don’t. He’s been inside since 1997. Last year he graduated from the Bible college old Warden Cain and the New Orleans Baptist Theological Seminary started decades ago, and now A.J. is an ordained minister. An ordained minister who will die in prison.

  A.J. and I have talked about a lot — almost everything — but one of the things I’ve never come out and said is that it’s crazy I’m getting out when he never will. If you ask me, it should be the other way around.

  See, when A.J. was twenty-one years old, he got into a bar fight with this piece of shit. Piece of Shit started the fight, and A.J. finished it by breaking a bottle over his head. And that’s how you can just be minding your own business one minute, nursing your Bacardi and Coke, and doing life without parole the next.

  This is not the way A.J. tells the story. It’s how I tell it. A.J. tells a story of a young man who took his gift of life for granted. Who needed to let God into his heart. Who needed to bow to love and forgiveness instead of hate and revenge.

  But he didn’t step into the bar that night intending to hurt anybody. He walked in there an innocent man. And he didn’t ask Piece of Shit to hassle him, either. He was law abiding until that asshole touched him.

  I cannot say the same for me.

  Nothing that led me here was innocent. I’m guilty. One hundred percent. If I weren’t guilty, I wouldn’t be here. And Anthony would still be alive.

  But I’m here. And he’s not.

  Someone Like Me Chapter 2

  EVIE