Sweet Mischief’s Rollercoaster Romance

Molly stopped mid-bite, buffalo wing in hand, and looked up. "So, where are we staying tonight?"

Aimee glanced over at Mia. "Hotel?"

Mia put her spoon down, no longer feeding her son. Instantly, Henry grabbed the spoon and started shoveling food into his mouth, cheeks puffed out. The two little boys nearby watched, wide-eyed and practically drooling.

"I bought a house," Mia said, just like that.

Both women stared at her, stunned.

Mia shrugged. "After my grad school exams, I just had this wild urge-I took Henry out with me, and, well, we bought a place."

"You're serious?" Molly gaped. They'd joked about this before, but she'd never thought Mia meant it.

Mia nodded. "Yeah. Bought it months ago. Haven't even stayed there yet. Spent a fortune making it nice, too."

Molly let out a dramatic sigh and grinned. "Mia, you're living in another league. I'm still dragging Chad around shopping for jeans, and you're out buying houses with a baby on your hip."

to sell houses. Why couldn't I ever get a client like you?" The two women immediately turned on her, voices overlapping.

wild. "Let me guess-you were just working at a real estate office, minding your business, when your long-lost billionaire family found you after spotting your face on the news? Boom-DNA test,

never believed Aimee's confidence was something she picked up along the way-it was baked in, from day one.

e2

"Xup. His dad. His brilliant plan for my first job was to dump me at a real estate office and tell me, Be

me this tiny, rundown café and told me to run it. Oh,

her head, pretending to think it over. "Wow, your husband makes Chad look like

savings, but no matter how mad he gets he never cuts me off His only real rule is that drink my coffee, go shopping, hang out with my girlfriends,

Mrs. Cedillo, shaking their heads in mock despair. "Some people just have

the kids were up to until a sudden baby

you just feed

but determined he just wanted to share because his little brothers looked

managed to catch the wobbly blob in his

frantically checked on her own son-sticky hands, empty