Just My Ex: a Sweet, Small-town Brothers RomCom (Tate Brothers Book 4), page 1
Just My Ex
Deb Goodman
Copyright © 2024 by Deb Goodman
All rights reserved.
No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
Contents
. Chapter
Dedication
1. Chapter 1
2. Chapter 2
3. Chapter 3
4. Chapter 4
5. Chapter 5
6. Chapter 6
7. Chapter 7
8. Chapter 8
9. Chapter 9
10. Chapter 10
11. Chapter 11
12. Chapter 12
13. Chapter 13
14. Chapter 14
15. Chapter 15
16. Chapter 16
17. Chapter 17
18. Chapter 18
19. Chapter 19
20. Chapter 20
21. Chapter 21
22. Chapter 22
23. Chapter 23
24. Chapter 24
25. Chapter 25
26. Chapter 26
27. Chapter 27
28. Chapter 28
29. Chapter 29
30. Chapter 30
31. Chapter 31
32. Chapter 32
33. Chapter 33
34. Chapter 34
35. Chapter 35
36. Chapter 36
37. Chapter 37
38. Chapter 38
39. Chapter 39
40. Chapter 40
41. Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Join Deb's newsletter to get a free book, Just a Road Trip: a Sweet, Longdale Lake RomCom.
It's Violet and Hayden's story, and it takes place in the same world as the Tate Brothers series.
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To my women's group.
You know who you are.
Thank you for helping me remember who I am.
Chapter 1
Quinn
I am not happy about finding a small, iced cake in my refrigerator, carefully placed next to the milk, like it was a surprise for my birthday or something.
It’s not my birthday, and this is no ordinary cake.
As the niece of Raymond Delfini, I should be used to stunts like these.
My extended family is quirky—to a fault. We have a whole lot of familial weirdness going on.
My cousin, Marley, holds two world records. One for eating the most jalapeños in a minute—fourteen. And another for creating a relief sculpture of the art from the Sistine Chapel in mashed potatoes—the largest of its kind in the world.
Her mom, Nancy, Raymond’s wife, danced for the Rockettes a long time ago, and then became a mime and a puppeteer.
As for Raymond, my dad’s brother? He was a stand-up comedian in the eighties in LA, then worked with the dolphins at Sea World, and then, when he was bored with that, started a company that makes gag gifts, like plastic vomit you can use to gross out your friends.
I kid you not.
So when I find a pink frosted cake speared with plastic picks that sport dog stickers in my fridge, goosebumps shimmy up my arms and legs. I know it’s from Raymond, so there’s no way I’m eating it. And there’s no telling what he’s done to it, or even what it actually is.
Because it’s for sure not really a cake, and there’s a folded piece of cardstock next to it with squirrely guy handwriting that reads, “Happy Un-Birthday to Navie.”
Raymond knows my daughter is in love with every dog on the planet.
This is … not okay.
Raymond now hates me, venomously hates me, for inheriting his father’s money, the Delfini family inheritance.
I swear, I didn’t mean to! And with all the trouble this has caused, I wish I could give it back.
Sorta. I sorta wish I could give it back. The thing is, I’m a single mom, and the thought of just washing my hands of this whole business leaves my gut feeling all hollowed out, like it’s an avocado and I’ve scraped out the fruit and the big, hard pit.
Yep. That’s me. A hollowed-out person with a thin, wrinkly, avocado skin. And I’ve felt this way since before all this went down with the Delfini family.
I’ve been single for a year now, and this whole divorce thing is really why I feel so hollowed out, like I’m pretending to be me.
Apparently, divorce can do that to a person. You have to rebuild—allegedly.
I lift the pink “cake” out of the fridge, carefully, because who knows if it’s spring-loaded with some sort of contraption that plasters it all over my face? That would be par for the course for Raymond.
But no. Nothing happens when I set the cake on the counter and stare at it. My heart is drumming in my ears. This stint? This isn’t your regular old April Fool’s Joke, all “ha-ha funny.” This one takes our family feud to a whole ‘nother level because he was in my house.
Uncle Raymond was in my house.
And he left a surprise for my three-year-old daughter.
Which is problematic. I just want to live my life without fear of angry relatives breaking in.
I love my life, mostly. Except for the whole threatening, menacing uncle routine. And that hollowed out feeling.
I rotate the cake around and stare at the note. Raymond definitely broke in.
A shiver goes up my spine.
I dial my mom’s number.
“You should see what I found in my refrigerator just now,” I say, pulling a pot out of the cupboard and filling it with water.
“Moldy leftovers?” my mom says with a laugh.
“Not this time. A cake that I’m pretty sure is not actually a cake.”
“What? I’m not following.”
“Just … can you come over? I’ll sweeten the deal with food.” I use my best sing-songy voice as I click click click the gas stove on.
“As long as you’re not going to try to feed me a fake cake, I’ll be right there.”
While I wait for her to get here, I whip up a gourmet dinner of mac and cheese with diced hot dogs in it and focus on my three-year-old daughter, Navie, who has the power to make me forget almost any woes that may be happening—for a moment or two.
And yes. Her name is Navie. She was named after the Navy because my mother’s father and grandfather both served.
Again, that’s my mother’s side—the sane side of the family.
My mom rings my doorbell twenty minutes after I call her. I know it’s her before I even open the door because of course I’m checking my video doorbell.
Her face is tight, her eyes wide. “I don’t have a good feeling about this.”
I open the door further to let her in. “Just—go say hi to Navie and then we’ll talk.”
In the sitting room, Navie runs over and they do their whole greeting routine. The spinning around, then two air kisses near each cheek, followed by a real one on the forehead. Every time I see it, I’m filled with a homesickness I can’t understand.
“We’re getting a dog!” Navie tells her grandmother, who gives me another wide-eyed look.
“We’re not,” I say firmly. I take her from my mom and gather her in my arms. “Maybe when you’re lots bigger. But not yet, okay?”
I’ve told her this many times. She’s very smart, so I don’t understand the confusion. Or maybe it’s wishful thinking. Either way, as much as I’d love to, we are not getting a dog. I am a Mom Boss, but I have my limits, and taking care of a dog isn’t possible right now.
She goes back to the Matchbox cars and trucks she’s laid out in a precise pattern—one only recognizable by her—and my mom and I go in the kitchen.
“I would ask you if it was crazy sock day at work, but I already know the answer to that,” my mom says drily, pointing to my socks and then grabbing a dishrag to wipe down the counter.
“It’s usually dark when I get dressed,” I insist, looking down at the fuchsia polka-dotted sock and its Leprechaun-green counterpart.
Okay, so maybe I’m not quite the Mom Boss I think I am.
But they’re no-show socks, so no one’s ever the wiser!
I point out the cake still sitting on the countertop and the note. “It’s probably not cake …”
“If it’s from Raymond, it’s not cake. Hundred percent.”
“This is the first time he’s actually left anything in the house,” I tell her.
“He broke in?” She pinches her nose and grimaces at the cake. “Ew, it smells.”
“I didn’t want to worry you.” I grab the largest knife I have. It’s Henry’s actually, but he said I could keep the knife set he brought into our marriage. Funny how things work in a divorce.
And funny how I get a text from him right as I’m about to use his knife.
Henry: Will you show this to Navie please? Tell her it’s a Ferrari Purosangue. Four door. I saw it in Lyon, France last week.
The photo is of a silver car parked on the side of a cobblestone road abutting an old world, baked cream stone building. Maybe it’s a café. I can see his foot in the photo. He never was very good at photography.
It’s fine. Navie will love it.
Well. Ahem. Lyon, is it? I’ll just sit here in middle suburbia, eating my souped- up ma
Great.
And to be clear, I don’t resent Henry’s job, per se. His work is important. He guards a European ambassador and her family. He regularly chooses duty over self.
It was just hard in our marriage to feel so separated and isolated from almost every aspect of his life.
I slice through the “cake” with gusto, an eye closed and my body twisted away for protection—this is Raymond. The cut reveals a greyish brown substance.
“It’s … meatloaf?” I gag at the stench. It’s not only meatloaf … it’s old meatloaf, as proved by the liquidy green ooze weeping out from under the frosting.
I grab two garbage bags, throw it inside, and tie the double bag closed. Then I spray Lysol into the air.
“Don’t throw it away, whatever you do,” Mom says. “The police will need to see it.”
“Police? I’m not calling the police.” I start heading out to the back patio door to throw it away.
“Quinn, threatening letters, getting toilet papered, and your car getting egged is serious.” My mom pulls out her phone. “I’m going to call that nut job and tell him to stop.”
“No, Mom. I can handle this. I don’t need him angry at you, too.” I set the bag near the back door and step towards her. “Besides, I can’t prove it was him.”
“It was him. These things didn’t start happening until after the will reading, right?” She gives me a look, like, I didn’t raise you to be stupid.
She’s right. These past six months reek of Raymond, literally and figuratively. They’re just exactly the kinds of things a man like Raymond would do, a man who’d been gypped—his word, not mine—out of a million dollars.
“You should leave town for a while, just until Raymond calms down.”
“Mom, I have a job. I can’t.” There are only three weeks left in the semester at UC Irvine, and as an academic advisor, I have to be here.
“What about Navie?” she asks. “We have to keep her safe.”
My tongue feels pasted to the top of my mouth. “I know.”
“Raymond broke into your home and left a moldy meatloaf intended for a three-year-old. Who even does that? Quinn.” She sinks into the farmhouse-style kitchen chair Henry and I bought when we were newlyweds and rests her elbows on the table. “This is getting serious. We have to do something.”
Fear, swift and cold, grips my stomach. “Would Raymond actually do something dangerous?”
“Did you know he has a criminal record?” My mom challenges. “Your dad was the only sane one in his family.”
“I used to prefer to call them ‘delightfully quirky.’” I think of the toxic food left in my fridge. What if Navie had found it before me and tried to eat some? “Now, not so much.”
“Your father tried.” She raises her hands in the air and then lets them drop, a frown on her face.
She’s right. My dad was the voice of reason in his family. And when he died five years ago from a burst appendix, I began to understand why Dad kept his family at arm’s length. The things I thought were funny as a kid? I started seeing as pathologically unhealthy. And then Grandpa died six months ago.
Heart attack. A much more sensible death than a burst appendix, which, even now, still feels impossible. Like, my dad couldn’t have possibly died that way.
“If I were to leave for a while, where would I go?” But I know what she’s going to say, so I brush my fingers through my hair and wait. Dreading it.
“They’ve helped you before, Quinn. The Tates have money and power and—”
“And my ex.”
“Isn’t he in Europe somewhere? The Tates love Navie. And you. They’d want to help.”
She’s right. “The last time was a knee-jerk reaction.” I’m attempting to protest. I don’t want to go running to the Tates every time I have a problem. But Raymond is targeting my daughter now.
My daughter.
I panicked after the will reading six months ago that named me the sole beneficiary of my grandfather’s estate. The way the family reacted to the news—with disbelief and loathing—was surprising. And I was still deeply mourning my grandfather.
I took Navie to the Tate resort in Longdale Colorado, and we hung out for a few days. It was nice to get away from the drama and think about my grandfather. And it was good for Navie to see Henry’s family.
But any peace I grasped was stirred up when my ex, Henry Tate, knocked on my door a few days after I returned to Irvine.
He’d heard something about the will and about my uncle not taking all of this too well. So, he came to check on us.
Up until then, I’d been careful to avoid him, asking my mom to help pass off Navie when he was able to get away from work and come spend time with her.
It was the first time I’d seen him since that last day in court—the day that the whole “till death do us part” thing was debunked.
But seeing him again, with him so worried for our safety? That was enough for a lifetime.
So, see? I can’t go running back to the Tates.
I’m winning at my new life. And I’m a dang good single mom to Navie.
I can certainly figure out how to keep us safe.
I do not need Henry or his family back in my life.
Chapter 2
Quinn
“There’s nothing we can do at this point,” The officer meets my eyes before looking back down at his clipboard.
The police came within the hour. I invited them to sit while I showed them the incriminating evidence against Raymond. They said they were fine standing, and they did take a step back when I loosened the top of the garbage bag to reveal the crumbled, smelly meatloaf.
“Nothing? Why not?” I ask. That unease I felt when I found the cake slash meatloaf in my refrigerator, that’s given way to full-fledged anger now. I take a deep breath.
“Mrs. Tate—” The taller one—maybe he said his name was Officer Ward—consults his paperwork.
“It’s Delfini. Tate was my married name. I was uh, previously married.” It’s been a year. I should probably get my license changed.
He hesitates, his mouth twitching with annoyance. “Ms. Delfini, it’s a problem that there’s been a break-in.” He has the kind of voice you can hear above the din of a crowd … like he thinks his words are simply too important for anyone not to hear them.
Aren’t officers trained to enter homes quietly when there are possible sleeping children inside? Geez.
“And we’re filing it as a break-in,” he continues, clearly not understanding my cold laser eyes, pleading with him to keep it down. “But there’s no evidence it was your uncle. And there’s nothing on your doorbell camera. We can’t charge him with anything without any evidence.”
“But it was him. He’s angry at me for inheriting some money. He’s been harassing me. He toilet papered my yard and threw eggs at my parked car.”
Okay, saying that out loud sounds weak. Like I’m telling these guys who quite probably deal with actual scary stuff like murders and whatnot that I’m afraid of my uncle who toilet papered my yard. But this time? It’s gotten personal.
No one targets my daughter.
The officers exchange a look. “Did you see him do it? Can you prove it’s him?” Ward asks.
“Shh. My daughter’s sleeping,” I offer as gently as I can. Maybe if I smile, they won’t think I’m getting aggressive or anything. I sigh, adjusting my sloppy bun on top of my head. “No. I can’t prove anything. I just know it’s him. He wants to intimidate me into giving him his father’s money. I haven’t even received any of it yet.”
“But has he made any actual threats? The note seems friendly enough.”
The other officer tilts his head. “You inherited his father’s money instead of him? I guess I’d be upset, too.”
I raise both hands. “I don’t know why I inherited it, okay? There was a note from my grandfather with the will, and it said I had to trust him that this was the best course of action for everyone involved.” I wave my hands, realizing they don’t need to know all this. “My aunt and cousin seem fine with it. Raymond? Not so much.”
“What does he expect you to do?” The younger, shorter officer juts out his chin, and his eyes narrow like he wants to hear all the juicy family gossip. The older one shifts his stance and shoots a look at the younger guy, like he’d rather not touch it with a ten-foot pole.
