Page 53 of Almost Beautiful (Beautiful 3)

Travis leaned in to kiss my cheek. “I wanted to come home and see my wife, who I knew was working hard to make my birthday special.”

“And then you ruined it!” I snarled, still shoving him. I didn’t bother trying too hard. Travis didn’t budge.

America hugged Shepley, and then kissed his cheek. “Do you ever get tired of him getting you in trouble?”

Shepley smoothed his hair, his brow furrowed. “He would have stolen my car and left me in the parking lot had I not jumped in the passenger side.”

“Aw!” America said, unable to stop from giggling.

Shepley’s arms were crossed, and he tried to pull away from his girlfriend—also, not very hard.

Travis grabbed my jaw and forced me to look at him. Once our eyes met, I stopped struggling.

“Thank you, baby,” he said, smooching my already protruding lips. He let me go, and I felt a bit disorientated from the kiss and my futile struggle.

Someone knocked on the door, and a second later, Jason Brazil opened it and walked through, abruptly stopping when he saw Travis standing amid the half-decorated apartment. “Oh. Damn. Are we late?”

“Yeah,” I said, throwing a balloon at Travis. “And he’s in trouble.”

“I am not,” Travis said, half playful, half annoyed.

“Is the, um,” Brazil stuttered, “the, uh ... the party still on?”

“Yes. I can’t exactly cancel ten minutes before forty people are supposed to be here,” I grumbled.

“Forty?” Travis said. “Is that all?”

“Minus the sluts,” America explained, straight-faced.

Travis wasn’t amused.

A couple of girls walked in behind Brazil, overly fake-baked, layers upon layers of makeup, and double D implants bulging from their tight V-neck Ts.

“April Fools’!” America said. “The sluts have arrived.”

“Uh … this is Alexis,” Brazil said, pointing to one. “Tabitha, Meg, and Bonnie.”

“Of course,” America said.

“Easy, babe,” Shepley said.

The carbon copy sorority sisters wrinkled their noses at America but, after that, paid her little attention. They followed Brazil as he hunted for the keg tap, and then laughed when he held it high in the air.

“Found it!” he said, waving it around like a toddler with a toy on the playground.

Brazil and his friends helped finish decorating by blowing up balloons and stringing streamers.

More people arrived and joined in. The more Travis helped, the more disappointed I became. Not in him—but in myself.

I had a famous poker face. I could hustle Vegas veterans for tens of thousands but couldn’t pull off a small surprise birthday party for my husband.

As the sun set, the last of the guests arrived. Trenton limped in with Camille on his good arm. She moved slowly, still sore from the accident. She’d suffered a concussion, bearing black stitches along her hairline. I was surprised she was there at all.

Trenton helped remove her coat, slowly and gently. His lime green cast was covered in black ink, some signatures, but mostly drawings.

“Want some help?” Travis asked.

“I got it,” Trenton said, winking at Camille. “I always take care of my girl.”