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And One Last Thing ...
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And One Last Thing ...

4.3 71
by Molly Harper

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"If Singletree’s only florist didn’t deliver her posies half-drunk, I might still be married to that floor-licking, scum-sucking, receptionist-nailing hack-accountant, Mike Terwilliger."

Lacey Terwilliger’s shock and humiliation over her husband’s philandering prompt her to add some bonus material to Mike’s company newsletter:


"If Singletree’s only florist didn’t deliver her posies half-drunk, I might still be married to that floor-licking, scum-sucking, receptionist-nailing hack-accountant, Mike Terwilliger."

Lacey Terwilliger’s shock and humiliation over her husband’s philandering prompt her to add some bonus material to Mike’s company newsletter: stunning Technicolor descriptions of the special brand of "administrative support" his receptionist gives him. The detailed mass e-mail to Mike’s family, friends, and clients blows up in her face, and before one can say "instant urban legend," Lacey has become the pariah of her small Kentucky town, a media punch line, and the defendant in Mike’s defamation lawsuit.

Her seemingly perfect life up in flames, Lacey retreats to her family’s lakeside cabin, only to encounter an aggravating neighbor named Monroe. A hunky crime novelist with a low tolerance for drama, Monroe is not thrilled about a newly divorced woman moving in next door. But with time, beer, and a screen door to the nose, a cautious friendship develops into something infinitely more satisfying.

Lacey has to make a decision about her long-term living arrangements, though. Should she take a job writing caustic divorce newsletters for paying clients, or move on with her own life, pursuing more literary aspirations? Can she find happiness with a man who tells her what he thinks and not what she wants to hear? And will she ever be able to resist saying one . . . last . . . thing?

Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly
Harper's stab at chick lit (after her Nice Girls series of supernatural romance) starts strong before falling into a rut of predictability. After Lacey Terwilliger receives a bouquet of flowers meant for her husband's mistress, she sends a scathing e-mail about his affair to everyone they know. Mercifully, Harper focuses more on Mike's cluelessness and Lacey's wounded emotional state and epiphanies than the media whirlwind that starts up once Laceys e-mail earns her Internet fame. In an attempt to escape the withering gaze of the media and local townsfolk, Lacey retreats to a family cabin, where the neighbor happens to be Lefty Monroe, a Hugh Jackman-looking cop-turned-writer. From here on out, it's a fairly predictable bit of meeting and initial dislike melting into attraction, with awkward forays into a writing project Lacey undertakes. Though the leads and support cast are witty and well-done, the characters Lacey doesn't like--Mike, his mistress--are little more than caricatures, and the story loses much of its verve once the LaceyLefty romance kicks in. (July)

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Gallery Books
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8.50(w) x 11.08(h) x 0.75(d)

Read an Excerpt

The BumbleBee and the Stinger

If Singletree’s only florist didn’t deliver her posies half-drunk, I might still be married to that floor-licking, scum-sucking, receptionist-nailing hack-accountant, Mike Terwilliger.

That’s not to say I blame Cherry Glick for bursting my little housewife bubble with her badly timed, incorrectly addressed floral offering. Hell, I don’t even blame the aforementioned receptionist for my husband’s “misstep.” I put the blame where it’s due—on my floor-licking, scum-sucking husband.

To put this all in perspective, I’ll take you back to that fateful Wednesday morning, when Cherry, stinking of plant food and blackberry schnapps, ambled up to my front steps with the biggest, gaudiest arrangement of peachy-orangish roses I had ever seen.

The card read, “To my BumbleBee, Happy Anniversary, With all my love, The Stinger.”

“The Stinger?” I read aloud, checking the name on the envelope. Sure enough, the card was addressed to “BumbleBee.” Mike had never called me that. In fact, in eight years together, Mike had never given me a nickname. And it was nowhere near our anniversary. We got married on August 1, not in the second week of June.

“Cherry, honey, I think you got this delivery wrong!” I called, chasing after her with the floral albatross.

Cherry lived perpetually south of buzzed, just drunk enough to avoid thinking about the fact that she’d been married to a very handsome, asexual man for twenty years, but not too drunk to drive her delivery van. She looked over her delivery list and muttered to herself.

“Nope, it’s right,” she slurred. “Right here, it’s says ‘Rose Romance Special Deluxe’ from Mike Terwilliger to . . . oh. This is supposed to go somewhere else. This is supposed to go here.”

She took an envelope out of her back pocket and handed it to me. She swayed slightly against her van and shook her head. “Wait, no, both of them are supposed to go . . .”

“W-where are they supposed to go, Cherry?” I stuttered.

“Um . . .” Cherry looked away from me, her eyes not quite able to focus anyway.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” I snapped and tore the billing envelope open. Mike was listed as the ordering party. Next to “Rose Romance Special Deluxe” Cherry’s assistant had scribbled “Terwilliger-Office.”

My stomach clenched, ice cold. Somewhere, in a rationalizing corner of my brain, I clung to the hope that maybe Mike was planning to bring those roses home to me this afternoon as a surprise . . . and that he was planning on giving me the nickname “BumbleBee.”

Oh, God. My husband was having an affair. With a woman who called him “The Stinger.” And that’s when it hit me. BumbleBee.

Mike’s receptionist was named Beebee Baumgardner.

“Sorry, Lacey, I’m so sorry,” Cherry murmured, climbing into the van.

She knew. Soused, silly Cherry Glick had figured out my husband was having an affair before I had. Oblivious to the fact that my front door was standing open, I tugged my keys out of my pocket and ran for my Volvo. I tossed the roses into the passenger seat and, for some reason, took the time to secure the vase with the seat belt.

The next thing I remember was sitting in my car outside Mike’s new offices on Spring Street, watching through the picture window as Beebee answered phones. She’d worked for Mike for a little over a year, replacing old Mrs. Keach after the secretarial dinosaur literally died at her desk. I had a healthy respect for the sunny, girl-next-door exterior God had given me, but Beebee scared me with her stunning good looks, the kind of fine features that made me feel like my face was drawn with a crayon. Her hair was so dark it seemed to absorb the light around it. It fell in soft, careless waves around her face, the kind I was always aiming for but ended up with crazy blond Shirley Temple curls instead. But I couldn’t even complain that Mike only hired her for her face . . . or her perfect heart-shaped ass . . . or the boobs she was still financing. She was very professional, had excellent typing and filing skills, was great at handling the clients. She answered the phone with a smile on her face. And she even made better coffee than I could manage.

It was odd that Mike and Beebee seemed to be alone in the office. Mike had two accountants working under him, the associates in “Terwilliger and Associates.” He complained that all they did was hang around the lobby, ogle Beebee, and plow through pastries. Still, it was possible they were out on client visits.

I sat there in an idling Volvo, feeling very stupid. Nothing was going on. I’d been sitting there for thirty minutes and Mike hadn’t even come out of his office. I was about five seconds from hauling the roses inside, explaining Cherry’s funny, schnapps-fueled mistake and having a good laugh with Mike when I saw him emerge from his office door. He grinned at Beebee and she smiled back with a familiarity that sent a little twinge through my chest. I tamped it down, ashamed of my disloyalty. I told myself it was nice that Mike had found someone so friendly to fill the receptionist spot. I was glad he enjoyed being around someone he had to share office space with for eight hours a day.

And lots of people give their secretaries affectionate shoulder squeezes, I told myself, watching after he crossed the room to rub his hands under her blouse, across her bare collarbone. It was borderline inappropriate, but not an indicator of an affair. And lots of people drag their secretaries out of their chairs like a character in a tacky romance novel. Lots of people kiss their secretaries . . . with tongue.

Especially when they’re having an affair with them.

Sweet merciful crap, they were going at it in front of a huge window, apparently not caring who could pass by and see. Hell, his wife was sitting less than twelve feet away from them and they hadn’t noticed me.

A whimper stuck in my throat, gagging me. How long had they been doing this? Who else had seen them? Who else knew? How many people would be chewing this over with their dinner tonight? My hands didn’t seem to work right. They wouldn’t close around the door handle so I could march into the office and toss the vase at their heads. I took a few deep steadying breaths, but instead of opening the door, my hands put the car in gear and steered toward home. I don’t remember much about the drive, except that at one point I saw a vinyl sign advertising Terwilliger and Associates with Mike’s stupid smiling face on it. And I ran it down.

When I got home, I braked hard to avoid running the car into the garage door. The roses bounced onto the floorboard, vase and all, spilling stems and plant water all over. I rushed into the house, the door still standing open, and grabbed some paper towels. Mike was crazy about keeping the cars clean. A dirty car’s resale value fell by forty-five percent.

I tossed the empty vase and the flowers into the garbage can. Kneeling, the hot concrete scraping my knees, I wrapped my hand in toweling and started blotting. The sickly sweet smell of wilting flowers and plant preservative rolled off the upholstery and hit me like a blow. I ran into the grass, doubled over, and threw up until tears and mucus hung in long threads from my face. I fell on my knees and waited for the second wave.

“Lacey, you all right, honey?” Our neighbor, Mrs. Revell, yelled from her yard. She gave me a knowing wink. “Ginger tea and saltines help with that.”

Mrs. Revell thought I was pregnant. Great. By the time Mrs. Revell stopped making calls, not only would I be poor Lacey Terwilliger whose husband had the bad taste to have an affair with his secretary, I would be poor Lacey Terwilliger, whose husband had the bad taste to have an affair with his secretary after he knocked up his unsuspecting moron wife.

© 2010 Molly Harper White

Meet the Author

Molly Harper is the author of the popular series of paranormal romances set in the small Kentucky town of Half-Moon Hollow. She also writes the Bluegrass series of contemporary ebook romances, most recently Snow Falling on Bluegrass. A former humor columnist and newspaper reporter, she lives in Kentucky with her family. Visit her on the web at MollyHarper.com.

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And One Last Thing ... 4.3 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 71 reviews.
LHedgpeth More than 1 year ago
What can I say about this book other than I thought it was fan(insert word of choice)ing-tastic? I loved every minute of it and although I was rushing for the conclusion, I was sad to see it end. The general premise was excellent - - haven't we all fantasized about a special kind of payback for those who have done us wrong? Lacey's decision to share her husband Mike's shortcomings via the Internet was inspired and laugh out loud funny. And this was why I was so fond of Lacey, I think. She was a strong, determined woman (but with some obvious weaknesses) who, at the end of the day, could be you or me. She was hurt, she was angry, she acted rashly (but again, it was humorous) and while she dreamt of physically hurting her husband, or at the very least, burning his possessions, she didn't actually follow through with it. I felt sympathy for her and I hurt for this character, even knowing that she was better off without her cad of a husband. I also thoroughly took pleasure in the characters of Emmett, Lacey's antique shop owner brother who is fond of cutting her hair while she sleeps, as well as providing her with slasher flicks to cheer her up, and Maya, an entrepreneur who wants to go into business with Lacey, writing biting and sarcastic divorce newsletters and greeting cards for every occasion, aptly titled "Season's Gratings". In fact, I got such a kick out of Maya, she would be a fun and apt character to center a book around. Just in case author Molly Harper is reading this . . . While I eventually liked the character of Monroe, it did take me a bit to warm up to him and I was happy to see that he wasn't the stereotypical "sexy man next door" written just to provide Lacey with an outlet and a reason to get back on her feet. Monroe's family was a hoot and their scenes were too brief in their hilarity. This was my first book by Molly Harper, although I had heard of her Nice Girls Don't series. I loved her writing style evidenced in And One Last Thing. Light, breezy and yet emotion packed, reading Lacey's narrative was akin to having a heart to heart with a girlfriend. I sped through this book and it left me wanting more. Revisiting Lacey, should Ms. Harper ever want to write a sequel of sorts, would be a delight. I am thrilled I was able to read and review this book. I will absolutely, positively be looking for Ms. Harper's books in the future to put in my reading rotation if And One Last Thing is an example of her writing style and wonderfully detailed characters. I would not hesitate to recommend this book to any and all. Be prepared to stay up late to follow Lacey and ready yourself for some serious belly laughs. (From my blog)
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
*This book is one of the best that i have read in awhile and i read a lot so if your looking for a great read and want to go through all the emotions than you need to read this one*
IHeart2Read More than 1 year ago
Lacey Terwilliger just discovered her husband's affair. He accidentally sent his mistress, aka his personal assistant, flowers and had them delivered to his home address. Lacey, quite stunned and in disbelief, hightails it to her husband's office only to witness their affair first hand. So what does Lacey do? She writes about her cheating husband's extramarital trysts. I forgot to mention, she writes them in his company's newsletters and emails these newsletters to his clients, family and their close friends. Needless to say, this does not go over well and Lacey quickly realizes she acted purely out of emotion. She retreats to her family's cabin to reflect on their marriage and herself. It's there that she meets Monroe, the quiet, loner "I don't like divorce drama" man who encourages Lacey to pick herself up, dust herself off and begin again. And One Last Thing. is about a woman who acts impulsively out of emotion (and humiliation) and thinks about the consequences later. Despite her irrational decision to write and send the newsletters, Lacey is a woman that the readers will immediately love. Early on it's obvious her husband Mike doesn't deserve her. He treats her more like his girl Friday instead of his wife. By the end of the novel, I liked that Lacey fought hard to gain her identity back and was given a second chance for happiness. Ms. Harper is a new-to-me author. I enjoyed And One Last Thing. so much, that I'm looking forward to reading more of her books. Highly recommended. 4.5 Stars
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
This is just a typical romance novel with a few gratuitous sex scenes thrown in. I was able to predict pretty much everything that happened before it did. The only good part was the I'm leaving you email.
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A tiny taste of Stephanie Plum; and thankfully, not the tried and true Happy Ending. I'm not into her other genres of Fangs and things, but would read her again otherwise.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I really enjoyed this story. I laughed, cried, and awwed myself silly.
Lolafalana More than 1 year ago
Another five shining bright stars for Molly Harper, who can entertain, humor, tell a wickedly delicious story, and actually have real depth with her plots. If you haven't gotten on the Harper bandwagon yet, my only question is: WHY NOT? And One Last Thing . . . had me in stitches, nearly crying, and nodding my head at how spot on this story is. After being in love with Harper's paranormal books, this was a different change of pace. However, Harper keeps up the witty remarks, fun characters, and over-all sense of feeling as if everything is happening to you. Only if I was that funny. I think what really made me love this book in particular was the fact I'd gone through a divorce myself, and if I had it to do all over again, I would have sent out a hilarious and not-the-least-bit contrite newsletter to all our friends/family. As far as the narration, Amanda Ronconi is quickly becoming one of my favorite narrators. It's Ronconi's voice and characterization that gives all of Harper's books that little extra bump. She has such a finesse with brining books alive that I don't know if reading Harper's books will ever be the same without Ronconi's voice. Keep on writing, Molly, for I am forever your loyal book-reading servant. Same goes for Amanda, because I'll buy just about any book she narrates!
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Love the humor in this book.
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This was a great book! Made me want to cry in some places and laugh at the main character's wit though out this story!
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1ckirk More than 1 year ago
sweet and happy book wit a hint of real life
coatsee2 More than 1 year ago
Seriously funny! I loved every witty minute of it.
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