Page 1 of Unplanned Target

ONE

MIRANDA

“Are you fucking kidding me right now?” I glare at the email on my computer screen, heavily weighing my options.

Throwing the laptop out a second floor window is probably an overreaction. I just spent a fortune putting new windows in this house, breaking one simply because a man pissed me off seems like a bad idea.

I get in the habit of that, I won’t have any windows.

Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes and blow it back out as I try to find just a tiny little scrap of calm. It’s not something I possess an abundance of, but I’m sure there has to be a little in there somewhere.

Miraculously, I manage to find it. Instead of chucking the expensive electronic into my backyard, I reach out and slowly close the screen, hiding my client’s most recent offense from view.

I’m not sure where he buys his audacity these days, but it’s pretty obvious he’s getting a bulk discount. It also appears he’s stocking up on stupidity at the same place.

I switch off the walking pad I spend the bulk of my day on and collect the assortment of empty cups cluttering the elevated desk that serves as my workspace, carrying them out of the office I’ll likely return to before the night’s over. I love working from home, but it means there’s not really a way to fully escape my job. Usually, I don’t mind it so much. I enjoy what I do. I’m good at it. I know my shit and can look at the problems my clients are facing from all angles, coming up with solutions most people would have never thought of.

Which only makes it more infuriating when a client defers to someone who’s already proven they don’t know what they’re doing, simply because there’s a dick swinging between his legs.

Well... My guess is it doesn’t swing. Probably just sits there, taking up as little space as possible.

The evil cackle that thought elicits is probably a good sign I need to take a break, drink a glass of wine, and come back when I won’t respond by telling Luther Cartwright III to bend over and grab his ankles so I can insert my foot into his asshole.

Without lube.

While wearing a stiletto.

Carrying my armful of cups and mugs down to the first floor, I go to the kitchen and line them in the dishwasher before opening the fridge. I have no fucking clue what I’m going to make for dinner, but I also don’t have any fucking clue what I would order for dinner. Never would sixteen-year-old Miranda—who had all the answers and longed for independence—have believed one of the most difficult parts of adulthood is deciding what to eat.

She would have believed men suck, though. And definitely would’ve encouraged me to send that email about ankle grabbing.

Sixteen-year-old Miranda was kind of wild.

After staring at the shelves of random grocery items for no less than five minutes, I finally decide to make some sort of pasta thing. I dig around and find what remains of a bag of precut broccoli, some leftover ham, a container of roasted carrots from the same night I made the ham, and some eggs.

Carba-notta it is.

Filling a large pot with water, I put it on to boil while I chop the other ingredients. In under fifteen minutes, I’ve got a big pile of emotional support carbs, half a glass of wine, and slightly less feminine rage.

But only slightly.

“Allie.” I yell in the direction of the stairs as I scoop out a pile of noodles for my daughter, adding a handful of sliced cucumber so I don’t feel like a totally shitty mom. After sticking a fork in it, I put her portion on the counter so I can dish up my own.

By the time my plate’s ready, Allie still hasn’t come downstairs. I listen for any sound that might indicate she’s making her way to me, but the house is quiet.

Which can only mean one thing.

“I freaking wish I could take a nap.” I carry my food with me as I go to the base of the staircase, twisting a forkful of pasta before shoving it into my mouth. Yelling around the too-big bite, I call for my daughter again.

And again the house stays quiet.

“I swear to God.” I stomp my way up the steps. “I know damn well she can hear me.”

Having a teenager is frustrating as hell. They don’t listen. They do what they want. They expect food and clean laundry to just show up. And they act like you’re a total idiot.

So it’s pretty much just like having a husband was.

Reaching the landing, I stuff in another bite of pasta as I walk to Allie’s door, chewing through it as I bang on the wood surface.