All She Wants

By: Anna Cruise

Author Note

When I first wrote IT WAS YOU, I knew Abby's sister, Annika, was special. She was an over-the-top antihero but, despite all of her faults, I liked her. She intrigued me because I knew there had to be more to her than what she put out there for the world to see.

Readers thought so, too – and several really wanted to hear her story.

Guess what? I wanted to hear it, too.

So thank you for asking. For prodding. Because I listened, to you and to Annika.

This is her story.

And yep, she's still a bitch. But I think you'll find some redeeming qualities in her in ALL SHE WANTS.

I know I did. :)


“I'm not babysitting. No way, no how.”

Sheridan, one of my sorority sisters, raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow at my announcement. Actually, they weren't perfect at all. She'd thinned them a little too much, giving her the appearance of being perpetually surprised. No, that wasn't it either. I squinted at her. She looked more like a porn star with a dick in her mouth. Minus the dick, of course. Sheridan batted for the other team, which was why she tolerated me. I might not give a shit about hooking up with any guy that crossed my path, taken or not, but I definitely wouldn't steal her partners.

“It's not babysitting,” she said to me. “It's...supervising.”

I made a face. “Bullshit. It's babysitting.”

“No, Annika ” she said. She rummaged through the basket of laundry on her bed. She found the shirt she was looking for and, in one quick motion, stripped out of the t-shirt she was wearing and slipped on the black camisole. “Babysitting would involve a baby. Like your sister's kid. Not a middle-aged humanitarian visiting from the depths of oblivion.”

“Deprived oblivion,” I muttered. I stared at my sorority sister. “Tell me again why this is my responsibility.”

“Because,” Sheridan said. She ran a hand through her long blond hair, then frowned. One of her acrylics had snagged and she studied her nails critically.

“Because why? Why am I the Chosen One?”

She rubbed her thumb along the ridge of her pointer finger. “You're the global studies major. And the sorority volunteered to help at the luncheon. You know, the whole 'do good' vibe we're supposed to emulate?”

I sighed. She wasn't telling me anything I didn't know. I just didn't want to do it. Not when it was summer and classes weren't in session. Not when I could hang out at the beaches and bars instead of at school. I took summer vacation very, very seriously. And this little project was definitely poised to cramp my style. Big time.

“So?” I picked up the diet Coke I was drinking, then reached for the bottle of red nail polish next to me. “Ellis should do it. She's president.”

“Ellis is in Cancun.”

Shit. I'd forgotten.

“Jamie, then.”

“Jamie's getting married this weekend,” she reminded me. “Which is why I can't do it, either. Because I would. For you. Even though you so don't deserve it.”

I nodded, trying not to frown. I'd conveniently forgotten about the wedding I hadn't been invited to. Jamie and I had never been close but me sleeping with her boyfriend—before he was her fiance—had not gone over well with her. After trying unsuccessfully to get me kicked out of the sorority, we'd settled into an uneasy coexistence. I avoided her and she did her best to not kill me.

I made a mental list of my other sorority sisters as I coated my toenails with polish. Brooke—she was passably pretty but her brain was smaller than her cup size. And that wasn't big, either. She'd make a horrible rep. Peyton—her beak nose and unibrow sent everyone but the Delta Sigma Phi guys running. I still wasn't sure how she'd gotten a bid. Jules—she was smart and pretty, in a mousy kind of way.

“Jules?” I asked hopefully.

Sheridan had her ragged nail in her mouth and was biting it. A couple inches wider and it could definitely be a dick. “No,” she said, her voice muffled. She pulled out her finger. “She just had her wisdom teeth out. She's not even coming to the wedding.”

I closed my eyes and pulled up a mental image of the soon-to-be-visiting humanitarian Stuart Woodcock. What the hell kind of name was that? I sighed. I'd seen exactly two pictures of him and each looked like a passable version of a Sasquatch. Big and beefy, his face barely visible under a Duck Dynasty-esque beard. Outfitted like he was on a never-ending safari, complete with pith hat on his head and cameras looped around his neck, dozens of malnourished kids on his heels like eager puppies. Hungry puppies.

“Stuart.” I grimaced as I said his name. “Who did he piss off?”


“To be saddled with that kind of name.”