9781405989718 by Smakprov Media AB

I HEAR WEDDING BELLS AND VOICEMAILS

This wasn’t the ceremony we’d rehearsed, but sometimes a bride has to improvise.

I gather the billowing tulle of my dress so it won’t slow my hustle toward the Grand Ballroom of The Luxe Hotel in Lucky Falls. I only stop at the end of the hall to swallow my bridal rage and fasten on a smile while I’m still out of sight.

A glance around the corner shows the poised and polished wedding planner outside the ballroom door with her headset and tablet, directing the preparations like air traﬃc control.

Tessa is such a consummate professional that I almost feel bad for enlisting her unwitting help in this dastardly measure I’m about to take.

Almost.

Because sometimes revenge is best cooked up in the heat of the moment.

“Psst, Tessa,” I whisper around the corner.

She snaps her blue gaze my way and blinks in surprise. Still, her blonde, news-anchor bob barely moves, and she adjusts quickly, abandoning her post to join me in the more private hallway.

“Sabrina, is everything okay?” she asks quietly. “You’re supposed to be waiting in the—”

“The bridal suite. I know.” I give my best I can’t wait to get hitched face. “But I have a surprise for Chad. I didn’t think I’d be able to find it, but I tracked it down at the last minute.” I point to her iPad. “Can you cue up the MP3 I just sent you? It’s the first voicemail Chad ever left me when he asked me out six years ago. And I know it would make him so, so happy to hear it today,” I say, setting a hand on my heart and leaning in on the hearts and flowers.

“That’s sweet. But are you sure you want to change things up now?”

“Positive.” I don’t want the ﬁrst arrivals for the wedding that my mother planned—from the cloying allwhite ﬂower motif to the interchangeable cast of attendees plucked from the country club brochure—to spot the bride in the tiara and ball gown. I don’t want any witnesses. “But don’t tell a soul. It’s a surprise.”

Please don’t ask any questions. Please don’t play the ﬁle ﬁrst.

If she does, I have a backup plan. I’ll keep my phone tucked inside my white lace bra, ready, if necessary, to hit play on the, well, let’s call it the new bridal march.

Tessa scans her iPad, spots my email, and nods. “Here it is. There’s not much time for changes.” Her crisp tone worries me for a moment, but then she adds, “But this is so nostalgic, delightfully so. How can I resist?”

“That’s us.” Romantic nostalgia is the theme my mother chose for the wine country wedding with its throwback vibe and my old-fashioned dress. And since Mom’s nostalgia is paying Tessa’s bills…

“I’ll have it cued up and ready to go,” she says.

“Right after Madison reaches the front.” Somehow, I say the maid of honor’s name without the sharp edge of anger cutting through my carefully composed calm. “And as soon as I take the ﬁrst step down the aisle.”

Timing is everything.

“Got it.” Tessa gamely rolls with the change, and…ﬁne, I do feel bad that she’ll be collateral damage.

But then I mentally replay the misdirected voice message I received about an hour ago. The one that sent me through the ﬁve stages of romance grief in sixty minutes. I’ve reached a sixth stage now—getting even.

“You’re the best. I’ll leave you a ﬁve-star review.” I scurry away, holding onto my tiara to keep it in place. It’s the only thing I actually picked for this wedding, and I love it in all its sparkly outlandishness.

Ten minutes later, I stand at the French doors to the grand ballroom. My heart gallops, but my nerves are steel, conditioned by years of cutthroat ice-skating competitions.

My friends in attendance don’t know the plan either. It’s easier to keep it a surprise if I only trust myself with the scheme.

I square my shoulders, lift my chin, and smile without showing any teeth. I’m next to my father, ready to walk down the aisle and tell the world how I really feel about Chad Huntington.

The groom waits under a crystal chandelier in front of two hundred and ﬁfty guests, with his perfectly coiﬀed

blond hair, his perfectly ﬁtting tux, his perfectly ordained life with this perfect wedding to the daughter of his father’s business partner—a merger of a marriage here in the same town where my dad’s business began.

The maid of dubious honor arrives in front of the rows of chairs, and the music on the ballroom’s sound system fades out, ready for “Pachelbel’s Canon” to start. Instead, the crackle of a voicemail booms.

“Hey, hey, Furby.” Chad’s singsong coo addresses the orange kitten I’ve been fostering for a San Francisco rescue. “Guess what today is?”

I’d been pulling on my sheer, white stockings when I ﬁrst heard the message. Earlier, Chad had called to make sure my uncle Jay knew to go to the grand ballroom, not the band ballroom. I hadn’t picked up in time, and the call went to voicemail. Chad didn’t realize he hadn’t hung up properly before he started serenading the three-pound orange cutie about our wedding.

I’d let the message play as I slipped on one satin shoe because how adorable was that? We’d laugh about it later.

Well, one of us would.

“Guess who’s coming over?” Over the speakers, Chad croons another line of the kitten song.

“What the hell is going on?” my father whispers, low in my ear.

I give Dad one of the polished smiles I’ve been throwing to spectators for years. The one he expects from me. “Just a sweet little something for my groom.”

At the front of the ballroom, Chad cocks his head, his gelled hair unmoving, his eyes wary as I glide up the aisle. Please, universe, let me pull this oﬀ like a triple lutz in competition.

The song plays on. “She’ll be here in a few. Because

Madison has something to do. She’s bringing me a secret wedding gift. The one that’ll give my spirits a lift.”

My father’s jaw ticks. “Sabrina Snow,” he hisses to me. Me! He doesn’t yell it to Chad, like he should.

But even as the familiar click of Tessa’s shoes sound behind me—she’s probably rushing somewhere at the speed of sound to hit end on the song that isn’t romantically nostalgic at all—we’ve already reached the good stuﬀ. The prestige, as they call it in a magic show.

Tessa must succeed since Chad’s voice stops carrying over the sound system.

But a good performer doesn’t let a thing get her down.

I stop halfway up the aisle, letting the weight of Chad’s words so far settle over the entire ballroom full of guests with their jaws agape. My father stiﬀens beside me, his grip tightening on my arm. All eyes are on me now.

I reach into my bra, tugging out my phone like the plot twist of the century. The crowd gasps as I hit play, letting all the guests take in the grand finale of the groom’s impromptu kitty serenade. “She’s gonna come through, with that BJ courage I need to say…I do.”

There’s a chuckle, then Chad speaks the last words. “And then I’ll get my bonus in six months. How smart am I, kitty boy?”

Furby meows angrily, and I swear in feline he’s saying, You’re a dumbass. The red light’s on, recording this session.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” I announce, loud and clear, “I’d like to thank Chad Huntington for sharing his musical talents with all of us today. I hope you enjoy the seasonal salad and seared halibut. I hear it pairs great with a cheater’s wedding that didn’t happen.”

With that, I turn on my heel and march right out the French doors, leaving two hundred and ﬁfty guests, my

whole family, a backstabbing maid of honor, and a cheating groom and his bonus in the dust.

With tears of rage and hurt stinging at the back of my eyes, I’m halfway to the nearest exit, ready to bolt to who knows where, when my father catches up to me.

My heart is galloping, but he’s barely even breathing hard as he issues an edict in his commanding tone: “Sabrina Snow. Do not even think about leaving.”

He says it like I’m a thief trying to slip out of one of his fancy ski stores wearing the high-end gear with the tags still on.

With my cartoonish dress suddenly feeling far too constricting, I turn to him and lift my chin. “It’s a little hard for me to stay,” I say, hating that my voice is full of potholes. My father won’t want to hear any of my emotions. He’s never been interested in them.

With a dismissive grunt, he reaches into the inside pocket of his tuxedo and hands me a tissue, like problem solved. “Straighten up and let’s get back in there. Time to apologize.”

My head spins. My world tilts on its axis. Did he really just say that? “I’m supposed to apologize for my groom cheating on me an hour before the wedding? With the maid of honor, no less? She’s not even a friend of mine! Madison’s your marketing manager—and you asked me to have her as the maid of honor.”

“She’s the VP,” he says, correcting me, since that matters. But to him it does—everything must be precise. “And yes, that’s what you should do, because that ridiculous stunt you pulled was unacceptable.”

“Are you ill, dear?” my mother asks as she arrives— trim, sleek, and impossibly stylish in her off-white sheath dress. Of course, she would wear the same color as the bride. “It’s not even a taboo anymore,” she told me when she showed me the dress her personal stylist had selected for her because it matched her skin tone. “It’s totally acceptable for the mother of the bride to wear cream.”

Sure, Mom.

I swallow another rebel sob. I can’t believe they’re siding with him. Him—the guy I’ve been faithful to since college. The guy my dad set me up with. The guy I’ve been on again and oﬀ again with for six years. But I’ve always been faithful to him, even when we were oﬀ.

That guy is walking toward me now, shaking his head, tutting like I’m a naughty child.

“Sabrina, honey pie, what’s come over you?” Chad asks with so much faux concern I’m pretty sure I’m living in a multiverse.

“What came over me?” I spit out, my voice hitting the ceiling of this hotel. No, it’s hitting the stars above us. “I won’t ask what you came over, since that’s abundantly clear now.”

My mother gasps, then whispers, “Language.”

I don’t point out there’s no language in my statement. Not to my pearl-clutching mom, who ﬁngers the little white balls on her necklace as if it’s choking her.

Chad sets a gentle hand on my shoulder. I recoil, but he tries again, rubbing me soothingly like all I need to do is calm down. “There, there. If you were getting cold feet, you didn’t need to make up something like that. We could have just talked through it as healthy couples do.”

What kind of world am I living in? My eyes pop as I

shake oﬀ his slithery hand. “Make it up? You left a voicemail about another woman on our wedding day!”

Chad rolls his eyes in that gentle, caring way again. “No one leaves voicemails anymore.”

That’s how he’s defending his inﬁdelity? Like the anachronism of voicemail proves his innocence? “That was literally you singing to my foster kitten on my phone.” I wave the device in front of his face. It’s teeming with text message notiﬁcations, but who cares?

“I just explained the whole thing to your dad. Technology is amazing, isn’t it? I’m impressed you could pull oﬀ something so advanced,” Chad says with the smuggest smile I’ve ever seen.

Right. I spent late nights stitching together audio clips of his voice to frame him. Because that’s the kind of hobby soon-to-be brides take up between dress ﬁttings and cake tastings. “Gaslight much?”

Chad patronizes me again. “But honey pie, we really should’ve just talked before you did something like that. I know you can be prone to, well, perfectionism,” he says, twisting everything I’ve shared with him, like the lists I kept as a kid in notebook upon notebook. “And if you didn’t think I was good enough for you, we could have discussed your ‘perfectionist’ concerns before all the guests showed up.”

“That’s not what happened,” I seethe, but I feel like I’m ﬁghting a losing battle with them.

My mother’s face pales, contrasting with the velvet rose shade of her Chanel lipstick. She waves a hand in front of her face, like she must locate her smelling salts immediately. “Do you realize what you’ve done, Sabrina? I had to skip my hair appointment this morning to help with last-minute arrangements, and now you’re blowing

up the wedding in front of everyone. I’ll never be able to show my face at Pilates again.”

Oh no, not the Pilates moms.

Chad gives her a comforting smile. “It’ll be okay, Mrs. Snow. I’ll fix everything. You know how Sabrina can get when things feel…overwhelming,” he says, and I want to wring his neck so hard, especially when he turns back to me, using the same saccharine tone. “If you want to get back in there right now, I will happily take you as my bride, and we don’t have to speak of this ever again.”

Who even is this man? How can he lie this fearlessly? “Maybe you didn’t get the memo, but…you just cheated on me.”

“No,” he says, like he’s coaxing a toy from a Border Collie. “I didn’t. And you really need to drop this routine.”

I jam my hands into my hair, not caring if I’m messing up my perfect hairstyle. Not even caring that I’ve knocked the tiara askew as I shout, “You got a blow job from Madison!”

My father glares at me, his voice steel. “Your mother said no language.” He points an angry ﬁnger in the direction of the grand ballroom. “Are you going to get back in there like a reasonable adult? Or are you going to keep embarrassing all of us with this…this… performance?”

For a few seconds, guilt pricks at me and I wonder if I should have just left a note for the groom. Informed the wedding planner. Walked away quietly. But the fact that I didn’t even consider those options speaks volumes. “I wanted you to know the truth,” I say, holding my ground.

My father steps an inch closer. “The truth? Like that time you said you were too sick to compete in Junior Nationals, but did you really throw up? Or did you toss a

can of soup into the toilet bowl and clutch your stomach dramatically?”

Shock reverberates through me. How could he think that? “I had the ﬂu,” I choke out. “I could barely eat.”

“Or maybe you were just afraid to lose. Just like you’re afraid to walk down the aisle today, so you invent this fake song that only exists on your phone.”

My tears burst forth, unstoppable now. They are geysers. I’m replenishing all of the earth’s dry lakes and waterbeds with my pain. It’s not the cheating or even losing Chad that cuts deep. It’s realizing, once again, that my parents are more concerned with appearances than with me.

“Do you not understand what happened?” I say, my voice wobbly. “Chad’s only marrying me for the bonus you’ll pay him when he hits ﬁve years with your company in a few months!”

My father shuts his eyes, his jaw ticking, then opens them, his stony face unreadable, his gaze as hard as onyx. “Listen to yourself, Sabrina,” he says in the quietest voice possible—one that slithers into my ear. “This is a ridiculous tale. When a man cheats, he simply goes to a goddamn hotel room to fuck another woman.”

My mother clings to his arm like she’s fainting. “Horrible,” she mutters.

“His language? No kidding,” I say.

“No, the details about cheating. I can’t bear to hear them,” my mom says with a dramatic sniﬄe as she fumbles through her bag for her signature lavender sachet for stress relief.

My father intervenes, dipping his hand in and ﬁnding it for her. “There, dear,” he says gently.

“Thank you, David,” she says, bringing it to her nose.

As she inhales, my father turns his full fury on me again. “Singing to a rescue kitten? Really, Sabrina? Is that the best you can do? It’s such an obvious lie. Also, the song rhymed. Clearly you made it up. You were always the creative one. Chad’s not a rhymer.”

My jaw drops. “My groom can’t rhyme? No one uses voicemail? Those are your arguments?”

“Those are just facts,” Chad says, chiming in like I care about his opinion now.

I wheel on him. “You have a deep misunderstanding of facts.”

“And you have a deep misunderstanding of what it means to be an adult,” my father cuts in. “You’re twentysix. But you don’t want to grow up and get a real job.”

“I’m a skating coach,” I say.

My father rolls his eyes. “That’s not a real job. And to think, I’ve tried to give you work with my company, and this is how you repay me?”

Fine, since my role in the chorus at an ice-skating show ended recently, I’ve been doing some accounting for my dad’s company while I build out my coaching business. But they oﬀered me the job.

Still, I can’t believe they’re blaming me for the cheating. Except, of course, I kind of can. “You really think this is my fault?” I manage to ask through the hurt and the shame.

My father crosses his arms. “Yes. This is unprofessional. This is unbecoming. This is uncouth. And I am cutting you oﬀ from the family business…unless…”

I’m reeling, backed against the wall. Not only did I get cheated on, not only did I get dumped, but I’ve also just been ﬁred by my own family on my wedding day.

But it’s the insults that hurt the most.

Still, I lock onto that last word. I’m not sure I want to know what’s behind door number three, but I peer anyway. “Unless what?”

My father nods to Chad.

My former groom takes the baton, giving me one last sad look as he oﬀers me his hand. “Unless you want to pretend this never happened.”

I look at his hand, imagining him touching Madison with that hand less than an hour ago as she got down on her knees. Then, him zipping up and having a good laugh at my expense, ﬁguring I’d never ﬁnd out.

But Furby was right—Chad’s a dumbass and the only thing worse than a dumbass is a cheating dumbass.

“You must really want your bonus,” I say to him. Something flashes in Chad’s eyes—anger. Then he drags a hand through his perfectly gelled hair, a tell I’ve seen a hundred times before when he plays poker with the guys. When he tries to bluff with a five of hearts.

“If you need an hour to think about it, I’m sure we can work something out with the hotel,” he says, grasping at straws.

My father bites out: “This is your last warning. I didn’t build this family business just to let you disgrace it in front of everyone. You’ll apologize, or you’ll be out of work, out of a place to live, and out of our lives.”

They’re all staring at me like I’m the villain. Not Chad. Not Madison. But me.

The bride who ruined everything by telling the truth. Maybe this is my fault for pulling a stunt. But deep down, I know that even if I’d pulled my father aside and talked to him privately, he’d never have believed me.

Maybe that’s why I made a production of it. Sometimes you have to be loud to get people to hear you. Even

then, they don’t. I never realized how alone I could feel when surrounded by people who are supposed to love me.

I look at my mother with her lavender sachet security blanket, at my father with his cold, unﬂinching eyes, at Chad dragging his hand through his hair like the ruthless liar he is.

My stunt is the kind of “behavior” that would have gone on my list of what not to do again growing up. But I’m not that kid anymore. I’ve come too far and worked too hard to claim what I deserve—respect from myself and others. And I deserve better than a lying groom, a gaslighting father, and a mother more worried about Pilates moms than me.

I look down at the bouquet in my hand. I barely realized I was holding it this whole time. As I head to the door, I toss it over my shoulder. “Enjoy the halibut.”

“Where are you going? You didn’t drive yourself here,” Chad says, like I’m the idiot.

I lift my hand, waggling my phone. “Oh no, whatever will I do?”

I push open the door and take oﬀ, running in heels. I’m an athlete, and all those early morning miles I logged as a kid pay oﬀ now. I’m gone before anyone can even think about catching me. I could call one of my friends here today, like Leighton or Isla, but there’s not enough time.

I quickly order a Lyft to—think fast. I know! There’s an ice-skating rink nearby in Cozy Valley. I plug in the name as I sprint across the hotel grounds in this tulle-and-lace abomination, heading straight for the street. My getaway driver pulls up just as I check the app. Yup.

A black Prius, and the license plate checks out.

I slide in, breathless. “Hi, Rhonda. Can you help a girl out? I need to get out of town fast.”

“You want me to step on it? Just say the word.”

“Step on it.” Holy shit, that was fun to say.

The grandmotherly woman with a wicked smile eyes me up and down in the rearview mirror, then ﬂashes a partner in crime smile. “I’ve been waiting my whole life for this chance.”

She peels away like it’s a stunt.

But it’s not. It’s me taking my life back.

Tyler

I TOLD YOU SO

Ah, there’s nothing quite like a night oﬀ from the kids. Don’t get me wrong—I love those two little stinkers more than I love playing hockey. But an evening without a request for mac and cheese? Without complaints about who got more or whose turn it is to do the dishes? I’ll happily take it.

It’s been so long since I’ve had a free night that I’m barely even sure what to do with my time. After ﬁnishing dinner with my agent at a restaurant here in Cozy Valley —a productive meeting where we agreed to focus on making the next season better, both on the ice and with sponsorships—I head to the hotel bar. I’m staying overnight in this small town about forty minutes outside San Francisco since I’m playing golf tomorrow morning in a local tournament some friends here roped me into joining. But until then, no one needs me.

When I catch sight of the baseball game on the big

screen, I know this is exactly what a perfect night oﬀ looks like. The bar has a warm, relaxed vibe, with woodpaneled walls, a long, polished counter, and a vintage record player playing a pop tune I won’t admit to my teammates that I know by heart. A row of wooden stools lines the bar, and there’s a faint hum of chatter from a handful of patrons. A woodcut sign boasts brews crafted locally.

I grab a seat and say hello to the bartender, a weathered old dude in a vintage concert T-shirt whose name tag reads Ike. Fitting.

He slaps down a coaster and asks, “What’ll it be?”

“Whatever you’ve got on tap,” I say, since I’m not picky, and I bet he thrives on being trusted to pick a beer.

With a quick nod, he says, “You look like a lager type.”

“Works for me.” I settle in, letting the pressure of the past season—a tough one with a new team—melt away as I focus on the game on TV and the cold glass of beer Ike brings me. Only, the game isn’t exactly relaxing. By the second inning, it’s clear the umpire needs to be tossed out.

“Are you kidding me? That was such a strike,” I mutter.

“Nope. It dipped by the outside corner, Tyler. Hanging curve that hung too long,” a conﬁdent, feminine voice says —someone who clearly knows me.

I turn toward the sound, and my brain fractures for a second. It’s like running into your doctor in the cereal aisle—that is, if you have a wildly inappropriate crush on your gorgeous, sassy doctor.

Or your ten-year-old’s ice-skating coach, who’s incomprehensibly here in a small-town hotel bar instead of the city where I see her every week, but who’s counting?

Sabrina Snow ﬂops down onto the seat next to mine in

a cloud of white poof, wearing a lopsided tiara. But she doesn’t look like the polished, pink-cheeked, ponytailed woman who teaches Luna how to execute toe loops. With her wind-whipped blonde hair, tiara askew, and a wedding dress that seems completely out of character, Sabrina looks like she’s seen better days. Especially since she’s kicking a foot back and forth—and I can’t help but notice she’s wearing mismatched shower slides—one pink, one orange.

“Sabrina?” She’s the last person I expected to run into tonight—especially like this.

“That’s me,” she says dryly. Too dryly. She laughs, but it sounds forced. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“Sure is.” Running into this woman on her wedding day is a wild card. Call it a gut feeling—or that forced laugh—but I’m not sure the groom is around.

“How’s Luna? What’s she up to since I saw you all the other day? Are you having a fun little family getaway?” she asks, but her voice is full of manufactured cheer.

I shake my head. “Nope. The kids are with my mom and her husband.” I catch myself before I ask, And you? Read the room and all.

But with hope that honestly shames me, I dip my gaze to her left hand. That massive rock that’s been mocking me since I met her still shines brightly, but her smile does not. Maybe she hasn’t removed the ring yet, but I’ve got a sense the bling’s on a goodbye tour.

That’s not something I should celebrate. But whether her single status is self-induced or not, I oﬀer what I can. “Let me buy you a drink.”

She sighs with the weight of the world in that one breath. “I guess it’s obvious I need it.”

I don’t say, Yeah, it seems like your wedding day went side-

ways, or, What the hell happened? She’ll tell me when she’s ready. “You are in a bar, so I ﬁgured you might want one— context clues and all.”

She gives me the smallest smile. Glancing at her skirt, she gathers some material in her hands, then ﬂicks it dismissively. “I was heading for the local rink, but it was closed. So yeah, it’s a tequila kind of day now.”

Her vibe is more of a jilted bride than a runaway one, but I’ve seen enough movies to know the two usually go hand in hand.

I raise a hand to ﬂag down Ike again, but before I can say a shot of your best tequila, Sabrina interjects. “I’m going to need a double.” Her voice is steady, though her expression, somewhere between dazed and exhausted, hints that she’s already been ﬂoored.

I turn to her, skeptical. “Are you sure?”

The glare she shoots me could freeze the sun. I haven’t seen anything that potent since Luna caught Parker eating the last slice of pizza. “I’m wearing mismatched shoes the Lyft driver gave me, I’ve been disowned by my family, and when I called out the guy I caught scheduling a blow job from the maid of honor an hour before we’re supposed to say ‘I do,’ he tried to convince me that I was actually trying to frame him as a cheater.”

I swallow my shock as she barrels on about the next level shitshow that had become her day.

“The only thing that went right today? On the ride up here from the wedding venue, I called my cat-sitter, and she agreed to take Furby, the rescue kitten I was fostering, to her place. At least Furby will be away from Chad.” She stops for a breath. There’s nothing funny about this but… of course his name is Chad. “But what if he took Furby?”

“Then we’ll have to kill Chad.” I grin, and to my surprise, so does she.

“Thank you. You get me.” She blows out a breath. “Anyway, she picked up Furby and now I’m thinking of renaming my ex ‘Fuck Chad.’ What do you think?”

I’m thinking, How is it possible to be more attracted to her now than I was before?

Instead of voicing that thought, I turn to the man behind the bar. “I’ll take two double shots of tequila, Ike.”

He smirks. “Coming right up.”

As he heads to the shelf of bottles, Sabrina shoots me a curious, but worried, look. “Am I ruining your night? Is there a date about to join you? Because I can leave—”

I cut that notion oﬀ at the knees. There is no place on Earth I need to be besides right here, right now. “I’m alone. We’re all good.”

“Me too,” she says, then winces. “Obviously.”

In the pause while the bartender pours, Sabrina rolls her lips together as if ﬁghting oﬀ emotions. When she sighs, her shoulders sag a little.

“Do you want to talk about what happened?” I ask, both gentle and straightforward. Her day has been the worst—no question. And my goal has become to help her survive this terrible night. “Or do you want to watch the game and debate the awfulness of the umpires?”

Her lips, wiped free of lipstick, twitch in a weak smile. “Tempting. I have a lot to say about the state of oﬃciating. But I’m starving.”

“I hear the burgers are good. Interested?”

I’m interested in erasing the memory of Chad from her mind. I have been for a long time and haven’t done a damn thing about it. Now, she’s in a vulnerable spot and the last thing she needs is some asshole trying to make a

move. Even if every nerve in my body is screaming that I want to.

“Nachos,” Sabrina says without hesitation. “With cheese. And guacamole. And jalapeños. But no meat.” She pauses, then adds, in a devilish whisper, “My mother would faint if she saw me eating nachos tonight. She thinks ﬁnger food is gauche.” Mischief ﬂickers in her eyes. “But I’m not living by her rules anymore.”

I lean back, watching her, understanding more than she’s saying. From the way she says that—deﬁant, proud —there’s a story there, and I want to hear all of it. For now though, I’m just here for the ride. “Then it’s a good night to order extra guac.”

Sabrina smiles. “Let’s do it.”

It’s the let’s that does it for me. I’m suddenly in on this fuck it moment with her, like the night belongs to only us.

When Ike returns with our shots, I order the nachos. Once he takes oﬀ, I lift my shot glass the jilted bride’s way and say, “To the end of the Fuck Chad era. I don’t know a thing about him, but he clearly didn’t deserve you.”

She raises her glass, clinks it against mine, then knocks some of the tequila back as I do the same. A moment later, her face scrunches. “Oh my god, who let me order a double? This tastes like gasoline and regret.” She coughs, fanning her mouth dramatically as she sets the mostly full glass down.

“Have you ever had a tequila shot before?”

“No! I’m a bubbly kind of girl. A white wine fanatic. Why the hell did I order tequila?”

“Probably because of the mismatched slides?”

“They were the only thing Rhonda had—she was my Lyft driver—and they seemed a fair trade for my white satin pumps. Don’t ask why her slides don’t match.”

Ah hell. I can’t resist. “Why don’t they match?”

“I don’t know.” She’s laughing now, soft and genuine. It makes my chest ache in a way I don’t want to think about. “I told you not to ask.”

“For the record, I tried to save you from the double shot,” I remind her.

She narrows her crystal blue eyes. “No. You said, are you sure?”

Damn. Good memory. Still. “I feel like that falls under the tried-to-stop-you umbrella.”

Those eyes turn to slits. “This is not a good moment to say, ‘I told you so.’”

“You started the I-told-you-so- ing.”

“Don’t cross me today, buddy.” But she’s smiling, and so am I.

“Fine.” I drop the teasing, even though she’s so damn cute when she’s smiling. “Let’s get you something else. But whether you’re a bubbly aﬁcionado or not, no champagne, all right?”

“Fair enough,” she says, still hoarse from the scorched earth the tequila left behind. “Let’s go with something that won’t leave me gasping for air or weighed down with even more regret.”

I give her a sympathetic smile. I understand regret— and that the best move is to get the fuck past it. “What’s the least wedding-appropriate drink you can think of?” I ask, eyeing her dress and tiara. “I’m guessing keg beer or a Jell-O shot. Want one of those?”

She wrinkles what is probably the cutest nose I’ve ever seen and shakes her head. “You’re really leaning into the trashy theme here.”

“Just trying to cause some good trouble,” I say innocently.

That seems to spark her interest, and she raises a curious eyebrow. “Are you a troublemaker, Tyler?”

“Maybe I was. Back in the day,” I say.

Her lips shift in amusement. “Think you’ve still got it in you?”

“Those are ﬁghting words.” I drum my ﬁngers on the counter. “How about trouble in the form of a spicy margarita? Can you handle the heat?”

Her smile falters for just a second, as if I’d asked about more than a drink. “I don’t even know.”

Her blue eyes ﬂicker with something deeper—with uncertainty, maybe, or a vulnerability she’s trying to hide. Or possibly…interest. Since for a moment her gaze lingers on me, roams over me, like she’s trying to ﬁgure something out.

Like what she wants me to do to her tonight?

What the fuck?

That is not a thought I should be entertaining. Too bad my lust-struck mind is already running away with the image, imagining what could have been if she wasn’t wearing that damn ring. Not today, brain. Stand down.

“Let’s ﬁnd out,” I say, as I resume the role of runawaybride wingman. I change her order, and when the bartender returns with the margarita, we toast again, her with her cocktail, me with my lager, which—as Ike promised—is incredibly good.

“To the opposite of today.”

“The opposite,” she echoes, her gaze…curious. But I don’t want to read into it even though I want to read everything into it. I have ever since I ﬁrst laid eyes on her last fall when she stepped onto the ice at the Sea Dogs arena during intermission in one of our games. She performed a routine that captivated the crowd and, well, me. I watched

it from the tunnel, even though I was supposed to be in the locker room. But Sabrina was impossible to look away from. She’s impossible to look away from, too, when she coaches my kid.

She’s always worn that ring though. So I’ve kept all my secret wishes locked up tight. I still need to since she’s barely single. And I’m not the kind of guy who’d take advantage of a woman when she’s vulnerable.

“All right.” I lean toward her, waving oﬀ the ball game playing on the big screen. “Want to talk about what went down? I’ve already stopped caring about the baseball game.”

“Me too,” she says, then takes a cautious sip of her drink before nodding her approval of it. “If you’re wondering how the wedding went south, it was kind of my fault.”

I raise an eyebrow, bracing myself for her story as I lift my beer to ﬁnish it oﬀ. “How so?”

She sets the glass down and twirls it absently, her lips curving into a mischievous smile. “See, I caught my groom singing to the foster cat about how he was going to get a blow job from the maid of honor. And I thought, why not play the voicemail for everyone to start the ceremony?”

My beer freezes halfway to my mouth. “You didn’t.”

“Oh, I did.” She’s grinning now, a mix of pride and mischief lighting her face. “I had the wedding planner cue it up on the sound system, unbeknownst to her, and play it for all two hundred and ﬁfty guests. You should have seen the worry in Chad’s eyes when his own voice started echoing through the venue.”

For a second, I can’t do anything but laugh—this low, disbelieving sound that rumbles out of my chest. I’ve had my share of wild nights, but nothing quite like this. And

nothing with someone like Sabrina—gutsy, raw, and somehow still magnetic. “You’re telling me you broadcast the evidence of his inﬁdelity to everyone?”

Her answering smile is deliciously satisﬁed. I almost applaud.

“I sure did,” she says.

Then, fuck it. This woman deserves some applause for standing up for herself today. I slow clap for her—nice and deliberate, like she just nailed the long program at the Olympics.

She waves a hand as if to say stop, stop. But with real concern in her voice, she asks, “You don’t think I’m horribly selﬁsh?”

“Not in the least. Why would you even think that?”

“Because that’s what my parents said. But the thing is— it wasn’t just revenge, my playing the message. It was karma. Chad deserved every single eye on him after what he did. He’d walked down the aisle lying to me and everyone in there who showed up for us. I was just shining a light on it.”

I lock my gaze with hers, making sure she sees my eyes, knows how serious I am. “Some things call for public sharing and public shaming. Cheating at any point but especially on your wedding day? Top of the list, Sabrina. Top of the fucking list.”

Sabrina’s face lights up, and I can’t help but think— this woman is a fucking legend.

“Thanks, Tyler. I needed to hear that,” she says, her tone sweet and genuine and making my chest feel far too tight.

I ignore the sensation as I say, “And I think you need to hear this too: I believe you’ve earned a gold medal in being a total badass.”

“I accept,” she says, then dips her head, pretending to receive said prize. I mime putting it over her neck.

And wouldn’t you know? My ﬁngers graze her soft blonde strands. Her breath hitches as I touch her, and in a heartbeat, she raises her face. Her tongue darts over her bottom lip, then she sets a hand on her chest, where the medal would be. “How does it look?”

That tightness in my chest ampliﬁes, turns hotter as I hold her gaze, unable to resist saying, “Very pretty.”

The silence extends for several beats, like a note held long on a guitar.

But then it’s broken when the bartender slides the plate of nachos between us, the cheese still bubbling and jalapeños gleaming under the bar lights. “The best in Cozy Valley,” he says.

“Thanks, Ike,” I say, refocusing on the task at hand— wingmanning. Not ﬂirting. I gesture to the towering snack, thinking back to the comment she made before we ordered it. “Your mother would be scandalized.”

Sabrina grins, not missing a beat. “Good. I’m aiming for maximum scandal tonight. She’d faint at the sight of me eating ﬁnger food in my wedding dress. Especially since she nixed my chocolate chip cookie idea for the wedding.”

This woman. It’s hard to keep up with her, but I am here for the keeping up. “Explain.”

“I’d thought it would be nice to have an array of desserts at the reception—cake, ice cream cake, and chocolate chip cookies. The kind that my friend Mabel makes. They’re perfection. But that was too scandalous.” She shudders, imitating her mom, I suspect.

“We need to get you cookies soon too.”

Her eyes sparkle. “Yes! Let’s be scandalous,” she whispers, almost salaciously.

I could think of many scandalous things to do, but instead I shovel a chip, load it with guac, and oﬀer it to her. “Be scandalous, Sabrina.”

She takes it and crunches down, then moans in pleasure. “Second-best thing to happen today,” she says, after she ﬁnishes the bite.

“What’s the ﬁrst? The cat-sitter saving the day?”

She pﬀts. Pauses. Then nods toward me, that vulnerable look ﬂashing across her irises once more. “No. The company.”

I shouldn’t. Really, I shouldn’t.

But I pull my stool closer to the bar and settle in next to my daughter’s suddenly single skating coach.

What started as a simple night oﬀ has turned into something unforgettable.

THE NIGHT OF A THOUSAND CONFESSIONS

A few hours and a couple margaritas later, my sides ache from laughing harder than I have in months. The bar is warm and cozy, like the town’s name promises. The low hum of conversations and clinking glasses blends with a clever playlist that gives a comfort vibe with modern tunes.

The best part, though, is this big, sturdy man with the dark wavy hair, the trim beard that has me thinking all sorts of beard-y thoughts, and the devastating hazel eyes that sparkle with amusement as I tell him all about my wedding that wasn’t.

“I swear,” I say, trying to catch my breath, “I really tried to convince them that I should walk down the aisle to Amelia Stone’s ‘Only You.’ It was always one of my favorite songs to skate to. Plus, it’s romantic.”

Tyler raises a skeptical brow, leaning back in the stool with an easy conﬁdence. He does everything with an easy

Sabrina

conﬁdence, and I totally get why Sea Dogs fans sing “Daddy’s Home” when he hits the ice. This big, muscly man who looms menacingly over opponents also exudes a whole ‘I’ve got this’ vibe with his friends and teammates. The combo is hot—he’s deadly and you want him in your corner. And, it seems tonight, he’s in mine as he says, “Even for you, walking down the aisle to a pop song is bold.”

“It’s bold, but true. Scout’s honor.” I laugh, but there’s a warmth in his teasing that makes my chest ﬂutter. He already knows me, or at least it feels like he does. Is that just from the skating lessons with Luna? I mostly interact with her—and I’ve never really noticed him as anything other than a parent since I was engaged. Was.

I glance at the diamond solitaire on my ﬁnger. It looks like it belongs to someone else. I blink away from it and meet Tyler’s gaze again. He’s watching me intently, his focus entirely on me, as if I’m the only person in the room. A part of me wonders if I should let myself feel this so soon after walking away from everything I thought I wanted. But I rarely felt this kind of focus from Chad, and I like being in Tyler’s spotlight. Especially since it always seemed like Chad’s attention was elsewhere. Turns out it was.

Tyler’s brow arches higher, bringing me back to the conversation. “I call bullshit. You weren’t a Girl Scout.”

“How are you so certain I wasn’t a Girl Scout?”

“Girl Scouts follow the rules. You don’t.”

I tilt my head, bobbing a shoulder. “I’ll take that as a compliment. But I was a Girl Scout.”

“It is a compliment,” he says, his captivating eyes never leaving mine. For a moment, I can’t remember

why I felt like the unhappiest girl in the world today. Between the margaritas coursing through my veins and the way Tyler can’t seem to take his eyes off me, I’m the happiest.

“Okay, ﬁne,” I admit, “but I had this whole list I shared with them of the ﬁve reasons why it was a good song.”

“Five, not six?” he asks, a playful smirk shifting his lips. What would they feel like sweeping over mine?

I force the thought away. I almost said I do today. I shouldn’t think about kissing someone else—someone else with ﬁrm lush lips, a strong jaw, and a slightly crooked nose, like he’s logged a few ﬁghts on the ice.

I reroute my wandering thoughts back to…the list. “Yes! Five reasons,” I exclaim, then rattle them oﬀ—it’s romantic, unconventional, fun to dance to, more interesting to listen to than the same old tune, and it makes you feel good.

Tyler laughs even harder, the sound deep and warm. “Sabrina Snow, you are something else.”

There’s admiration in his voice, but something deeper, too—something that feels a little like desire. It’s foreign and thrilling, a spark I haven’t felt in a long time. Or...ever? I ﬂash back over my life and times with Chad, and nope, I’m pretty sure I haven’t felt this way before.

Like the world is spinning with potential and not the dread of someone else’s expectations. I lift my glass and take another sip, thinking of the details, all the endless details that had to be so perfect for my family. “I wanted to test them—my mom, Chad. Push the boundaries of what I could get away with, considering I was getting away with very little for that wedding. God, it wasn’t even my wedding. It was my mom’s,” I say as the reality of what went down today slams into me.

“And now you’re free of it,” he says ﬁrmly. “Because you had the guts to walk away.”

Tyler tells it like it is—straightforward and real—and somehow, that makes me feel more valued and appreciated in a few short hours than Chad and my parents ever did.

I drain the margarita, and as I set the glass down, the weight of the day starts to lift oﬀ me. More wedding day truths bubble to the surface. “And, to be fair, I did get my two wishes—no doves and to wear a tiara.”

“Doves?” he repeats, his brow furrowing. “Please tell me those were never actually planned.”

“I put my foot down on that one. My mother wanted to release them after the ceremony, but most doves can’t survive in the wild. They’re just for show, and it’s terrible for the animals. I told her no.”

“My daughter would love that answer.” Tyler’s fond smile says he’s so smitten with her. “She’s obsessed with learning about animals, so I’ve picked up a thing or two.”

“That’s sweet,” I say, enjoying the way he talks about Luna. He’s always listening to her wishes at her lessons. That’s not something a lot of parents do. Mine hardly ever did. They wanted more drills, more exercise, more time. “She asks me so many questions about my foster kittens when we’re skating.”

“She loves hearing about them almost as much as she loves practicing her twizzles,” he says. Then he nods to the tiara. “So that’s all you, then? The bling?”

I can’t tell if he thinks the tiara is silly, like Chad did, or if he’s asking sincerely. But then I decide he’s not the type of guy who’d think a tiara is ridiculous.

I touch the crown absently, the rhinestones cool under

my ﬁngers. “It’s not about being a princess or anything. I just like sparkly things.”

“No surprise there,” he teases.

I swat his thigh, laughing, and then freeze. My hand lingers for a second, resting against the solid, denim-clad muscle beneath it. The heat of him radiates through the fabric. The strength of him makes my mind wander, and my pulse takes oﬀ. “I’m sorry I hit your thigh.”

But I’m not really sorry. Mostly I want to touch him again. The intensity of my desire is surprising. And not unwelcome.

“I noticed,” he says, his grin widening as I remove my hand.

“And…it’s rock hard,” I say, louder than I should have.

“Thank you,” he replies, the corner of his mouth twitching in amusement.

I clear my throat, recovering quickly. “Hockey players. Strong thighs. Comes with the territory.”

“It does,” he agrees, his gaze skimming me briefly. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes—interest, maybe even desire too. “But figure skaters are no strangers to hard work either.”

“We’ll have to have a skills competition sometime,” I say.

“That so? You want to take shots on goal while I—”

“Do the camel spin,” I say impulsively, the image of him doing the pretty spin in hockey gear delighting me.

“You’re on, Snow,” he says, then oﬀers a hand for shaking.

I take it. Is it wrong that I’m a little turned on by how much better his handshake is than Fuck Chad’s? Well, if it’s wrong, I don’t want to be right.

“It’s a deal, Falcon,” I say.

He lets go of my hand, then clears his throat. Those haunting hazel eyes linger on me, like he’s working through not what to say next but whether or not to say it.

“For what it’s worth, you wear a tiara very well,” he says, a hint of something more in his tone.

The compliment is thrilling. Temptingly so. My chest heats, and I wonder if he feels this connection too.

“Thank you,” I say, warmth spreading through me, my limbs loose and melty, my inhibitions dropping. Was I ready to pledge my love to Chad today? Of course I was. Did I have some doubts in the back of my mind? Maybe. Have I been taught by my parents to ignore my doubts, ignore my feelings, ignore everything except the attainment of success? Yes.

Except…I don’t want to ignore the way I feel right now with this sexy, smoldering man I’d never ﬂirt with at work. But we’re not at work. His kids aren’t around, and I’m unexpectedly single.

And very interested in this hot single dad—his clever mouth, and soulful eyes, his big hands. What would those hands feel like coasting over my body? How would his beard feel whisking across my face, my belly, my legs?

I clench my thighs, and the questions keep coming. How would I feel if a man like him showed me…everything I’ve been missing in bed? Because I have deﬁnitely been missing, well, everything.

The margarita whispers that it’s a good idea to see if he’d like to go to my room. Then I remember I don’t have a room. After ﬁnding the rink closed, I spotted a roadside sign for a hotel and asked Rhonda to take me here. Rhonda dropped me oﬀ, giving me her card and insisting I call if I need anything, but the front desk said they were fresh out of rooms.

So, I marched into the bar, no idea what to do next.

A yawn overtakes me as the events of the day catch up all at once. “I think I need to crash,” I admit reluctantly. I don’t want this night to end, but I’m exhausted, and a little buzzed. Maybe more than a little. And now I need to ﬁnd a place to sleep too. “Today’s been…a lot.”

“Of course it has,” he agrees, standing as I do, steadying me with a warm, sure hand. His strong touch sends a shiver down my spine. “Do you need a ride somewhere?”

“I don’t even know where I’m staying tonight. I don’t want to go back to Chad’s place, and the hotel is booked. I guess I could go to a friend’s house.” There’s Leighton, and I could call her in a heartbeat. I could ring my friend Isla too. Both phoned me when I was in the Lyft, and I called them back on FaceTime together, telling them what happened after I left the ballroom. They cheered me on after the fact, which I appreciated. Rhonda cheered, too, as she drove.

“You’re not going to a friend’s house,” Tyler says ﬁrmly, and I like the certainty in his answer. Even better is when he says, “Come with me.”

His words linger between us, full of possibility. There’s a vulnerability in his gaze, like he’s taking a chance, too, as he asks for the bill and quickly settles up. We say goodnight to Ike, then leave together, heading toward the elevator, our shoulders brushing slightly.

Chills erupt down my spine. I can’t help but think this man might be everything this runaway bride needs.

And what does a bride need most on her wedding night? A real good time.

As the elevator rises, I picture Tyler unzipping my ridiculous house-of-a-dress, sliding the silly straps oﬀ my

shoulders, and shimmying this ludicrous lace down my body.

Then hissing in a hot, lusty breath when he looks at me.

When he touches me.

When he tastes me.

The desire for him wallops me—powerful, primal, and almost out of nowhere. But really, it’s been building all night. The way he listens, the easy vibe he gives oﬀ, his utter capableness. It’s hot when a man gets shit done.

With his hand on my back and his room in our crosshairs, Tyler seems like a man who can ﬁnish all sorts of jobs.

As the elevator dings on the ﬁfth ﬂoor, I whip my head toward him. “Chad was like a St. Bernard.”

He blinks. “Excuse me?”

We step oﬀ the elevator and the words ﬂow. “In bed. He was like that in bed.”

He shoots me a curious look, like he’s dying to say more but feels like he shouldn’t.

But I want to tell him. And tequila—it might burn, but mixed in Margaritaville? It loosens my lips all the way up. “He’s the only man I’ve been with. He was my ﬁrst, and I was faithful. But he went down on me like a St. Bernard,” I say as we walk along the hall.

Tyler parts his lips to speak, but it seems I’ve stunned him.

Good. I have no problem elaborating. “Sloppy. Abysmal. Like a dog.”

He swallows hard. “I…put two and two together.”

But I’m like a traveler on a plane that’s going down. And I can’t stop airing all my secrets. The things I’ve never even said to my best friends. Because who wants to admit

the truth of their tragic sex lives? “It was so bad I didn’t even fake it,” I say, unable to stop telling him tales from Bad Sex and Other Catastrophes. “Instead, I just told him it wasn’t my thing—him going down on me—so he’d stop licking me like a slobbery dog. But…I think it could be my thing. I wanted it to be my thing. Just not from him.”

Tyler scrubs a big hand along his jaw, clearly unsure how to handle me right now.

But I’m undeterred. “And then,” I barrel on, like the plane is nose-diving into a ﬁeld and I’ve got to let out all these terrible truths, “he said it was ﬁne I didn’t want him to go down on me because he didn’t like it when someone went down on him. He claimed he didn’t like blow jobs. So, it felt fair, he said.” I roll my eyes. “But, in reality, he was getting them from Madison. She’s my dad’s VP of Marketing, by the way. My dad insisted she be the maid of honor. She’s not even a friend.”

“I don’t know which of those things is worse,” Tyler mutters, then waves his room key over the lock, the door clicking open as he pushes it wide for me. He steps aside, holding the door, then tilts his head with a half-smile. “And it’s a shame there’s not a card that says ‘I’m sorry to hear about your St. Bernard ex.’ But trust me, I am.”

There’s a ﬂicker of something deeper in his eyes. Curiosity? Interest? Deﬁnitely not judgment.

“Why are you sorry to hear that?” I ask, because my mouth can’t stop moving tonight.

He hesitates, his jaw set hard, like he’s debating what to say as I step inside. “Because I bet you’d enjoy it done properly.”

I’m ignited. A ﬁre burns brightly inside me, ﬂames reaching high. “I bet I would too.”

My gaze swings to his hands. He’s clenching them into

ﬁsts, like he’s holding something back. Himself, maybe? Or is that just wishful thinking?

The door snicks shut behind us. “And the sex, Tyler,” I say, stepping deeper into the room as he follows, “was just…the same. Over and over. Like hammering.” I mime the motion. Then, for good measure, I switch to a jackrabbit gesture, pumping my hips as I turn around to meet his gaze. And I wonder what has come over me. But suddenly, everything is pouring out—details about a sex life I never really enjoyed. “He never mixed it up. Over the last year, he only wanted me on all fours, and I thought it was because it felt primal to him. But I think he wanted to pretend I was someone else.”

Tyler seethes. “He didn’t deserve to see you come.”

Pleasure zips through me. Courage too. “He was like a woodpecker. Same motion over and over. I never came,” I say, and wow, I don’t usually confess everything to anyone. But I can’t stop now. Everything is coming out tonight. “I didn’t fake it either. I just told him it wasn’t a big deal that I didn’t come.”

He growls. “It is a big deal. It’s the deal.”

My smile takes oﬀ, powered by the jet fuel of his passionate words. “I think I’d like it.”

“Coming?” It’s asked roughly. Carnally.

“Yes. I like it when I’m alone.”

“Good. You fucking should.”

“I do,” I say, breathless and tingly all over. I ache everywhere, a heavy throb that thrums in my cells, that beats like a low drum in my ears. “My solo time? I’ve enjoyed that. And I’ve spent a lot of it picturing all the things I want. So many things.”

I look at Tyler—tall and broad with muscles for days —the kind of man who could toss me onto the bed and

take me apart. And he’s listening to my every word. “Know what I mean?” I ask breathily.

“I’m following you loud and clear,” he rasps out.

He’s standing near the king-size bed, and I’m mere feet away. That won’t do.

I step closer. “Are you?”

He breathes out hard, swallows, closes his eyes for a few long seconds, then opens them with a nod. “Yeah.”

One word, and it feels like permission.

I don’t weigh the next thing. I jump headﬁrst. “And Tyler? I deﬁnitely think you could deliver them.”

His eyes are locked on mine, his chest rising and falling in slow, measured breaths.

“And I’m ready,” I say, fueled by spicy margarita bravado.

“Ready?”

“For you to take my real virginity.”

Everything goes still in the room. I can hear the June crickets chirping outside the window, the low hum of a truck rolling by, a nightingale singing.

But Tyler says nothing. He just scrubs a hand along the back of his neck while I stand here, a livewire, every nerve ﬁring, every molecule humming.

I’m electricity itself, crackling.

And he’s still a statue.

Maybe I wasn’t clear? What if I’m being too… euphemistic? Really, why should I be anything but crystal clear? “I’m a virgin to good sex. And I want good sex.” Then, I give him my best come-hither pout—lips parted slightly, one shoulder bobbing coquettishly. Look at me go! I must radiate sex appeal right now. “I’m pretty sure you could do it right. I have this whole fantasy that starts with your beard.”

His eyes ﬂicker. His lips twitch. “That’s awfully speciﬁc.”

Heat shimmers between us. I step closer. “I keep thinking about how it’d feel. I keep wondering, too, about those arms,” I say, my gaze drifting to his biceps, visible in his tight polo. “How you could pin me down. I wonder about your mouth. I think I’m obsessed with it.”

He winces, then shakes his head.

Shoot. I’ve crossed a line with a student’s dad. But then, maybe even against his better judgment, he asks, “How obsessed?”

My knees buckle. I’m hot everywhere. “I can’t stop thinking about how you might kiss me.” I take another step closer in my mismatched slides. “Everywhere.”

And I wait. This time, though, he doesn’t make me suﬀer. He closes the distance between us, lifts a big hand, and cups my cheek.

I gasp.

Dear god, the feel of his hand on me. It’s unreal. Warm and strong, everything I want. I lean into his touch, lit up from the electricity sparking between us.

He slides a thumb along my cheekbone, up and down, like he’s memorizing me. Then, one more small step, and he dips his head closer.

I sway.

I’m falling closer to him when his lips dust across my forehead.

The gasp that escapes me is both carnal and innocent, like his kiss.

Then, he lets go, scoops me up, and lays me down on the bed.

Carefully, he removes each slide, even though I could

kick them oﬀ. He drops one more kiss to my forehead and says, “I’ll be right back.”

His footsteps grow quieter, the door clicks shut, and I squirm, relishing in all these delicious sensations zipping through my body.

I should take oﬀ this dress.

I should get ready for his return.

He’s probably getting a condom.

He’ll come back, fuck me senseless, and serve me breakfast in the morning.

I stretch like a cat as I picture the rest of the night.

Until the day ﬂoats before my eyes—a song, a fast ride in a car, a forbidden snack, a caring man.

And a very soft pillow for my tired mind.

GIVE OR TAKE THE BLOWTORCH

The funny thing about a dull throb is it still hurts like a motherfucker. Sunlight spills through the curtains—too bright, too soon, and like a hammer to my head. My dress is twisted around my waist, the delicate fabric going every which way, including down my chest.

Great. I’m ﬂashing the top of my boobs at…I pause, listening. Nothing but silence.

Okay, so I’m ﬂashing my boobs at myself. Wonderful. I grab the bodice and wiggle it back up when I remember —my tiara. I reach for it, but it’s not tangled in my mess of hair or tossed onto a pillow. My French twist is askew too. I peer around, but the tiara’s nowhere in sight. I sigh, regret slamming over me, hard and sharp. The tiara was the only thing I truly wanted to keep from last night. It’s probably on the ﬂoor somewhere, tangled up with my dignity.

Sabrina

My mouth tastes like mistakes as I push myself up, the rustle of this awful tulle dress ﬁlling the quiet room. Too quiet.

Hmm. Where’s Tyler? Did he stay? Did we…oh god, did I…?

The memory hits me like a slap.

The last thing I remember is Tyler kissing my forehead and saying he’d be right back. To get a condom, I thought. Or at least, I’d hoped. I was half-drunk, fully committed, and one hundred ten percent ready for the hot dad to make all my fantasies come true. And then… nothing. I conked out.

I groan, dropping back onto the bed, the tulle of the skirt rustling like a soundtrack to my humiliation. He must’ve come back to ﬁnd me passed out cold, mouth open, probably snoring, and still dressed like a fairy-tale disaster.

Ugh. I didn’t radiate sex appeal last night. I radiated Weird Barbie making rude sex eyes in a garish dress.

When I sit up, the dull throb in my head jeers How do you like me now? I wince but then spot a glass of water on the nightstand and a little silver dish with three ibuprofen in it. My throat tightens with unexpected emotion. It’s such a thoughtful touch that I want to cry for reasons I can’t even explain.

I down the pills with a gulp of water, grateful for small mercies. A neatly folded note sits beside the glass, but before I can reach for it, there’s a knock at the door.

A ﬂare of tension rushes through me. It has to be Tyler. I don’t think we screwed last night, but did we…this morning? For a few seconds, my hormones dance a jig. Oh, I hope he fucked me really good. But when I glance down at the sea of lace and tulle—and feel my panties still

ﬁrmly in place—I’m pretty sure nothing came oﬀ last night or this morning.

Damn shame.

I shuﬄe to the door, past his suitcase, bracing myself to face him and his understandable rejection of me. Peeking through the peephole, I see…room service? I crack the door open just enough to avoid inﬂicting my dragon breath on the unsuspecting server.

“Sorry, I didn’t order room service,” I mumble.

“Mr. Falcon did,” the server says brightly. “He asked for it to be brought to you around ten a.m. and to be left outside the door if you didn’t answer. But here you are.”

He wheels the cart in and sets the tray on the desk. The spread is ridiculous: a bread basket with toast and scones, plus fruit, coﬀee, and condiments.

I try to muster some decorum, but the embarrassment is real. Do I tip him? With my own money? On Tyler’s room?

“Uh, can I tip you with…Venmo?” I ask since that’s all I’ve got.

The server shakes his head, smiling. “No need. Everything has been taken care of by Mr. Falcon. Please enjoy.”

He slips out, leaving me alone in Tyler’s room once again. My stomach growls. Apparently, eating is a good idea. I grab a piece of toast and take a bite, moaning softly. Heaven.

Thank you, Mr. Falcon.

As I devour another bite, something shiny catches my eye across the room. There it is—my tiara—sitting neatly on the small couch, placed atop a royal blue Sea Dogs hoodie. Setting down the toast, I pick up the tiara, then the hoodie, feeling warm all over when I spot what’s beneath it: a pair of leggings, tags still attached. They’re

clearly from the hotel gift shop. Pretty damn close to my size.

The thoughtfulness of it all makes my chest ache. Who does this? Nobody—not for me, at least. Not when I’ve actually needed it. And now here’s Tyler, being…well, perfect. And what did I do? I threw myself at him.

Smooth move, Sabrina. I press my hands to my face, cringing as last night’s greatest hits ﬂood back: public oversharing, drunk rambling, and—oh, yes—confessing every single one of my sex fantasies to the hot dad of one of my students.

He’ll probably ﬁre me. Yup. I bet that’s what the note’s about. A polite, thanks, but your services are no longer needed. Of course, he’d do it nicely. While serving me breakfast.

With dread swirling in me, I grab the note from the nightstand and unfold it.

You deserve more than St. Bernards, sloppy kisses, and a guy who holds you back. You deserve someone who lets you shine. Glad you left him. Never second-guess that choice.

Just so you know, you conked out before I returned with your leggings. Figured you’d need something to wear today— you probably wouldn’t want to wear that dress again. There’s a hotel laundry bag for it, and I left toothpaste and a toothbrush on the sink.

Keep that tiara, Sabrina. It’s legend, like you.

I’ve got an early tee time, so I probably won’t see you. I arranged for a late checkout so stay as long as you need.

Oh, and in case you’re wondering, nothing happened last night. I promise. I slept on the couch. —T

My throat tightens, and the dam breaks. This time, the tears are heavy, born of small acts of kindness rather than heartbreak. Despite the ache in my head, I feel… cared for. It’s a new feeling, but one I don’t dare get used to.

This isn’t how my world works. I shimmy out of the dress, take a quick shower, brush my teeth, and pull on the fresh clothes. I turn my chin to my shoulder and inhale the hoodie, sneaking a hit of Tyler Falcon. He smells like woodsmoke—a cabin in the forest, guiding me home after a long, snowy trek.

I almost, almost, want to stay and thank him in person. Instead, I grab a fork, stab a few blueberries, savor the tang of the fruit, then take a bite of a buttery scone, hearing my therapist’s voice telling me it’s okay to enjoy life’s small pleasures, even if they aren’t on your to-do list.

It feels a tiny bit wrong to enjoy anything today after yesterday’s disasters, but I’ve spent a long time learning how to savor little things. The race of my heart when I see a frozen lake, the taste of melting caramel, the warm sun on my shoulders when I’m outside in the garden in the summer. They all add up to free time. Something I was never encouraged to enjoy growing up.

I take one more bite, since that’s all I truly want this taste of free time, in a way then leave the rest on the plate.

Before I go though—and I really should take oﬀ before he returns—I jot a note:

I can’t thank you enough for being such a gentleman. Also, I

love minty toothpaste, so thank you for that too. And everything.

-Sabrina

I place the note on top of his suitcase, then leave the room, ready to face the shambles that is my life when a notiﬁcation pings on my phone for my next skating lesson with Luna Falcon. I gulp. The day after I was supposed to return from my honeymoon. Now it’ll just be a random weekday one where I have to see the man I threw myself at.

I guess I’ve oﬃcially entered my hot mess phase.

Rhonda comes to the rescue, as advertised. I’m overcome with gratitude when she pulls up outside the Cozy Valley Inn in her black Prius, pineapple-shaped air freshener dangling from the rearview mirror.

She leans across, shoves the passenger door open, and grins up at me. “Tell me everything.”

Her white hair blends seamlessly with her pale complexion, and there’s a grandmotherly vibe about her —if grandmothers wore purple sweatshirts featuring a cat riding a unicorn and brandishing a lightsaber. Below the graphic, it reads: Here I Come to Save the Day.

“Where do I even start?” I buckle my seatbelt and sigh. “Ever blowtorched your life and then woken up with a headache, no place to live, and the realization that you don’t make enough money to pay rent?”

She ﬂashes me a smile. “Honey, you just described half of America—give or take the blowtorch.”

Her can-do spirit draws out a laugh I didn’t know I had in me. “Well, let’s just say I’m in the half with the blowtorch. I need to get my act together. Not only did I run away from a wedding where I was nearly gaslit into marrying a cheater, I was ﬁred by my family and capped oﬀ the night by hitting on the hot dad of one of my skating students.”

“Ooh, how hot?” she teases, pulling onto the winding road toward San Francisco. “Don’t leave out a single thing.”

I don’t hold back. I describe Tyler in excruciatingly delicious detail—from his rugged beard to his full lips to those piercing eyes that just…undo me.

“I think you need to bang him,” Rhonda declares matter-of-factly, “so I can live vicariously through you.”

“Yeah?”

“Oh, yes. Please, for all of us. Ride that hot daddy and then tell me everything.” She sighs happily as she switches lanes. “I wouldn’t mind ﬁnding a sexy pool boy myself.”

Her playful honesty is refreshing, but she quickly shifts gears. “Now, what’s next? You need a plan.”

“I do.” I tell her about the foster kitten I need to pick up. “Are you okay with a kitten in the car?”

She scoﬀs, giving me a look that suggests I’ve said something absurd. “Did you see my shirt?”

“Scratch that. Of course you don’t mind.”

A few minutes later, we pull up to the cat-sitter’s house in Sausalito, a few miles away from where I lived recently with Fuck Chad. I’ll need to get my things from his place and have someone bring my things from the hotel in

9781405989718

THE OVERTIME KISS

THE OVERTIME KISS

LAUREN BLAKELY

PENGUIN BOOKS

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