Page 117 of The Wife Situation

“Excuse me?” Easton’s brows furrow.

“Oh, yeah. He didn’t tell you?” I squeeze Easton’s hand. “I also learned he’s your cousin and a dickwad, like you.”

Laughter falls from Easton’s perfect lips and he grins. “And what else did he share with you?”

Brody chuckles, but doesn’t say anything.

“That was about it.”

I don’t mention anything else we discussed. It will be our secret.

The driver climbs in, and we exit the airport.

I glance at Easton as we leave.

“I still expect the answer to my question in two days. I haven’t forgotten, my little heartbreaker,” he says.

I’m brought back to being in the tent, when he asked me if I was genuinely anti-love.

Right now, I don’t know.

The answer should beyes, without hesitation.

However, this man has somehow burrowed himself under my skin and is swimming through my blood like poison, destroying all my opinions about love.

“Kinda feels like we’re counting down to the new year,” I say.

“In a way, we are.”

“So, today is your lucky number day?”

He nods. “Yep. Thirteen.”

“Should I expect a cheeseburger and a breakup text soon?”

Brody coughs to cover up his laughter.

Of course he knows.

He’s probably witnessed each time Easton ate alone at Frankie’s.

“Still to be determined,” Easton says, smirking.

I playfully roll my eyes.

We drive several hours to Valentine, and Easton is on his phone the entire time.

It’s late afternoon, and most shops on Main Street are still open. In the summer, they usually stay open later, thanks to the tourists who frequent Big Bend National Park and the observatory on Mount Locke. Things slow down in the winter, except in December, when the town transforms into a place one would find in a snow globe.

As we pass the bookstore, newspaper office, diner, and grocery store, heads turn. Maybe the SUV is too much.

“Fuck,” Easton whispers, focusing out the front windshield. “Paps are already here.”

Only then do I see them with the long-lens cameras, like they were waiting for us. I dip down in my seat, not allowing them to take a photo of me from the front windshield.

“I’m sorry,” Easton whispers.

“It comes with the territory,” I say, smiling. “No worries.”

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