Page 27 of Sex, Lies, and Margarita Mixes

I sigh. “I don’t know what I’m doing, Mari Lynn.”

She laughs breezily. “Yes, you do. You’re just scared.”

“I’ve never been scared of Chase.” I feel my brows furrow.

Chase would never hurt me.

“Not of him, babe. Of what it means to want him. To trust it. To let go of the fear and the hurt you’re punishing him with, that he’s not responsible for.”

Well, fuck me.

She always knows.

I don’t respond right away.

So, she softens again. That switch she’s so good at—between bestie savage and heart therapist. “I know it’s scary. But he’s still here, after all of your bullshit over the years, he’s still with you, isn’t he?”

I nod though she cannot see me. “Yeah, he is.”

“And probably still shirtless.” She teases.

“Tragically.” I chuckle.

“That man knows your weakness. Does he still have your back, put up with your shit, and make you laugh?” I hear the smile in her voice.

“He does indeed still make me completely fucking stupid.” I mutter.

She sighs and her tone sobers as she says, “Then, maybe it’s time you stop running, Roxy. Kick off your wedges, dig your toes into the sand, or the sheets, and let him love you.”

It gets quiet again.

Finally, she says, “Look, I need to get back on set. Knox is probably thinking I’ve stolen a sounds stage golf cart by now and I’m being corralled by security. You’re allowed to want him, Rox. You’re allowed to forgive yourself. And you’re allowed to write a second chapter.”

I blink fast, trying to stem the tears that are free-falling down my cheeks.

“Okay,” I whisper.

She hears the wobble and says, “Okay.” And then—classic Mari Lynn style—she adds, “Also, if you don’t sit on that man’s face soon, someone else will certainly try to. Your husband is fine as fuck and he’s a good man. He’s like perfect.”

“Bitch. I will cut you.” I snarl.

She laughs again, “I don’t want your man. I have one of my own. But someone else will want your man. I say it with love, babe. But I really have to go. Love you.”

As I end the call, I look at the notebook again, take a deep breath, and head for couple’s yoga. I’m cutting it close.

I unroll my mat with the intensity of someone preparing for mortal combat. The eucalyptus scent wafting off it pisses me off.

The whole deck is decorated like a Pinterest dream: string lights, wind chimes, tiny bowls of crystal infused water next to each mat like we’re all about to get baptized in cucumber and lemon balm.

Chase is already stretching. He’s shirtless. His grey sweat shorts are riding criminally low on his chiseled hips, drawing my gaze to his “v” and his muscled ass. His tattooed back is arched. His colorfully decorated arms are flexed with the veins popping out, begging me to trace them with my tongue. And then, the bastard moans—like it’s nothing.

He’s determined to cause my premature spiritual death.

“Good morning, everyone,” Sasha chirps, too chipper for a woman holding a 10AM soul excavation.

“We’re going to focus on openness today.”

Great.

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