Page 4 of Sex, Lies, and Margarita Mixes

Dude, you had sex with her two days ago.

She growls deep in her throat. It could be arousal, or rage. It’s probably both.

I’m counting on both.

Everyone wins with that scenario.

“You booked a couples retreat,” she says, voice flat. “We’re separated. I kicked you out. I even changed the locks.”

Nonchalantly flipping a pancake, I reply, “We’re not. But yes, you did. And yes, I’m aware.” I watch her as I man the stove.

She exhales. “Without telling me.” Her voice is dangerously calm.

She’s either about to beat me with her shoe or shove me into the wall and drop to her knees in front of me. With her, it’s a coin toss.

“Yup.” I’m calm, too.

“With other couples.”

I nod. “Correct again.”

Her perfectly microbladed brows raise and her flame red lips purse. “Do they think I invited them?”

I shrug, grin, and roll onto my heels. My calves flex. Her eyes follow and I see her breathing accelerate. “You’re very persuasive over text, baby. Oh, Mari Lynn and Knox are still filming, so they won’t be here. They send their love.”

She exhales rapidly and lunges for the syrup bottle like she might pour it over my head.

I brace myself—not to dodge, but to enjoy it.

She hesitates.

She knows I’d turn it into foreplay, and she’d willingly and vocally participate.

So instead, she slams it on the counter and snaps, “You’re sleeping on the patio.”

I lean in, close enough to kiss her if I wanted to, which I do, but I won’t. She freezes and her nipples bead under the thin fabric of her bikini top. I drink it in but simply say, “That where we’re keeping the whipped cream this time?”

She blinks and her cheeks flood with color. Turning on her heel, she walks away without responding. I watch her hips sway and glance down, talking to my raging hard-on. “No worries, it’s coming.” Whistling, I remove the pancakes from the griddle, set them on the plate, and pour more batter on.

Score one for the shirtless menace.

There’s a note in my bag.

“She’s coming. Don’t be an idiot.”

I wrote it last night, in my not great penmanship on one of her fancy Post-its, with one of the glitter pens that was still in my bag from our last trip. Her glitter pens.

People think Roxy and I rushed into marriage.

We did. But we rushed in the way a thunderstorm rushes a bonfire—loud, bright, and inevitable. It wasn’t planned.

There were no actual rings exchanged. None of our family was there. There was no officiant who asked us to “pause and reflect.” Just an Elvis-impersonator-preacher in Vegas in a rhinestone blazer and a twenty-four-hour chapel that smelled like insanity, possible regret, and fresh lilies.

I haven’t regretted it for a single second. It’s still the best decision I’ve ever made.

Sitting on the back patio, looking out over the waves crashing onto the shore, I remember.

We were three weeks into an ongoing one-night stand that just kept extending itself. Two hot messes, one of whom didn’t own measuring cups or emotional boundaries. She was wearing a gold dress that looked like it had been airbrushed onto her body. I was wearing a black button-down she later confessed made her want to “ruin a man’s credit score.” We were drunk and sharing a thirty-dollar burger the size of a toddler in a casino that looked like Italy and even had gondola rides inside.

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