Page 62 of Sex, Lies, and Margarita Mixes

She looks up at me. “Doing what?”

“Self-destructing because of someone else’s fire. You did your job. I remember this one. So, what she just posted is defamation. That’s not on you… or your business.”

She laughs, her voice cracks halfway through it. “This is bad. Its public image. She could—she could tank everything, Chase. It doesn’t matter that I did my job… public perception can make or break a business like ours. Mari Lynn trusted me with this when she went to L.A. with Knox. She left the business in my hands. We talked about this bitch. She said it was my call. I knew I should have cancelled the contract. But it was so big… if this snowballs, I’m done. We’re done. Everything we’ve worked for… all of the years we’ve dedicated. No one’s gonna book the emotionally unstable, dramatic wedding planner who broke her ex’s jaw and who’s been trying to divorce the man she loves since the second they got married because she’s a mess.”

I cross the room and take her face in my hands. “You are not done. We are not divorced. Yes, you are dramatic and a little bit—okay, a whole lot of— crazy, Roxy. But you’re also a very competent and amazing event planner that has handed so many people the wedding and event of their dreams. So, here’s our play… we contact those clients and let them tell thier experiences. We hit fire with bigger fire. You are a fucking phoenix in red lipstick, Roxy West. You don’t curl up and die—you burn brighter and rise the fuck from the ashes.”

She blinks, eyes watery. One side of her mouth lifts. “And you say I’m dramatic.”

“You’re dramatic as hell. I’ve learned from the best over these past three and a half years.”

She chuckles, “Tell me more.”

I grin, “You’re chaos in stilettos with perfect tits and an ass I want to bite like a ripe peach. I’d burn the world down for you, baby. And then, I’d build you a castle from the rubble.”

That was pretty fucking romantic.

But it’s true. I would.

She exhales and shakes her head, “God, I love you.” Then, she kisses me so hard I forget the name of this weirdly almost perfect town.

Leading me to the bed, she shoves me backwards and climbs onto my lap, discarding both of our clothes in a matter of seconds. Then, I let her have her way, take what she needs, and reclaim her power. Her climax triggers mine. We shudder in unison amid pink ruffled sheets and red drapes.

“I’ve got you,” I whisper, smoothing her sweaty hair from her temples as she wraps her arms around my neck and melts into me.

Once she’s calm, I order room service nachos and open my laptop. “We’re gonna fix it. Together.”

She looks at me, then at the computer. “I fucking love you, Chase.”

I know. But I sure do love having you say it so easily now.

Finally.

ROXY

* * *

There’s something about nachos in bed and a man who worships your trauma that makes you forget all about why you ever wanted to run.

I sip my soda, crack my knuckles, and log into the business account email for the first time in over a week.

It’s chaos. Client messages—most of them wanting to do exactly what Chase recommended, give their testimonials. Blog and social media mentions. And a request for a podcast interview titled, “Social Media Mania and the Rise of Bridezillas.”

I snort. Chase leans over my shoulder and reads it. “You should do it.”

I grin. “Only if I get to wear my big red sunglasses and say ‘trauma is trending.’”

I open the viral video and watch it again with fresh eyes. It’s worse than I thought. But… not on me.

A bride is melting down mid-reception—screaming about tablecloth colors and gluten and how I continuously “abandoned her when she needed me for a shirtless man with tattoos in sweatpants.” She knocks over catering staff. Then, assaults the caterer with her bouquet. Her groom and his groomsmen try to calm her tantrum, and she kicks two of them in the face and gives her new husband a fat lip and a black eye.

But what really pisses me off is when she looks dead at the camera and says that I, me, as in me personally, “don’t care about love.”

Bitch what?

What the fuck do you know about me?

I have survived love. I’ve resuscitated it after trying to break it. I’ve lit love on fire. Literally and figuratively.

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