Page 63 of Sex, Lies, and Margarita Mixes

My husband and I have crawled through the ashes and still fucked on a kitchen counter after he made me freaking comfort banana bread.

I care about love.

Too much. Especially with Chase.

Bridezilla better check her damn parachute because I’m about to throw her ass straight out of the plane.

Chase sees it in my face, the shift from self-pity to vengeance.

I watch his smile spread as my fury increases.

He backs away with his hands up like he’s witnessing a live possession. “I’ll order more nachos.”

An hour later, I’ve had a pow-wow over video call with Mari Lynn and gone over my plan. She is one-hundred percent on board. I’ve drafted a blog post and sent it over to her to revise as needed. I’ve rebranded our services and bought a new domain name. And I’ve called the wedding boutique up the street and asked them to send me a wedding dress over for an hour or so that I can record in with the intention of uploading a scheduled spicy little “statement reel” for tomorrow morning that includes me in the wedding gown holding a margarita with the caption, “Still believe in love. Just don’t believe in bullshit.” Then, I send an email to the bride’s PR rep.

It’s concise. Professional. Savage in a bless your heart you don’t want to fuck with me way.

“This is a legal heads-up and a gentle reminder that I can plan a six-figure wedding in twenty-four hours and book a podcast, seven interviews, and call in favors in less than twenty minutes. My lawyer is ready. Is yours?”

Chase walks in just as I hit send. “Fixed it? Feeling good?” he asks.

I stand, strut over to him, and kiss his jaw while looping my arms around his neck, “Fixed me. And real good.”

I’m ready to title this new chapter of my life.

Reinvention.

No failure. No retreat. No meltdowns.

I’ll leave that to Bridezilla.

CHAPTER 11

DAMAGE CONTROL AND “THE DRESS”

ROXY

* * *

The dress arrives in a giant garment bag. I take a photo of it and send it to Mari Lynn.

She texts me back almost immediately.

Mari Lynn

Babe, this dress is giving ‘runaway bride who’s packing tequila and bad decisions under the tulle.’

Use it wisely.

I snort as I read it and stare at the dress.

It really is something.

It’s a strapless ballgown covered in subtle sequins and delicate embroidery that’s practically screaming for a wind machine and a slow-motion twirl. The bodice is snatched tighter than my sanity, the skirt poofs out like a luxury dessert cart, and the whole thing smells faintly of vanilla and sass.

It’s perfect.

Chase whistles low behind me. “Well damn, Mrs. West.”

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