Page 81 of Sex, Lies, and Margarita Mixes

The wedding starts thirty minutes late but is flawless.

The mariachi band plays. The bride glows as she floats down the aisle. The groom cries and mouths, “Thank you.”

The cake arrives intact. The DJ doesn’t play the Chicken Dance. And all guests are having a blast… at a Thursday night wedding.

By 10PM, I’m barefoot, sipping champagne, and watching the couple’s last slow dance under fairy lights before this shindig wraps up. It’s a weeknight.

Chase finds me leaning against the bar and slides an arm around my waist, pulling me into his side. “You did it.”

I lean into him. “I did, didn’t I?”

He kisses the side of my neck. “I’m proud of you.”

I tiredly smile up at him. “Thanks, baby.”

He pulls me closer. “Dance with me.”

“I smell like hairspray and stress and I’m technically working.”

He shrugs. “Still the prettiest girl in the room and you’re taking a break to dance with your hot husband.”

Melting, I let him lead me onto the dance floor because sometimes… the high-stakes bride isn’t the one in white. Sometimes it’s the woman in a headset with a clipboard and a dream.

And tonight… she wins.

CHAPTER 17

THE EX RETURNS… AGAIN

ROXY

* * *

There’s something about a Tuesday morning email labeled “Heads up” that sets off every alarm in my brain.

Especially when it’s from Mari Lynn and includes a screenshot… of Holden. At a bridal expo. Giving an interview.

“Exclusive: Entrepreneur Holden Marks to Launch All Inclusive Wedding Planning Company.”

Choking on my coffee, I spray my phone. “Oh, hell no.”

Chase glances up from where he’s scrolling through food truck supply invoices. “What’s wrong, babe?”

I flip the laptop toward him. “This motherfu?—.”

He squints at the screen and says, “That’s… Holden. What the hell?”

“The one and only.” I flop onto the couch. “God, he’s like a cockroach. You can burn the whole damn building down and he’s still scuttling around with a smug smile.”

Chase laughs. “You’re feeling spicy this morning.”

“I’m feeling homicidal.” I snap.

“You should have thrown the chair.” He smirks.

I narrow my eyes. “I should have thrown the damn chair.’”

He shrugs. “You’d have looked so hot in prison orange.”

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