Page 3 of Her Candy Cane Cowboy
Frantically scrolling through my phone, trying to figure out where my groom was, I’d found the truth. The ugly, devasting truth.
Even now, the memories are too raw. How could someone who professed to love me gut me that way?
Time, as they say, heals all wounds. But the bullshit flip side of that saying is when time rips them open again. It’s when your ex returns to town with the woman he left you for. In my case, that woman is, correction, was my best friend.
After what he did to me and with that photo…that photo followed by comments from online strangers, then the memes…my heart clenches from remembered pain.
All I wanted to do was run away when I recently learned he was back in my town. So, I did. For now, I need distance to think. Distance to brace myself, to shore up enough to handle a fresh cycle of pain.
My head starts pounding because I skipped my coffee this morning. Needing that caffeine fix before meeting Mary, I park the car across from a coffee shop and get out.
A man walks by me on the sidewalk, calling out a friendly greeting as he leads a golden retriever on a leash. The dog is wearing a brown headband with reindeer antlers and trotting along like he’s the happiest animal in the world.
In the past, I probably would have laughed thinking it was cute and festive. Now I just wish the holiday would go away.
I cross the street and walk into the coffee shop, inhaling the delicious aromas. It looks like a lot of people had the same idea. The line snakes halfway between the door and counter.
While I’m waiting for my turn, I do my best to ignore the holiday song about sleigh bells that’s playing. A couple of smiling middle-aged women at a table sing the chorus together, miss a few words, then laugh.
I can’t recall the last time I was able to go out and relax with anyone. There was too much gossip. Too much pity over what happened to me.
My dad had pointed that out. Right before I’d left home to fly here, he’d patted my back and told me everyone meant well, and then said everything was going to be okay.
He’s another reason it hurt so much to get jilted. My dad had taken on extra plumbing jobs and sacrificed to pay for the non-refundable honeymoon I didn’t get to take. He’d worked long hours for the flowers and the photographer. He’d paid the booking fee where the ceremony was held. He’d even shelled out for dancing lessons for our father daughter dance and was so proud of how beautifully everything came together.
That day, when he’d realized what was going on, he’d vowed to hunt down my ex. Then he’d quickly ushered me away back to our little brick home on the tree-lined street where I’d grown up.
Later on the night of my supposed wedding day, I’d gotten out of bed to get a drink of water.
I passed by the living room and heard him talking to my late mother’s photograph. “That jerk hurt our daughter’s heart.” He’d hugged the picture frame, and cried while whispering, “Our precious girl.”
I blink back tears as the young woman in front of me finishes placing her order, then moves off to the side. I reach the counter and choose my favorite. A crème brulee with whipped cream and sprinkled sugar on top.
The total displays on the debit card machine and I pat my pockets for my card. Nothing.
“I’m sorry,” I tell the employee and the rest of the customers waiting in line behind me. “I must have left my card in the car.” I turn to leave but at the door bump into the big cowboy from the post office. My hand connects with his broad, rock solid chest and rests there before I step back.
“I’ve got you, honey. My treat,” he says, with that same wickedly delighted smile on his face that he had earlier. He puts his large hand on my back and ushers me to the counter again where he presents his own card.
Heat and awareness explodes through me from his touch and I stiffen, shifting away. That touch feels like a complication.
Part of me wants to hold onto my dislike of him and tell him I don’t want his good deed. But the other part, my caffeine addiction that’s desperate enough at the moment to lick coffee grounds off the floor, won’t let me refuse.
He pays and then we leave the line to wait while the drink is made. It’s awkward. How do you make small talk with a guy who had a dildo in a box while wondering what the hell he was doing with it in the first place?
“It was a gift from a friend,” he says like he can read my thoughts.
“Mmm.” I raise my eyebrows.
“It’s a gag gift,” he explains further and leans closer, so close I can see he has long eyelashes. “But I meant what I said. If you really need it, you can have it.”
My heart thumps as the woodsy, masculine scent of his cologne hits me. “Number one, I don’t need your dildo and number two, I don’t need anything else you have.” I hate that I sound like an outraged virgin spinster.
“Give me a chance, darlin’ and I can prove you wrong on both counts.” His eyes crinkle when he smiles, making his handsome face even more attractive.
Heat crawls up my neck. Wary that someone might overhear our conversation, I lower my voice and speak through my teeth. “I’m the last woman you’ll ever get with.”
“That’s exactly the way I want it. Just you, darlin, with no end of us in sight. All night long. Forever.”
