Page 1 of Special Delivery Cowboy
Chapter One
Tinsley
The SkinnyMe Supreme Shake was trying to murder me from the inside out.
Which, considering I was about to walk in on my boyfriend screwing my neighbor, was really saying something.
I'd chugged the chalky strawberry substitute for dinner last night—because apparently, actual food was too many calories for the "engagement photos" I was convinced were coming this Christmas. By morning, my stomach was staging a full revolt.
But I had the Dental Hygienist certification course at the Bozeman Convention Center. Already paid for. Credits I needed for my boards. So I forced down some dry toast, grabbed my materials, and dragged myself out the door by seven-thirty on this December 23rd morning.
Grayson was still asleep when I left. I kissed his forehead like an idiot and whispered that I'd see him tonight before we left for our romantic Christmas getaway tomorrow.
The getaway where he'd definitely, absolutely, one hundred percent propose.
Right.
By eleven, I was sweating through my blouse in a bathroom stall, seriously reconsidering every life choice that had led to this moment. Two hundred dental professionals and one industrial-strength air freshener later, I admitted defeat. I texted the coordinator that I was sick and needed to leave.
The twenty-five-minute drive home was torture. Windows down in December cold, willing myself not to throw up in my car, thinking about how Grayson would take care of me when he got home from work at his busy dental practice. Get me ginger ale and crackers. Let me rest.
I should've known better than to expect basic human decency from a man who'd spent the past six months calling me "fluffy."
His car was in the parking lot when I pulled in.
Weird.
His schedule had been packed solid when I'd checked it two days ago—back-to-back crowns and a difficult extraction. Maybe he'd come home for lunch?
I dragged myself upstairs, fumbled with my keys, and pushed open the door to my apartment.
Music was playing. Jazz. I definitely hadn't left that on.
Then I heard them.
Rhythmic. Unmistakable. Definitely not a workout app.
For one blessed, naive second, I thought maybe I was hallucinating from food poisoning.
Then I heard Flossie's fake-ass porn-star moan.
Flossie Meadow. The neighbor from two doors down. The one with the platinum extensions and acrylic nails that could double as weapons. The one who did Botox injections for wealthy ski tourists and acted like she was God's gift to Montana.
I dropped my bag on the kitchen counter and walked to my bedroom on autopilot.
The door was half open.
I pushed it wider.
Grayson was in my bed. Our bed. My bed, technically, since my name was on the lease. And he was enthusiastically entertaining Flossie, whose extensions were spread across my pillows like a bad blonde wig explosion.
They didn't notice me at first.
I made a noise—something between a laugh and a gag—and Grayson's head whipped around so fast I almost hoped he'd pull something.
"Tinsley!" His eyes went cartoon-character wide. "This isn't—I can explain—"
"Get out."
