Page 49

Marley

I f I had to rank my worst decisions ever, sleeping with Frasier in Tunisia would still be number one.

Right above “cutting my own bangs during a sandstorm” and “pretending to be a documentary filmmaker to sneak into cartel territory.” Not the actual things we did, I’ll never forget those hot steamy nights. It’s because he’s from Fraiser Mountain.

To be fair, I didn’t know Frasier lived on Frasier Mountain.

I thought it was a name. Like Huck Frasier…

. Cool guy. Broad shoulders. Terrible with shirts.

Three nights in a five-star hotel with a view of the Sahara.

We never told each other our names. That made it even more naughty, and believe me it was naughty.

It was supposed to be one night and done, but that turned into three nights and done. Very little talking, if any, and neither of us wanted it to end.

No strings. No names. No awkward next mornings where he made coffee shirtless and asked if I liked dogs.

Fast forward to now, and guess what?

He lives here.

On this mountain. Where my twin sister lives.

With a dog, named Hank. And a cabin. And a body that still ruins my focus when I’m trying to yell at him.

Which I’ve done. Twice. Okay, three times.

The first time I saw him at Axel and Lark’s wedding, I nearly dropped the wine bottle I was carrying. ‘Damn he’s hot.’ He looked smug. I looked horrified, realizing I said that out loud. He said, “Nice dress.” he said, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

And now… I’m stuck.

I’m here for a few weeks—maybe longer—because apparently I need “rest,” “recovery,” and “time to process the cartel situation.” According to Lark, I’ve “earned a break.”

According to me, I’ve earned a stiff drink and a punching bag.

Preferably shaped like Frasier.

And the worst part?

The mountain’s big, but not big enough for both of us.