Page 2 of Bouquets and Buckles

If I didn’t know any better…

Oh god.

That’s when the entire damn script flips right before my disbelieving eyes.

The reason his hand is doing something becomes apparent. Dumping realization on me, cold and brutally sudden, like a slab of snow falling off the roof.

It’s fisted in some bitch’s hair.

Her glossy blonde head comes into view as he drags her to stand up.

She’s been down there on her knees.

Jesus. This fucking asshole has got some other girl blowing him in the kitchen.

On Christmas Eve, no less.

My chest goes numb, and I stumble backward, still not wanting to believe the cock-sucking evidence right in front of me.

And that’s when he shoves his tongue in her mouth.

Chapter 2

My toes and the balls of my feet don’t have any sensation left in them. Neither do my fingers.

Neither does the cavity left hollowed out inside my chest.

Fumbling in my jacket pocket for my keys, I’m like a shadow in the night, disappearing back toward my car as fast as I can fucking move.

Humiliation has kicked my heart out into the snow, leaving it to freeze amongst the rows of illuminated reindeer and gaudy candy canes.

The backs of my eyes sting, and I’m about two seconds from bursting into a torrent of ugly, snotty tears.

What a piece of shit.

Is there a worse way to spend your Christmas than discovering by accident that your boyfriend has been fucking around behind your back?

As I dash across the curb to reach the driver’s door and get myself the hell out of here, I nearly collapse at the sight before me.

Oh my fucking god. Not right now. No, please, no.

The front tire on my car is as deflated as my stomped-on little heart. Sitting flaccid and drooped, helpfully lit up for me to see that I cannot possibly drive away from here by the array of red flashing Christmas lights on the fence of the house I parked in front of.

That’s the moment the waterworks erupt.

Fuck this. Fuck it all. Fuck Jere and whatever slut he’s been secretly banging down here in Crimson Ridge every time he needed to come and ‘house sit,’ … which, now that I think about it, was a lot.

Ugh. I’m so tired and can’t even process what the hell I’ve done to deserve a night like this.

With fat tears rolling down my cheeks, I slide into the driver’s seat and grab my cell. Stabbing at my contacts list, I know Brad will save my ass. He’ll come rescue me, cuddle me, and let me watch a rom-com marathon while bundled under a blanket on his sofa. If there is any man I can count on to have enough booze and ice cream to drown my every last sorrow through the duration of the holidays, it’s him.

Bradford Rhodes will also know how to change a tire because he was raised on a ranch, and as much as I’d love to claim to beMiss Independent, I simply do not.

My knee bounces. The phone rings several times. Just when I think he’s not going to pick up, to my relief, the line connects.

I don’t even wait, launching straight into full melt-down mode, blurting out everything through sniffles and hiccups.

“Brad… he’s such a douchebag… cheated on me… you were right all along… I can’t believe I was so fucking blind… and now, I’m stuck on the side of the road with a flat tire, and it’s about to snow like crazy leaving me stuck here on Christmas Eve, and god help me, I will die if he realizes I’m out here… please, please say you can rescue me from this living hell?” I sniff loudly, wiping tears away with the heel of my palm.