Page 1 of Rowan’s Renewal (DKAG Summer Shorts #6)

“ W hat. The. Fuck?”

Probably not the most grateful way to accept a birthday present, but there are no other words right now. The piece of paper in front of me has got to be a joke, right?

Across the table from me, my former best friend grins widely. “You’re going to love it ,” she says, blowing her dark bangs out of her eyes a second later. “And a vacation is exactly what you need to get over the whole Alex fiasco.”

The whole Alex fiasco. Better known as four years of my life wasted on a selfish prick of a man. A selfish prick of a man I’d settled for because I didn’t think anyone else would want me.

Alex didn’t even want me in the end.

Nevertheless, the kind of vacation which would relax me is not the kind of vacation my best friend has so lovingly booked to celebrate my forty-first birthday.

“Bianca,” I begin slowly, “in the twenty-something years you’ve known me, have I ever once given any indication that I like” —I take a quick glance at the brochure that came with the ticket— “sun, sand, and short-shorts ?”

She rolls her eyes. “ Everyone loves those things.”

“Not me.” Dropping the papers back onto the tabletop between us, I fold my arms and sigh. “I hate the heat. I barely passed swim class at school. And I never wear shorts.” Especially the kind that reveal way too much about a person or their underwear of choice.

“Oh, stop being such a grouch,” she waves dismissively, then leans forward for a sip of her mimosa. “When was the last time you went to a beach? Or took any kind of vacation at all?” Another sip. I can almost taste the fizz on my own tongue. “Even the Editor-In-Chief of a world famous—”

“Hardly.”

“— world famous lifestyle magazine needs some downtime every now and then.”

“Fine. A vacation would be nice.” Especially after the Alex fiasco. And great, now I’m saying it. I sigh. “But I don’t like the heat. Or sand. Or wearing shorts.”

“Too bad,” Bianca flits her bright pink manicure at the ticket and brochure on the table, “because that trip is non-refundable.” Her lips curl upwards wickedly.

“It’s a gay resort, Rowan. You can enjoy watching other men wearing shorts.

Relax under an umbrella with a fruity cocktail and just let go for a week.

” She gestures outside, where people are rugged up in thick winter coats and puffy jackets, battling the chill of January.

It doesn’t snow here, but the winds are icy and brittle. “You really prefer this?”

I do, actually. At least, I prefer being able to wear big, puffy jackets and long coats. Bulky sweatpants or thick denim. Long sweaters.

Clothes that cover my shameful secret.

A secret that Bianca, as much as I adore her, knows nothing about.

“I like the cold,” I insist. “I know that makes me weird, but I prefer cuddling up in front of a fireplace with a glass of merlot and a good book to risking skin cancer and getting sand in places sand really doesn’t belong.”

“This trip might change your mind.”

“Also,” I scowl at her, jabbing my index finger at the brochure, “this resort is in Australia! You want me to fly for over, what, fourteen hours just to sit on a beach somewhere? Why couldn’t you have picked somewhere closer?

Like…Mexico. Or Hawaii.” I’m not sure what the weather at either destination is like this time of year, but I can’t imagine any resort is worth a fourteen-hour flight.

The very idea of being stuck on a plane for that long makes me feel sick.

What if someone notices…?

No. Nope. Nuh-uh. I am not going, and that is final.

Famous last words.