Page 1 of Sex, Lies, and Margarita Mixes

TEQUILA FIRST, DIVORCE LATER

ROXY

There are three things you should never mix with tequila:

Texting your husband you’re “totally over it.”

Online divorce papers and one color-coded manila folder detailing all of the reasons your husband should just sign them… with highlighted parts as to why he should absolutely not sign them.

An emotional playlist titled “ Margaritas and Mayhem .”

I’ve done all three before noon and I still haven’t put on actual pants.

The blender roars on the counter like it’s judging me.

“Don’t start with me, Margarita 9000,” I mutter, stabbing the crushed ice button again like it insulted my earrings.

I’m wearing my "Emotionally Unavailable But Well Accessorized" tank top and the fuzzy leopard-print slippers that Chase gave me two anniversaries ago with a wink… while wearing nothing else.

Which is exactly the problem.

He always knows how to ignore my chaos with orgasmic sex, his mouthwatering tattooed body, and stupid, sexy-as-fuck dimples.

Fuck my life.

I hit blend with the kind of aggression usually reserved for flipping off bad drivers or watching my best friend Mari Lynn post another “domestically disheveled and killing it” reel with her hot celebrity chef husband that just so happens to go viral.

It’s been almost eight days since Chase and I “separated.”

Or rather, since I told him to leave…

Again.

Air quotes required because technically , we never signed anything.

We never do. I just told him I was done, and he needed to go.

He didn’t even argue with me this time. He just grabbed a few shirts, shorts, and some boxer briefs, kissed my forehead, and said, “Love you, babe,” before he whistled on his way out of the door.

He’s called and texted me every day—multiple times.

We had sex two days ago. And he just texted asking if I wanted to get some lunch.

We share a last name, a Netflix password, house keys—except when I change the locks, and until a week ago, a memory foam mattress I always refer to as the “Scene of the Crime.”

He drives me crazy!

“Play ‘Baby” I loudly say in the middle of the kitchen. The speaker starts blaring Justin Bieber like he’s personally invested in my downfall.

As I sing at the top of my lungs, I swing my hips and pour tequila into my blender cup, squeeze in lime juice with zero mercy, add ice and simple syrup, and blend. I chug half of it before remembering that breakfast is a thing normal people do before hard liquor.

Too late.

Screw it, it’s like noon anyway.

It’s five o’clock somewhere, right?

My phone buzzes again.

CHASE

Hey babe. Don’t panic, but I might’ve accidentally booked a couple’s retreat at a beach house this week.

I blink.

The fuck?

ME

You ACCIDENTALLY booked a couple’s retreat.

At a beach house. For a WEEK?

What beach house?

CHASE

One on the beach. I’ll send you the address.

Also, surprise—you’re co-hosting.

Love you.

I choke on tequila and scream, “Chase!,” into the empty kitchen. “He’s crazy… he’s absolutely crazy.”

ME

I hope a seagull shits on your bare foot.

CHASE

Uh huh. See you soon.

Love you.

What the hell is this man doing? No matter what I do, he just loves me. It’s infuriating. And hot as hell.

He thinks he can just co-host a couple’s retreat with me like we didn’t scream the words “irreconcilable horniness” at each other, well, mostly me , in therapy—my mother set it up— three months ago?

No.

No, no, no. I’m not going. He can just forget it. It’d serve him right if I just didn’t go!

Shut up, Roxy. You know damn well you’re going down there.

And I’m dragging his perfect, toned and tattooed, so-hot-he melts-butter-with-his-smile-ass out of the hot tub by his sun-streaked dark hair.

And I am not going to let him charm me with his smile, or his guacamole, or his “Oops, I wear my ring for balance and I’m never taking it off” bullshit.

Uh huh…

I pack a bag. Loudly, though I’m alone.

Grabbing a pair of wedges, I slam them into my weekender bag like I’m committing fashion homicide.

If he wants me on that beach, I’m showing up with three pairs of sexy shoes and vengeance.

Because stacked sole shoes on a beach… with sand, makes sense.

Let’s see how co-hosty he feels when I walk in looking like karma in waterproof mascara.

He’ll just grin.

CHASE

Some people say they fell in love at first sight.

Not me, I fell in love at first insult. But probably first sight, too.

Roxy walked into an event we were both at and that was it. I couldn’t take my eyes off of her. She walked over and called me a “human frat party in board shorts” and tried to stab my nachos with a fork because I double-dipped guac at an event she and her best friend, Mari Lynn, were hired to plan.

Three weeks later, we were married.

A month after that, after mind-blowing sex in our bed, was the first time she tried to get me to leave and when I refused, she said she wanted a divorce. I kissed her and went to make her a snack. She’s tried to divorce me, run me off, and kick me out at least once a week ever since.

This Valentine’s Day, I gave her flowers, made her a three-course meal, and told her I loved her more than anything. She freaked out and tried to serve me divorce papers beside my heart-shaped cake.

And yet, here I am—shirtless in our couple’s retreat beach house kitchen—whistling and flipping pancakes like a man who definitely didn’t book this whole thing without her permission.

I absolutely did. I did it and texted her I did it.

Had to get her here somehow. And this is guaranteed.

“Good morning, Mr. West,” I say to myself in the reflection of the cabinet glass as I pour syrup into a little ceramic ramekin like a damn fancy chef, which I am not.

I can cook, but I am not fancy. “You’ve got rock-hard abs, emotional baggage from your wife, and said super-hot, very pissed off wife is probably on her way to attempt to murder you in wedges that showcase her fabulous legs. ”

See you soon, baby.

Leaning back against the cabinet, I take a sip of coffee. I should probably add Kalua to it.

I’m not stupid. I know my Roxy.

She’s on the way. The second she got my text, she was on her way here.

I know she’s packing sexy as hell lingerie just to wear it under something petty, like a graphic tee that says “I’m Not Your Babe, Bro.” And I know I deserve whatever she throws at me for this whole couple’s retreat stunt. This week will end with me going home with my wife.

A week ago, I’d had two too many pineapple jalapeno margaritas, my new recipe, and the scent of her shampoo was lingering on my hoodie—the one she always steals.

She’d left the house earlier for work and wasn’t answering my calls or texts.

She got them. I saw that she read them, but she was ignoring me…

even though we screwed until the sun came up that morning.

We drove each other wild with touches and kisses, and she fell asleep in my arms. In our bed.

She stayed at Mari Lynn and Knox’s place while they were in L.A.

The next day, I went to the store for groceries for a new dish I wanted to try out and couldn’t get into our house when I pulled back up.

She changed the locks. Again. I sat out there for an hour and she would not let me in.

And she started posting passive-aggressive thirst traps on her personal socials with captions like “When enough is enough.”

So, I did what any mature, responsible husband would do.

I booked the house on the beach. I invited other couples.

Everyone but Mari Lynn and her husband Knox, our friends and her best friend, said they were in.

They had a valid reason for missing out.

They’re still shooting their show in Los Angeles.

Hell, I even managed to convince the rest of the friend group it was her idea.

And I knew— I knew —if I tempted her with a shared project, some tequila, and just enough emotional sabotage… she'd show because for all her talk and craziness and trying to kick me out of her life and her bed every day for the past three and a half years, Roxy West loves a theme… and me .

And that is exactly what scares her.

If that theme just so happens to involve cocktails, sex-positive communication workshops, and me shirtless in an apron, that’s even better.

The front door bangs against the wall as she flings it open.

Right on time, baby.

I don’t even flinch. I just keep buttering pancakes. “Welcome, babe,” I call out from the kitchen.

There’s a long pause. Like a murderous silence.

Then, she appears in the kitchen doorway.

Red sunglasses are still on her face. A black string bikini top is showing under her totally sheer button-down.

Her denim shorts are so short they should be illegal.

And her signature red lipstick is so sharp it could be considered a weapon.

Damn, my woman is gorgeous.

“You look like a vixen in a skincare ad,” I murmur, always appreciative of her beauty.

She tosses her bag onto the kitchen counter without preamble. “And you look like a walking custody battle.” She retorts.

“We don’t have kids, babe. My kids just swim in your channel. Which I have absolute ownership of.” I smile at her as my eyes rove over her.

Damn, I’ve missed her.

Dude, you had sex with her two days ago.

She growls deep in her throat. It could be arousal, or rage. It’s probably both.

I’m counting on both.

Everyone wins with that scenario.

“You booked a couples retreat,” she says, voice flat. “We’re separated. I kicked you out. I even changed the locks.”

Nonchalantly flipping a pancake, I reply, “We’re not. But yes, you did. And yes, I’m aware.” I watch her as I man the stove.

She exhales. “ Without telling me.” Her voice is dangerously calm.

She’s either about to beat me with her shoe or shove me into the wall and drop to her knees in front of me. With her, it’s a coin toss.

“Yup.” I’m calm, too.

“With other couples.”

I nod. “Correct again.”