Page 18 of Sex, Lies, and Margarita Mixes

TINY PERFECT TOWNS, TIGHT TIMELINES, AND TROUBLE ON LINE ONE

ROXY

The town is called Sugar Creek, and I swear it looks like a Hallmark movie got drunk and came to life.

Candy-colored, Victorian houses. An actual cobblestone main street. A sign at the edge of town that says “Welcome! Stay a while! You want to try the lemon zest and vanilla bean pound cake!”

I’m obsessed.

We stop for gas and end up in a farmer’s market where I buy: a lemon icebox pie, two jars of peach moonshine, a pair of knockoff Ray-Bans from a woman named Cactus Jan, and a twenty-dollar lemon zest and vanilla bean pound cake that is so delicious, I swear I heard angels sing when I tasted it.

Chase buys green chili and passion fruit angus beef jerky and manages to keep me from assaulting a man who catcalls me with “Hey sweetheart, bet you taste like honey and bad decisions.”

He fails in stopping my barbs though. I respond with, “No, sugar, sin, and rodeo dreams where my man is the bull. Keep walkin’.”

An hour later, we check into a boutique hotel with rooms named after types of pie. We’re in the Cherry Crumble room.

How fitting. I plan to be juicy, sticky, leave some crumbs behind and stain the sheets before sundown.

The lobby has live music. I drink two margaritas, take my hair down, kick off my shoes, and start dancing to “Jolene” in the middle of the floor while Chase films me and tries to keep his eyes and his hands off of me.

Obviously, he’s doomed to fail.

He joins me halfway through the song. His shirt is effortlessly unbuttoned, his shorts hug him in all of the right places, and he moves like Jagger—no, seriously—my man can dance.

No shame. Just sweat and smiles and one old man on a banjo clapping like we’re restoring his will to live.

We collapse onto a velvet settee, breathless, and drunk on each other and local moonshine.

I kiss his neck. He whispers, “Let’s never go home.”

I say, “Let’s never get boring.”

And then, my phone rings. Glancing at the screen, I see her name and pause.

It’s Mari Lynn.

“Hey.” I answer. “Chase and I took a little honeymoo?—"

“Roxy, check your email. Now.” She cuts me off.

Uh, what? What the hell? Why does she sound like that?

“Why? What’s going on?”

“Just check your email. One of our clients is viral. And not in a good way. Your name’s all over it.”

My stomach drops.

Just like that, the real world catches up.

CHASE

Roxy’s just got a call from Mari Lynn and something spooked her.

What the hell just happened? Mari Lynn called and now Roxy is as white as a sheet and looks like she might throw up.

One minute ago, we were drunk-dancing and kissing. Then, the phone rang, she got tense, she opened something on her phone, and now, she’s staring at something on the screen like it just bitch-slapped her.

“Rox, what’s going on, baby? What just happened? Talk to me,” I say, gently.

She blinks, swallows, and hands me the phone.

A video is on the screen. I can see the caption, “Bride from Hell- Flaming Wedding Fiasco.”

I play the clip.

A hysterical bride screaming and yanking her veil off her head fills the screen.

She destroys her elegant hair. She shoves a server in a black catering outfit holding a tray of champagne.

The server slips and the champagne goes all over the photographer.

He drops his camera, and it shatters. Pieces of it fly off.

The caterer runs into the scene crying and cussing out the bride for assaulting her employee.

The bride lunges at the caterer and starts beating on her head with her bouquet.

The groom grabs the bride around the waist and lifts her, and she starts fighting him and kicking anyone who comes near her.

She yells “And she called herself a fucking professional. She ruined my wedding!”

Roxy’s name is in the caption, her social page is tagged… so is Mari Lynn and Roxy’s business page.

She stands too fast and runs from the lobby and up the stairs. I follow her.

Once in the room, she grabs her bag and throws stuff into it before she starts pacing like she’s trying to outrun something clawing up her spine.

“I knew she would do this shit. That bitch was psychotic! You think I’m crazy…

I’m a freaking saint next to her! I should’ve shut everything down.

I should’ve cleared the site. I should’ve?—”

I stop her. “You’re not doing this.” I say, taking her into my arms.

She looks up at me. “Doing what?”

“Self-destructing because of someone else’s fire. You did your job. I remember this one. So, what she just posted is defamation. That’s not on you… or your business.”

She laughs, her voice cracks halfway through it.

“This is bad. Its public image. She could—she could tank everything, Chase. It doesn’t matter that I did my job…

public perception can make or break a business like ours.

Mari Lynn trusted me with this when she went to L.A.

with Knox. She left the business in my hands.

We talked about this bitch. She said it was my call.

I knew I should have cancelled the contract.

But it was so big… if this snowballs, I’m done.

We’re done. Everything we’ve worked for…

all of the years we’ve dedicated. No one’s gonna book the emotionally unstable, dramatic wedding planner who broke her ex’s jaw and who’s been trying to divorce the man she loves since the second they got married because she’s a mess . ”

I cross the room and take her face in my hands.

“You are not done. We are not divorced. Yes, you are dramatic and a little bit—okay, a whole lot of— crazy, Roxy. But you’re also a very competent and amazing event planner that has handed so many people the wedding and event of their dreams. So, here’s our play…

we contact those clients and let them tell thier experiences.

We hit fire with bigger fire. You are a fucking phoenix in red lipstick, Roxy West. You don’t curl up and die—you burn brighter and rise the fuck from the ashes. ”

She blinks, eyes watery. One side of her mouth lifts. “And you say I’m dramatic.”

“You’re dramatic as hell. I’ve learned from the best over these past three and a half years.”

She chuckles, “Tell me more.”

I grin, “You’re chaos in stilettos with perfect tits and an ass I want to bite like a ripe peach. I’d burn the world down for you, baby. And then, I’d build you a castle from the rubble.”

That was pretty fucking romantic.

But it’s true. I would.

She exhales and shakes her head, “God, I love you.” Then, she kisses me so hard I forget the name of this weirdly almost perfect town.

Leading me to the bed, she shoves me backwards and climbs onto my lap, discarding both of our clothes in a matter of seconds. Then, I let her have her way, take what she needs, and reclaim her power. Her climax triggers mine. We shudder in unison amid pink ruffled sheets and red drapes.

“I’ve got you,” I whisper, smoothing her sweaty hair from her temples as she wraps her arms around my neck and melts into me.

Once she’s calm, I order room service nachos and open my laptop. “We’re gonna fix it. Together.”

She looks at me, then at the computer. “I fucking love you, Chase.”

I know. But I sure do love having you say it so easily now.

Finally.

ROXY

There’s something about nachos in bed and a man who worships your trauma that makes you forget all about why you ever wanted to run .

I sip my soda, crack my knuckles, and log into the business account email for the first time in over a week.

It’s chaos. Client messages—most of them wanting to do exactly what Chase recommended, give their testimonials. Blog and social media mentions. And a request for a podcast interview titled, “Social Media Mania and the Rise of Bridezillas.”

I snort. Chase leans over my shoulder and reads it. “You should do it.”

I grin. “Only if I get to wear my big red sunglasses and say ‘trauma is trending.’”

I open the viral video and watch it again with fresh eyes. It’s worse than I thought. But… not on me.

A bride is melting down mid-reception—screaming about tablecloth colors and gluten and how I continuously “abandoned her when she needed me for a shirtless man with tattoos in sweatpants.” She knocks over catering staff.

Then, assaults the caterer with her bouquet.

Her groom and his groomsmen try to calm her tantrum, and she kicks two of them in the face and gives her new husband a fat lip and a black eye.

But what really pisses me off is when she looks dead at the camera and says that I, me, as in me personally , “don’t care about love.”

Bitch what?

What the fuck do you know about me?

I have survived love. I’ve resuscitated it after trying to break it. I’ve lit love on fire. Literally and figuratively.

My husband and I have crawled through the ashes and still fucked on a kitchen counter after he made me freaking comfort banana bread.

I care about love.

Too much. Especially with Chase.

Bridezilla better check her damn parachute because I’m about to throw her ass straight out of the plane.

Chase sees it in my face, the shift from self-pity to vengeance.

I watch his smile spread as my fury increases.

He backs away with his hands up like he’s witnessing a live possession. “I’ll order more nachos.”

An hour later, I’ve had a pow-wow over video call with Mari Lynn and gone over my plan.

She is one-hundred percent on board. I’ve drafted a blog post and sent it over to her to revise as needed.

I’ve rebranded our services and bought a new domain name.

And I’ve called the wedding boutique up the street and asked them to send me a wedding dress over for an hour or so that I can record in with the intention of uploading a scheduled spicy little “statement reel” for tomorrow morning that includes me in the wedding gown holding a margarita with the caption, “Still believe in love. Just don’t believe in bullshit.

” Then, I send an email to the bride’s PR rep.

It’s concise. Professional. Savage in a bless your heart you don’t want to fuck with me way.

“This is a legal heads-up and a gentle reminder that I can plan a six-figure wedding in twenty-four hours and book a podcast, seven interviews, and call in favors in less than twenty minutes. My lawyer is ready. Is yours?”

Chase walks in just as I hit send. “Fixed it? Feeling good?” he asks.

I stand, strut over to him, and kiss his jaw while looping my arms around his neck, “Fixed me. And real good.”

I’m ready to title this new chapter of my life.

Reinvention.

No failure. No retreat. No meltdowns.

I’ll leave that to Bridezilla.