Page 9 of Sex, Lies, and Margarita Mixes

Then she flirtatiously says, “Your wife must love this view.” The last thread of my patience snaps as my head turns so fast, I might sprain my entire dating history.

Chase blinks. His mouth opens and then closes. Before he can respond, I beat him to it. “Back your Brazilian Butt Lift ass up. This view is mine.”

Everyone stops moving. Even the wind seems to pause.

Whitney blinks in confusion and a little fear. “What? Roxy… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…”

I step off my mat like a woman ready to testify in a courtroom of bitches and almost snarl, “You did. Your man is over there.” I point at Trent.

“This,” I drag my hand down Chase’s chest. “This is mine. The view belongs to me . The thighs? Mine. The shoulders? Also mine. The dick print in those grey sweat shorts? Exclusively mine. ” I point at each area as I address it.

Chase chokes though he’s not even attempting to cover his grin.

Miguel drops his water bottle.

Trent says, “Yeah babe… I’m your man and I’m over here.”

Whitney flushes bright pink and quickly backs away.

Wise move, bitch.

Sasha whispers, “Hallelujah.”

I should stop there… but I don’t. I’m too raw, too jealous, and too full of feelings I haven’t dealt with.

“Chase is my husband ,” I add. “Just because we’re figuring things out doesn’t mean he’s available for stretching and seduction! So, take a collective breath and back the fuck off of my man.”

There’s silence. It’s thick. It’s awkward.

Then, Bree starts clapping. Miguel joins in. Weston raises a water bottle. “To healthy boundaries.” Whitney retreats to the side of the deck like a kicked puppy and Trent scowls at her.

Well their coupling clearly needs some work.

Chase is looking at me like he’s already on his knees.

I grab my mat and storm off the deck before anyone sees the way I’m shaking.

I didn’t mean to say all of that.

Out loud.

In front of everyone.

But the truth is, I meant every fucking word.

CHASE

I didn’t expect her to say it like that.

She just blurted it out in front of everyone in a tone that sounded like she was ready to throw down over me.

When she said “he’s mine” like it was her fucking birthright, something inside me cracked open.

I don’t think I’ll ever be the same again.

I find her beside the house on a dune, she’s sitting with her knees pulled to her chest and her sunglasses on like they can hide her from the world.

They can’t.

I know her.

I know that silence.

It’s her “I just told the truth, and I hate how good it felt” silence.

“Hey,” I say gently. No smirk. No sarcasm. Just… me. She doesn’t look up. So, I ask, “You gonna yell at me for stretching too hard?”

“No.” The word is breathy.

Nodding, I squat down in front of her, “You gonna deny you marked me like a dog peeing on a mailbox?”

She scoffs. “It was the moaning , Chase.” Her lips press together.

“I wasn’t the one moaning.” I remind her.

“She was breathing like a backed-up air fryer.” She snaps. “Over you. If front of me.”

My baby is jealous.

God, I love her.

I sit next to her, close but leave space between us.

She won’t look at me. “I didn’t mean to say it,” she mutters.

“Liar.” I chuckle and reach for her hand. She opens her fingers and links our hands. Fingers entwined, palm to palm.

“I didn’t mean to say it out loud. ”

Admitting this is killing her.

I smile softly. “You meant it though. I’m your husband and your man .”

She pulls her sunglasses off, finally looking at me and whispers, “I don’t know what’s happening to me.”

“You’re telling the truth.” I reply softly and tighten my hand around hers.

Silence.

Then, she whispers, “I—I still need time, Chase.”

I nod. “Take all the time you need.” Leaning over, I kiss the side of her head. Her dark hair tickles my chin.

Another pause before she leans into me. “I’m scared,” she says.

“I know.” I hoarsely reply.

“I don’t want to fall… to let you in, like really let you in, and get left again. Eventually, you’re going to realize that I’m selfish and insane and that you can do better with someone else.” Her voice is thick.

Roxy, you’re it for me. You’re my Beth Dutton.

All I say aloud is, “Nah. I already know you’re selfish, and a lunatic, but there is no one else for me, baby.”

A tear slides down her cheek, “ Why do you love me, Chase?”

Leaning in, I press my lips to hers. Not heated, just soft, careful. When I lean back, I rest our foreheads together, “Because I can’t not love you, Rox. The day you insulted me and stole my beer was the day you stole my heart. You own it. There’s nothing left for anyone else.”

She looks at me. Really looks at me. And I see it—the pain. The anger. The vulnerability. The fear. And underneath it all… the hope.

Baby, I’m here until the end.

“I miss this ,” she whispers.

Nodding, I say, “I miss your snort-laugh. Your chaos. The way you eat cake like it owes you money.”

She cracks a half-smile. “I miss your hand on my back when I’m overthinking and acting like a lunatic.

I miss the way you can go into a kitchen that has practically nothing in it and whip up something that tastes incredible and feels like home.

And how you always make the first move, even when I don’t deserve it… ”

“That one is my favorite.” I smirk and kiss her again before sliding my arm around her and pulling her more fully into me.

She leans in, her curves aligning against me like we’re the perfect fit.

We are and I’ll never stop clinging to us.

“I wanted to kiss you today,” I murmur. “In front of all of them. After you basically pounded your chest to claim me. I thought you were going to fight her.”

She snickers. “I did not. And I might have. But I’d have kissed you back.”

“I still want to.” I practically growl.

She swallows and stares into my eyes, “So, what are you waiting for?”

I lean in, slowly, trying not to spook her.

Her eyes are full of heat.

She’s not going anywhere.

Our lips touch and the kiss quickly heats up.

Her lips part willingly, and my tongue sweeps through her mouth.

Her tongue licks my teeth, and she lightly sucks on my tongue.

It’s hot but not frantic. This is not a game or a fight to see who can exert dominance.

It’s two people who love each other, taking the time to show each other that, and relishing the experience. It’s home.

Her hands drift to my head, her fingers delving into my hair. My thumb lightly rubs her cheek.

We’re kissing like we’ve forgotten what just being together feels like and we’re eager to relearn.

She pulls back and I groan in frustration.

Seriously Roxy. Please don’t push me away again.

She doesn’t go far, just enough to look into my eyes. Her hands are still in my hair. She exhales as she says, “We’re not fixed, Chase.”

I nod, “I know.”

Her breath bounces on my lips as she whispers, “But I want to be.”

God yes, baby!

All I say is, “Me too.”

Leaning forward, she closes the distance between us. Her lips press to mine, and they cling.

When she breaks it this time, I’m not tensely awaiting what she’s going to say. I whisper, “Can we try something? Don’t run or shove me away next time you get scared, Roxy. And stop changing the locks.”

She laughs lightly. Her eyes are clear as she nods, “Okay.” Her lips purse. “I’m still mad that bitch hit on you in front of me. And Trent was right there.”

I laugh. “Good. Use that anger on me, baby. I think they might be swingers.”

Throwing her head back, she laughs. It’s rich and deep. “Whatever floats their boat. But I don’t share.”

My smile spreads over my face. “Neither do I and you’re mine.”

For the first time in forever… I think we just survived something and are heading toward something really good.

ROXY

Group dinner tonight is… weird.

Like, cold pizza and childhood trauma weird.

Everyone’s in comfortable clothes and softer moods, yet the air is heavy with tension and jasmine and plumeria-scented diffuser fog.

The table is laid out beautifully.

Pretty candles. Cloth napkins. A centerpiece that looks like Pinterest and Pottery Barn had a very vanilla baby. Chase cooked a fabulous meal, but no one’s eating it.

Something is brewing.

It starts quiet, like most heartbreak does.

Miguel reaches for Sasha’s water glass. She moves it away from him. He laughs like it’s funny. She doesn’t. Then, he says something low under his breath, that we can’t hear, and she goes still.

Oh shit.

I know that stillness.

It’s the kind that comes right before the dam breaks.

“I just think,” Sasha says, too calmly, “that vulnerability requires actual communication.”

Miguel’s voice stays flat. “I’ve been communicating.”

“You’ve been talking , Miguel. Not listening.”

“I listen —I just don’t always agree.”

“Oh, so disagreement means detachment now?”

And suddenly, the table’s not a table anymore.

It’s a battlefield.

Bree starts to cry before the salad’s even put onto our plates.

Whitney clutches her wine like it’s an emotional support Chardonnay as her eyes flit back and forth over everyone.

Sasha raises her voice. Miguel yells back. Both slam their hands on the table.

Chase slides his hand across the table and refills my glass without a word as I look from Sasha to Miguel and back again. They trade barbs that cut deep. Uncaring of how hurtful they are.

I sit there, frozen, watching it all unfold like a horror movie written by my subconscious.

I know this fight.

I lived this fight.

Hell, I’ve started this fight.

They keep going. Back and forth. Ping. Pong. Resentment and silence. Things they have never spoken aloud, little things that are now big things. Words they’ll never be able to take back.

And for a second—I swear—I smell tomato sauce.

I’m hit with a flashback.

Two years ago.

Me and Chase standing in the kitchen of our house.

He accidentally deleted a playlist on my phone while scrolling for something.

I snapped at him and said something awful.

He was so upset that I wasn’t listening to him. I called him worthless. He cracked and threw a wooden spoon across the room.

I cried. He stormed out of the kitchen after I shoved him.

We didn’t talk for two days.

I snap back to the present as Sasha says , “You keep showing up for everyone but me. Everyone else gets your attention. I have to beg for it.”

Miguel doesn’t answer. He’s shell-shocked. It’s as plain as day on his face.

Sasha doesn’t apologize. She doesn’t say she didn’t mean it.

She’s silent as she glares at him. Tears are in her eyes, but they’re not spilling. And her breathing is accelerated.

Miguel swallows. His jaw sets. He abruptly stands and storms off.

She doesn’t follow.

We all watch as their love withers… right there at the table .

Silence is a sword, too.

It’s quiet. Simple. Final.

My chest hurts as I glance at Chase, but not because of them.

Because of me.

That could have just as easily been us.

Hell, it still could be.

Chase doesn’t speak. He doesn’t reach for me. He just waits. Like he knows what I’m thinking. He always knows.

I feel his eyes on me, and when I look up, all of the things I’ve been running from hit me at once.

I don’t want to fight like that.

I don’t want to flinch when someone touches my glass.

I don’t want to be scared of the silence.

I don’t want to end with nothing but leftovers and regret.

I just want him.

I just want Chase.

Always.

After everyone disperses, I find him on the back porch—shirtless again, of course, because this man refuses to heal me clothed —and I stop in front of him. He straightens but I don’t speak. I just reach out and take his hand and pull him inside.

I’m not ready to say it.

Not yet.

But I’m ready to show it.

We go to our room. We don’t have sex, but he holds me on the bed. And I hold him. Eventually, I move and mutter that I need to take a shower. He watches me as I head into the bathroom.