“By turning it into content?”
Ouch. Low blow.
“This is mylife, Mav,” she says, voice quieter now but trembling. “And you might be used to people picking apart every decision you make—but I’m not. I didn’t sign up for this circus.”
“Youdid, actually,” I say, softer now. “The second I slipped that ring on your finger.”
I hate myself the second it leaves my mouth.
She stares at me like I’ve slapped her. She blinks once, then turns her back again. “I’m going out.”
“Annabelle—”
But the door is already swinging shut behind her.
And I’m left standing in the kitchen, staring at the counter, where she was just gripping the sink, wondering how the hell I let something so right spiral so far off track in ten minutes flat.
Chapter 29
Annabelle
The second I slipped that ring on your finger ...
“Pfft. He doesn’t own me,” I grumble, stalking along the sidewalk toward ... wherever it is I’m going.
The man at the door called me Mrs. McBride, which made me even more furious.Is There No Such Thing as Privacy? When I found out Lucy’s boyfriend was famous, did I fawn over him? No. Did I go online and do a deep dive? No. I used him in my lumberjack show because I needed warm-blooded bodies, like any normal event planner would do who was desperate. It didn’t matter to me who he was.
Mrs. McBride.
God, I couldscream.
I twist the gold wedding band off my slim finger and stuff it into my sports bra; a nice boob prison. Serves it right.
Why does it even matter? It’s not real.He’snot real. Maverick isn’t even his real freakingName, for the love of God!
“Calm down. You’re getting yourself all worked up.”
That’s what I tell myself as I stomp past palm trees in this suffocating high-end area, the heels of my shoes sticking to the blistering sidewalk like the Arizona sun wants me tosuffer.
I’m one ray of sunshine away from a full-blown heatstroke. I am a rotisserie chicken under a heat lamp.
I round the corner and duck into the shade of a palm tree, pressing my back against the trunk like I’m in a spy movie and need cover. The bark scratches at my shoulder blades, but I don’t move.
I need a plan.
I need hydration.
I need a life reset and possibly a therapist.
Or maybe just a Diet Coke and a fan.
BLAH!
I peel myself off the palm tree and start walking again, slower this time, weaving through the rows of trendy boutiques, window after window of white linen dresses, artisanal candles, and overpriced bags. None of which can help me in my current crisis.
I stare at my reflection in the glass of a store called Cactus Rose Collective. My tank top is plastered to my back, my bra has a ring stashed in it like I’m a petty smuggler, and my face is slowly turning the color of a strawberry margarita.
Gross.
