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Our eyes meet as I yank my panties up my legs. Apology and torture spill across his clenching jaw. The tears are coming, warning me to look away so that he won’t see my humiliation, but I can’t. I stare and silently beg him to change the outcome of this morning. The string to our stare down is cut by the sound of my name, a mere whisper falling from his loose lips.
I dart out of the bedroom, snag my purse I drunkenly threw over the arm of the couch, and rush toward the front door, not even bothering to search for my heels.
I refuse to glance back, but I hear him. No, Ifeelhim behind me.
“Willow, please,” he pleads to my back with a strained voice while I fight with the lock.
I slam my fist against it.When did they start making these things so damn difficult?
“Don’t cry.” He blows out a stressed breath. “Just give me a fucking minute, okay?”
Relief hits me when the lock finally cooperates, and I slam the glass door in his face at the same time he repeats my name. I nearly trip on my feet when I jump down the porch steps.
I pause when I make it to the last one.
One more.
Against my will, I turn around for one last glance.
He’s staring at me in agony with the door handle gripped in his hand. For a split second, I’m stupid enough to think he’ll fix this. Stupid enough to believe he’ll say something, do something to make this right.
But he doesn’t.
He drops the handle, spreads both palms against the glass, and bows his head.
That’s my cue to get the hell out of here.
Fuck him.
Fuck whiskey.
Fuck my stupid decisions.
This is what I get for sleeping with a man mourning his dead wife.
Chapter One
Willow
Three Months later
I should’ve never answered his call.
“Have you been smoking crack?” I screech into the phone. “I’m telling Stella to break up with you. I can’t have my best friend screwing a dude who does crack.” I’m deleting him from my Contacts as soon as the call ends. I can’t associate myself with someone this batshit crazy.
Hudson sucks in what sounds like an irritated breath. “No, Willow, I’m not smoking crack. It’ll be the icing on the cake if you show. She misses you.”
“You know I can’t come back there.” My throat tightens, the memory of that night crashing through my mind like a horror movie that keeps you up late at night. Hell, he does keep me up at night.
“It’s not like you’re fucking blacklisted. You’ve chosen not to come back. I emailed you your flight information. See you in a few days.”
The line goes dead.
Asswad.
I grip my phone, ready to call him back and tell him to shove that ticket up his ass, but I can’t.
I can’t because he’s proposing to my boss/best friend at her surprise birthday party. Stella deserves this—deserves love, happiness, and her best friend in attendance for one of the most important nights of her life. So, I’ll put my hate of the small town aside and risk seeing him—the jackass whose bed I fled from after our very drunken and very regrettable one-night stand.
