“There’s no need to be dramatic.”
“Dramatic?” I laugh, the sound sharp and unfamiliar. “I flew four thousand miles because I thought what we had was real. Because you made me believe it was real.” My voice catches. “But I’m the dramatic one?”
Rain streams down my face, mingling with what might be tears. I can’t tell anymore. I back away, pulling my suitcase with a jerky motion.
“Goodbye, Brady.”
“Amelia, darling, wait—” He reaches out, perhaps remembering the manners his mother taught him, making one last performative gesture for the Canadian tourist he’s strung along.
I turn on my heels—my ridiculous ‘seize the day’ cream wedge heels with red plaid ribbons, which I chose because they make my legs look good and because I thought I’d be walking into a romantic reunion, not a fucking farce. The sudden movement on slick stone is disastrous.
My ankle twists, sending me stumbling forward. Icatch myself on the wrought-iron railing, but my dignity is beyond saving.
As I scramble to my feet, cheeks on fire, I catch a soft intake of breath from the entrance—definitely not Brady’s. I glance up to find a short woman with ash-blonde hair neatly tied back, her hand resting on Brady’s arm, bewilderment etched across her face.
“Brady?” she inquires, her gaze flitting between his startled expression and mine. “What’s happening here?”
Before he can even form a word, I intervene. A nervous chuckle slips out as I grip my suitcase with a fervor that reflects my determination to protect this woman. I want to shield her from the lightning-fast cuts slicing through my heart with the precision of an expert chef.
“Oh, hello. B-beautiful afternoon,” I stammer. “I’m just here on a mission to spread the good word. Have you met Jesus? Because if you haven’t, I’ve got some pamphlets that say he’s still taking appointments!”
The woman dismisses me with a shake of her head. “We’re not interested,” she states flatly, walking away.
As he’s about to turn and follow her, I lean closer, my voice dipping into a hushed undertone meant solely for his ears. A faux smile pulls at the edges of my mouth.
“Just a quick observation, I say, drawing out thepause for comedic effect, “We may not have met in person before this moment, but now that we’re here...it seems your humble shoe size is quite in sync with your even humbler...additional features.”
I let the insinuation linger like a mystery, shooting him a pointed glance before spinning on my heels and marching away with as much grace as I can muster amidst the internal earthquake.
I bite back angry words. I’ll keep my cool in this total trainwreck, but if these shoes could talk, they’d be belting out: “You two-timing, poetry-spewing, jackass of a man!” at full volume.
Behind me, Brady’s stunned splutter rings out, punctuated by the satisfying thud of the door closing with finality.
The rain pelts me with an icy vengeance, but at least it’s washing away the putrid stink of Brady’s lies. Behind me, there’s a marriage he nearly tricked me into wrecking.
Ahead? A marathon flight back to Toronto, chock-full of self-doubt and journal entries scribbled with fresh, bitter life lessons.
But right now, it’s just me. Soaked to the bone. Utterly humiliated. But stubbornly determined to never again hand over my heart to some two-timing, gaslighting jerk-face.
Chapter Two
I trudgedown the cobblestone street, trying to clear my head, rain attacking me from every angle as if the Scottish weather itself has joined Team Brady in theLet’s Fuck with Amelia Championships.My suitcase wheels catch on uneven stones, jerking my arm with each revolution like little reminders of my stupidity.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
The word pounds in rhythm with my heartbeat and the raindrops. Who flies across an ocean to surprise a man she’s never met in person?
Oh, that’s right. Me.
Romance novelist extraordinaire who can’t even recognize when she’s living in a plot too clichéd for her own books.
My free hand swipes at my face, raindrops mixing with tears I refuse to acknowledge. The cobblestones beneath my shoes blur into a watery gray canvas.
Damn these impractical, “seize the day” wedge heels. And damn Brady Reeves, with his perfect hair and his perfect wife and his perfect little life that had just enough room for me as his digital mistress.
“Afternoon. Excuse me,” I mutter, carefully sidestepping an elderly man with a walker who’s giving me the pitying look reserved for skinny cats and drowned tourists. His concerned eyes follow me as I stumble past. I must look like a hot mess—mascara streaming down my face, hair plastered to my skull, designer jacket now functioning as an expensive sponge.
The irony isn’t lost on me. Amelia Sutherland, author of four moderately successful romance novels, just walked face-first into the world’s least romantic scenario. If I weren’t the protagonist of this particular tragedy, I’d be taking notes for my next novel.
