ME
You ACCIDENTALLY booked a couple’s retreat.
At a beach house. For a WEEK?
What beach house?
CHASE
One on the beach. I’ll send you the address.
Also, surprise—you’re co-hosting.
Love you.
I choke on tequila and scream, “Chase!,” into the empty kitchen. “He’s crazy… he’s absolutely crazy.”
ME
I hope a seagull shits on your bare foot.
CHASE
Uh huh. See you soon.
Love you.
What the hell is this man doing? No matter what I do, he just loves me. It’s infuriating. And hot as hell.
He thinks he can just co-host a couple’s retreat with me like we didn’t scream the words “irreconcilable horniness” at each other, well, mostly me, in therapy—my mother set it up— three months ago?
No.
No, no, no. I’m not going. He can just forget it. It’d serve him right if I just didn’t go!
Shut up, Roxy. You know damn well you’re going down there.
And I’m dragging his perfect, toned and tattooed, so-hot-he melts-butter-with-his-smile-ass out of the hot tub by his sun-streaked dark hair.
And I am not going to let him charm me with his smile, or his guacamole, or his “Oops, I wear my ring for balance and I’m never taking it off” bullshit.
Uh huh…
I pack a bag. Loudly, though I’m alone.
Grabbing a pair of wedges, I slam them into my weekender bag like I’m committing fashion homicide.
If he wants me on that beach, I’m showing up with three pairs of sexy shoes and vengeance.
Because stacked sole shoes on a beach… with sand, makes sense.
Let’s see how co-hosty he feels when I walk in looking like karma in waterproof mascara.
He’ll just grin.
CHASE
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