Some people say they fell in love at first sight.
Not me, I fell in love at first insult. But probably first sight, too.
Roxy walked into an event we were both at and that was it. I couldn’t take my eyes off of her. She walked over and called me a “human frat party in board shorts” and tried to stab my nachos with a fork because I double-dipped guac at an event she and her best friend, Mari Lynn, were hired to plan.
Three weeks later, we were married.
A month after that, after mind-blowing sex in our bed, was the first time she tried to get me to leave and when I refused, she said she wanted a divorce. I kissed her and went to make her a snack. She’s tried to divorce me, run me off, and kick me out at least once a week ever since.
This Valentine’s Day, I gave her flowers, made her a three-course meal, and told her I loved her more than anything. She freaked out and tried to serve me divorce papers beside my heart-shaped cake.
And yet, here I am—shirtless in our couple’s retreat beach house kitchen—whistling and flipping pancakes like a man who definitely didn’t book this whole thing without her permission.
I absolutely did. I did it and texted her I did it.
Had to get her here somehow. And this is guaranteed.
“Good morning, Mr. West,” I say to myself in the reflection of the cabinet glass as I pour syrup into a little ceramic ramekin like a damn fancy chef, which I am not. I can cook, but I am not fancy. “You’ve got rock-hard abs, emotional baggage from your wife, and said super-hot, very pissed off wife is probably on her way to attempt to murder you in wedges that showcase her fabulous legs.”
See you soon, baby.
Leaning back against the cabinet, I take a sip of coffee. I should probably add Kalua to it.
I’m not stupid. I know my Roxy.
She’s on the way. The second she got my text, she was on her way here.
I know she’s packing sexy as hell lingerie just to wear it under something petty, like a graphic tee that says “I’m Not Your Babe, Bro.” And I know I deserve whatever she throws at me for this whole couple’s retreat stunt. This week will end with me going home with my wife.
A week ago, I’d had two too many pineapple jalapeño margaritas, my new recipe, and the scent of her shampoo was lingering on my hoodie—the one she always steals. She’d left the house earlier for work and wasn’t answering my calls or texts. She got them. I saw that she read them, but she was ignoring me… even though we screwed until the sun came up that morning. We drove each other wild with touches and kisses, and she fell asleep in my arms. In our bed.
She stayed at Mari Lynn and Knox’s place while they were in L.A. The next day, I went to the store for groceries for a new dish I wanted to try out and couldn’t get into our house when I pulled back up. She changed the locks. Again. I sat out there for an hour and she would not let me in. And she started posting passive-aggressive thirst traps on her personal socials with captions like “When enough is enough.”
So, I did what any mature, responsible husband would do. I booked the house on the beach. I invited other couples. Everyone but Mari Lynn and her husband Knox, our friends and her best friend, said they were in. They had a valid reason for missing out. They’re still shooting their show in Los Angeles. Hell, I even managed to convince the rest of the friend group it was her idea.
And I knew—I knew—if I tempted her with a shared project, some tequila, and just enough emotional sabotage… she'd show because for all her talk and craziness and trying to kick me out of her life and her bed every day for the past three and a half years, Roxy West loves a theme… and me.
And that is exactly what scares her.
If that theme just so happens to involve cocktails, sex-positive communication workshops, and me shirtless in an apron, that’s even better.
The front door bangs against the wall as she flings it open.
Right on time, baby.
I don’t even flinch. I just keep buttering pancakes. “Welcome, babe,” I call out from the kitchen.
There’s a long pause. Like a murderous silence. Then, she appears in the kitchen doorway. Red sunglasses are still on her face. A black string bikini top is showing under her totally sheer button-down. Her denim shorts are so short they should be illegal. And her signature red lipstick is so sharp it could be considered a weapon.
Damn, my woman is gorgeous.
“You look like a vixen in a skincare ad,” I murmur, always appreciative of her beauty.
She tosses her bag onto the kitchen counter without preamble. “And you look like a walking custody battle.” She retorts.
“We don’t have kids, babe. My kids just swim in your channel. Which I have absolute ownership of.” I smile at her as my eyes rove over her.
Damn, I’ve missed her.
