Catalina
No thanks. Talking didn’t seem to be your strong suit last night when you were too busy panting against my neck, calling me darlin’.
Carter
Catalina, please.
Catalina
??? ??? ???, ????????, ???????? ??????? (Eat garbage, you unbearable, sexy man.)
With a furious growl, I slam my phone back into my purse so hard it rattles against my lip gloss and a million trinkets. My foot slams against the gas pedal, tires kicking up a fuck-you cloud of gravel behind me.
How dare he? How can he kiss me like that—kiss me like I’m the only fucking woman in the world, then pull away like I’m some catastrophic error in judgment? How can he touch me, tease me, and then vanish into the shadows like some brooding bastard? I opened myself up to him. I cried in front of him. I let him see the parts of me I usually buryunder sarcasm.
And what does he fucking do?
Apologizes. Retreats like a pussy. Like,I’mthe one who made it weird.
Asshole.
The drive into Ruby Ridge isn’t long, but it drags like my emotional damage–heavy and impossible to ignore. The trees blur past me, green and peaceful, which only pisses me off more because nothing about me feels calm right now. I’ve got Carter’s truck vibrating under my thighs and a low-simmering fury boiling just beneath my ribcage.
When I finally roll into town, I slam the truck into park outside the tiny brunch spot. My heels click against the sidewalk as I make my way into the café, narrowed eyes scanning until I spot them through the big front window instantly.
My girls, my chaos twins, the only two people on this planet who won’t tell me I’m being dramatic even when I absolutely am.
Amelia is already leaned back in her seat with her tattooed arms crossed, wearing her signature bitch face. Layla, of course, is bouncing around like a gorilla, waving so violently I think she might throw her shoulder out.
Time to fucking spill.
Maple and Magnolia is every small-town brunch dream. White wooden chairs, hanging plants, and the scent of fresh coffee and maple syrup fills the air. Locals murmur over their plates, the occasional cowboy tipping his hat at the waitresses. I beeline straight to the booth, where the two people who know every dark corner of my brain are waiting.
“Finally, bitch,” Amelia says the second I slide into the booth, her brows raised like she’s already halfway through reading me for filth. “You’re late.”
Tossing my purse onto the seat beside me, I shrug like Ididn’t just nearly spin off the highway driving Carter’s stupid truck in heels.
“I’m never late, hoe. Time just moves differently when you’re spiraling.”
Layla is practically foaming at the mouth across from me, sipping her mimosa like it’s the nectar of divine gossip. There’s a full-body sparkle radiating off her, and she keeps making these little squeaky noises, which is never a good sign.
I narrow my eyes at her. “Okay, what the fuck’s gotten into you? You look different.”
She squeals, leaning forward so hard her straw falls out of her drink. “Nothingggg! I just love it out here. The air, the vibes, and the... hot, emotionally repressed bartender named Reed.”
Amelia’s head whips around so fast I’m surprised it didn’t snap.
“Aren’t you engaged?” she snaps, green eyes narrowing like daggers.
Layla’s face shutters instantly, the glow dimming, her spine going stiff. “Yeah. I am. I don’t want to talk about that bastard.” She scoffs, pushing a fresh mimosa towards me. “Anywaysssss. Spill, bitch.”
I take the glass gratefully, knocking it back. My heart’s racing, my tongue feels thick, but the second the citrusy alcohol hits my bloodstream, my mouth unlocks like a floodgate.
“Okay,” I say, letting out a breath, setting the glass down, and leveling them both with a look. “Don’t fucking judge me.”
Amelia leans in so fast her tattooed elbows almost knock over her drink. “Never, babe. Judgment-free zone. Now tell us, what happened?”
Layla hisses like a goblin. “TELL USS.”
