Total pages in book: 41
Estimated words: 38786 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 194(@200wpm)___ 155(@250wpm)___ 129(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 38786 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 194(@200wpm)___ 155(@250wpm)___ 129(@300wpm)
I’ve never been more grateful for online check-in. It meant Peter couldn’t follow me past security since the only ticket in his name departing Oregon was for the honeymoon we were meant to leave for on Christmas Day.
“I used my damn miles for upgrades, too,” I grumble while wrangling with the door.
It doesn’t want to budge, and I realize why when I dump my bag at my feet to force it into submission. A homeless man’s sleeping bag is caught under the lip. It’s as shredded as my confidence when I walked into our final meeting with the baker making our wedding cake to find my fiancé’s head buried in her floured neck.
“I’m so sorry.” The man’s sleeping bag is ruined, and the shops close early on the weekend. “I have spare blankets upstairs.” Although I am beyond tipsy, my street smarts aren’t mired enough to let a stranger into my space. “Let me get them for you.”
I don’t even get into the foyer of my building when the beggar concludes that my luggage will be more valuable to his cause than any bedding I could gift him.
He races down the street with my duffle bag stuffed under his arm, his speed unchecked.
I’d be tempted to chase him if there was anything of value in my luggage. The ring Peter wants returned is in the pocket of my cut-off jeans, and my cell phone and purse are… are…
Shit!
“You’re welcome. Is there anything else I can assist you with this evening, Mrs. Stranger?”
“Ms.,” I correct. “It’s Ms. Stranger.” When I realize I’m taking my frustration out on the wrong person, I add, “And no, thank you. You’ve been a great help.”
When the virtual assistant from my bank disconnects our internet call, I scan my eyes over the list I jotted down when my sprint failed to find the perp who stole my bag. I’ve organized new credit cards, diverted my personal email to the private server of the firm I work for, and lodged an insurance claim to replace my phone and work laptop.
I’ve crossed every item off my list except the last one.
Change my Facebook status to single.
I had planned to put it off until I wrapped my head around the fact I went to Oregon to finalize preparations for my wedding, only to return home single a week later, but Peter isn’t giving me a choice. He’s tagged Noelle in a handful of posts over the past five days, and although their PDA is Hallmark Christmas movie cheesy, it raises many questions.
My inbox is flooded with messages from online friends.
Friends I’ve never met in real life.
I’m so pathetic.
After ensuring Jana from my online book club that I’m fine to continue buddy reading dark romances with her—how couldn’t I be? Men in the below-average range like Peter usually end up dead in the romance books we read—I log into Facebook to announce the inevitable.
One click and everything changes.
The ‘spend Christmas with your loved one’ ads they ram down your throat at this time of year are immediately switched for online dating sites, and my inbox fills with concerns that they might not be able to return the gift they purchased for my upcoming nuptials.
“Sorry, Aunt Jac, the personalized Christmas tea towels are yours. That’s karma for not sticking to the register.”
As I try to clean up my home page by marking the dating site ads as ‘not interested,’ an email notification pops up at the top of my old laptop screen. The subject line boils my blood with rage.
You’re being unreasonable.
The little snippet they show you to entice you to open the email does the opposite.
We’re two weeks out until our wedding, Kels. You can’t expect me to buy Noelle another ring before then. Not all of us got big bonuses this year. Mine was sliced in half.
“Because you flirted with your analysts instead of taking their advice seriously.”
In my eagerness to tell Peter he’s only on the cusp of my pettiness—I still have our mutual workplace to woo to my side of our split—I accidentally click on the ‘show me more’ button of an advertisement instead of the floating email bar that disappeared a second too fast.
It flashes up a video with too much skin for a Facebook ad. They’re usually as anti-nudity as Peter. I bet Zuckerberg doesn’t have sex with the lights on either.
“Are you hot and horny?”
“Yes.” My body answers the voiceover’s question before my head. I can’t remember the last time I felt this randy and heartbroken at the same time. I think it was the night of my thirtieth birthday. Peter had pledged to ‘rock my world.’
I’d only just reached the tingle stage when he squashed me to the mattress for three jerking seconds before rolling over and falling asleep.
Considering that was the only birthday present he gifted me, I should have asked for a refund.