Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 86828 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86828 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Ugh. We were in Oregon, for crying out loud. Sweaters should not have been optional.
After tugging on the hem of the micro shirt I stupidly tossed on before demanding my ex-fiancé, Peter, to drive me to the airport, I endeavor to pull open the door of my building without letting go of my luggage. Ravenshoe has grown in leaps and bounds the past five years, but it’s yet to reach the stage where you can leave your luggage unattended on the sidewalk.
I grimace when I catch the high rise of my shirt. I thought reminding Peter that Noelle isn’t the only woman in Oregon with ornaments on her chest would have him regretting his decision to ditch me for his high school sweetheart. I’m insulted to say his eyes never veered my way—not even while requesting I return the engagement ring he’d gifted me only three months earlier.
“Don’t look at me like that, Kels. It’s a family heirloom,” he said as he pulled into a free spot at the front of the departure entrance. “So it wouldn’t be right for you to keep it.”
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 still wrangling with the door.
It doesn’t budge an inch, 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 a 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, so I offer up an alternative until I can replace his damaged goods. “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 he determines 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 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, struggling not to groan. “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 in four-inch stilettos 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.
Insurance claim.
Organize new credit cards.
Divert my emails.
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—people I’ve never met in real life.
My life is so pathetic.
After assuring Jana from my online book club that I’m fine to continue buddy reading dark romances with her—how couldn’t I be? Men with dicks 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 consumers’ throats at this time of year are immediately switched for online dating sites, and my inbox fills with concerns that our guests might not be able to return the gift they purchased for our 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.