Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 133682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 668(@200wpm)___ 535(@250wpm)___ 446(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 668(@200wpm)___ 535(@250wpm)___ 446(@300wpm)
Josie gives her a side-arm hug and then turns her gaze to me. “Love hurts, but so does letting it go.”
“Do you really want to let him go?” Everly presses. “Because I don’t think you do.”
Who needs therapy with friends like this? I flop back onto the carpet. “Why did you come here? To make me cry and feel everything? I hate feelings so much. So very, very much.”
They join me, flat on their backs, too, which there’s space enough to do because this really is a chalet, not a cabin.
“If you’re not ready to do the hard thing, have a piece of cheese until you are,” Josie offers.
That’s not a bad idea. “Okay,” I say as I sit up to take a bite of a smoky Gouda.
As I eat, Josie adds, “It’s like you sometimes say to us—sometimes we aren’t ready to do the hard thing, so we have to do something easier first.”
I side-eye her. “You tricked me. You’re quoting me back to me.”
She smiles. “I am.”
I heave a sigh then give in, doing the easiest thing first. “Fine. You’re right. I fell in love with him.”
They erupt into cheers.
I roll my eyes. “Stop, stop.”
“The first step is saying it,” Josie goads.
“The second step is doing something about it,” Everly adds.
“The third step is banging,” Maeve finishes.
I laugh, but then sigh. Nothing is fixed, and there’s no evidence it will be. I don’t know how Wilder truly feels or what he’s willing to risk.
“I’ll think about what you said. See how I feel in the morning. How’s that?”
Everly smiles, then pats the canvas bag she brought. “Fair enough, but in that case, we have to wait till morning to show you what’s in the bag.”
No fair. “I want it now.”
“Not until you admit you’re going to try. Not simply consider it,” she says, holding the bag tight.
I huff but relent. “I’ll try.”
Josie nods toward the bag. “Show her.”
Everly reaches into it and dramatically extracts a crushed red-and-white cardboard box for a store-bought gingerbread house. “Brady’s not the only one who can look around and snoop. We can too. And we found this in his cabin after he threw his big man-baby tantrum on the gazebo stage. Somehow, it wound up on social under that hashtag—manbabytantrums. Which happens to be the best hashtag ever,” she says.
I can’t help it—I grin.
“It is.”
“And,” Everly continues, “the rules for the gingerbread competition were quite clear. You have to make the houses yourself.”
I smile devilishly. “And what are you going to do with this discovery?”
Josie lifts her chin proudly. “We already brought this to the judges. We’ll see what happens tomorrow.”
I say goodnight, then get ready for bed alone for the first time since I’ve been here. While I do, I think about the Girlfriends’ Guide to Getting Your Man Back.
Step one—saying it. Step two—doing it. Step three—coming back together.
And I’m pretty sure I want all those things more than I want to stay here, stuck.
I’m ready to do the hard thing.
I’m ready to fight for my man.
48
A PERFECT PAIRING
Wilder
After a half hour of pacing the grounds outside in the dark, crunching through the snow on hills by my cabins like a fucking caricature of a lonely billionaire (cue the violins), I’m fed up with myself more than I’d thought possible. I miss Fable horribly, but I don’t know what the hell to do about it.
I don’t have a spreadsheet to figure out this ache or a deal memo to stop these pangs of longing. There’s no business plan to navigate safely to the other side of these damn vexing emotions that have no place to go.
All I know is this—I’ve messed up spectacularly, and I need to go back to square one.
Fix one thing at a time.
I stop pacing, draw a deep breath of crisp winter air, and let it fill me with the first answer.
I’ll start with my friend. Maybe because that’s the easiest, but sometimes that’s how you have to begin.
I return to the main living room, march down the hall to Leo and Charlotte’s cabin, and lift my fist to bang on the door. Before I knock, though, I call out, “Look, I fucked up. I should have told you. But don’t fight with your bride because of—”
The door swings open, and a disheveled Leo appears, tugging on a sweatshirt, hair a mess, a cocky grin on his face. “What were you saying?”
I blink, taking a beat to process the obvious. “I thought…you and Charlotte were…”
The corner of his lips quirks up. “Fighting?”
“Yeah, you seemed pissed earlier,” I say.
He shrugs. “I was for a minute. But then she explained that some shit went down with her sister and my cousin, and that was all she needed to say.”
Oh. My brow furrows. “It was?”
A voice calls out from beyond the door, “Yes, it was!” Charlotte adds, “We’re all good. I mean, we’re great. Really great. Oh so very great.”