“Can you guys go to my apartment, get rid of all of Silvio’s things, change the locks, and then bring me a key?”
The answer from everyone is a resounding hell, yes.
A few hours later, the deed is done.
My ex-fiancé has been kicked out of my place, where we lived together for the last month.
Good riddance. The man can’t tie a bow tie but can untie the knot like Benedict Arnold.
I push open the door and enter my now emptier apartment, fearful of how much it’ll hurt.
I brace myself as I drink it in.
His stacks of hardcover biographies are gone from the coffee table.
His framed photographs of moody skylines are nowhere to be seen.
His paintbrushes have vamoosed from the kitchen.
What’s left are my pink and purple pillows scattered across the couch, my wine is my friend corkscrew on the kitchen counter, and my For Fox Sake collection of pun art hanging on the walls.
This home is for someone who doesn’t take herself too seriously.
Only, I did take commitment seriously.
I sure as hell did.
And he did not. So I suppose I’m glad he showed his true colors now. Glad he revealed his trickery before I said I do.
Maybe that’s why seeing his stuff gone doesn’t lacerate me. Maybe I’m a little bit lucky.
I turn around and meet the eyes of my crew. “Thank you. I appreciate this so much.”
“Do you want me to stay the night?” Olive offers, all kind big eyes and giant heart.
“Anything you need, I’m here for you,” Emerson adds, and my other friends chime in with similar sentiments.
“Thank you, but I’m good,” I say. I love them but I need a break from sympathy.
“Do you want to stay with Janice and me in Sausalito?” my father offers; he and his new wife have a lovely home on the water, with a view of Richardson Bay from the guest room.
“I appreciate the invite, but I’ll stay here,” I say, because it sort of feels like mine again.
And mostly because their pitying looks—though well-intentioned—might drive me crazy, especially when I’m feeling the tiniest bit of this-is-a-blessing-in-disguise.
“Call me tomorrow,” Emerson says, making her way to the door.
“And don’t answer your mom’s calls,” my dad adds.
“Not a problem. I blocked her already.”
“Good girl,” he says, and they leave.
Once I shut the door, the walls instantly close in.
I’m all alone.
The silence is claustrophobic.
I was wrong. This is the last place I want to be.
Even with all his things gone, I can’t stand being here alone. I don’t want to be by myself, but I don’t want to be with friends right now either.
What do I want?
To be with this city.
Yup. That’s what I need.
I kick off my stupid white satin heels, march into my bedroom, and yank open the closet door, scanning for something to wear that’s not this dress.
Maybe a cute V-neck, or some jeans and cowboy boots. Something that’s the opposite of a wedding gown.
I pluck at the chiffon.
But damn. I like this dress. Hell, I love it. I bought it because it’s my style. It’s fun and pretty.
Screw it.
Might as well make some new memories in this dress.
I’ll make it the perfect outfit for a solo night on the town with these babies. I grab a pair of fuchsia cowboy boots from the closet, tug them on in a flurry.
Yup. This is me now.
My dress, my boots, my style. From a shelf, I grab a purple wristlet that Emerson gave me for my birthday. Go Ahead, Underestimate Me adorns one side in a curlicue font.
Indeed, world.
Underestimate me.
I am not staying in.
I am not curling up and downing a carton of Häagen-Dazs.
I am taking myself out in my goddamn dress.
Stuffing my phone into my colorful clutch, I get the hell out of my apartment, hitting the sidewalk on a Saturday night.
I wander through Russian Hill, weaving unnoticed through crowds. Across the street, a woman dressed as a leprechaun skips down the block. As I round the corner, a man in a porkpie hat rides a unicycle. No one gives the woman in the wedding dress a second look as she wanders the city solo.
San Francisco is awesome and wonderful, and this is why I loved and missed this city when I was in Los Angeles building my business.
I walk, and I walk, and I walk into the night until I see a sign for Pinup Lanes advertising a Saturday night special on tequila and bowling.
I’ll take what’s behind door number one, thank you very much.
I head inside. It’s so old school, and this is what I need right now.
Brimming with orange Formica, and fifties tunes, this place is nothing at all like the Legion of Honor, my mural artist almost-husband, or the ceremony I didn’t have.
I head to the bar, order a shot, and knock it back.
It burns all the way down.
I order one more, and when the bartender sets it down, I notice footsteps growing louder on the linoleum behind me.
I turn my head. Glance over my shoulder.
Is that . . .?
No way.
Tonight, after all these years, my eyes land on the guy who got away.
4
Harlan
Holy smokes.
She is a sight.
As sexy as Katie was more than seven years ago, she’s somehow even more stunning today. Her hair is all done up and clipped back, with lush, dark blonde strands curling over her shoulders. Her skin shimmers. Her high cheekbones slant in fantastic contrast to her pert, freckled nose.
The last seven years have been very good to her.
And yet, everything about the woman is incongruous. It’s not a stretch to imagine there’s something wildly wrong tonight. A woman doesn’t wear a wedding dress solo to a bowling alley bar on a Saturday night in July without a reason. But I don’t want to make any assumptions. Hell, her groom might be in the little boys’ room, taking care of business.
Or waxing a big old bowling ball.
Or playing a speed sesh of Pac-Man in the video game lounge.
But a quick glance around tells me she’s not here with the mister after saying I do. The place is mostly empty with just a few groups of old dudes in bowling shirts left of the crowd, and no one who looks like he got hitched today. So I’m thinking Katie and her man didn’t rush off to Pinup Lanes for an ironic game of bowling to celebrate their nuptials.
Just to be safe, though, I go in nice and easy. I’d like to avoid hitting on another man’s bride.
What am I saying? I’m not going to hit on her, period. I’m merely saying hello to an old flame.
I close the distance, leaning a hip against the bar. “Hello, blast from the past. And happy . . . Saturday night?” I arch a brow, give a crooked smile, hoping maybe that’s the start of what she needs. A friendly face. Someone to lighten the mood.
Katie turns to me in slow motion, taking her sweet time. Her blue eyes are edged with sadness and fury. But when they lock on mine, recognition sparks, and a wide range of emotions dances across her face.
Surprise. Embarrassment. And maybe a touch of excitement?
“Or we can be more precise and call it Happy Just-Escaped-Marriage-To-A-Cheater day,” she deadpans.
Whoa.
Someone does not mince words.
Who the hell would do that to her?
I blow out a long stream of air and scrub a hand over my jaw. “They ought to have cards for that,” I say, trying to match her mood. “Say goodbye to the double-crossing, duplicitous dick.”
She lifts her shot glass, a tiny laugh escaping her lips. “Yes. And the inside could say Congratulations to the jilted bride,” she says, hurt leaking into her tone now.
My heart screams
for her. “I hate that this happened to you, but I’m glad you got out in the nick of time.” I park myself on a stool and do the one useful thing I can—I lift two fingers at the bartender. “I’ll take a shot too.”
“Coming right up,” he says.
I turn to Katie. “I cannot let you drink alone. Not on your wedding night. It’s just not right. I refuse to do it. So you have a just escaped marriage to the traitor drinking buddy.”
She pats the bar, heaving a sigh. “Then drink up, partner.”
The bartender slides over a tequila for me. “Here you go, sir.”
I slap down some bills. “And I’ll take care of her bar tab tonight,” I say.
Katie shakes her head. “I’ve got it.”
I scoff, patting my chest. “Gentleman here. It’s the least I can do on your Great Escape Day.”
She holds up her hand in surrender. “I have no argument left in me. Thank you.”
“You are most welcome. And by the way, on behalf of all men everywhere, I’d like to apologize for whatever that dickhead of a guy did. He is clearly an asshat of the highest order, and he does not deserve you. That’s just a fact.”
She lifts her glass in agreement, then downs the shot. “He is, but that’s not the worst of it, Harlan.”
“Oh, you remember my name?” I tease before I knock back my drink too.
She narrows her eyes, shoots me a c’mon look. “Did you think I wouldn’t?”
“I’m just happy you did . . . Katie.” It comes out flirtier than I expected. But maybe flirting is what she needs tonight?
Her blue eyes widen. “Are you trying to impress me by remembering mine?”
“Did that impress you? If so, check out the other details I remember.” I count off on my fingers. “You’re from Texas, you love fashion and flirting, and I sorely missed the chance for a second date with you.”
I put that last nugget out there because . . . why the hell not? Maybe tonight is the perfect time to let the woman know she was wanted something fierce.
Katie shoots me a skeptical glance. “Now you’re just blowing smoke up my skirt.”
“I assure you, no smoke is being blown. But I do like your skirt.” I curl my fingers to beckon the rest of the story from her. “Go on. You were about to tell me what is the worst part of today. Also, if you need to punch anyone or anything, my chest is a brick wall.” I pat my pecs, inviting her to toss her fist my way. “Feel free to take it out on me.”
Another small laugh falls from her lips, and I feel like I’m winning at something—at making a woman who’s had a terrible day feel a tiny bit better.
Katie breathes deep, yoga-style, like she’s inhaling a namaste to form the next words: “I walked in on the groom kissing the mother of the bride.”
What?
The revelation spins my head around, horror-movie style, with shocked disbelief.
That can’t be true.
“Tell me that’s a joke,” I say. Because how could it be anything else?
She sighs and shakes her head, her lips quivering slightly. My heart lurches toward her.
“I’m not joking,” she says in a terribly sad whisper.
I can’t resist giving her some comfort. I reach for her arm, squeeze it, rub my palm along her soft skin. “That is the worst. People say things are the worst—bad parking spot, terrible coffee. But this scenario is the actual worst, and I am so damn sorry it happened to you.”
“Thank you. I really appreciate that. My friends and my dad tried to help comfort me today. They were helpful, but even though I asked them to leave, when they did I discovered I didn’t want to be home either. So I wandered around the city alone until I stumbled across this place. It seemed”—she stops to survey the retro room—“fitting in some way. It’s the complete opposite of my wedding.” She plucks at the fabric of her dress. “Maybe that’s why I left this on. To wear it for a completely opposite purpose. Just for me on a random night.”
What she’s saying makes perfect sense. “You’re reclaiming it in a way.”
She seems to consider that, then nods. “Yes, maybe I am.”
I point to the door. “Did you want to be alone? It’ll be hard for me to go, because there’s a part of me that doesn’t feel like I can abandon you. But if you need to be alone, I’ll leave.”
Her eyes drift down to my hand on her arm. “No. Actually, I don’t want to be alone.” Her voice dips quieter. “I can’t believe this is even real.” Katie drops her forehead into her hand, drawing a shuddery breath.
I slide my arm around her, rubbing her back. “Sweetheart, he doesn’t deserve you. She doesn’t deserve you. You are light years better than those two. Look at you.”
She lifts her face, curious. “What do you mean?”
I gesture to the bombshell sitting next to me in her yards of white finery and bright pink boots. “Your ex-fiancé should have to wear a sandwich board for the rest of his life that says I lost out on a fantastic woman because I’m a stupid, shit-for-brains numb nut. Also, those boots are hot.”
With a small smile, she kicks out her right foot, showing me the fuchsia boots. “Thank you. Suffice to say, they were not part of my official wedding costume.”
That gives me a fantastic idea. “How about we call this your bowling dress?” I say, gesturing to her outfit.
She smooths a hand along the white fabric. “Why yes, this is, indeed, my bowling costume.”
I eye her dolled-up hair. “And I see you did up your hair for a night of fantastic tequila drinking with a football player.”
She rolls with the make-believe without missing a beat. “I so did.”
The smile that sneaks across her face makes me feel damn good. That is my job tonight—to cheer her all the way up.
Hell, I feel like a superhero, an agent called in for a vitally important duty. My mission, should I choose to accept it, is to cure Katie of her getting-left-at-the-altar blues.
If anyone can do it, it’s me. And if anyone deserves to feel a helluva lot better, it’s this gem of a woman.
I slap my palm on the bar. “I’m declaring it. We are having a just saved from the dickhead party. How about that, Katie? Are you in or out?”
She rolls her eyes but laughs lightly. “I’m all the way in.”
“It’s a congratulations on not marrying a flaming pile of dog shit event,” I add with an emphatic bump of my fist on the wood counter.
She gets in on the game, raising her glass high in the air. “It’s a celebration of freedom from a backstabbing, lying, cheating, awful, terrible groom and his brand-new snake of a girlfriend as they enjoy my honeymoon.”
Oh, no. Say it isn’t so. I grimace. “He took her on your honeymoon? Today?”
Katie lets out a resigned sigh. “He sure did. And I hope she enjoys taking boring, moody pictures of the Irish countryside or what-the-fuck-ever.”
That’s it. There’s nothing I won’t do to take her mind off her Officially Awful-est Day. I sweep my arm out. “Then we are celebrating you being Indiana Jones and escaping from that fiasco of a marriage one second before the boulder came rolling down on you and locked you up with a ring.”
She considers that, her brows knit. The bartender strolls by, waggles the bottle, and we lift our glasses, asking for refills.
“If I’m Indiana Jones,” Katie counters playfully, “I need a hat, don’t I?”
This woman. Even on a terrible day, her spark and fire haven’t left her. “You sure do. We’ll make it our mission to procure an Indiana Jones hat for you,” I declare.
She hums, tapping her chin. “Do you think there are any hat dealers open in the city right now?”
Where there’s a will there’s a way. Plus, we aren’t living in the middle of nowhere. Presuming she lives here again. I can’t resist finding out, even on her not-wedding night. “Are you back in the Bay Area?”
“I sure am. Moved back seven months ago.”
That makes me happy, but a little sad too. I growl,
crossing my arms. “And you didn’t even look me up.”
She waggles her hand, showing me her engagement diamond. “I met him a week after I moved. Also, I’m going to sell this and donate the money. Plus, hello! You have a kid. Jillian mentions you from time to time.”
“I do have a little girl,” I say, grinning as I picture my little bear. “Abby is the apple of my eye and the love of my life. I’m great friends with Abby’s mom—we get along like thieves. But just because I have a kid doesn’t mean I’m off the market. Au contraire. I’m as single as the day is long.”
Holy hell, I am flirting shamelessly with a woman who was about to walk down the aisle today and tie the knot with another man.
That ought to be the yellow flag to end yellow flags. And yet, I’m just as eager to chat with Katie tonight as I was seven years ago.
Riddle me that.
“You’re single?” The woman in white leans closer, lifts her glass, whispers conspiratorially, “What do you know? So am I. Cheers to that.”
She clinks her shot glass to mine and I tap back.
It feels like a legitimate toast, like we’re both truly pleased to be free.
Hell, considering her fiancé, maybe she is glad to be unhitched.
We both drink some liquid fire, breathe out hard, and put the glasses down at the same time. “To being single in the city,” I say. “And you know what? This is San Francisco. I bet there is someplace in the city where we can get you a hat and a whip.”
She runs her thumb over the empty glass, her smile a bit naughty. “Well, I have no doubt there’s someplace in the city where we could get a whip right now.”
I wiggle by brows. “Would you like a whip, darlin’?”
Her eyes twinkle with mischief. “Oh, there you go again. Dipping into the accent for fun.”
“Seemed the perfect time. You like the reappearance?”
She bobs a shoulder. “Depends on the reason it’s making a reappearance.”
“Ah, seems it sneaks back when I flirt with a gorgeous woman,” I say, putting that out there.
Yup, I am flirting with a jilted bride, and judging from the happiness in her eyes, it seems like exactly what she needs.
Maybe it’s what I need too.
A Wild Card Kiss Page 7
