Don't Marry the Ex: A Sweet Romance (The Debutante Rules Book 3)

by Emily Childs

  “I need to get going and give our travel partner the itinerary.” The idea of seeing Dot after this conversation is like fingernails dragging down a chalkboard. But if we’re going to make it through this weekend, I’d rather be on the same page before we go.

  I leave the kitchen, and head upstairs before any more outbursts can erupt. As I brush my teeth, I do my regular check email thing to get a jump on the day, but stop mid-brush. Mouth overflowing with winter fresh foam, my breath catches.

  I open the first email from Dot, my fingers strangely numb, and about tip over when I read each line at least twice.

  What is this? I’m dumfounded. Stuck on the final few lines: I don’t know what happened to drive you away, but I want you to know I’ve never loved anyone as completely as I love you. If I could ask one thing it would be to know why. I wish you would tell me, so I can move on. Even still, marrying you will always be my greatest dream, and I will always be grateful I had the opportunity to dream it, even if it was only for a moment.

  “I uh—” I can’t find the words to finish, blink too fast, and hurry to the second message.

  Disregard that last email. It was written a lifetime ago and sent by accident. Disregard.

  Dorothy-Ann

  I’m not sure which message stings more. All this time being back here, I’ve intentionally buried the little-known fact that I lost a fiancée, not a girlfriend. Only Kyler knew we planned to elope, which is another reason I wish my brother would get off the Dot train and stick on mine. Of course, we would’ve had the big ceremony for our parents’ sake. My mama would’ve died if I didn’t, but we hadn’t wanted a big thing at first. Just us.

  I rub the bridge of my nose to hide the sting in my eyes. Doubtless, they were red by now. Why can’t I quit this woman?

  “It’s nothing,” I say to no one. And it was nothing. A mistakenly sent email. One that dug out my heart with a rusty spoon, but a mistake. She didn’t feel that way anymore. I didn’t either.

  And I kept telling myself that lie all the way to my room.

  I flop onto my stomach over my bed. I should hate her. Maybe I should tell her why. Let her in that I know the dirty truth. I will. Someday.

  Chapter 5

  Dot

  Wrapping up the financial report is tedious, and I’m anxious to get out into the sun for a breather, even if in a few minutes I’ll be locked inside with Walter, our droll patient accounts representative who doesn’t know how to emphasize his tone. Still, he’s nice and always has a bowl of chocolate kisses to pick at.

  A gentle knock raps on the door. “Come on in,” I say and turn to the printer to gather the financial spreadsheets.

  The machine starts clicking the same moment the door opens. “Stupid thing,” I mutter under my breath, searching for the problem.

  “You’re out of paper.”

  My blood turns to ice, a shiver dances down my spine, but my office is sweltering in another breath. I blink to make sure my eyes aren’t bugging out, then ease around in my chair.

  Why did I look? I knew what would happen. My heart would race (it is), my palms would sweat (they are), and my heart would snap in two (there it goes). Sawyer, complete in a sleek, fitted suit, fills my doorway. Good blazes, he’s still scruffy. I clench my jaw because he probably did that on purpose.

  For two minutes, maybe ten, we stare at each other. Unmoving, unguarded. How is it possible that we once laughed when we can hardly manage to form sentences now?

  “Paper,” he says after I fear the walls might crumble in on me. “You’re out of paper, Miss Gardener.”

  I flinch. Sweet, gentle Sawyer has become distant and formal. I swallow the scratch in my throat and turn around, awkwardly filling the paper tray, his eyes burning a hole in the back of my head. “What can I do for you, Mr. Lanford?”

  I squeeze my eyes. Come on, Dot. You can do this, I think, but my heart says otherwise.

  Sawyer clears his throat. “I wanted to speak with you.”

  My skin feels too tight. The first thought is to the email. How am I going to finagle my way out of that one? I use my toes to spin around in my chair, my fingers dance along the hem of my pencil skirt. “Okay. Come in.”

  One corner of Sawyer’s mouth kicks up in that devious smirk I loved so much. “Care if I sit?”

  I shake my head and gesture for one of the chairs against the wall. Sawyer brushes closer, and my body turns to water. His fresh, clean laundry scent puts my head in a fog and he’s not even trying.

  Sawyer reclines in the chair. He grins, but rakes a hand through his hair. A sign he’s nervous or about to get twitchy. At least it used to be. Now, it musses his hair and keeps me staring like he might disappear. “This is nice, Miss—”

  “Please stop calling me that.” I don’t mean to blurt it out, but I can’t take one more Miss Gardener or I’ll throw something.

  For the barest moment, his jaw pulses, but in a jiff that smirk is back in place. “Sure. Dorothy-Ann.” His knee bounces.

  I lace my fingers in my lap. “What is it you need?” Please don’t bring up the email. I’m at utter peace going on pretending it never happened for all time. Maybe he never saw it. Better yet, maybe he saw my name and deleted it without reading a word.

  His fingers drum over his knees and I’m tossed into moments of foggy car windows and sweet caresses born at the tips of those fingers. If I hadn’t loved him so much, I think I’d hate him now for making me twist up in such a way.

  He’s not saying anything. Be bold, Dorothy-Ann, I think. Really, I ought to get this out of the way before I split through my skin. “If this is about the email I sent, it was entirely an accident.”

  He studies me for half a breath. “It wasn’t going to be, but maybe it should be.”

  My heart is in my throat. “Well, I’m not sure the office is the best place to have those conversations.”

  “It’s the only way I can talk with you.” Sawyer sits in one of the chairs, knee bouncing.

  “You haven’t really tried.”

  Sawyer nods slowly, his fingers tap the arms of his chair. “Probably true.”

  He keeps wringing his hands and a twinge of sympathy blooms in my chest. “Sawyer,” I say softly. “Try to focus. What do you want to say?”

  His eyes cut through me, locking me in place, and I don’t look away until he’s grounded again, until his knee doesn’t bounce as much. “I had everything I wanted to say thought out. Now I can’t keep my head straight.”

  Already a sting grows behind my eyes. I miss him and I shouldn’t. This man is infuriating, once he made my entire world spin, but I’m in no mood to hear why he fell out of love with me. I thought I could do it, but the way a hot knife is already digging out my heart, I can’t stomach any reason. “I’m not . . . I can’t have this conversation.”

  “Neither can I, but maybe it needs to be had before we go on a business trip. To clear up any bad air between us, I guess.” His eyes narrow. “Don’t you think I deserve to know some things?”

  Sawyer’s airy tone is sharp as nails now. Call it the redhead temper, but I flush. My fists clench. He has no right to cut me at the knees after all he’s done. Before, and now. “Frankly, you’ve had a year to explain your reasons to me.”

  “Dot, I—” He tilts his head. “I didn’t think it mattered. At least thought it’d be obvious.”

  He doesn’t think we mattered. Obvious. Nothing is obvious. Heat prickles the back of my neck, and I want to run. “Didn’t matter. Really? Good to know, and another reason this conversation must stay professional. It’s not good business dredging up the past. It only complicates things.”

  “When did you write the email?” he blurts out.

  So much for keeping it professional. I close my eyes, wishing I could keep my mouth shut. There might be a piece of me that wants him to stay a little longer, as bad as it aches. “Three months after we broke up.” Well, great. My voice cracked and there is no way he didn’t notice. “Is that all?”
<
br />   “I wanted to get married, Dorothy-Ann. I wanted to be enough, so desperately.”

  My head cants to one side. “When were you ever not enough?”

  “You tell me.”

  “Sawyer, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  He leans over his knees and drags his fingers through his hair viciously. His eyes are glassy, they’re red. Mylanta he’s as heartbroken as me. Sawyer scoffs after a moment and studies the floor. “Don’t patronize me. Please.”

  He’s not making any sense, and I’m about to burst with all the tears I haven’t shed since he rolled back into town. Sawyer Lanford fell out of love with me, simple as that. I don’t need details. Not anymore. Clearing my throat, I turn away. “We shouldn’t do this, Sawyer. Clearly we’re not in a place to have this conversation yet, and frankly I have a meeting this morning with billing. You understand there are some issues in our billing codes and it really can’t be ignored.”

  His jaw pulses, as though he bites back a hundred things, but he offers a curt nod in the end. “Then I’ll be brief. I really came to work out the details of this trip to Atlanta.” Sawyer leans over his knees. “Have you had much experience with things like this?”

  “Dinner with rich folks?” I chuckle. “Yes, I think I can handle it.”

  “This isn’t the same as fancy dinners with your parents. You’re at the table of chauvinistic men who live in a different century.”

  I scoff. “Oh, and you have experience being a woman at a business dinner?”

  The curl in the corner of his mouth melts my insides into nothing but a puddle. “No, not recently,” he says. “But I’ve seen how investors like this have treated others in the past. I thought it might be good to go over everything since we’re expected to be a united front.”

  “Don’t sound so pleased.”

  A shadow passes over his eyes. He cracks a thumb knuckle like he’s ready to start a brawl. I’m already exhausted from curbing my need to rant and scream over my shredded heart, I think I might be fit to brawl too. Sawyer Lanford had already done his worst, what more can he do to me? He clears his throat, voice low and raw. “I’m trying to help, Dot. If you’d rather not, I can get back to work and see you tomorrow.”

  My mouth tightens. “Is it really that bad?”

  “I hope not, but it’s known to happen. You know it does.”

  I think back to the countless dinners I attended growing up. Most often the men talked business and their egos with a line drawn between their wives to discuss fashion, the country club, or the latest gossip. I guess it’s not such a leap to imagine these investors seeing me as an assistant, or maybe arm candy, not a player at the table.

  Swallowing some pride, I nod. “Okay. What did you plan to cover?”

  He relaxes, leaning back in the chair. “I planned to focus more on the app and how it couples with clinics like this. I don’t think I need to bore them much with insurance details.”

  “Okay, then I’ll talk about growth, maybe.”

  “No maybes,” he says. “Confidence, Dottie. Show the good ole boys you own the spot at the table.”

  Dottie. I hide the wince under a flat, unruffled, unbothered expression. Inside, I’m a hot mess. “I think showing the need through the growth at the clinic will be beneficial, and will show that an app like HealthyRx would certainly be a benefit.”

  “Okay,” he says, almost smiling. “But these guys are philanthropic investors, so you’ll need to be ready to give some social proof that your clinic is accomplishing the goals it set out to do.”

  Boy, please. I smile a little smugly. “Not a problem. We’ve exceeded our expectations and have powerful feedback from the community.”

  “There,” he says, jabbing a finger at me. “There’s the confidence you’ll need.”

  I chuckle softly. “I feel like this is a coaching session.”

  “I am a good coach on the ways of arrogant men.”

  “Hmm, not sure that’s a mark in your favor.”

  He laughs, but seems to catch himself when he realizes he’s laughing with me. Sawyer clears his throat. “I know you’re not on board with aligning with my name, but this weekend we need to appear that way. The clinic is growing, true, but you need more backing to keep up.”

  “I already said I’d bring up the app.”

  “Reluctantly.”

  I scoff. “I’ll hide my concerns if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “Technology is appealing,” he says. “It’s the way of the world, and businesses, even healthcare, need it. Together we’re a worthy investment. On our own, I’m not sure if we’ll be as convincing.”

  “I understand,” I tell him stiffly. I know Sawyer’s businesses, his expertise, could be of use to the clinic. But I’m the one who handles the dollars. “It’s not your business model I’m opposed to.”

  “So it’s personal.”

  My face heats. “No. I’m impressed by all the work you’ve done, but I’m not convinced it’s the right move bringing an outside company in. Draws the wrong attention sometimes, the kind that could put our nonprofit status at risk.”

  “Is it so bad if you lose it?”

  I cut him with my gaze, hopefully at the knees. He knows better. “I happen to be mighty proud that we’re making a difference in this town without endless bureaucrats fighting for more payouts from insurance companies, and cutting corners to save a—”

  “Okay.” Sawyer holds up his hands in surrender, chuckling. “Sorry I asked.”

  Not long ago, he’d never think to ask such a dumb question. I toss my hair over my shoulder, anxious to address the angst between us, or end this conversation before I turn inside out. “I know it’s disappointing to you, but that’s my opinion. For now,” I tack on.

  “Fair enough,” he says, rubbing a hand over his chin. My eyes follow, then traitorously drift to his lips. Oh, to feel those again. I dig my fingernails into my palms and force my head to quit reeling into murky moments.

  Sawyer studies me for a long pause, then says, “How about we make a deal.”

  “What kind of deal?”

  “This weekend let me show you some things we do. I’ll show you the bones of the app, show you what our trainings have done for other clinics. If you like what you see, then you bring us in to do a small training with the administrators and department heads. When they’re convinced, then you let us in.”

  “So confident our administration will like you?”

  “Very confident,” he says with a sultry grin.

  I’d like to slap it off his face for the storm it’s causing. Or just touch his face. I can’t decide. The truth is our clinic is bleeding somewhere. Something is off on our documentation, and I’m not sure we can find it on our own. I have no plans to tell Sawyer this, of course. “All right. Impress me in Atlanta and we’ll move forward.”

  “See. That wasn’t so hard.” Sawyer stands and I get a waft of his woodsy skin. How can it be possible to want someone who did you so wrong? “We’ll see you at eight tomorrow, then.”

  “Fine,” I say, but my voice comes out wrong. All hoarse as if I’ve been screaming all day.

  Sawyer turns toward the door but pauses. He’s staring at the old sweet tea bottle on the corner of my desk. Dumb Dot! I hadn’t even thought to move the thing. I expect to meet a scowl. Instead, Sawyer laughs.

  “A one in a hundred shot,” he says, pointing at the bottle.

  I smile, broken inside, and whisper, “Lucky shot.”

  That snaps him back to his focus. His smile fades. Clearing his throat, he adjusts the cuffs of his sleeves. “I guess I’ll see you around, Miss Gardener.”

  “Sure.”

  I hold my breath and open the door for him, and expect to bid an awkward farewell, but Sawyer stops. Right in front of me, close enough that when he breathes his chest brushes my body. I swallow my tongue.

  “You know,” he says softly. “I am looking forward to talking again and . . . I know I probably
shouldn’t be.”

  Well, hush my mouth! There he is—stammering, adorably unsure Sawyer. I can’t feel my toes. Just like that, I’m back on the brink of destruction with this fool of a man. Why couldn’t he have stayed away? Let me grow into the cursing cat lady on the corner as I’d planned to do with all my heart. Why does he reel me in, only to build those stony walls that he won’t even tell me why he built them in the first place! Maybe he thinks he’s told me with his vague replies. For all I know, he ended things because it simply didn’t feel right. It’s happened. Not all breakups have some grand reason.

  “Should be interesting,” I mutter. I need to get away from him and recalibrate into indifference. I have plans to turn like an unruffled boss, maybe give a little hair flip, but in all my glory, I stumble on my heel and go over like a stack of leaning blocks.

  Strong arms catch me around my waist. Sawyer tries to steady me, but because the world is tilted at his touch, we both tip over the edge of one chair. My face is smashed into the seat cushion, my hips arched over the arm. Sawyer, the opposite. He’s on his back, sort of cradled by the chair, his arm still curled around my waist.

  I don’t have time to worry about how horrific this moment ought to be because I’m too busy snorting and giggling into the cushion. Sawyer’s rumbling laugh breaks over mine. He always had the best laugh. One that builds from somewhere deep inside.

  His arm tightens around my waist as he tries to hold back. When he laughs too much, the sound sort of pitches up an octave. By now I know he’ll be red in the face. I fumble my way up, so I can look at him. My rear end is pointed at the ceiling as I arch my back and look at his eyes. He’s basically a strawberry right now.

  “You okay?” he manages to choke out.

  “No,” I say through a laugh. “Could you not tell how epically cool I was trying to excuse you before I fell on my face? In ten seconds, I’m going to be mortified.”

  He laughs again. “Always so honest, Dottie.”