Sweet on You (Painter Creek #1)

1. Darcy

ONE

DARCY

I could hit him with my car.

Let me back up. I’m not typically into premeditated vehicular manslaughter, but when your fiancé reveals he’s the reason you didn’t get the promotion at work, a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.

Rob runs at me, hands out like I’m some sort of enraged animal.

Maybe I am one.

Maybe I’ve just shed my scales of self-control and revealed the feral snake that will swallow my fiancé—well, ex-fiancé as of three minutes ago—whole. And then maybe I’ll regurgitate his bones or something. Can snakes do that, or is it just owls?

Rob stops in front of my car, flashing a nervous smile to one of the players heading to the arena for tonight’s game. He’s always kissing their asses, like if he does it just right, they’ll invite him to be on the team instead of the guy in group ticket sales. He’d hate it if they caught wind that he screwed me over. Wouldn’t it be funny if one of the pregame photographers caught me running over Rob? And during the playoffs no less.

Ugh, that would serve as evidence. That won’t do.

And anyway, he’s too close now for me to actually do any damage. I’d have to back up to get him good. I pop a piece of spearmint gum from my car’s cup holder into my mouth, grinding it in my back teeth so I don’t grit them down to dust. The flavor burst reminds me that I really shouldn’t hit this man who I thought was my future.

“Darcy, let’s talk about this.” His voice is muffled through the glass, and even more muffled still when I slam on the horn to cover his next words. Two players crossing the lot snap to look at us, and I give them a friendly wave. One of them’s the captain, Landon Mitchell. He’s been kind to me over the last few years, and he and his wife often invited us to their get-togethers. Rob resents that Landon seems to like me better than him, proven now by the menacing look Landon shoots at him. I’m comforted that even if the team’s management won’t promote me after all my achievements, at least one of the players has my back.

I should buy his jersey while I still have my team discount. Rob would hate that. He’s forever convinced that I, the girl in the marketing department, am some sort of bait for a team full of men who certainly have plenty of prospects who aren’t a committed woman in the marketing department. Who’s engaged to a guy in sales.

Was. Was engaged. No longer. Because the man I was engaged to is a traitor.

Rob’s jaw tightens and his lips go into their signature “I’m so mad at you” pout. His mouth forms, “You’re being irrational,” and to show him just what irrational looks like, ever so slightly, I let my foot off the brake.

Rob’s eyes go wide as my front bumper gently sweeps him off his feet, forcing him to lay on the hood. His long fingers scrabble for purchase under my windshield wipers even though he’s in no danger of being flung to the ground.

“Are you fucking insane?” he squeals.

Landon pivots to walk our way and I really didn’t expect him to be this much of a bro for me, siding with me without even knowing the context of our fight. But I wave him off with an overzealous smile, rolling down my window and sticking my head out to address my former beloved. “Nope. Just a woman with a plan.”

Rob scurries off the hood of my car, dusting off his clothes and scowling at me. But his scowl turns more morose than angry as he examines my face. He actually looks sad enough for me to momentarily feel sorry for him. Only for a moment, though. He comes to my window and bends down. “What plan, Darcy?”

I sigh. “To get my stuff out of our apartment before you get off work.”

“Darcy, babe, take your ring back. I’m trying to help you.”

I tip my head to the side and narrow my eyes. “Did I ask for your help?”

Rob runs a hand through his dark waves and down his face, stretching the skin next to his sky blue eye. Yes, eye. The other one is green. Fucker has the nerve to have a charming aberration like heterochromia and not even be worth the last three years of my life. “You don’t even like this job.”

That’s rich. I used to like my job, before it became apparent that my superior either had to die or leave for me to get promoted. And here, when that spot finally opened up, Ol’ Roberto took it upon himself to control my destiny.

I glance to the cloudless sky, because why wouldn’t it be gorgeous on the day that my life falls apart? It’s May! Birds are chirping! It’s playoff hockey, baby! Everyone at work is excited because the team’s in the conference final! Time to pull out the flowy dresses and cute sandals! It’s almost a holiday weekend!

And my former fiancé thinks I’d rather turn out babies for him than advance my career—a decision he came to entirely on his own.

I suck on the roof of my mouth as I take a moment to consider his perspective, despite the obvious flaws in it. “Maybe. But I’ve been working toward managing the department since when, Rob? Do you know what this would do for my student debt?”

He lets out a long-suffering sigh and straightens, looking to the cloudless sky. “Darcy, once we’re married, I’m taking care of everything.”

I twitch, fighting the urge to claw his face or do something else that would qualify as an incarcerable offense. “What about what I want, Rob?”

I could probably spit on him and get away with it.

“Darcy, you don’t even know what’s good for you.”

What is air? I haven’t met it in a minute or two because how could one breathe under these circumstances? “You’re right, babe,” I concede. “Come here. I want to make sure you hear me.”

Rob’s shoulders slacken, feeling victory at hand. He leans his elbows on the window frame, his eyes soft when I grab him by the crisply starched shirt collar. I take my gum out of my mouth like I’m going to kiss him, but instead bring his face right in front of my own.

“Fuck your ideas about what I want and what I need. Fuck what you think you know about me. Fuck you for ever interfering with my life like this. Fuck you for betraying me. Fuck your country club membership and your stupid boat, and while we’re at it, fuck your family too.” I pull his face a little closer. “And most of all, Rob, fuck you down to the soles of your stupid knockoff Gucci shoes.”

I shove him back so I don’t actually injure him with the car—I do value my freedom—toss my gum on his shoe, and peel out with my middle finger out the window. I’m heartened by the cheers from my puck-pushing allies who stand by in a larger group now.

But it doesn’t change the fact that I’m shattered. The person I loved and trusted with my future sabotaged me, and now I have to throw everything away if I want to escape from him. I can’t work at the same office knowing what he did. Plus, it’s not like I’ll get the promotion I’ve been after.

My job for the last four years is gone. The friends I’ve made, up in smoke. I don’t want to face the apartment we share, but I can’t take my cat with me if I don’t go back there.

When Rob disappears in the rear-view mirror and I turn out of the arena’s parking lot for the last time, I let myself cry.

* * *

Everyone should have a body-in-the-trunk person in their life, that person who would, in theory, come help you bury a body without asking questions. My aunt Maggie is that person for me.

We’re not related by blood, but she’s always treated me as an equal, even when I was just a kid. She married my dad’s brother, Bill, when I was in kindergarten, both of their second marriages. I worshiped the ground she walked on as I grew up, watching her fit right into Bill’s life at our family farm. Over time, it almost became more her farm than any of ours. She exudes a certain calm that my own mother lacks, and therefore, she’s my body-in-the-trunk person.

Since I didn’t actually hit Rob with my car, I don’t have a body in the trunk, but the situation feels almost as dire.

I sit in the middle of what was our bedroom, whatever boxes we hadn’t taken out for recycling taped back together as I gather up my things. We were supposed to work late tonight with the playoff game going on, and I’m sure Rob’s not going to skip the game.

Hell, I’m sad I’m missing it. I’ve been with the team longer than Rob, seen them through garbage seasons and management turnovers, and now they’re playing for the Eastern Conference championship. But it’s not like the team’s management is on my side, having passed me over for an outside hire at my ex-fiancé’s suggestion.

I have to get out of here.

I pick up my phone, growl at the picture of Rob and me on the background, and dial Maggie. She offers the solution I want most in my heart but feel the least entitled to. Her voice is warm and I’m struck by how weird it feels that she’s so far away at this terrible moment in my life. I explain what I did, what he did, and she doesn’t hesitate to give me a solution.

“Just come on home, sweetie. You always have a home with us.”

“I lost my shit and quit, Maggie. I don’t have a job. What am I going to do?”

There’s a soft snort through the line, and a “hey Bill?”

“Sweetie, can I call you right back? I’ll only be ‘bout ten minutes.”

We hang up and I draw a shuddering breath, letting my lower lip wobble bloom into a pathetic sob.

Stormy meows in the corner, playfully jumping into one of the boxes that sits open and empty. She nestles in with just her green eyes and black fur poking out.

“We’re going to have an adventure, Stormy,” I say, and she leaps into my lap, curling her back so I’ll give her a head-to-tail pet. “Are you gonna miss him?”

I know in my heart that my cat will absolutely not miss Rob. If anything, she tolerates him. I’ve had her since before Rob came on the scene, and she’ll survive long after he’s a distant memory, good lord willing.

My hands pass over picture frames: Rob and I on vacation, us on a business trip when we got to fly along with the team, us on a special night out. Rob and I the night he proposed in front of his family, but not mine.

Why didn’t I see it then? Why did it take him fully controlling my future for me to wake up?

In our closet, I take down the shoebox that holds my modest collection of vibrators, all different attempts to make myself feel better than Rob ever could. Not for lack of trying. He tried. We tried. I might just have one of those bodies that can’t.

I stare at the corner of the rug I burned when we tried pouring wax on each other one Valentine’s Day with a soft smile. For all his highfalutin pedigree, he really does have a fun side. Will I miss that? Am I making a mistake?

I go into our guest bedroom to make sure there’s nothing I need to take and freeze. A puffy white garment bag is the only item hanging in the open closet.

My wedding gown.

I’m walking away from my own wedding, only four months away.

It was going to be in four months. I’m not going through with it. I’m numb, in shock.

I’m not getting married.

All the plans I’ve made over the last year, the relationship I built for the last three, dissolved like a wisp of cotton candy.

People probably bought flights. Booked hotels. The caterer will have to be called. I’ll have to explain to our wedding planner that it didn’t work out.

With shaking hands, I unzip the garment bag, my fingertips coasting along the back of the dress and unfurling the skirt. I push the garment bag to the floor and hold the gown up to my body, still on the hanger. My hair, blown straight today, swishes over the front of the dress as I turn my head. Rob wanted me to wear my hair straight for the wedding. I wanted my natural curls, knowing September in Raleigh would still be roasty hot and humid.

But Rob always points out how my hair looks more “grown up” when it’s straight. A lump rises in my throat as I consider that. Late afternoon sunlight streams in through the open blinds, leaving shadowed stripes across the gown.

Still, it glows. Elegant, simple satin makes my hips and ass vie for attention against my boobs, but it’s not a showy dress. Just made for me. Perfectly tailored to my every curve.

Glamorous.

Made for the life I have here. A life that I’m throwing away. I hunch forward, covering my eyes with my hand as another wave of tears hits. What am I doing?

My phone buzzes with an incoming call from Aunt Maggie. When I answer, I can’t clear the tears from my voice.

“Oh, honey,” is all Maggie says. Her voice is home. It sounds like hah-nee . “It’ll be alright. Bill and I have an idea, but I don’t know how you’ll feel about it. Whyn’t ye come on home and we’ll talk it all out?”

Whatever it is, it’s bound to be better than what I’ve got here.