The Relationship Remodel (Cozy in Rocosa)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

REESE

“This is going to be beautiful on you,” Maya Santos says, holding up my floor-length satin gown, the bust bedazzled in sparkling sequins.

Are we even looking at the same dress?

It’s hideous. Like someone poured Pepto Bismol over evening wear then dunked it into a barrel of glitter and sequins. A dress a bridesmaid is forced to wear so they don’t outshine the bride.

Not that I want to steal the spotlight from my future sister-in-law.

Nobody deserves a moment to shine more than Maya.

She’s always putting others before herself.

Even today she planned a special day for her bridesmaids.

It started with a delicious afternoon tea at Rocosa's historical Storybook Inn, followed by our current location for our dress fittings at one of Denver’s swankiest bridal boutiques downtown, then afterward, we’ll walk over to the bazaar to search for some fall-themed wedding decor.

Though I think Maya will spend all her time in the vintage bookstore if we don’t watch her.

She shakes the dress, nearly blinding me with the glare. “Reese? What do you think?”

“It sure is . . . shiny.”

“I know! Don’t you love it? And the color will match our sunset wedding.”

I swallow my disgust at the joyful glint in her brown eyes and force a smile.

Maya rarely asks me for anything, and ever since she came into our lives last year, my brother Desmond has never been happier.

Somehow she has drawn my serious brother out of his introverted shell so that he almost acts like a normal person now.

I can do this for them. It’s only one day.

Then I can return to work in my usual overalls or oil-stained jeans at Mountain Auto Repair.

“It’s perfect,” I lie.

She grins and bounces on her toes. An infectious wave of excitement ripples from her, and I can’t help but return the smile, a real one this time. With a dreamy sigh, she clutches the dress to her chest.

“I’m getting married in six weeks. I can’t wait.”

“I’m sure Des would marry you tonight if you asked.”

She sways, her long curly hair a mix of frizz and perfect ringlets almost to her hips. “He would, wouldn’t he? I’m so lucky.”

Pain twitches in my chest. The thought of walking down the aisle tonight is all my anxiety needs to rear its ugly head. I only have a second to plaster another smile on my face before Maya glances at me again. I don’t want to worry anyone—especially with the wedding approaching.

“Don’t you want to try it on?” she asks, holding it out to me so that the glitter sparkles even more obnoxiously in the light.

“Love to,” I whisper out of clenched teeth and take the dress.

“Hurry! I can’t wait to see you in it.” She claps her hands as she heads over to wait on one of the oversized couches.

Locking the dressing room door, I stare at the gown like an enemy on the battlefield. Ugh. Did it somehow become pinker?

Behind the dress, my reflection scowls back at me in the floor-length mirror, and I instantly uncurl my lips.

Why am I getting so worked up about a scrap of fabric?

Because I could embarrass myself? That ship sailed five years ago after I took my first sip of alcohol when Granny died.

I was desperate for anything that would dull the aching loss but didn’t realize how hard it would be to stop.

Numerous inebriated escapades later and now I’m stuck as Rocosa’s town drunk.

The fact I followed in my mother’s alcoholic footsteps only solidified the title.

It’s the shadow I can’t seem to escape from despite being close to earning my two-year sobriety chip.

Who cares what they think?

After shimmying into the pink monstrosity, I somehow contort my body enough to zip it up halfway before the seams protest at the strain.

My appetite has improved since sobriety, but it’s done a number on my waistline.

Maya’s delicious cooking hasn’t helped matters either. I’ve gone up two sizes this year.

Well, halfway zipped is better than nothing.

I leave a concerning puddle of glitter in the dressing room and slink out to join the other bridesmaids in the private fitting lounge.

Julia, the maid of honor, is standing on the alteration platform chatting with the bride-to-be as the seamstress pins her hem.

Lola, the purple-haired librarian I met this morning, is waiting her turn and picking stray flecks of glitter off her arms. A heated debate sounds from the other bridesmaids, Mia and Nia, Maya’s twin cousins.

Well . . . at least they should be twins with their similar soft waves, doe eyes, and curvy figures. The two of them are absorbed in conversation, speaking rapid-fire Spanish, which leaves me standing there awkwardly barefoot by myself.

A tickle creeps up the base of my neck as it does when I feel out of place.

The same cringey feeling from youth that I don’t belong.

It’s rare that it hits me anymore, but it pops up more frequently than I care to admit.

No longer can I bury my embarrassment, inadequacies, and pain with the numbness of a drink—nor do I want to—because the thought of relapsing is a million times worse than any discomfort from my memories.

My past will not define me. That’s not who I am anymore.

With a deep breath, I strut forward, summoning my imaginary confidence as the others spin to face me and immediately start gushing.

“?Estás preciosa!” Mia says . . . or is it Nia?

“Sí, me encanta,” the other one adds.

The first girl nods in agreement.

“Um? What?” I’m suddenly regretting that I took French in high school.

“Mia said you look amazing, and I can’t help but agree,” Maya says, rushing to grab my hands. “Who knew pink was your color?”

“Not me . . .”

I’ve never considered myself a girly-girl.

Despite my best friend Nova trying to convert me to her ritzy tastes when we were growing up.

But it seemed pointless to obsess over expensive makeup, designer clothes, oversized handbags, or trendy shoes when my family could barely afford our next meal.

Not to mention all my newly acquired medical bills that racked up since I turned my life around.

“It’s a little snug,” I say, running my hands from my waist to my hips.

“It’s supposed to be tight,” Mia says through a heavy accent.

“That’s the style.” Nia pops out her hip and winks. “Gotta flaunt it, right?”

Flaunt what? I glance down at my own shape, feeling like a preteen compared to the way their dresses cling to their hourglass figures.

With their tan complexion, the pink glows on their skin, reminding me of an exotic flower in bloom.

Meanwhile, my pale skin appears translucent and ghostlike.

Jeez . . . I need to get outside more and stop working at the auto shop so much.

“No sour faces, because you look stunning.” Maya’s expression softens, and a warm smile spreads across her face. “As I knew you would.”

My eyes mist at her expression. The same one she reserves for her close family members, like I’m already her sister. I didn’t realize how much I wanted it to be true until now.

“Agh. Don’t you start crying, or I’ll start.” Maya fans her face.

“And if you start, the rest of us will start too,” Julia adds, tears already pooling in her eyes.

I laugh, shaking my head and swiping a stray tear away. “Sorry! I’ll keep it together.”

Maya rushes over to give me a quick side hug before returning to her bridal duties, and I join Lola in line for alterations, removing more sparkly residue from my skin as I wait.

“Hey, ladies. I hope you don’t mind me crashing the party.”

The deep voice has me jerking upright so quickly that I nearly rip a side seam.

“Dang, Reese’s Cup. You clean up nice.”

There’s only one person in the world that calls me by that cringe-worthy candy nickname.

Tristen the-bane-of-my-existence Davis. The fact that I run into this man on a daily basis in our small mountain town of Rocosa is one thing. But now I’m two towns away. Colorado is a big state, yet it’s impossible to escape him.

The man is like a boomerang. No matter how hard I push him away, he returns, more annoying than ever.

And it’s not just the nickname that grates on my nerves.

Everything about him drives me crazy. The way he always thinks he’s right and doesn’t listen.

Or that he’s always underfoot and in my business or asking about me like he has some kind of say in my life.

Or how being in his presence reminds me of every stupid mistake I’ve ever made, since he’s had a front row seat for all of them.

Ugh. That last one.

Yeah, Tristen has seen me at my worst. Seen me unconscious on the floor in his bar after too many drinks.

Seen me hungover and disheveled on Des’s couch, mascara streaks down my face.

And when I was nearly kidnapped by my ex-boyfriend?

Yep, he was there. He morphed into hero mode, punching Burns unconscious with one swing and then proceeding to lecture me in the ER about it.

I don’t remember much about that night due to my head injury, but his scolding? That I remember crystal clear.

“You have to be more careful, Reese. I can’t always be here watching over you,” he said, shaking my shoulders so hard my teeth rattled.

I roll my eyes. Like I need him to babysit me.

Tristen’s slate blue eyes rake down my gown, raising my body temperature with each passing second.

The constant control I pride myself on slips since my body’s reaction never seems to be on the same annoyed page about him as my brain is.

I don’t want to be attracted to him, yet that doesn’t stop my heart from fluttering whenever we make eye contact.

Why am I always like this around him? I don’t trust myself not to do or say something I’ll regret. The lack of control scares me the most. Because when I’m out of control, it leads to poor choices—usually me with a drink in my hand—which I absolutely don’t want to relive.