Chapter 3
LENA
“You did what?” Tess cried.
I sipped my celebratory just-quit-my-job iced latte as Tess, my long-distance bestie, gaped at me from the other end of our video call. “Walked out on his entitled ass.”
“And then you quit?”
“Then I quit,” I confirmed, a nervous but giddy bubble swelling in my chest. I was surprised that my stomach wasn’t in knots. I was notorious for internalizing stress and having it manifest in the worst ways. For whatever reason I’d yet to determine, my stomach was content to remain calm. Yay, me.
I navigated away from the payment counter at Let It Dough, my favorite New Orleans-inspired bakery and café in Houston. The fresh beignets were to die for, and my mouth was already watering in anticipation because today of all days, I needed that hot, pillowy, sugary goodness.
“Girl…”
“I know.” Tess blinked at me, and I adjusted my ear bud.
My wireless headphones were on the fritz.
But what did I care? Not like I needed them anymore to take inconveniently timed calls from Weston when I was at the gym or juggling grocery bags or attempting to wind down with a bath after a long day.
“Holy shit,” Tess muttered. “I don’t even know what to say. I can’t believe it. I know you’ve fantasized about this a thousand times, but I never actually thought it would happen. And definitely not like that.”
“It was sort of a spur of the moment thing,” I admitted.
Sure, there was part of me that always fantasized about walking out in the middle of one of his ridiculous demands, dumping his entire life back in his lap.
But the more logical part of me had believed I’d never actually do that…
until today. “I was just so…angry. It was either quit or murder him. And clearly my words weren’t getting through to him, so I figured this was the better option.
Plus, this way, there was no room for miscommunication.
I looked him right in the eye as I gave back my laptop and ID card and told him I was done. ”
Tess snorted. “The man has been pissing you off for seven years. What tipped you over the edge today?”
“Fresh beignets!” one of the kids behind the counter called.
“Thanks,” I said, grabbing the cute, decorative plate.
“Are you back on your beignet grind?”
I flashed the plate in the direction of my phone screen. “I deserve hot squares of deep-fried dough today.”
Tess smirked as I found an empty table, plopping myself down in a seat.
“You like anything drenched in powdered sugar on any day.”
“True,” I said. “But these ones are extra special.” A tone sounded in both ears. “Shit,” I muttered as my headphones died.
“What?” Tess asked.
“Headphones just crapped out.” I adjusted the volume as Tess’s voice rang through my phone speaker.
Between my full-on schedule as Weston’s PA and Tess running a busy aesthetician clinic back in Montana—the woman was always waxing or plucking or microblading someone—we sometimes struggled to make time for our long-distance-latte calls.
They had to be scheduled far in advance, and I never, ever missed one—even if taking the call today meant making it happen from the café instead of from the office, where I’d thought I’d be.
That was another bright side to my new open availability: catching up was about to get a whole lot easier.
And if I ever needed a good vent sesh with my best friend, it was today.
“Do you have your charger?”
I dug through my bag. “No, I must have left it on my desk when I rushed out.” I rolled my eyes. “Well, that’s dead to me now. I’ll pick up a new one later.” I huffed, stuffing a beignet in my mouth.
“Good?” Tess asked.
“So good,” I mumbled.
Tess slurped her coffee. “Okay, walk me through it,” she said. “From the beginning. Set the scene for me. You’re at work. Weston is walking around, huffing and rolling those Scottish Rs.”
Scowling with that unfairly gorgeous face, I thought, nodding.
“And then what?”
“He told me to marry him.”
Tess’s hand flew to her mouth as coffee dribbled out. “Shut the hell up!”
“I kid you not.” I took another bite of my pillowy beignet, then proceeded to give Tess a play-by-play of Weston’s horrendous proposal and our argument.
“Holy hell. No wonder you quit!” she said when I was done.
I brushed powdered sugar off my shirt. “That’s not all. Because not only would I have had to marry him, he also expected me to go to Scotland with him today—to be gone for who-the-hell-knows how long—which meant missing your bachelorette.”
“WHAT!” she cried. “Lena, you promised me margaritas on a beach.”
“I know.”
“And he agreed to the time off.”
“I know.”
“I already only get you for a handful of days. The man is out of his mind!” Tess huffed, her nose wrinkling. “What the hell did he need you in Scotland for anyway?”
“I don’t know. Proof of life for the lawyer? Or maybe to help him sort through the estate or set him up to work remotely? Anyway, that’s not an issue anymore.”
Tess scowled, clearly still offended at Weston’s audacity to interfere with our beachside margarita plans. “Did he really just think you were going to march down to the courthouse with him? Oh, excuse me, fly down in his fancy-schmancy helicopter.”
“Yep!” I said, my earlier frustration flaring to life.
“What a dick move.”
“And then when he finally realized that wasn’t going to happen, he dumped the responsibility of finding a wife for him on me.”
Tess gaped. “As if you’re some sort of procurer? Ugh, how gross.”
“I know!” I cried. “Like actually, how dare he? He’s the one who needs to get married so badly, so he can get up off his ass and put the work in to find a wife for himself.”
“Weston’s looking for a wife?”
My blood ran cold, and I swallowed hard.
Tess stopped talking as she saw the shock register on my face.
I saw my own shock in the camera. Licking sugar from my lips, I lowered my phone, turning around to find a tall, leggy brunette.
She had a viper-like glare, was clad in head-to-toe cream Chanel and carried a Goyard tote because Louis Vuitton was for new money—or so I’d been told.
Aw, hell. All the cafés in Houston, and she has to choose this one? Could I not just have one space in this damn city that was free of Weston and his nightmare of an ex?
Narissa Montclair’s faux-polite smile thinned at the edges, her eyes narrowing. “Is it true?”
I opened my mouth, my words stalling in my throat.
Ever since their engagement fell through four years ago, Narissa had made it her mission in life to stir up trouble for Weston in any way she could.
Spreading rumors about him having an STI was a favorite tactic of hers, but it was far from the only one she deployed.
“Yeah,” Tess confirmed before I could figure out a way to exit this conversation. “He wants a wife to get around the terms of a will. Talk about terrible and shameless.”
“How wretched!” Narissa agreed, her eyebrow arching subtly. The gears in her head were turning in a bad, bad way. I could tell, and my heart dropped into my stomach.
Tess scoffed. “Can’t say I’m surprised. Though I feel like someone should warn all the eligible women in the vicinity to stay far, far away from that man.”
I winced as I watched Tess’s words register on Narissa’s face. I wished I could snatch them out of the air, but it was already too late. A smug grin stretched across those dark red lips. Narissa’s phone appeared in her hand.
“Always so nice to see you, Lena,” she said before turning for the door.
“No, Narissa!” I called as my brain finally kicked into gear. “Wait!”
She’d fled the shop faster than a cowboy with commitment issues.
“Tess!” I hissed, turning back to my phone. I could already envision all the ways Narissa would twist the story of his engagement situation through their shared social circles. “Fuck! That’s going to be a nightmare—I can already tell,” I muttered, massaging the ache that flared behind my eyes.
“Who cares?” Tess said with a shrug. “His nightmares aren’t your problem anymore. After what he just put you through, he deserves it.”
“I know, but it’s Narissa!” A wave of guilt washed through me, and my stomach gurgled as the stress crept up on me.
As angry as I was at Weston, I wouldn’t have wanted to unleash Hurricane Narissa on him.
And I’d probably just made his job of securing a quick and unproblematic marriage one hundred times harder. No probably there. Of that, I was sure.
“Lena, it’s not your circus, not your monkeys. Not anymore,” Tess insisted. “Whatever issues Weston has now, you need to get past your instinctive urge to fix them.”
She was right. I knew that. I needed to stop caring about Weston’s personal problems. I sucked in a deep breath, then let it out. “God, it feels like a literal weight off my shoulders.”
“That’s the feeling of dropping a grown man who’s responsible for his own mess.”
I nodded. For once, he could clean it up.
Peak relaxation was cooking dinner in my apartment wearing sweats, my hair tied in a messy bun at the top of my head, with a glass of rosé on the counter while one of my favorite shows played on my tablet.
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d actually indulged in such a night.
Usually, I worked late into the evening, booking meetings for Weston or following up on paperwork for Weston or being bombarded by texts from Weston asking where Milo had left his favorite stuffed hedgehog.
By the time I actually turned in for the night, I was normally exhausted. And the only thing I prayed was that my phone didn’t start ringing at two in the morning with another inane request from my boss.
Ex-boss.
But now I was free to dive into my guilty pleasure show, Hearts of the Highlands, without worrying I was going to be interrupted mid-episode with a Weston-shaped crisis.
Sure, maybe I should be a little more concerned about the fact I was now unemployed and needed to start job hunting ASAP—I had some savings, but they wouldn’t last forever—but for this one night, I was going to enjoy not having to worry.
I was going to eat my weight in pasta and chicken Kiev while hot men in kilts rode horses through the heather-filled Highlands.
Because nothing was more relaxing than hot men in kilts.
I licked the end of the spoon I’d used to stir my pasta sauce, sighing happily as I watched a pair of horses gallop across the screen. I’d forgotten how much I missed my gorgeous Highland warriors.
At this exact moment, life felt almost perfect. I had nothing and no one to fret over. I was going to eat dinner, get drunk as shit, and demolish that tub of chocolate praline ice cream in my freezer.
My phone buzzed on the counter. I reached for it, spotting a message from Tess. Hope you’re enjoying your circus-free life!
I responded with a selfie of me in my sweats, wine bottle on the counter behind me, and a wide smile on my face.
Love that you’re making the most of your newfound freedom.
It would be better if you were here, I wrote.
I’ll have a glass tonight in your honor! she promised.
My phone buzzed again, this time with an Insta notification. I opened it, scrolling through the post I’d been tagged in. My stomach sank. It was about Weston. Narissa had tagged me as her “official source.”
I grabbed my rosé and gulped half the glass. Fuck. Was there a way to untag myself?
Moments like these used to kick me into high gear.
Part of my job required discreetly monitoring Weston’s social media presence.
If a scandal was coming down the line, the sooner we involved PR, the sooner the company could get out ahead of it.
The last thing Kincaid Energy needed was its CEO to be dragged through the mud.
I started to automatically shift into problem-solving mode…
but then Tess’s words echoed in my head.
Not my monkeys. Not my circus. Not my problem.
Okay, sure, I didn’t feel great about the fact that I’d accidentally helped stir up this problem a little, but it’s not like I’d purposely tried to make Weston’s life more—
Bang! Bang! Bang!
I yelped, slopping some of my rosé as I jumped at the sound of someone pounding on my front door. I placed the wine glass down where it was safe and turned off the stove top, hurrying down the hall to investigate.
When I was close enough, I pressed up on my toes, spying out the peep hole. Fuck.
I stepped back, threw open the door, and winced as I was met with the glaring face of Weston Kincaid.