Page 1 of Yours Truly

PROLOGUE

"I’m the part of the equation that doesn’t work."

Trace

Two weeks ago

The sound of her heels clicking along the tile has me on my feet, grabbing at the back of my neck, trying to corral the irritation galloping rampantly inside me.

“Thank you for coming,” I say as soon as she turns the corner and we lock eyes. “I know you didn’t have to come, but thank you.”

Tara, in blue jeans and black heels, a one-strap shirt clinging to her breasts, folds her arms over her chest. Her long dark hair is pulled back into a ponytail, and she looks great.

Gorgeous, really.

A burp hits me, and I smother it with my hand, willing the sickness to go away for the next five minutes.

“I don’t have long. I’m leaving town today, so whatever this is, make it fast,” she says.

“I’m leaving, too.” I fall into the couch and quit pretending to be sober and feel great. Besides, Tara knows the truth. “The show released me from my contract.” The truth is, I told them I wanted out two years ago. But until yesterday, they needed me as their cash cow. Now? I’m a liability to their image, and they don’t want a cheater on the payroll.

Tara sighs, clicking her way to the couch, sitting down on the edge, next to me. “Did you ever love me?” she asks, fear trembling in those words.

I should tell her yes, because it will hurt her to hear the truth. But in the long run, it serves us both if I don’t lie. “No,” I say slowly, hating myself for letting the network talk me into an engagement I didn’t even want. “I loved the idea of loving someone again.”

She nods. “You know, I get that. Because… I don’t know. When I saw you with her—” She stops, shaking her head. Tara believes, like the world, that I was caught with my assistant, cheating. “Doesn’t matter, don’t need to rehash. My point is, we would’ve been a bad marriage, me and you.”

I nod. “You’re going to be a great wife. I think I’m the part of the equation that doesn’t work.” That tracks. I’ve had two relationships and Tara is one of them.

She rests her hand on my thigh, the spot where her engagement ring once glittered now empty and untanned. “Good luck, Trace. A little therapy, less booze, you’ll be okay.”

I nod as she presses the ring onto the table. She must’ve been holding it, ready to give it back before she even entered the room.

“I won’t tell the press anything,” she says from the doorway. “Or, anything more, at least.”

“Thank you,” I reply, because I don’t deserve the generosity she’s offering me. Even though she doesn’t know what she saw, I don’t bother trying to set her straight again. She doesn’t believe me, and that’s okay.

I know what’s true.

And right now, as Tara clicks her way back down the hall and out of my life, I know what’s real for me. Not only am I done with fame and reality TV, but I’m done with the city and everyone here. I pick up my phone and call my only friend.

“How you doin’, Trace?” Deuce greets as he answers.

“Remember how you told me Bluebell might serve me well?” I ask as last night’s whiskey swims up my throat.

“Yeah, get your head fixed. You can’t be fucked up out here with all these clear skies and open pastures.”

That sounds awful. I pinch the bridge of my nose and sigh. “You still opening up the parlor?”

“Yeah. And I need someone to come bring it to life.”

I flop down on the couch and ready myself for a ‘don’t puke’ nap, then say, “I’ll be out there in a few weeks.”

ONE

I do not think about the pantiless cowgirl.

Ivy

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