Page 56 of My Rules

I stomp down the driveway, and he opens his window. “Can you keep your fruit under control?” he says dryly.

“Apparently not. If Tuesday night is anything to go by.”

“What did you say?” he spits.

I snatch the orange from the road, and I hear his car door open.

Here we go.

“Did you just call me a piece of fruit?” He puts his hands on his hips, indignant.

“Yeah.” I put my hands on my hips too. “I did, actually. Although I guess it really should have been meat.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re a giant meathead, that’s what it means.”

“Oh, right.” He leans in close and points to his chest. “I’m a meathead because I threw your loser ex-husband off your property.”

“He was here to discuss our divorce,” I whisper angrily.

“Oh please,” he scoffs. “You cannot be this stupid. Divorces are discussed over email. The only thing that warrants a visit to your ex’s house late at night is the scent of reconciliation.”

“What?” I scoff. “You’re an idiot.”

“And you’re an ungrateful wench.”

“Me?!” I explode. “How am I ungrateful?”

“I escorted someone who has caused you nothing but heartbreak from your property before he had the chance to lie to you again ... and yet ... I am the asshole.”

“When I asked you to leave, you should have just left, not beat him up.”

His eyes hold mine for an extended beat. “Fine.” He throws his hands up in defeat. “You’ll never have to ask me to leave again.” He gets back into his car and slams the door. “You and your red flags have a nice life.” His Porsche roars as he takes off up the road.

Asshole.

Chapter 7

Blake

I drive onto Kingston Lane just at 7:00 p.m. It’s been a long, hard week. I’ve suffered the crippling effects of alcohol poisoning for all of it, and the worst thing is that I’m about to do it all again. It’s Thursday night, and tomorrow at lunchtime, we all leave to go and spend the weekend at the Fairmont Resort, the venue of the much-anticipated nuptials.

We have the wedding rehearsal tomorrow afternoon and then the prewedding dinner. The wedding is on Saturday, where thankfully, I’m not allowed to have one sip of alcohol. I would love to tell you it was Juliet’s idea, but in truth, it was Henley’s. Apparently, I can’t be trusted with my speech if I’m inebriated, and my first drink of the night will be as I make a toast.

With the way I feel right now, that suits me just fine. I don’t want to drink again for the rest of my life anyway. I pull into my driveway, and as my garage door goes up, I can see that the lights are on in my house.

Ugh . . .

I park my car and head into my house through the internal garage door.

Henley and Antony are in my kitchen, sitting at the counter with a pen and paper.

“What are you morons doing here?” I sigh as I open my fridge and peer in.

“Writing speeches,” Antony replies. “You need to help.”

“I ...” I shake my head as I pull out a carton of orange juice. “I’m incapable of writing anything remotely interesting.” I open the carton and begin to drink from it. “I’m tired.”

---