Page 5 of Hot Shot

Wilder laughs. “Come here, wife.”

The way my body quivers when he says it is obscene. This is not soothed by the way he kisses me, with fire and ownership and sweet familiarity.

I can barely open my eyes when he’s through with me.

“We’d better get out of here before I climb you like a jungle gym,” I say, pulling him to the door, not even a little bit kidding.

And for one endless, perfect night, he’s mine.

WILDER

The next morning, I woke up with Cass in my arms for the last time.

The knowledge made me want to fucking die. Slowly, and with every piece of my heart, I fucked her once more just like I had all night, savoring that one last time in the hopes it’d ease the pain. I only managed to make it worse.

I succeeded in making her walk funny, though, so at least I had that.

Everything else made it worse too. Like when we went down to the motel office and printed up the annulment papers. When we took off our rings and she asked if she could keep hers with tears in her eyes, my heart climbed out of my chest and into the gutter. Then we signed those fucking papers and she handed them to me because I said I’d take care of it.

I really did plan to. Really, I did. I shoved them in my duffel bag and swore I’d send them in. But then we were home, and she was gone, and I sat with them on my bed, staring at her signature, and I…I just couldn’t.

I promised myself I’d try again.

I never did.

And then it was too late.

For ten years, I tucked away my secret wish that we would find our way back to each other. It didn’t matter that I hadn’t filed for annulment because eventually, we’d end up married anyway. Someday she’d come back, and when she did, she’d be mine.

Except when she finally came back, it was to marry another man. Which left me in a real fucking pickle.

Because she’s still married to me.

And she has no idea.

CHAPTER 1

UP IN SMOKE

CASS

“This is the best idea you’ve ever had.”

The whiskey burns a trail down my throat when I take a long swig straight from the bottle.

My very best friend in the whole world, who is dutifully overseeing the ritual burning of my ex’s crap, extends her hand to request a turn. I oblige. “Well, you had quite a lot of flammable keepsakes to be disposed of. I thought it was only right that we sacrifice it all to the gods,” Jessa says in her adorable British accent. She takes a drink, the front of her body lit by flickering shades of orange from the bonfire we built in my mother’s backyard.

That’s right, mymother’sbackyard. Because at the ripe old age of twenty-nine, I’ve moved back in with my mom to recover from the most brutal breakup known to humankind—getting dumped at the altar.

By an objection.

From the best man.

Who’s been having an affair with my ex-fiancé since, you know.Literally always.

Jessa passes the bottle and stands to rummage around in the pile of cardboard boxes and plastic bins I’d brought back from our apartment in Boston.

“Did you bring anything with you that’s actually yours?” she asks with a brow arched, hooking a pair of Davis’s boxer briefs on her finger.

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