Page 1 of Sex, Lies, and Margarita Mixes
CHAPTER 1
TEQUILA FIRST, DIVORCE LATER
ROXY
* * *
There are three things you should never mix with tequila:
Texting your husband you’re “totally over it.”
Online divorce papers and one color-coded manila folder detailing all of the reasons your husband should just sign them… with highlighted parts as to why he should absolutely not sign them.
An emotional playlist titled “Margaritas and Mayhem.”
I’ve done all three before noon and I still haven’t put on actual pants.
The blender roars on the counter like it’s judging me. “Don’t start with me, Margarita 9000,” I mutter, stabbing the crushed ice button again like it insulted my earrings. I’m wearing my "Emotionally Unavailable But Well Accessorized" tank top and the fuzzy leopard-print slippers that Chase gave me two anniversaries ago with a wink… while wearing nothing else.
Which is exactly the problem.
He always knows how to ignore my chaos with orgasmic sex, his mouthwatering tattooed body, and stupid, sexy-as-fuck dimples.
Fuck my life.
I hit blend with the kind of aggression usually reserved for flipping off bad drivers or watching my best friend Mari Lynn post another “domestically disheveled and killing it” reel with her hot celebrity chef husband that just so happens to go viral.
It’s been almost eight days since Chase and I “separated.”
Or rather, since I told him to leave…
Again.
Air quotes required because technically, we never signed anything. We never do. I just told him I was done, and he needed to go. He didn’t even argue with me this time. He just grabbed a few shirts, shorts, and some boxer briefs, kissed my forehead, and said, “Love you, babe,” before he whistled on his way out of the door.
He’s called and texted me every day—multiple times. We had sex two days ago. And he just texted asking if I wanted to get some lunch. We share a last name, a Netflix password, house keys—except when I change the locks, and until a week ago, a memory foam mattress I always refer to as the “Scene of the Crime.”
He drives me crazy!
“Play ‘Baby” I loudly say in the middle of the kitchen. The speaker starts blaring Justin Bieber like he’s personally invested in my downfall.
As I sing at the top of my lungs, I swing my hips and pour tequila into my blender cup, squeeze in lime juice with zero mercy, add ice and simple syrup, and blend. I chug half of it before remembering that breakfast is a thing normal people do before hard liquor.
Too late.
Screw it, it’s like noon anyway.
It’s five o’clock somewhere, right?
My phone buzzes again.
CHASE
Hey babe. Don’t panic, but I might’ve accidentally booked a couple’s retreat at a beach house this week.
I blink.
The fuck?
