Page 69 of Catch and Release Groom

Beneath its warmth, the river would glitter, and Imogen swore she could hear Gator splashing and barking.

Strong arms would come around her then, his outdoors-and-musk scent mingling with the fresh country air, and—Whoops. Not supposed to go there, remember?

Whether physically or mentally, traveling to the wilds of the Talladega Forest would now come with the sting of rejection.

Damn her emotions for having no sense of self-preservation, and at the glide of smooth ceramic against her palm, she caught the skinny neck of her vase seconds before it crashed to the hardwood floor, her rapid pulse thundering in her ears.

“This is why,” she said aloud, because her dubious inner voice seemed to listen better to her outer voice. “It distracts us from putting our lifehereback together and makes us second-guess ourselves, and we’re working on that, remember?”

Her words bounced off the walls of the emptied apartment she had one more day to evacuate. She’d felt guilty enough about calling off the wedding to suggest Brett take his pick of their furnishings first, and he’d certainly run with it.

A cheapskate to the end.It was almost comforting.

Things between them were still strained to say the least, but they’d had a productive conversation regarding the splitting of assets. They’d also divvied up tasks for separating out car insurance policies and phone plans and all that other downer, adulting stuff that’d awaited her the instant she returned from her rollercoaster of a not-honeymoon.

The sad stack of boxes that contained the remnants of her life emphasized how empty and alone she’d felt since her return to Chicago and this stripped-bare apartment.

Not because she missed Brett, who’d occupied this space with her for the past three years.

But because of the man she’d spent a week beside in the wilderness.

The hollow ache in the center of her chest throbbed to life and took a giant bite out of the happy vibes she’d been forcing through music. Unfortunately, packing didn’t occupy enough brainpower to keep her thoughts from straying to Easton Reeves.

Again, and again, andagain.

Upon her return—well, technically she’d started at the Atlanta airport—Imogen had beat herself up for allowing her passionate, illogical side to drive.

What had she expected? A happy ending?

After falling in love with a guy she hadn’t evenlikedat the beginning of the week?

The opposite of safe was dangerous. She’d left security, found the realest version of herself, and took a risk.

Heartbreak and pain and begging a guy to take a chance on her, only to end up crying between two strangers on a plane—that was what actually happened.

Adding an extra layer of Bubble Wrap for protection, she nestled her vase in a box markedfragile. “Just like me.”

As nice as it’d be to fix her flaws within a week and while on vacation, it wasn’t within the realm of reality. Mistakes were part of life, and she’d inevitably make plenty, and she was working on being okay with that, too.

When it came down to it, she’d rather deal with the hurt than spend countless hours rehashing her regrets, obsessing over every conversation she should’ve had and what he might’ve said back and if she should call or text.

God, she wanted to call or text him.

Instead, she removed the final item from the built-in shelf, choosing to pack her newest piece of pottery last. The bowl wasn’t as smooth or pretty as the other showpiece—she was a little rusty and it’d take practice and time to reach a point she could consider selling her artwork. But she was filling her creative well and determined to correct course.

After padding her latest creation, she sealed the box, the tape dispenser screeching as she reinforced the corners.

Her phone chimed, and hope foolishly surged, like she’d somehow manifested communication from Easton, when the plausibility of it being him hovered near zero.

With her heart drifting up to beat in the vicinity of her throat, she checked the screen.

Every bodily function returned to fairly normal, and even though it wasn’t the name she’d longed to see, she managed a smile. Margot and Constance had sent friend requests earlier and had opened a message thread for them to catch up.

The very first thing they asked was how she and Easton were doing, and she should’ve seen this coming. Maybe then she wouldn’t be just staring at the words, unable to come up with an answer. This was the problem with backwoods deals—even the connections she’d made outside of them came with complications that dragged her thoughts right back to him.

Imogen:The truth is, it’s too long of a story for me to type.

It’d also take her forever, as she’d have to revise and perfect the words, which usually resulted in rethinking paragraphs. While she was improving and finding better tools to keep from second-guessing, given the emotional toll of repeatedly reading those words…

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