Page 10 of The "I Do" Do-Over

“Right,” he’s saying. “I just—“ He cuts himself off with a shrug, shaking his head.

“What?” My fists find my hips. “You didn’t think I was serious? You didn’t think I’d do it?”

“I guess.” His cheeks grow redder. I clench my jaw against how damn cute it is.

“This isn’t a game.” I spit the words through my teeth.

Forehead crinkling, he looks genuinely hurt. “I never thought it was.”

“Then sign the papers and let me get on with my life.” I’m practically shouting now.

He traces light fingertips over the envelope. “Fine,” he says at last, and I have to steel myself against how sad he sounds. “Just let me look them over, and then I’ll sign.”

My eyes narrow. “You will?”

Boone nods. “I’ll have it done by tomorrow.”

“Good.” I lift my chin. “I’ll come by to collect them.”

He shakes his head, a sudden gleam of mischief entering his green eyes. “No, let’s meet at Pixie’s after I’m off work. I’ll bring the papers.”

I throw my hands up. “Why would I meet you at that bar when I could just come here? No games, Boone!”

“It’s not a game. Let me buy you one last drink, for all the good times we had.” His eyebrows knit together, eyes pleading. “Because we did have a whole lot of those . . . right?”

Something in me breaks a little at his plea — and at the reminder of the years of friendship we shared before everything fell apart in Las Vegas.

“Okay,” I relent, blinking furiously against the sudden welling of tears in my eyes. “I’ll drink to that.”

He nods, sinking back into his chair, pulling the envelope toward him.

I spin on my heel and rush out of the trailer before the tears start to fall. I don’t want Boone to see me cry. I refuse to let that happen.

As I leave the muddy construction site and its raucous machine noise, I know that I’ve scored a victory. I’m finally getting what I want — divorce.

But if I’ve won, why does my belly feel like it’s filled with lead?

Boone

Iget to Pixie’s Bar early. I’ve been a mess all day and slept like shit last night. I need a beer, badly.

Pixie herself greets me, the sixty-something woman with close-cropped white hair, big hips, and a bigger smile nodding at me from behind the scuffed bar top. “I heard you might be showing up here today.”

I frown. “You heard? From who?”

She waves her hand, gesturing vaguely. “Oh, you know. It’s a small town. Word travels.”

“Word about what?” I grumble, settling onto a worn stool in the dive bar.

“That Taryn’s back in town — to see you.” Pixie grins.

I wince. “Right.”

“Is history about to right itself at long last?” The older woman slides a frothy pint of my favorite golden beer toward me.

Damn it. I should have seen this coming. Folks in Heartwood get ideas and hold tight to them long past when those ideas could become reality. Somebody must have seen Taryn, found out that she’d visited me, and assumed we’re about to get together, romantically speaking.

If only.

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