Page 5 of The "I Do" Do-Over

Legal.

Forever, ’til death do us part — or divorce.

I realize with a sinking sensation in my stomach that this is the end of my longest, most cherished friendship, because how can it survive everything we did last nightanda divorce?

Obviously we’ll need to get a divorce.

I’m not sure I can face Boone as his wife.

He groans again, rolling over in his sleep. He's going to wake up soon and be faced with the reality that I'm currently struggling to digest. He's going to be as shocked as I am panicked.

And as hard as this all is, it will be so much worse if I have to watch the frightened, despairing look that is sure to come over Boone's face.

I don't want to see him looking at me like that. It’s too much, on top of everything else.

The fact is plain: our friendship is over.

The least I can do now is hold onto the precious few memories I have of us before I fucked everything up, of Boone's face looking at me with love and care instead of horror.

I dress as quickly and quietly as possible. Then, grabbing one of the marriage certificates, I stuff it into my suitcase with the rest of my belongings.

Creeping to the desk, I scrawl a quick note on the hotel-monogrammed notepad.I'm sorry, I write, followed by my name next to a little heart. I prop the note on the nightstand so Boone can't miss it when he wakes up.

Tears threatening to blind me, I grab my bag, cast a last look at the man who'd been my best friend, and run.

Boone

“Mail’s here.” My assistant, a younger guy named Hart, sticks his head through my office door and plunks a big stack of envelopes down on the small table just inside.

I incline my head at him from behind my desk in the construction site trailer. “Thanks.”

He lingers. “There's another one of those letters.”

I scowl. “Which letters?

“You know,” Hart says, flushing a little. “The ones that make you grumpy as hell.”

Shit. I know exactly what he's talking about: letters from Taryn, my would-be ex-wife.

Standing, I stomp from the desk to the door and leaf through the envelopes. Hart’s right. Sure enough, there's a letter with the return address of Taryn’s lawyer.

Great. Just fucking great.

“Sorry, man.” Hart shrugs. “Maybe you should just divorce her, sir. Might be a bit less painful.”

“And maybe,” I say with more of a snarl than the younger guy deserves, “you should mind your damn business and get back to work.

“Right. Sorry.” Hart flushes deeper the disappears.

I close the door behind him, stomach twisting with guilt. I shouldn't be so hard on the guy. He’s just looking out for me.

Like everyone born and raised here in Heartwood does — or at least, used to. Before Taryn.

Growing up here with her, I thought we were some of those people, people who looked out for one another. Then we went to Vegas for our twenty-first birthdays, had the time of our lives, and she made my dreams come true — just so she could crush my heart the very next day.

I hadn't gone to Vegas expecting to bed her and wed her — and then bed her again. Even now, after everything, I can’t stop my lips from curling upward at the memory.

I’m not mad that it happened.

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