The only thing she was thankful for was that she had already felt disconnected from Kevin. Yes, he’d hurt her. Badly. But she was trying to focus on getting away so she could clear her heart. All the warning signs had been there. The lack of intimacy and lack of…well…everything she’d always thought a relationship should be.
But Kevin had made her feel lucky to be with him. From day one meeting him, his messy hair, creative style, and carefree artsy vibe, she’d never felt good enough for such a colorful man. Granted, that “carefree artsy vibe” had turned out to be more “stoner,” but whatever. He was the artist. The creative one. And Carrie was his peddler. That was it. Never mattered that she wanted more. More for her job, her own sense of beauty in art. More for her life. Like love and marriage and babies. Carrie wanted the kids, the carpool, and to come home to a happy husband who loved her.
And today, she had thought she’d finally get it.
Nope.
Instead of happily ever after, she was standing in public, looking like a freak that escaped an episode of Bridezilla, and feeling lonelier than she ever had before. Because even though Kevin had never made her feel whole, exactly, she’d had hope that she was at least getting closer to her dreams. Getting closer to love.
Welcome to reality. We hope you like your stay.
No. Screw that. For the next week, she would live in a fantasy. Her fantasy.
She pulled her suitcase to keep pace with the slow-moving line, and the broken wheel whined and skidded.
“Whatever,” she mumbled to herself, glancing down at her dress. It was a gorgeous dress. Strapless, fitted up top, and with just the right amount of poof at the bottom. She’d read that a “honeymoon dress” was just the way to start your marriage off right. And she told herself that was why everyone was staring at her. Because the dress was beautiful. Not because it was weird for a dumped turned runaway bride to be standing in line alone at an airport. Because the dress was part of the fantasy, and by God, she’d have her fantasy, if only for the week.
She was already counting how many little bottles of vodka she could have on the plane, and she anticipated being heavily drunk by the time she crossed the Pacific time zone. She needed this week in Hawaii to forget. To start over. To feel alive again. And damn it, that’s what she would do.
She would find her strength. Forget Kevin. And maybe even go on a manhunt to get the one thing she’d been craving—connection.
An orgasm by someone other than her battery-operated boyfriend wouldn’t hurt, either.
Gripping her suitca
se with two hands, she continued to slowly make her way to the baggage check-in counter. Once she dropped off this heavy thing full of little swimsuits she’d spent eight months in the gym to get ready to wear, there’d be no turning back.
…
Blake ran through the entrance of Denver International and looked around. The long, open hall of airline check-ins was endless, but far off in the distance, a bright pink bag stood out, and next to it, a woman wearing what looked to be some kind of fuzzy pink apparatus.
Carrie.
He hustled in her direction, and it wasn’t until he got closer that he saw the massive pink suitcase she was fighting with was broken, and the fuzz in question was coming from her—as in, the bottom piece of her dress—and she was next in line to drop off her bag.
“Jesus Christ,” he said, walking up to her. She looked up from the fight with her bag, blew a lock of hair out of her face, and scowled.
“What the hell are you doing here?” she asked. There was that sass. He’d take attitude over her tears any day.
“I could ask you the same thing,” he said.
She pointed at her suitcase. “Well, you’re the genius with the idea to go on my honeymoon alone, and since my arms get tired when I flap them longer than ten minutes, I have to take an airplane to Hawaii.”
He raised a brow, his blood igniting in that way that only Carrie could make it. That snarky tone made him want to spar with her. But he knew her well enough to know she was still hiding pain beneath the brazen attitude.
“I’m glad to see you found your sassy pants,” he said. “Maybe they’ll keep you warm under that dress.”
She rolled her eyes and Blake continued. “I’m glad you’re going, and I’m glad you’re having your adventure. But I was serious about needing a—”
“Spotter?” she cut in, using his term from earlier.
“Yes. Carrie, you going alone isn’t an option.”
“Well I’m a grownup, and I’m not taking my brother. That’s weird and, oh right, I’m. A. Grownup!” she said slowly, like he was an idiot.
“Lane can’t make it,” he said frankly, and watched her eyes go wide, the truth hitting her.
“Lane sent you,” she said with venom in her voice. “How did he even know I was here?”