Falling for Mister Wrong by Lizzie Shane

thought he’d
found his chair. He’d been ready to sit there for the rest of his
life—and then his chair had knocked him on his ass and run away
with his best friend.
    Okay, not the best analogy. But whatever. He
was too old for this shit.
    He’d been busy since the snowfall had picked
up last week. Busy enough to avoid most of his family’s friendly
interference in his love life. Thank God they’d gotten enough snow
for the torchlight parade to go forward so he’d been able to say he
was working tonight and avoid any well-intentioned New Year’s Eve
set ups.
    The other ski patrol guys invited him to join
them at the Gala as they secured the locker, but he waved them off,
pushing off and gliding over the snow toward his place, the lights
of the Lodge throwing his shadow across the snow in front of
him.
    The one advantage to his tomblike apartment
was the ski-out deck and he slid onto it now, popping his skis off
and brushing loose snow off before resting them against the wall.
He leaned against the glass, flicking open the fastenings on his
boots and pressing down the tongues until he could slide his feet
out. Opening the deck door—which he really ought to lock one of
these days, but it was Tuller Springs so he never thought to
bother—he stepped from his boots directly onto the carpet inside in
thermal socks. Knocking the snow off his boots, he dropped them
next to the potbelly stove and tipped his head, automatically
listening for the music from above.
    But there was only silence and the apartment
above had been completely dark when he skied in.
    Even septuagenarian piano teachers had
somewhere to be and someone to be with on New Year’s Eve.
    His cell phone vibrated against his
chest—still on silent from when he was working and he fished it out
of the inner chest pocket of his jacket. Probably Claire. Or Julia.
They didn’t know how to stop pushing.
    But when he pulled out the phone, his
breathing stopped as the numbers on the Caller-ID screen slammed
into his brain like ice-picks.
    He’d deleted her number, but he hadn’t been
able to delete the memory. He knew the damn thing by heart.
Tria.
    Six months of nothing and now she was calling
him on New Year’s Eve? What the fuck?
    He stared at the phone, debating whether to
answer it and tell her to go fuck herself or ignore it. He waited
too long and it went to voicemail—the little missed call icon
popping up cheerfully on the screen. As if that one call hadn’t
shattered him.
    Fuck. Fuckety fuck fuck.
    He waited, but no message appeared in his
voicemail. Whatever she’d wanted, she’d wanted to speak to him
personally. Maybe she hadn’t wanted to leave a recording, proof
that she’d called. Maybe she was tired of Andy already and looking
for someone to cheat on him with.
    The thought made his dinner lunge up toward
his tonsils.
    Maybe she wanted to beg forgiveness again. Or
bitch at him about the lawsuit he’d filed to get the money he’d put
into the house back.
    She wasn’t supposed to call him. The lawyers
didn’t want them talking to one another directly.
    But Tria had never been very good at doing
what she was supposed to. Case in point: The Wedding That
Wasn’t.
    The piano upstairs began to pick out the tune
of Auld Lang Syne.
    Should old acquaintance be forgot…
    If only.

 
     
     
     
    Chapter Seven
    By eight o’clock on Tuesday, Caitlyn had
thrown up from nerves twice and switched to an all chewable Tums
diet. Her mouth tasted like she’d been licking a chalkboard, but at
least her stomach had stopped doing backflips.
    Mimi and Ty had come over that morning to
install a DVR—just in case reliving the horror once a week wasn’t
enough for her. Mimi had wanted to stay and watch with her, but the
idea of Mimi watching her watch herself had sent her running for
the Tums and thankfully Ty had managed to drag Mimi out.
    It was bad enough knowing the entire town
would be watching. There had been an article in the paper that
morning.