Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 137131 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 686(@200wpm)___ 549(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137131 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 686(@200wpm)___ 549(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
Is there any coming back after you blow your own wedding to pieces?
I braced for the fallout when I left my emotionally unavailable groom.
I expected the tears, the family wrath, the drama galore.
I found the perfect little cabin to hideout and heal.
But I never planned for him.
Archer Rory makes my bridal breakdown look tame.
A gruff single dad with a genius son.
A billionaire control freak who only speaks common sense.
Also, the man who's now my landlord, my boss, and my protector.
Whew.
I think we were doomed the instant I agreed to help him with some very special bees.
Maybe it's the big daddy vibes he breathes or the way Mr. Heartless secretly cares.
I'm sure the hottest minute of my life when his lips stormed mine has nothing to do with it.
Oh, but every day we're drifting closer to those three reckless words.
And once they're out, will it be heaven or heartbreak?
A standalone grumpy x sunshine romance with high heat, heart, and so many laugh out loud moments. Come see the snarliest billionaire who swore off love try to resist his unexpected damsel in distress and try not to cheer.
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
1
OUCH! THAT STINGS (WINNIE)
When I was little, I was always told my wedding would be the best day of my life.
In my humble opinion, that’s a lot of hype for one day where everything must go right, and any error could spell disaster.
What if the groom gets hammered the night before in one last blowout of bachelor glory and can’t stand up the next day?
What if a bridesmaid twists her ankle?
God, what if there’s rain?
Or, what if the blushing bride hits her breaking point, gets cold feet, and goes flying from the venue like a fox on the run?
Yeah. That last catastrophe speaks to me.
That’s why I’m ripping down the highway in a car with streamers cascading from the back and JUST MARRIED soaped on the windows in white letters so thick I can barely see out the back windshield.
That’s why I’m trapped in shoes that pinch my feet and a corset that crushes my ribs.
That’s why I’m still wearing this prison dress.
Welcome to my life.
It sucks.
My hands hurt from clenching the steering wheel for dear life, and the A/C fights a losing battle against the sweat dripping down my face in the July heat. If I’m not careful, I’ll blow the thing out on its max setting if I don’t die from heat exhaustion first.
At this point, the only thing I’m craving is freedom from this godforsaken dress.
I would sell my soul to get out of this thing.
It’s tight, it’s uncomfortable, and it’s a savage reminder of the life I’ve just blown to pieces.
Also, the man I abandoned, basically at the altar.
Basically.
Oh, God.
I mean, it wasn’t technically at the altar in front of a big crowd with their mouths hanging open. I’m not that borked in the head.
I never made it down the aisle. I didn’t stop and stare at my fiancé like a deer trapped in the headlights. No one was knocked down in my great escape.
Small blessings.
Still, too bad I made it to the part where I was zipped up in this hell-dress and there was no chance of persuading anyone to take it off again before I scrammed.
Especially when every passing face I saw before I ditched was twisted in a What the hell do you think you’re doing, little missy? kind of way.
I wonder what Holden would—
Nope. Don’t think about him.
He’s probably livid. I just humiliated him in front of his entire social circle, but I doubt he’s wounded.
My fiancé—ex-fiancé?—cares just as much about me as I care about him.
You do the math.
It’s not a big number, barely in the low double digits on a scale of meh to soulmates.
I turn off the highway, taking a little road skirting a forest. Then I’m forced to slow down for a series of bends that make me glad this Chevy has decent suspension.
Otherwise, I’d probably be careening over the hill to my fiery doom, making this even more of a bloody red-letter day.
I don’t even get a chance to appreciate what being a race car driver feels like. This dress squeezes me with the force of every turn until I’m sure I’m about to crack a rib.
Then I see it.
The sign for the cabin, black with silver letters that spell out Solitude.
“Thank God,” I mutter.
The wood front with soaring windows looks new and shiny and modern, just like the pictures on their website. When I turn, the ample glass reflects my headlights back at me.
That’s glamping for you, I guess. All the bells and whistles of a pretty modern home with just enough trees around to let rich people think they’re communing with nature or whatever.
Right now, I don’t give a crap, just as long as the place has a cozy bed and a shower.
Oh, and scissors. I’ll use the jaws of life to pry this dress off if I have to.
I might also hunt down whoever decided to make wedding dresses a team effort.
They’re the only kind of dress you wear that’s not self-sufficient. They’re not supposed to be.
They invite icky crowds to help you put them on, and then they expect your long-suffering husband to fiddle with buttons or awkward zips or laces to eventually peel the sweaty, smelly thing off.
It's so not hot. Not sexy.
And it’s inconvenient as hell when you’re alone.
The tires crunch as I pull up outside the cabin and switch off the engine.
Blissful silence falls over everything.
It’s been a long-ass drive from Springfield, but I’m here.
Finally.
Just half an hour or so outside Kansas City. Saved by the first place I found beyond the city limits that had a vacancy on short notice.
My snort sounds slightly snotty as I struggle out of the car, my phone in one hand and my enormous getaway bag that was resting on the passenger seat in the other. I swiped the cutting cake too and threw it in the back.