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PROLOGUE
New Year’s Eve 2015
It was thirty minutes until midnight...and I wasn’t nearly drunk enough.
Before you arch your brows or pass judgment, labeling me as some sort of alcoholic, let me paint the scene.
New Year’s Eve—I’m in the Galt Ballroom, at one of the most exclusive parties in the city. I wish I could say it was due to the fact that my catering business was kicking ass and taking names and I was working the event. Hell, I’d even take my presence being due to the fact that I was one of the socialite beauties that flitted around like butterflies, decked out in sequins and diamond chandelier earrings that swayed in time with the music. Not because I secretly want to be one of the cool kids, taking perfect, Instagram-able shots on the first try. I was jealous of the fact that all they had to worry about was looking beautiful, and how many likes they got on their picture. They weren’t worried about things like how they’d make the rent.
Or if they’d spend the next year regretting the two and a half years they put into a dead end relationship.
I’d foolishly thought that a cute dress, perfect hair, and some makeup beyond my usual Chapstick would help usher in an awesome year. The year where everything would fall in place. Where all my hard work would pay off professionally. And maybe I’d even find a keeper among all the frogs I would inevitably swipe right on.
It was becoming undeniable that attending this soiree was a mistake, and it wasn’t because everyone reeked of money and pretension. It was because my date, my usually dependable best friend, Tamara, had abandoned me. She’d sworn that she wouldn’t ditch me for the first hot guy that winked in her direction, and I’d believed her, sure I wouldn’t be flying solo since she snagged our invite because her latest conquest was deejaying the event. She’d honored her vow to make this a girls night until a tall, dark, and shiny new man had thrown a weak line her way, telling her that her eyes were the prettiest in the room.
Never one for pick up lines or the Casanovas of the world, I’d rolled my eyes, then dropped my jaw to the bar when Tamara accepted the man’s invitation to dance.
And that was an hour ago.
I perched my chin on my palm and took another salty sip of my saccharine sweet cocktail. I was surrounded by people who were having the night of their lives. Couples who weren’t even waiting until the clock struck midnight to eat each other’s face.
It was annoying.
It was depressing.
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little jealous of all the lovey dovey, ass grabbing, champagne tinged love that hung in the air like smoke, because I thought I’d be one of them tonight. Filled with hope. Looking towards a future that was bright and filled with the chime of wedding bells.
I glanced down at my bare left finger and my heart clenched in my chest.
This was supposed to be our last New Year’s Eve before we spent every New Year’s together.
Before we made it official.
Before we lived happily ever after.
Fighting to hold back the tears, I signaled for another drink. The dismissive finger that the ponytailed bartender held up for me was enough to make my sadness evaporate, quickly replaced by anger.
“Well, there goes your tip,” I muttered under my breath, turning my attention back to my empty glass.
I caught my reflection on the bar top and almost had to pinch myself, not believing that it was me. Over the last month, still reeling from the break up, I’d stopped giving a damn about pretty much everything. When your fiancé reveals that you were right to be worried about all those late nights at the office, and the emotional distance that left you feeling alone wasn’t all in your head, it kinda turns your world upside down.
Looking cute was the last thing on my mind when the hits kept on coming. He confessed that he’d fallen out of love with me. That he’d fought the attraction tooth and nail, but was now ‘deeply’ (his word) in love with his company’s new hire, a woman who was exotic, curvy, and had legs that went on for days.
Legs that she probably had wrapped around Scott right now, ringing in the new year in the bed that we bought together.
A few weeks ago, that thought would have crippled me. The dam, already tenuously held together by empowering songs by Beyoncé and Alanis Morissette, would be demolished instantly. I would have drowned my sorrows in a bag of Reese’s and an entire bottle of sangria.
Tonight, I just stared at the bar, still in disbelief about how good I looked.
I was no runner up for the crown tonight.
I had this in the bag.
I’d washed my ebony locks for the first time in days and by some magic, my stringy chocolate colored strands actually held the curls that Tamara had crafted. My makeup accented all of my assets: my big, olive colored eyes, the lush curves of my sweetheart mouth, my high cheekbones. And my dress, a itty bitty, sterling silver colored number, made me shine as bright as every other woman in the room. Basically, I looked damn good.
Not that the bartender noticed, because he was too busy fawning over a busty blonde at the end of the bar.
Since there was no way I’d ever see any of these wealthy, dignified people ever again, I decided against being polite and went all in, waving both arms like a woman who didn’t even know what the word ‘etiquette’ meant. “Excuse me!”
The chummy duo, along with a couple of people beside me, scowled in my direction, then went back to their conversation.
Best.
New Year.
Ever.
I glumly munched on my cherry garnish, considering texting Tamara on my way outside to grab an Uber.
