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“What?” he asks, his head rearing back with a frown.
“Get your things and get out ofmyapartment,” I emphasize steadily, but I’m losing the last of my patience. And he has the nerve to look at me like I’m crazy.
“But… I just moved in. I have nowhere else to go.”
It’s true. He gave up his apartment to move in with me. My apartment and location are much better than his was, and given we were going to be married in mere months, we both thought it was a logical step. Obviously, it was a step I shouldn’t have taken. I shimmy the rock off my finger—the thing is too gaudy for me anyway—and I throw it at his chest. It’s another weight lifted.
“No longer my problem. We aredone,” I bite out the last word, and his eyebrows hit his hairline as he catches the ring.
“You go, girl,” I hear Fiona whisper from down the hall, where she had retreated to give us privacy.
“Baby, come on… It was a little slipup,” he croons once more, like he is apologizing for being home late after drinks with the boys, rather than cheating on me.In my own bed.On the day I was wedding dress shopping.It is then I realize that this man, somewhat attractive and with a good corporate job on Wall Street, is nothing but a self-absorbed, cheating asshole who has probably never had a woman say no to him before.
“We are over. It’s as simple as that.” I cross my arms over my chest and roll my shoulders back. What can I say, I am a Scorpio. There are no second chances with me.
“Vic, honey, we can work through this,” Josh says, nearly begging, and now it is my turn to frown. Is he fucking serious right now? I knew I shouldn't have said yes to his proposal. I knew then, when he was down on bended knee on New Year’s Eve, in front of his boss and work colleagues. I knew then he wasn’t the one, but I said yes anyway. Hoping that I was just nervous, a little caught off guard. Besides, who can say no to a proposal on New Year’s Eve. In New York City, of all places. In front of an audience.
“Get. Out. Right Now.” This time, my voice rises. Whether it is the look in my eyes or the finality of the words, Josh finally picks up his clothes.
“We will talk once you have calmed down. You're clearly too emotional right now,” he says, trying to make me feel like I’m overreacting.
I grit my teeth and remain tight-lipped as he walks past me and out the door. Still in my bedroom, I stand unmoving as I survey the damage. Pillows, sheets, blankets strewn all over the space, a condom wrapper on mybedside table, and design magazines I had been bookmarking tossed to the floor. Not to mention, the take-out containers piled on the floor, since they must’ve enjoyed lunch together before their afternoon delight. He may not have been the love of my life, but I have quite a mess to clean up.
My eyes burn as the music suddenly stops, my head whipping to the side to see Fiona walking in with two glasses of wine.
“I just opened a second bottle of red to air. Figured we might need it,” she says, looking at me with concern as I take a glass and bring it to my lips.
“You figured right.”
Her arm wraps around me, and I break down, the fight leaving me fully as my emotions take over.
2
TANNER WHITEMAN
Looking over the land, I hum in approval.
“The plans I have drawn up encompass the entire space. We will have to demolish the entire structure, and the amenities will run along the border here at the east so we can position the new building from east to west,” Griffin says as he holds the plans in his hands, the paper blowing a little in the breeze.
“We would start from here.” He continues, giving me the plans as he runs across the yard and bends over to hammer a steel peg into the ground to indicate the start of the building. “And end over here.” Running almost the length of the property, he hammers in another peg, so we can gauge the size of the construction.
It's big. Just how I want it.
“That’s good. The side deck will get the morning sun, with the distillery in view, and then the sun setting in the west will coat the main deck, with the rolling hills as its scenery,” I say, already visualizing it.
Whiteman’s Whiskey is growing. The small whiskey distillery I started decades ago has grown to be a billion-dollar business. Now, I’m planning a new boutique accommodation development here in Whispers that will house weekend visitors, allowing them to sample our whiskey, eat in our restaurant, and spend money in the small town I have called home all my life. Call it my community service, even though the six-star stay will be financially out of reach for most people who live around here.
“You know we haven’t acquired the land yet, right?” Sawyer asks, watching me from where he stands next to the truck. He looks out of place in his shiny shoes and three-piece suit pressed to perfection, as Marie’s goat walks nearby, chewing the grass. I spot her milking cow out in the field, doing the same.
Sawyer is a good lawyer, but not a country boy. He can talk his way out of most things—like all city folk, he has the gift of the gab—so while he doesn’t have a connection to the land, he is the best person to secure this plot of land for me. That is why I have flown him out from New York. He needs to see the vision.
“It is just a matter of time. Marie had no family. No friends, apart from a few locals. Even that dwindled down these past few years as she got older. We just need Jerry to show up with the papers and I will buy it and get this plan in motion. I want to start building as soon as the papers are signed,” I tell them, gazing out over the run-down house and land my elderly neighbor called home for years.
Marie was a tough old woman. Lived alone. Didn’thave any family that visited. Kept to herself mainly, but as she aged, the community and I helped her where we could. That’s what a good neighbor does. Her farm is small, and although the milking cow and a few goats were never going to make her any money, they kept her company.
“He’s here now. Let’s see what he says,” Sawyer says as he pushes off the car, not sounding convinced. The familiar red truck of our local town lawyer pulls up in the driveway. Technically, we are trespassing. This land is not mine yet.
“Morning,” Jerry greets us, looking a little frazzled in his dress slacks and shirt. Not as crisp as Sawyer, but at seventy, he still does a good job of keeping this town together.
