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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Epilogue
Preview of Pour Judgment
Other books by Heather M. Orgeron
Acknowledgements
About the Author
For Nikki. Were it not for my fascination with the relationship between you and your ex, Nya and Liam would not exist. All jokes aside, you two are the gold standard.
Nya
Déjà vu
A beam of light streams in through the window, stabbing me right in my barely opened eye. Jackhammers pound inside my head as I squint, peering around the room to take in my surroundings: a king-sized bed with plush white linens, gaudy chandelier, a wall of windows with thick, gold damask drapes pulled back on each end.
What the hell am I doing at a hotel?
A loud snore sounds, nearly scaring me right out of my tingling skin. To my left is a hard body, enveloped in billion-thread-count sheets, facing away from the offending window. That back—those sinewy shoulders and sculpted muscles—I’d recognize anywhere.
“Liam?” I whisper, forcing myself not to run a hand through his tapered hair, to touch my finger to the little mole right at the edge of his hairline. It was once my favorite spot to kiss.
What. The. Fuck? This can’t be happening. Not again.
Groggy and disoriented, I attempt to roll off the bed to relieve my screaming bladder and rid myself of the dragon breath that only comes after a night of hard partying. One I can’t seem to remember. But I can’t move. Reaching beneath the comforter to investigate what’s weighing me down, I come up with my hands filled with layer upon layer of satin and tulle. What the hell?
“A wedding dress?” I screech, panic welling in my throat as my heart damn near leaps from my chest. No way.
Suddenly the mound of man muscle shifts my direction. With a dreamy smile, his large hand creeps across the bed, reaching for mine. The smell of last night’s cologne wafts into the air, threatening to weaken my resolve. Holding my breath, refusing to be distracted, I scoot to the edge of the bed. Has he lost his damn mind? Has this idiot forgotten that we’ve been over since our now-preteen daughter was barely walking?
Well, mostly over. There was that one time…but that was a mistake we swore to never speak of again. At any rate, we’ve proven that me, alcohol, and my ex-husband are not a good mix. The situation is one I try to avoid at all costs.
“’Morning, wife!” Liam stretches his arms above his head, winking a sleepy blue eye my way. His caramel-colored hair is sticking up in all directions, only serving to make the insufferable man more irresistible. He looks…well…well fucked.
Wife. That curse has me scrambling to my feet, lugging fifty pounds of dress to the full-length mirror that’s attached to the closet door. Adding to my horror, it’s a dress that only my very extra—and now former—best friend would pick out.
How could she do this to me?
“Where is she?” I growl, turning to the side and running my hands along the fitted silhouette. Jesus, I’m thirty-three, not twenty. I look like I’m going to the damn prom.
“Who?” Liam glances around the room, seemingly confused by my reaction. Most likely by why I’m not already threatening to castrate him.
“Hannah! Who else? Are there pictures? I swear to God, if there are pictures of me in this thing, I’ll kill you both, and no one will ever find your bodies.”