Down for the Count (Dare Me) - By Christine Bell Page 0,5

to think, tonight was the night she’d planned to tell him she’d gone on the Pill in hopes of ramping up their love life. She’d thought her wedding night would be the night she finally got to see what all the fuss was about. And now this.

Bastard.

In an effort to keep the anger burning hot enough to distract her from the sting of her wounded pride, fear of the unknown, and depressing thoughts about Becca, she spent the remainder of the ride concocting wild revenge schemes, most of which involved red ants, honey, and Marty’s testicles. She’d finally settled on a winner when the deafening rumble of the bike stopped abruptly.

She opened her eyes and saw the Thomas family’s lake cottage. The saltbox house was painted a faded china blue and had been for as long as she could remember. She’d loved this place growing up, and the memories of long summer days filled with ice-cream sandwiches and catching fireflies wrapped around her wounded soul like a quilt. Grateful tears clogged her throat, and she bit her lip.

“This is our stop. Okay for you?” Galen said, and flipped out the kickstand with the heel of his boot. “We can at least get you some clothes and a glass of that bubbly until you figure out where to go next.”

“Perfect.” She slipped off the bike and stretched, surprised at the stiffness in her thighs. She must have been holding on more tightly than she realized. Tugging off the helmet, she met Galen’s gaze.

Their relationship over the years had been mostly snide banter with the occasional big-brother warning mixed in, but he’d gone above and beyond today and it was imperative he knew how much she appreciated it. On a day like this one, that kind of loyalty meant something. She hadn’t just lost her husband. She’d lost one of her closest friends. Cat and Galen coming through for her was one of the few things she had to cling to.

“You’re a saint for rescuing me. I can’t thank you enough.” She bent and pressed a kiss to his cheek, then turned to jog up the stairs before he could react.

She knew from experience what had happened today was all going to somehow come down on her. Her mother was the queen of assigning blame. Lacey made a decision in that second. She wasn’t talking to any of them about the merger or anything else until she had some time to lick her wounds and repair her armor. It was going to get ugly, and the accusations would fly, mostly in her direction. “Not your fault, Lace,” she muttered.

“Most definitely not,” Galen agreed. He climbed onto the porch and gave her shoulder an awkward rub. “I don’t care how annoying you are; no one deserves that.”

She gaped at him for a second before catching the mirth in his eyes in the moonlight. Taking comfort in the familiar, she snorted. “Me, annoying? This from the guy who used to let the air out of my bike tires on a regular basis.”

He bent his head, squinted at the lock, and slipped in the key. “I only did that when you guys would use my Airsoft guns to play Powerpuff Girls.”

The laugh that escaped was genuine. “How did you know it was me? Maybe it was Cat.”

“Seriously? You labeled them ‘Blossom,’ ‘Bubbles,’ and ‘Buttercup.’ With a label maker.”

The door swung open and she followed him in, smiling at the memory. She’d loved that label maker. “You know your sister. If I didn’t label everything, we’d fight and she’d take the good one every time and swear it was hers.”

“You were a little label-Gestapo back then.”

“Still am,” she said proudly.

She smelled it when he opened the door: the scent of linseed oil and old linens. For some reason, it soothed her. He flipped on the lights and she peered around. She hadn’t been here since high school, but it still looked the same as it had ten years ago. Warm, comfy, lived in. A worn brown sofa took up the center of the room, and in front of it lay a braided rug that covered natural hardwood floors shot with amber and gold. A hulking wood-burning stove took up half of the back wall.

The cottage was the antithesis of every home she’d ever lived in with her own family, which was half the appeal. Still, she couldn’t stop herself from straightening the rug with the toe of her pearly slipper.

“It’s not the Ritz, but—”

She waved a