The Hone-Don't List the sweetest new romcom from the bestselling author of The Unhoneymooners - Christina Lauren Page 0,81
let alone an entire house.”
Oh shit.
“Oh shit,” James says aloud, launching out of his seat to intervene. With a sigh, I toss back my drink before reluctantly getting up to follow. I do not get paid enough for this.
“What? I love her stuff!” the woman responds. “You were on that other show, too. The one with Miss America.”
“Stephanie?” Rusty asks, and my stomach drops.
A crusty-bearded man on the barstool near Rusty joins the conversation with a leer. “Heard she was your girlfriend.”
Rusty nods. “I’ve had more sex with Stephanie Flores in the last six months than I’ve had with my wife in the last six years. He’ll tell you,” Rusty adds, pointing to James.
By now people have started paying attention. I catch a couple in a booth listening intently. I see someone else with their phone out.
“Why don’t we get you out of here?” I ask, voice low.
“It’s been a big day.” James lays a hand on Rusty’s back to encourage him to stand.
Rusty shrugs him away. “I can’t do it, Jimmy. I won’t. Did you read Robyn’s text? Another season? Another season of watching Carey do all the work and Melly take credit for it? Of playing the bumbling sidekick to the woman I married?” His eyes meet mine and his are watery, desperate. “They’re going to want another book, you know. Another tour, and another show, and the lie will never end.”
“Rusty—” James starts.
“I can’t even remember the last piece of furniture I built. The last reno Melly actually had something to do with. We had a store and a life, and I was happy with it. I’m done, James.” He looks around at the bar full of customers who have now gone completely silent to watch him in shock. Rusty tilts his tumbler to his lips and drains the drink before telling the room, “I’m done, y’all, and I’m sorry, but I don’t care anymore. I don’t care who the fuck knows.”
It’s a surprise to all of us, I’m sure, when I step over to Rusty and lift him from his barstool and shove him from behind until we are out on the sidewalk squinting in the bright Wyoming sunset. It takes my eyes a few seconds to adapt to the change in light, and it takes my brain a bit longer to realize what I’ve managed to do: lift a man who easily has fifty pounds on me, bodily escort him from a bar, and pickpocket his keys without him even knowing. I’m not typically a very physically forceful person, but panic makes us do weird things, I guess.
Carey trips after us, eyes wide and breath coming out in these short, squeaky bursts. She gapes at Rusty. “What the hell was that? Do you realize people in there were getting all of that on video?”
If he could produce a yawn right now it wouldn’t render his expression more disinterested. “I’m over it,” he says simply.
“Rusty,” Carey says, with as much calm as she can muster, “you don’t get to just be over it. You do get that, right?”
His gaze swims as he looks from her to me and then back again. “Why aren’t you two together? But not just together, like together,” he slurs. “Did Melly tell you not to?”
Carey looks at me in abject horror, and I groan, officially done with this conversation. “Come on, Russ, you can’t ask us shit like that. We’re your employees.”
“Well, if that’s the only problem, then you’re both fired.” He turns to James, but a hiccup interrupts his laugh. “I’ll be damned if my wife is going to keep you from getting laid, too.” He pauses, scoffing at our stiff silence. “Oh, please. I see the way you two look at each other.”
Carey visibly shudders. “Rusty, oh my God please don’t talk about this.”
With a deep breath, I walk over to the car at the curb, open the door, and shove Rusty into the back seat. I meet Carey’s eyes and tilt my head for her to get in. “Let’s go.”
It’s a quiet drive back to the cabin, but I’m sure none of our thoughts are quiet. We’re in Laramie, and most people here seem to want to mind their own business, but this could still be bad. I try to remember how many camera phones I saw aimed at Rusty; there had to be at least three. And a couple of people in the booths toward the back were more than likely able to hear him ranting—they could