Page 9 of The Grump I Married
“And then you quit?”
“Then I quit,” I confirmed, a nervous but giddy bubble swelling in my chest. I was surprised that my stomach wasn’t in knots. I was notorious for internalizing stress and having it manifest in the worst ways. For whatever reason I’d yet to determine, my stomach was content to remain calm.Yay, me.
I navigated away from the payment counter at Let It Dough, my favorite New Orleans-inspired bakery and café in Houston. The fresh beignets were to die for, and my mouth was already watering in anticipation because today of all days, Ineededthat hot, pillowy, sugary goodness.
“Girl…”
“Iknow.” Tess blinked at me, and I adjusted my ear bud. My wireless headphones were on the fritz. But what did I care? Not like I needed them anymore to take inconveniently timed calls from Weston when I was at the gym or juggling grocery bags or attempting to wind down with a bath after a long day.
“Holy shit,” Tess muttered. “I don’t even know what to say. I can’t believe it. I know you’ve fantasized about this a thousand times, but I never actually thought it would happen. And definitely not likethat.”
“It was sort of a spur of the moment thing,” I admitted. Sure, there was part of me that always fantasized about walking out in the middle of one of his ridiculous demands, dumping his entire life back in his lap. But the more logical part of me had believed I’d never actually do that…until today. “I was just so…angry. It was either quit or murder him. And clearly my words weren’t getting through to him, so I figured this was the better option. Plus, this way, there was no room for miscommunication. I looked him right in the eye as I gave back my laptop and ID card and told him I was done.”
Tess snorted. “The man has been pissing you off for seven years. What tipped you over the edge today?”
“Fresh beignets!” one of the kids behind the counter called.
“Thanks,” I said, grabbing the cute, decorative plate.
“Are you back on your beignet grind?”
I flashed the plate in the direction of my phone screen. “I deserve hot squares of deep-fried dough today.”
Tess smirked as I found an empty table, plopping myself down in a seat.
“You like anything drenched in powdered sugar onanyday.”
“True,” I said. “But these ones are extra special.” A tone sounded in both ears.“Shit,” I muttered as my headphones died.
“What?” Tess asked.
“Headphones just crapped out.” I adjusted the volume as Tess’s voice rang through my phone speaker. Between my full-on schedule as Weston’s PA and Tess running a busy aesthetician clinic back in Montana—the woman was always waxing or plucking or microblading someone—we sometimes struggled to make time for our long-distance-latte calls. They had to be scheduled far in advance, and I never, ever missed one—even if taking the call today meant making it happen from the café instead of from the office, where I’d thought I’d be. That was another bright side to my new open availability: catching up was about to get a whole lot easier. And if I ever needed a good vent sesh with my best friend, it was today.
“Do you have your charger?”
I dug through my bag. “No, I must have left it on my desk when I rushed out.” I rolled my eyes. “Well, that’s dead to me now. I’ll pick up a new one later.” I huffed, stuffing a beignet in my mouth.
“Good?” Tess asked.
“So good,” I mumbled.
Tess slurped her coffee. “Okay, walk me through it,” she said. “From the beginning. Set the scene for me. You’re at work. Weston is walking around, huffing and rolling those ScottishRs.”
Scowling with that unfairly gorgeous face, I thought, nodding.
“And then what?”
“He told me to marry him.”
Tess’s hand flew to her mouth as coffee dribbled out. “Shut the hell up!”
“I kid you not.” I took another bite of my pillowy beignet, then proceeded to give Tess a play-by-play of Weston’s horrendous proposal and our argument.
“Holy hell. No wonder you quit!” she said when I was done.
I brushed powdered sugar off my shirt. “That’s not all. Because not only would I have had to marry him, he also expected me to go to Scotland with him today—to be gone for who-the-hell-knows how long—which meant missing your bachelorette.”
“WHAT!” she cried. “Lena, you promised me margaritas on a beach.”
