Page 9 of Fake Southern Fiancé

“I know. Not even since he FedEx’d the ring.” She covers her mouth, trying to hold back her amusement. “I’m sorry, but just saying it like that—I can’t even.”

“I know.” I hold up my hand and thumb the diamond back around to inspect the glittering promise he made via two-day priority. “Wish I had been a priority for him.”

“Where now meets next.” Emma recites the FedEx slogan, laughing her ass off.

“More like ‘thank you, next’.” My own maniacal laughter bubbles out. This whole situation is straight out of a bad rom-com. “Oh, plus, get this—I’m in the honeymoon suite.”

“No way! You think he did that?” she questions, her confusion mirroring my own.

“Who knows… him, the magazine, or maybe it’s one of those random lucky things that happens to people?” It’s only my luck that karma gives me a honeymoon suite after losing my groom.

“Well, make the most of it. Order one of everything from room service, look up Breakfast at Tiffany’s on your laptop, and veg out,” Emma suggests, her words and laughter a lifeline.

“Yeah, maybe,” I mumble, pulling myself up from the floor and dragging my rolling luggage to the bedroom.

“That-a girl.”

I turn on the lights and flip the camera to give Emma a room tour and stop in my tracks at the red rose petals covering the white duvet.

“I swear to you, I’ll get on a plane right now,” Emma offers.

“No, it’s okay. I need to do this,” I assure her, my heart heavy as I move into the bathroom to start the palatial marble shower. “Oh, look, champagne.” I turn to find a bottle chilling next to an elegant claw-foot tub.

“Are you sure you should be alone? Why didn’t you stay with Briar and the girls?” Emma presses.

“It wasn’t for lack of them trying. I just needed to be alone to process and fall apart,” I explain, my voice cracking.

“I get it.” Her blue eyes shine with emotion.

“Plus, staying in the same house as my wedding dress felt… I don’t know, like I was taunting the place with my bad bride juju,” I admit, the words sounding crazy. I kick off my flats and grab the fluffy white robe from the hanger on the door.

“There is no such thing as bad bride juju, stop,” Emma laughs.

“How can I plan a wedding without a groom? Or how will people trust me to plan theirs when I can’t even pull mine off?” My insecurities float to the surface. I decide on a nice, long, relaxing bath instead of a shower is what I need.

“You’ll think of something. You always do,” she reassures me. “Maybe instead of a quiet night in, you should go out. Hit the hotel bar, find a handsome stranger to keep you company.”

“There was a guy,” I whisper, but stop myself because it’s a terrible idea to even think out loud.

“What! Tell me everything now!” Emma’s eyes widen in shock. So, I take a deep breath and proceed to tell her all about my scandalous time at the Wisteria thus far. Her shocked gasps turn into howling laughter while I turn on the water and fill the tub.

“Okay, yeah. I vote for Mr. Penthouse. I mean, after all, he’s already seen your panties.” She winks.

“Oh, Em, you should have seen it. I was on the ground scrambling. It was a mess.” The laughter bubbles up, and I can’t contain it because this whole day has been like an episode of the Twilight Zone, bridal edition. First, getting dumped in my wedding dress, and then the hotel.

“I am so writing this scene into a book!” She dabs her eyes from laughing. “Only you, Luce. Only you.”

“Right?” I add in some lavender vanilla bath salts I find on the counter, tied with a handwritten calligraphy label that say, relax. If only it were that easy.

“Why didn’t you just lead with that? No offense, sexy billionaire in the elevator trope trumps runaway grooms. Who cares about Henry when there is a tall, dark, and handsome new man ready to sweep you off your feet. Or steal your panties,” she adds with a giggle.

“Well, we don’t know that he’s a billionaire. And technically he didn’t steal them. He was a perfect gentleman when he handed them back.”

“Please tell me they were at least clean?” She snorts.

“What is wrong with you!” I laugh. “And yes, they were clean. I bought them just for tonight. What a waste.”

“Excuse me! Not a waste! Shave your legs, slip those babies on, and go find Mr. Penthouse.”