Tequila Rose by Willow Winters (pdf e book reader TXT) 📕

With Renee in tow, the two leave, and I watch as Rose, or Magnolia, whatever her name is, glances behind her.

Griffin asks the words that resonate in my own mind, “What the hell is going on?”

Magnolia

Just breathe through the little whistle. I give myself the command again and the silent relief of air doesn’t do a darn thing.

“You have to breathe in through your nose and then exhale through your mouth,” Renee tells me, lost in her phone and not even bothering to look up as she speaks.

She’s the one who gave me this necklace, a rose gold simple chain with a pretty and chic silent whistle on the end of it that matches the color of the chain. It’s quite stylish, but it’s supposed to be calming me down.

In through my nose, out through my mouth as I stare at the computer screen for the third time, attempting to pay attention so I can put a sticker on the right piece for Martin.

I’m a wreck. Crying is useless and I don’t want to, but my goodness, my heart won’t stop racing. I just needed time to collect myself, that’s exactly what I thought I was doing. Back on the restaurant porch, on the walk back here and in the hour that has passed since then.

That’s what I do, I take time and I process everything. And now that I’ve done that, I have collected a mess. I am in a horrible mess and I have no idea what to do other than to pray that this is a dream, nightmare, or both. Or that he will suddenly vanish and I won’t have to face Brody anymore for as long as I live.

Which … breaks my heart just a little. Maybe a bit more than a little. Maybe it hurts a lot to even think that years ago when I searched for him and prayed for him to come save me, he was nowhere to be found, and now he shows up?

I used to dream about him and the way he was with me, so sweet and charming, just so I could sleep at night. Because somewhere in the world was someone else who might think differently about me and about my little Bridgey. It was long ago, though; it feels like a lifetime ago. How awful is it now that he’s here and all I want is for him to go away?

He looks the same, handsome and charming with a roughness about him … the images of him at the bar, of us years ago, come to mind. Of the bed he took me in … My memory did not at all do that man justice.

Sucking air in through the whistle and blowing it back out again, my shoulders rise and fall chaotically. I will not cry, but I don’t know what else to do.

“It’s for your parasympathetic nervous system, you have to breathe through your nose.” Renee keeps her place in the corner of the art gallery, eyeing me pointedly as she readjusts on the floor so she’s now cross-legged with her back leaning against the wall. She shouldn’t be here and I should focus on working. But Brody shouldn’t be here either! That’s all I keep thinking. What the hell is he doing here?

Ripping the whistle out of my mouth and making my way to her, past the easels and paintings, I finally come close to the edge of losing it. “You know what I’m not parasympathetic to?”

With the ring of the bell on the door to the gallery, my mouth slams shut, my hands fold politely in front of me and I welcome Miss Jones to the gallery. My smile is fake as can be and I hope she can’t tell. I pray she doesn’t know anything is wrong, but I would be a fool not to think the entire town will talk and by tomorrow rumors will have spread like wildfire.

It’s so very wrong of me, but I’m hoping they’re talking about Renee and Brody’s friend. Not Brody and me. Please, please, I don’t want to be the topic of whispered conversations anymore.

“Miss Jones, can I help you with finding anything in particular, or would you like to peruse? We have a few new pieces over in the more contemporary section,” I say and gesture behind me, remembering the last paintings she bought. They were mostly for her foyer, but I think one was for her bedroom.

Miss Jones is quite the spender, not just in here but anywhere she’d like. That’s what happens when you’ve been married three times to wealthy men who either died or cheated, each time leaving her with a heap of cash. Miss Jones is loaded. Hosting parties and wining and dining is what she lives for, or that’s what she’d say. Southern hospitality raised her, and she won’t let it die.

Tapping a perfectly polished, French manicured nail against her chin, she smiles broadly, the wrinkles around her eyes making her appear ever approachable as she says, “I’m here for a look, dear.”

I’d love it if the conversation ended here, not because I don’t enjoy waiting on Miss Jones. She’s honestly lovely and when I was pregnant with Bridget, she offered to host a baby shower for me. I didn’t take her up on it, but it was sweet. She is more than well-off and somehow still manages to be kind.

However, I’d love it if she took her white-jeaned and blue-bloused self out of this store right now so I can have a moment to decompress with Renee.

I’ve barely spoken to Renee, other than to put her on the task of how the heck Brody got here and how long he’ll be here. Thus why her attention has been on her phone and my