Dear Elisabeth,
I don’t normally believe in things like this, but it’s true! You must call your sister within the next thirty minutes or you will experience seven years of bad luck. Nancy Smith received this letter and she simply threw it away. The very next day, her hymen grew back, her cat ran away, and she slipped and fell in her bathroom.
Don’t be like Nancy. Call your sister.
<3 Kristen
I didn’t have a sister. And sure as hell not one as crazy as Kristen. But for the five years Roman and I had been married, I’d had her as a sister-in-law. I was an only child with parents who lived over five hundred miles away, Roman’s family had become my own. His parents had been amazing, welcoming me into their lives with open arms. Never once had I felt like anything but their blood. But I’d lost them all the day I’d walked away from him.
It’d been weird not having them in my life at first, but a clean break was what we’d all needed. Or at least it was what I’d needed—starting anew without the memories of the past hanging over my head with every step.
For the first six months after our divorce, I couldn’t stomach restaurants he and I used to frequent, much less keep a relationship with his family as they all carried on with their lives—with him.
However, the Leblanc family was a force to be reckoned with. His mom and his sister flat-out refused to accept the brush-off. In the beginning, they called daily, and when I didn’t answer, they took to showing up at my house with wine and sushi. If I’m being honest, they were the only reason I made it through that first year.
As time passed, they slowly gave me my space, recognizing that moving on would probably involve another man. It hadn’t. At least, not yet. Though, considering my date with Jon, that might be changing.
I reread her letter and settled on one of the wooden barstools that surrounded my large, granite island. It was a custom build—a gift from my parents when we’d first closed on our tiny starter house. I’d never forget the shock on Roman’s face when the contractor had accidentally left the bill. My parents weren’t loaded by any stretch, but I’d been born to them late in life, long after they’d given up the hopes of having children.
My father had spoiled the hell out of me when I was growing up. Fortunately—and unfortunately, depending on at what age you’d asked me—my mom was strict as hell, so I hadn’t grown up to be a little shit. My father had been wrapped around my finger before I’d even come out of the womb, so when I was twenty-six years old, marrying a West Point graduate, Army Captain, and all-around amazing man, Daddy went over the top.
I swear I thought his smile would swallow his face as he placed my hand in Roman’s on our wedding day. A day that had two hundred guests, a full dinner, an open bar, and an equally ridiculous price tag attached to it. But his little miracle only got married once, he’d said.
She apparently only got divorced once, too.
Fighting with my mind to stay grounded in the present, I grabbed the phone and dialed Kristen while I finished going through the stack of mail.
More bills. More junk mail. A Christmas card from an overachieving client seeing as we were still two weeks from Thanksgiving. And then my body jerked as I lifted a letter from Leblanc Industries into my sights. My face flashed hot as ice formed in my veins.
I was tearing it open just as Kristen answered.
“You’re alive!” she greeted enthusiastically.
“Son of a bitch,” I snarled through clenched teeth as I pulled a check from the envelope.
“Shit. Did your hymen really grow back? I should have known better than to try my hand at the chain mail game.”
“Your. Brother,” was all I had to say.
She cursed under her breath. “What did Mr. Personality do now?”
Loretta began yipping at the back door, but I ignored her demands and headed straight for the fridge.
“Um…hello. What did Roman do?” Kristen called when I didn’t immediately reply.
But I needed to get at least half of a bottle of wine in my system for this chat.
“I’m drinking,” I explained.
She sighed, knowing exactly what that meant. “Shit. How much?”
I didn’t bother with a glass. Instead, I yanked the cork out with my teeth and then drank directly from the bottle.
“More than the last one?” she asked when I didn’t reply.
“Mmmhmm,” I mumbled around the bottle.
She groaned. “Dad talked to him. I swear. We’ve all talked to him. He doesn’t listen.”
I swallowed the mouthful of Chardonnay, making a mental note that wine should never be chugged. But that didn’t stop me from tipping it up once again.