Husband Rollover (Husband Series Book 4)(3)

By: Louise Cusack


“Alec.”

“…a few years ago.”

“Fucker.” I was not getting into a discussion about being cheated on. That would feel worse than the whole stuck-on-the-shelf thing.

I shook my head and felt something slide down my back. Hair. My updo must be unravelling. Why did that always happen? Bloody red curls. I hated when they fell in my face and got in the way of drinking.

“In any case,” Nick went on, unbothered by my hair malfunction. “Sex and alcohol are not helpful anesthetics, at least not in the long-term. Voice of experience.”

I shook my head at him. “I only drink at weddings.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“…or whenever things are shitty.”

He waited.

“…and also when I’m sad.”

“So are you sad right now? Or are you shitty?”

He sounded as if he really cared, and that was too much. My stupid eyes started stinging again, and I lurched up from the table. “Toilet,” I blurted, and turned on my very high heels, catching the edge of a chair leg and careening straight into Rosie Tatts who happened to be walking past.

She grabbed my arm and steadied me, then said, “Bathroom?”

I nodded, more curls falling out of the hairdo Angela had planned so carefully. But I couldn’t think about that, because it would only add to the burden of sad, so instead I let Rosie lead me through the tables, trying not to gawk at her. She was Angela’s super-hip singing agent, a celebrity in her own right, and as big in LA as she was in her hometown of Sydney.

Plus, she looked the part in a white-lace straight skirt and matching crop top with some sort of white fur around the knee-length hem and the neckline. She was impossibly cool with her lilac ankle tattoo of a boxing kangaroo and sky-high heels that matched her mauve cropped hair.

“You’re stunning,” I said, stating the obvious as we walked arm in arm.

She grinned, and I wished then that I was bi, because she was gorgeous. Only, I’d tried girl-sex and it was all soft and meh. So I put that thought out of my head and concentrated on not falling down because I may have twisted my ankle. It was certainly wobbly.

Either that or my three glasses of champagne were actually catching up with me.

“Here we are,” she said as she got me into the ladies’ room, then she steered me toward a cubicle.

“Thanks,” I said, and let her go to transfer my grip onto the toilet door, not trusting my balance. “It’s not a good look when you pee your pants.”

I heard her laughing as I shut the door and rearranged my skirts so I could pee.

“Especially not in a bridesmaid’s dress,” she said from the other side.

“Pale pink. Stupid color for drunks.” I shook my head. A darker color would hide a multitude of sins. Not that I was expecting to pee my pants. I hadn’t done that since I was five, but if there was a spilled drink, I’d be near it, that was for sure. I mumbled on some other rubbish about wondering what a woman had to do to get laid in this place, etc. Then I flushed and let myself out of the cubicle, surprised to find Rosie still standing there.

I must have had a quizzical look on my face, because she shrugged. “Thought you’d like an escort back.”

I washed my hands and flapped them under the air dryer, trying to think of something dismissive to say that wasn’t rude. Because I seriously needed to lose myself in some sweaty, meaningless sex, and having a stunner like her around would cramp my pick-up ability. No man would look at me if she was within range.

But when I turned back to the mirror, I suddenly realized she was the least of my problems. My hair was catastrophic!

“Fuck,” I said softly. One of the tight plaits that had been braided around my curls to hold them against my nape was loose and sticking out sideways with a waterfall of red locks poking past it and down my back. I looked like Pippi Longstocking on drugs.

“We can fix it,” Rosie said.

I shook my head in horror. “I look like a moron. More of a moron,” I amended, because even on my best day I resembled a stick insect in Doc Martens.

“Nonsense,” she said briskly, and pointed at the padded stool to one side of the hand basin that had a makeup bench and power points in front of it. “Sit,” she demanded, and I did as I was told.

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