Goodbye to You
Copyright ©2014 by Nancy Hardy
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review. Participation in any aspect of piracy of copyrighted materials, inclusive of the obtainment of this book through non-retail or other unauthorized means, is in actionable violation of the author’s rights.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and registered trademark owners or all branded names referenced without TM, SM, or ® symbols due to formatting restraints, and is not claiming ownership of or collaboration with said trademark brands.
Cover photograph and design by Cover Me, Darling!
Book design by Cassy Roop Pink Ink Designs
This book is dedicated to all of the brave, beautiful warriors who’ve fought the good fight against breast cancer. No matter the outcome, you are the true heroes, and I respect your strength and courage more than mere words can express.
To Hollywood, Beanie, and my (not so) little B: you are the reasons I get up every morning, and the reasons I survive every day.
To my husband, Jay. I know you’re not the mushy type, and you much prefer pithy and humorous to sentimental, but tough shit. Since this is my first book, I’ll write what I want. I’ll always be grateful to you for this opportunity to follow my dreams, and for believing in me even when I didn’t believe in myself. Every love story I write is because we have written an extraordinary love story of our own.
And to Cathie Linz. Your light has gone out much too soon. I am lucky to have known you for so many years. Your grace, humor, and humility have taught me about the kind of author Iwant to be. Rest peacefully, sweet lady, and enjoy your well-deserved HEA with Damon Salvatore and Richard Castle.
I love my boobs.
The sultry-eyed, dark-haired, “I wonder if he’s a J.-Crew-model” god staring at me from across the bar seems to like them too.
Maybe more than I do.
“Hey, Thea, we started with your name.” My friend Bennie slurs her words. Weird since we ordered the first round of the night a moment ago.
Could be she’s still hungover from
last
night.
She slides me a shot of clear liquid while the bartender slips a salt shaker and a plate of limes in front of Bennie.
Tequila. A drink that makes me do wicked things I otherwise wouldn’t consider.
J. Crew is inspiring hot-and-heavy fantasies that exclude clothing, but include lots of delicious, sweaty skin. A couple more drinks and this could be J. Crew’s lucky night.
A few beers every other week is more my speed, so this trip is testing my limits. At five feet three inches tall and weighing in at 130 pounds, my body is not built for heavy drinking.
I’m done with this crap after tonight. Well, maybe not tonight, but when the “Farewell to the Boobies” tour concludes here in Key West.
I’m here with my best friends Bennie and Felicia—Leesh—with the sole purpose of having one last fling with a hot guy before I get a preventative mastectomy.
A strong family history of breast cancer compelled me to get genetic testing. I’m positive for the brca1 mutation, which means I have a sixty to eighty percent chance of breast cancer. After months of deliberating, I decided to kick cancer’s ass, hence my upcoming surgery.
But enough of that—I’m here for fun.
Bennie and Leesh lick salt off the backs of their hands, and I follow suit before gulping the clear liquid fire then sucking on the lime. My lips pucker at its sour bite.
The bartender clears the empties, and Bennie leans in and orders the next shot. Within minutes, the bartender returns with the next round.
The AC kicks on, blasting icy air and blowing loose blond curls into my face.
I’ll miss my boobs. I’m getting reconstructive surgery, but they’ll never be the same glorious girls.
Might as well have fun with them while I still can.
I pick up the “alphabet” shooter sitting on the slick bar in front of me. The orange drink could warm me.
J. Crew’s staring again, so I tip my glass in his direction and then tip my head back and chug the contents in a single swallow.
I cough, and my eyes water. Not the sexiest thing I’ve ever done.
“Wooooo!” Bennie is unaffected by the spicy drink.
Our shot glasses hit the table with a thud.
The F shooter.
Which could stand for “fuuuuuuuck.” I’m certain, though, the hellish concoction was a fireball. Whoever concocted the idea of using spicy Tabasco sauce in an alcoholic drink should be forced to drink a gallon of the stuff, straight.
I wipe my eyes and glance across the darkened room. J. Crew’s gone.
I sigh with relief. I hope he missed my embarrassing performance.
“So which one of these hotties are you gonna tap tonight? You’ve failed in your mission for one last hook-up before . . .” Bennie makes a slashing sound with her mouth as she motions downward across her chest with her hands.
“Stay classy, B.”
She sings a made-up song about getting lucky and shakes her booty in time to a beat in her head. I roll my eyes. The girl is crazy, but she makes me laugh.
“Excuse me,
ladies
.” My voice drips with sarcasm for my most un-ladylike friends. “I need to run to the loo.”
Leesh rolls her eyes at me.
I reach out and squeeze her shoulder. “Sorry, sweetie.”
I’d picked up slang from her British ex, Dev, and sometimes the words roll off my tongue. She misses him since his overseas move and their subsequent split. I need to do a better job of monitoring my words.
I get up and walk to the back of the bar, the soles of my flip-flops crunching the peanut shells underfoot in time with the live music. The young singer is scratching out an eclectic mix of music on his beat-up acoustic guitar. My favorite may be the country music since I am Georgia-born and Carolina-raised, fed a steady diet of old-school country by my granny.
I check my phone for any messages from home. My sister, Jen, texted earlier in the day to say she’s recovering from the unpleasant side effects of the chemo. I believe she’s exaggerating because she wanted me to take a break from caring for her two kids. I skipped the spring semester of school to help Jen through her treatment, missing out on the student teaching required to secure my license. Jen feels guilty, but that’s what family does. We take care of each other.
“Hot twenty-two-year-olds don’t play nursemaid to sick sisters all summer long. They go on vacation for a couple weeks to drink and flirt with cute boys.”
I tried to argue with Jen, but she silenced me with her hand before going into the utility closet and returning with a roll of zebra-striped duct tape. She threatened to tape my mouth shut if I protested again. If she’d possessed the strength, she would’ve pushed me onto the plane herself. Instead, she made Bennie and Leesh promise they would get me out of the house and to the airport for this vacation.
I run a brush through my wild curls and apply more lip gloss. Normally I spend minimal time on my appearance, but since I spotted
him,
I want to look nice in case. I exit the bathroom humming “Cheeseburger in Paradise.” A burger smothered in bacon and cheese would be tasty.
I come to a halt outside the restroom door. J. Crew’s there, leaning against the wall, staring right at me. His arms are crossed, the sleeves of his navy blue polo snug around his defined biceps. His skin is not quite fair, but not too tan. A hint of sunblock and salt clings to him.
He is beautiful.
He smiles, revealing the whitest, straightest teeth I’ve ever seen, and my heart flips like Gabby Douglas on the vault.
Except my heart doesn’t nail the landing. Instead, it sinks to the pit of my stomach and flops around like a fish on the deck of a boat.
“H-hey.” J. Crew’s stutter is cute.
Cute
annoys me.
Not in this case.
This tiny imperfection makes him even hotter.
An older woman brushes by me, knocking into my shoulder as she utters a brusque “Excuse me.” I realize I’ve been standing motionless and mute in the doorway of the women’s room.
Seriously, Thea? Get a grip.