ROMeANTICALLY CHALLENGED. Marina Adair

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      It had taken an entire week for her to realize that the wedding, the romantic Roman honeymoon with walks along the River Tiber, the future they’d spent years building toward was gone.

      It had taken only a single Instagram post of her—so recent I still have the ring—ex and a perky blonde with the caption “I finally found my one *true love*” for Annie to give her two weeks’ notice—which was more courtesy than Clark had spared her—and apply for a temporary ER position in Rome.

      Once the offer came in, she packed her suitcase, sent in a change of address, left the ring and the rest of the gifts behind for Clark to return, and promised herself a future full of exciting opportunities and exotic destinations. She had become a traveling PA because she’d wanted to see the world, and her six-year layover in Hartford was over.

      Now, it was her time.

      “You do have a lot going on—how did you find the time to add ‘Murder fiancé’ to the top of your to-do list?” he asked, and Annie flipped her phone over to check for a listening device. She was about ready to rip out the battery when Clark added, “You still have me as a recipient on your calendar.”

      “Just because I forgot to delete you doesn’t give you the right to read my personal stuff,” she accused.

      “Hard to ignore a death threat or my personal favorite, “Alone time with B.O.B.” Clark let out a low whistle. “Five times a week. How many batteries are you burning through?”

      “Not as many as when I was with you.” Humiliation vibrated through her as she thought back to the numerous reminders she’d put on her to-do list over the past few months. “And if you saw that, then you had to have seen that I contacted Bliss to cancel the alterations and return my grandmother’s dress. Untouched.” She looked at her reflection in the mirror. “The dress has been touched, Clark. A lot.”

      “Yeah, about that.” She could hear the familiar squeak of leather as Clark reclined in his office chair. “I guess there was a mix-up between orders, and your grandmother’s dress was used to make, uh, Molly-Leigh’s gown.”

      Annie eased onto the couch and rested her head on her knees.

      “How did Molly-Leigh end up at Bliss?” she asked. The question exposed an ache so deep, it was as if she were reliving the breakup all over again. Because Bliss wasn’t the kind of off-the-rack-shop most brides visited. It was a custom gown boutique that specialized in vintage restoration and had a yearlong wait-list.

      Bliss didn’t work with just any bride, and Annie hadn’t wanted any old dressmaker to handle her most precious family heirloom. Which was now retrofitted to support Dolly Parton, the New Year’s Eve ball in Times Square, and the scales of justice—that never seemed to tip in her favor.

      “She saw a sketch of your dress in the wedding journal and fell in love with it.”

      Annie jerked her head up and glanced out the window to the back deck, breathing out a sigh of relief when she spotted her wedding journal. The evening’s marine layer had come in fast, leaving a light dusting of dew, but it was right where she’d tossed it, beside the pool, under the patio table, in a box labeled DIRTY LAUNDRY, DRY OATMEAL, AND BROKEN DREAMS. “How did she see my wedding journal?”

      “Our wedding journal,” he corrected, and a bad feeling began to swirl in her belly. “I had one of the nurses make a copy of it for me.”

      “That’s an inappropriate use of hospital staff and supplies. And why? You barely went to any of the appointments.”

      “I went to the ones that mattered.”

      “You mean, the one. The one that mattered to you,” she corrected. “You showed up twenty minutes late to the cake tasting. And only because you were determined that it had to be carrot cake. Nobody likes carrot cake, Clark. Nobody.”

      “My mom does. And so does Molly-Leigh.”

      Ouch.

      “I guess you found your perfect partner then,” she whispered, raising her hand, her ring finger looking heartbreakingly bare.

      Other people’s choices are not a reflection on me, she reminded herself.

      They were the words her childhood therapist had given her when she began to suffer panic attacks brought on when confronted with situations that left her feeling inadequate. Throughout her teens, she wore it like armor. As an adult, she liked to think it was more of a coping device when insecurities paid her an unwelcome visit.

      “You still owe me half of the deposit,” she reminded him.