Don't Marry the Ex: A Sweet Romance (The Debutante Rules Book 3) Read online

  Don’t Marry the Ex

  Emily Childs

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Epilogue

  Chapter 1

  Dot

  I need a drink. Or a hundred pounds of chocolate. I’m not picky.

  I glance at the text for the third time, knee bouncing, heart racing like it wants to break free.

  Jo: Girl, I’m trying sooooo hard to be Team Dot right now. Believe me. But . . . I mean, he’s sort of impressive. *runs away*

  Of course he’s impressive, Josephine! He’s a schmoozer, a professional con artist who had me convinced we were going to speak vows, buy a little country house, make beautiful babies.

  I want to shriek at her through the door I’ve been obsessively staring at as though I’ll be able to laser beam through it and see everything that’s going on. I should’ve known even a solid, good-head-on-her-shoulders Josephine Dawson would be wooed by that man. I don’t blame her. This is the fourth meeting over a course of four months. He’s relentless, and no mistake, gets more charming as time goes on.

  It’s his worst quality.

  It’s what I loved most about him.

  He ages like fine wine until you’ve gone so far that you can’t imagine tasting anything sweeter.

  I let out a long sigh and slouch in the leather sitting chair outside my daddy’s office. On the coffee table is another horrific article the local paper wrote about the new, high-tech company—owned by insurance gurus—that decided to set up roots right here in Honeyville. Written by Amanda Sulley, a woman who went to high school with Olive and me. I tell you what—I’d like to forbid Mandy from ever covering such a thing again. Censorship at its finest.

  Although, she did write it in such a way I can practically hear his laugh through his quotes. Maybe the sound made Amanda flush in the face, or maybe her stomach twisted up in delicious knots the same as mine used to.

  Stop it, Dorothy-Ann, I think. He doesn’t deserve real estate inside my thoughts or my heart. Not a moment longer.

  But . . . I pinch my lips into a bloodless line and snatch the paper up again, reading my favorite paragraph for the umpteenth time.

  When asked why Lanford & Hewitt decided to set up their new venture in Honeyville as opposed to Columbia, or Savannah, two of the options considered, Lanford laughed and said, “We’re built on small-town values. Friendly neighbors who watch out for each other. Being small-town guys ourselves, we couldn’t think of a better place than right here with folks who get us, and who get what we’re trying to do. There’s so much beauty in Honeyville, and we look forward to getting to know new friends, and reacquainting with old ones.”

  I slam the paper back on the table, causing Lou at the front desk to startle, and I cross my arms over my chest. Reacquaint my boot. Last I checked, Sawyer Lanford knew a total of five people in Honeyville. And because I’m fuming, I count them off on my fingers to double-check. Me, obviously. Rafe. Olive. Mama. Daddy. And I suppose I could count Zac since they met once before. Five faces, and since he showed his horrifically beautiful face back in town, he certainly hasn’t been reacquainting with me.

  Through the grapevine I’ve heard reports he’s made it a habit of getting his oil changed at a certain auto shop I hold dear to my heart. In truth, I feel a little betrayed by Zachariah Dawson, and Rafe—ugh, Rafe was there on the night of the fall out. He should’ve stood up for me and refused service.

  I’ll whine to Olive about the subject when we meet for dinner later.

  She’ll talk some sense into her husband, no doubt, since Josephine is obviously not working over her man—the darn owner of the place. In fact, I get the feeling she’s going to the dark side too. Any minute now.

  Lou’s phone rings and she answers in her chipper voice. I’m not really listening until she says, “Miss Gardener.” She wiggles the phone in one hand. “It’s for you.”

  My brow furrows. I straighten my blouse and pencil skirt, then add a smile to my gloomy voice. “Hello, this is Dot Gardener.”

  “Hey, baby.”

  I grip the phone tightly. “Daddy,” I say, voice rough. “What in the blazes is goin’ on in there?” Proper talk can kiss my tush and fly out the window. This is urgent.

  “We’re negotiating, baby.”

  I groan. “Well, shouldn’t I be in there? You know, the business manager. Wait, you’re in your private office, right? We’re not on speaker.”

  “I’m in the office, yes. Taking a breather to call you since I know you’re out there twiddling your thumbs.”

  “I’m waiting for you to call me in.”

  My father clears his throat. “Well, we’ve already reached a kind of agreement. I need you on board with what I’m going to say, Dot, hear me?”

  My chest squeezes. “Uh, on board with what? When I know exactly what you’re talking about, then I might tell you if I agree or not.”

  “The Atlanta weekend.”

  I nearly choke on my own tongue. If I looked in a mirror, there’s no doubt my freckles would be little outlines of white as the blood rushes out of my face. “Daddy, you didn’t.”

  “I didn’t, they were already invited. This app of the kid’s is really impressing some of our on-the-fence investors. It’ll be good to have a united front with the boy and the clinic if we want to push them over the edge.”

  A sting starts to build behind my eyes as the truth pummels me like a punch to the gut. There is only one reason my daddy would be calling me like this. “You’ve signed with him, didn’t you?”

  “Dot, this is business. We can’t let personal thoughts into these sorts of things. But yes, tentatively, depending on how Atlanta goes, I think we need him on board to convince investors we’re keeping up with the times. Plus, his expertise in insurance is what we need to muddle through the discrepancies in our pay outs. And you know it.”

  I knew what he was saying was true on a few points. Lately, there were fl
uctuations in our medical billing, and in business, partnerships can’t be based on whether the man broke your daughter’s heart or not. Daddy taught me that young, but then, loving the business world was the only way to bond with the man growing up. Work is my father’s mistress, and when I took an interest, he took an interest in me. Love the man, truly, he does good by people, but I’m still not sure he knows me the way a father ought to know a daughter.

  I knew this day was inevitable. When Sawyer would come in, businessman guns blazing, and woo my father into submission. For my sake, I think Jo tried to avoid it as long as possible, but he’s a sort of god with insurance know-how. A need for us, at the moment. Not to mention his fancy little app he created makes bigwigs like these wishy-washy investors fall all over themselves.

  I don’t want to bring in outside help, but even I can admit it might be the best choice. Here in Honeyville, we work with what we have, but like a sinking ship, there is a hole in our little clinic, and we can’t find the leak. I feel wholly responsible since I’m the bookkeeper, the financier, payroll, all of it rolled into one.

  We need help with our billing and reimbursements. Simple as that. And my ex-boyfriend just happens to be a pro at it.

  But a weekend in Atlanta, when we’ve hardly said ten words to each other these last few months, sounds like my own personal torture chamber. And why does Sawyer keep pushing this working relationship? It’s not like Lanford & Hewitt needs us. With the prescription app folks can save on their premiums and payments. It’s made Sawyer popular from here to California. I know because I hear things. Ladies talk in Honeyville, and Mr. Lanford, once a no-name, is now the most eligible bachelor. A guy for their little darlings to swoon over, and on the way down, hopefully catch a husband.

  “Dot,” Daddy says after silence goes on too long. “Can you be a professional on this?”

  He has his stern tone on, the one that lifted the hair on the back of my neck as a kid. I nod even though he can’t see. “Yes, sir. I can do this.”

  “That’s my girl. It’s going to help folks, Dot. That’s what you wanted right?”

  “Yes,” I say. “If you don’t need me, I guess I’ll go.”

  “All right, baby. We’ll talk soon, about travel this weekend.”

  Unsurprising that our next phone call will be work related. It’s really the only topic Daddy and I relate on.

  Lou takes the phone out of my hand, and gives me a pat. I hurry and snatch up my purse before anyone can see the tears welling in my eyes.

  Once upon a time my father hardly noticed Sawyer Lanford, now he’s singing his praises. He’s grown himself into a behemoth of industry, though, and that sort of thing catches Rob Gardener’s attention. Unfortunately, Sawyer’s ambition holds no bounds. He grew into an unstoppable force, then ditched me straightaway.

  I don’t understand it either.

  The only thing I can conjure up is a rather awful idea: he didn’t need my money anymore.

  I’m not one to deny I was raised with a silver spoon in my mouth, or that I was a late bloomer when it came to self-reliance. But now I hold my own, a credit I once gave to Sawyer for helping me realize. I finished business school with him as my love, I wrote a steep rental agreement with my parents with his guidance, so I could live in their beach house without feeling like I was mooching. I bought Maribelle the Mazda with Sawyer.

  Money came with the Gardener name, though, and I often indulged my old beau. But it’s not like he grew up in a cardboard box. His daddy is the VP for a chain of national grocery stores. Maybe not the old southern money like me, but he understood the lifestyle, the entire culture around it all. The difference was his folks believed in their boys working their way through life, and even though he had a trust from some grandma he met twice, he couldn’t access it until age thirty. Even then, he’d told me about the stipulations on how the funds could be used. They were extensively specified on what investments could be made.

  Maybe I was his cash cow until Mr. Trust fund kicked in or he made it big. The latter came first and as far as I can tell, now his funds have funds. He made it larger than life and booted me out.

  I sling my purse over my shoulder and stomp over to the elevator. Inside, I slump against the cool metal wall, letting the chill sooth my overheated skin.

  My phone buzzes again. Poor Jo. I’ve got her all tied up in knots.

  Jo: Dottie, you know we have your back, right? Exes suck. Olive knows that. Jace. Me. Come on, I had to testify against my ex. I understand dirtbag. I vow to hate Sawyer for your sake, but he has a good business plan that will really help us.

  I smile sadly. She’ll go on worrying until I put her at ease.

  Dot: Girl, I know. And exes do suck. It just seems like he’s doing this to flaunt himself in my face. He never was like that before.

  Jo: It’s been a year, right? Maybe he’s showing his true colors. Probably dodged a bullet.

  Dot: Probably.

  I tuck my phone back inside my purse. Did I dodge a bullet? Is sweet Sawyer a callous pig in disguise? At the beginning of the breakup, he was so kind, so shattered right along with me. He never gave me a straight answer about why he decided to end things.

  Now he’s cross and stiff. The few times we’ve locked eyes in passing he practically snarls at me.

  I’ve peeled back the simplest memories trying to figure out what went wrong, what I did. All I can come up with is I loved him. For once I’d found a guy who took me as me, not my name, not my connections. He took things some folks thought were annoying and made them my strengths. An obsessive eye for detail. Bluntness. An affinity for soap operas and sci-fi. And when he told me things he said he never told anyone else, I’d encouraged him to be the man he wanted to be. I’d love him too hard and too deeply, no matter what. That’s all I can come up with.

  Breaking up, well, it made no sense. It still doesn’t.

  The elevator dings and I step into the front lobby of the office building, eyes on the veins of gold in the marble tile. Not a second later the neighboring elevator opens and familiar voices shake me from my somberness.

  I swallow my own heart when the group of men in fancy suits and expensive haircuts step into the lobby six feet away.

  “Is that Dottie?”

  I flinch, but can’t help my smile when Kyler Lanford bursts out of his elevator, bright grin and blue eyes homing in on me. Sawyer’s older brother.

  “Hey Ky,” I say, but my voice sounds like a bullfrog. All croaky and wrong.

  Kyler scoops me up in his long arms and squeezes me without permission, but I would’ve given it to him anyway. He’s impossible not to love. We’d had a brother-sister-ish bond. He’d been recovering from a relapse with alcoholism when we’d met, and he always told me I didn’t sugarcoat. I let him know when he was being an idiot and loved him anyway. I did love him. I loved everyone in Sawyer’s family.

  Kyler is big, loud—a handsome teddy bear, really. “Girl, what are you doing wandering around looking like you’re going to break someone’s heart?”

  Oh, he’s so delightfully clueless. I pat his lapel. “Just on my way out. I hear—” I clear my throat, “I hear congratulations are in order.”

  Kyler beams. Ugh. He smiles like Sawyer. “Your daddy is crazy scary, girl, but once we won him over, he couldn’t get enough of us.”

  I start to laugh, then the world tilts.

  Kyler adjusts enough I can see over his shoulder. There, Sawyer is made of stone, beautiful, chiseled stone, but hardened and cold. His dark hair is combed and trimmed. I always loved when he let a day’s shadow grow on his chin, although, I’m surprised he came to a meeting scruffy. My eyes flick to his shoulder. Underneath that fancy, tailored suit bright plumerias tattoo his shoulder for a younger sister who passed away when she was thirteen. Plumerias were her favorite, I hear. Then my eyes sneak over to his chest, where words were added for another girl in his life. Right over his heart. I wonder if he covered them up.

  Sawyer has his cell
phone to his ear, golden-green eyes on me. I lick my lips. He stares at me like he wants to shout and devour me in one gulp. Behind him is Liam Hewitt, his business partner. Liam smirks. I thought we’d always got on whenever I visited Sawyer in Raleigh, but today it’s a toss-up between Liam’s indifference and Sawyer’s.

  “I think the temperature dropped,” Kyler whispers in my ear.

  I snort a laugh and note how Sawyer’s scowl deepens. “Good thing I brought a jacket.”

  Kyler ignores the death-stare his younger brother is shooting him and hugs me again. Before he pulls back, he whispers in my ear. “He’s broken, Dot. I wanted to think less of you, you know, but girl, I just can’t. You’re family.”

  What in the world is that supposed to mean? I shoot him a quizzical glance, but Kyler simply laughs that booming laugh and says, “See you around Miss Gardener.”

  Liam mutters something to Ky once he rejoins the posse. Sawyer hesitates for a heartbeat and scrutinizes me. His jaw pulses as if he might say something, but he shakes his head, thinking better of conversing with me. The woman he once loved enough to elope with.

  My stomach splatters out the points of my stilettos. I’ve not even mentioned the ring still in my sock drawer, never mentioned the appointment we’d had with the courthouse in Charleston. The shame is too thick and heady when I even think on it.

  When I say I was going to marry Sawyer Lanford, I mean it. I was his fiancée and now I’m, well, I’m the woman he hates, and I don’t know why.

  A year later, I have little hope that I’ll ever know.

  Chapter 2

  Sawyer

  This has been a day I’d rather not repeat.

  Too many familiar faces, some of which leave a stitch in my side and others, an ache in my chest.

  I don’t need to think of her. This was always the plan, coming back to Honeyville and being somebody. No need to get sidetracked by a pretty face. I drag my fingers through my hair, messing it until it’s standing on end, and strip my jacket off, dropping it over the kitchen table.