“He knows the stripper, Cara.”

“That still doesn’t mean—”

She laughed, almost painfully. “Are you so enamored by him that you would actually stand here and defend him? Think about it—logically. If you don’t believe me, go ask him yourself.”

And so I had.

Turned out, Lauren was pretty damn smart.

And I was an idiot.

While Roman might not have forced the stripper on Tyler, Roman had persuaded her to hit on him, knowing that he might stumble.

Does Roman know strippers at all the local joints? Or was I just lucky that my boyfriend happened to stumble into the right one?

I really didn’t want to know.

I’d stormed out of his office and never looked back.

I barely remembered the trip to the airport, handing over my luggage and ID in a daze, wanting to fly back to my roots.

Back to my safety net, where everything was easy.

My parents had no idea I was coming. In my haste, I hadn’t bothered calling anyone, even Melissa.

As I exited the small airport, realizing I had no way of actually making it home, I took a left to the small rental car window and got the cheapest car I could, and then I headed west.

Nebraska had already seen its first snow of the year, and much of the ground was covered in bits of leftover snow and ice. I bundled my coat tightly together, wishing I’d packed something warmer, as I lugged my suitcase into the trunk. Knowing the way home like the back of my hand, I found a familiar radio station, silenced my phone, and focused on the road.

The stupid thing about driving alone?

The uninterrupted amount of time it gave you to think.

And thinking was the last thing I wanted to do.

After about an hour and a half, I was in desperate need of a distraction. Fully aware I was about to enter familiar territory, I decided it was time for a food break anyway. Any closer to home, and I’d run the risk of running into familiars, and I wasn’t sure I was ready for that.

Still two towns away, this felt safe.

I pulled into a restaurant I remembered from high school—a dodgy little place that apparently had undergone a recent renovation. It used to be well known for a less than savory reason.

Its real name was The Caddy Shack. What we used to call it when I was young? The Shady Shack.

Although I’d never actually visited, I’d heard rumors. For one reason or another, the restrooms had become legendary.

Not in a name-carving, oh-this-is-a-unique-restroom kind of way.

But in a oh-I-lost-my-virginity-in-that-restroom-too kind of way.

I was guessing the new frilly curtains and flowery wallpaper was a solid effort by the owners to negate that reputation for future generations to come.