Page 70 of Third Time’s a Charm

Heartbroken that a slap was the last time I’ll ever touch Jasper. And furious at myself for that thought.

I need to get as far away from here as I can.

In a sad reprise of the day Jasper turned up at Cellar Road International, I stride into a light drizzle and throw out an arm for a taxi.

“Where to?” the woman behind the wheel asks.

“Somewhere not here. Somewhere they serve alcohol.”

“It’s a bit early to be having a bad day, isn’t it?”

I laugh. “You’d think, but apparently not.”

“Okay, well, you might not get a drink until ten. But how about The Oaks?”

I pull out my phone. It’s already nine thirty. By the time we get there, it’ll be quarter to.

“Sounds like a plan.”

“You wanna talk about it?” my driver asks. Taxi drivers and hairdressers have a lot in common.

“No, thanks. If I do, I might lose it.”

“Fair enough. All I’ll say is, if it’s a job, there’ll be another. And if it’s a man, there’ll be another.”

I let out a bitter laugh.

“What if it’s both?”

“Ah, well, in that case, I hope they open the bar early for you, sweetheart.”

I climb stiffly out of the taxi to a chorus of horns as my driver stops for me in the Military Road Clearway right in front of The Oaks, sticking a finger out the window as she does so.

“Look after yourself.” She waves as she shoots off and I stomp into the bar. I drop my bag and hoist myself onto a bar stool. Every muscle aches with tension.

“Give me a large glass of whatever red you have open.”

The barman gives me a concerned look.

“You do know it’s, like, nine forty-five, don’t you?”

“Yep. Is that a problem?” I snarl, dropping my crossed arms on the bar.

“Well, technically, we don’t serve alcohol till …”

“Oh, give me a break.” I roll my eyes. “You serve champagne breakfasts.”

With a grimace and a shrug, he pulls out a bottle and pours red wine into a coffee cup, as though that will fool anyone. “Are you okay?”

“I will be once I drink enough wine,” I respond, and he wisely retreats to the other end of the bar, polishing glasses and cutting up lemons.

After taking a large gulp of the mediocre wine—I’m never so upset I can’t tell a good wine from a bad one—I pull out my phone and call Lil.

If there’s any justice in the world, this will be one of her rare days off, and she’ll answer her phone. I nearly collapse with relief at the sound of her voice.

“What the what?” she asks after I’ve vomited up a condensed version of what’s gone on. “Where are you?” Car keys rattle; her tone hardens. “I’m on my way.”

By the time she arrives thirty minutes later, I’m onto my second wine—since it’s after ten, now in a glass—and I’ve blocked Jasper’s number following half a dozen pleading texts to pick up his calls. There is absolutely nothing that man can say to make this better.