Free The Mistletoe Inn by Richard Paul Evans Page B

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    I downed the rest of my wine, excused myself, and walked out to the lobby. Samantha followed me.
    â€œI don’t like those women,” she said.
    â€œI didn’t like what they had to say,” I said.
    â€œWhat do they know, anyway? It’s not like they’re famous authors.”
    I looked at her. “You’re right.”
    She glanced around the mostly vacant lobby. “The night’s still young. Want to talk?”
    â€œSure,” I said. The lobby’s sofas were unoccupied, so we sat down in front of the fire. That’s when I noticed the massive diamond on Samantha’s finger. “Are you married?”
    â€œNo,” she said, looking a little embarrassed. “Chronically engaged.”
    â€œWhat does that mean?”
    â€œIt means that I’ve been engaged for six years.”
    I nodded, thinking I understood. “You found a man with a commitment problem?”
    â€œIt’s not him. We’d be on our fifth anniversary if he had his way.”
    â€œWhat’s holding you back?”
    â€œThe BBD.”
    â€œThe what?”
    â€œYou know, the bigger better deal. I’m waiting for something better to come along. I mean, at some level, we alleventually settle, right? But wouldn’t it be awful to belong to someone else when the right one comes along?”
    â€œThat’s a song by England Dan and John Ford Coley.”
    â€œExactly my point,” she said. “It’s so common that someone, like this Dan Ford Coleslaw guy, wrote a song about it. It happens all the time. The minute you take a job, you get offered your dream job. The second you commit to a line at the supermarket, the other line speeds up. It’s nature’s cruel sense of irony. So, I’m waiting.”
    â€œThat’s kind of awful,” I said.
    â€œI know, right?”
    â€œI meant for him.”
    â€œI’m nice to him,” she said. “Believe me, it’s not like he’s complaining. And on the looks side, I’m like a nine, or, on a bad hair day, an eight point five, and he’s barely a six point five, so he knows he’s dating up.” She nodded. “I’m good to him.”
    â€œYou are gorgeous,” I said.
    â€œThank you.” She sat back. “How about you? Are you married?”
    â€œI was.”
    â€œDivorced?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œHow long have you been divorced?”
    â€œWe’ve been separated for almost eight months, but the divorce just went through a couple of months ago.”
    â€œWhy did it take so long?”
    â€œHe was dragging his feet.”
    â€œHe didn’t want the divorce?”
    â€œNo, he wanted the divorce. He just didn’t want the settlement.”
    â€œWhat a jerk. What happened?”
    I sighed. “He was a professor and he fooled around with a few of his students. It was like a big news thing. Nothing like being publicly humiliated and having your broken heart dragged through the media.”
    â€œHe really is a jerk,” Samantha said. “But there is a bright side.”
    I looked at her incredulously. “How could there possibly be a bright side to that?”
    â€œFodder,” she said. “Think of all the great stuff you could write about it. You could use your loser ex as fodder for all the villains in your books.”
    â€œWhy would anyone want to read about that? I lived through it and it was miserable.”
    â€œThat’s exactly what people want to read. Trashy romance is like an emotional garage sale; people get to rummage through other people’s junk. Reading how horrible someone else’s life is makes them feel better about their own. Why do you think people gossip? That’s all romance writers are, the neighborhood gossip in print.”
    â€œThat’s a horrible way to look at writing.”
    â€œHorrible or not, you can’t fight human nature,” she said. “I’ve