Free The Pioneer Woman by Ree Drummond Page B

soon.”
    I hung up the phone and fell backward, staring at the ceiling. I had things to do—I had to get busy. Stumbling to my bathroom, I fastened my hair in a knot and splashed icy cold water on my face. Brushing my teeth and looking at my reflection in the mirror, I knew what I had to do. Okay, I told myself, nodding. Let’s get this show on the road.
    Returning to my bedroom, I picked up the phone and clicked the caller ID button to reveal Rhonda the Realtor’s phone number. Dialing the number, I took a deep, cleansing breath and exhaled.
    â€œHi, Rhonda—this is Ree again,” I said when she picked up her phone. “Listen, I’m so sorry—but my plans have changed. I’m going to have to let the place go after all.”
    â€œOh…Ree, are you sure?” Rhonda asked. “But you’ll lose your deposit.”
    â€œYeah, I’m sure,” I said, feeling my heart thumping through my chest. “Go ahead and let it go.”
    I fell on my bed, my face tingling with unease, feeling not unlike a psychotic horse running wildly into a flaming barn. That’s how sure I was of my decision.

Chapter Seven
CHICAGO, ADIÓS
    W AIT A minute. What had I just decided? What did all of this mean? I looked across the room at my boxes of clothes, my bags of belongings, stacked neatly by my bedroom door. They’d been packed with purpose and resolve. It was going to be seamless, my new start as an Independent Woman of the Midwest. And now, in the blink of an eye, it was Gone with the Wind.
    What had I done? I loved that apartment. I’d spent so much time picturing myself there—where I’d put my bed, where I’d hang my collection of black-and-white prints of Mikhail Baryshnikov. Months from now, when I’d eventually come to my senses and move to Chicago as originally planned, there’s no way I’ll find another apartment like this one.
    In an internal panic, I picked up the phone and hurriedly pushed redial. I had to catch Rhonda the Realtor, had to tell her wait, hold off, don’t let it go, I’m not sure, hang on, give me another day…or two…or three. But when the numbers finished dialing, I heard no ringing; instead, in a perfect moment of irony, coincidence, and serendipity, I heard Marlboro Man’s voice on the other end.
    â€œHello?” he asked.
    â€œOh,” I replied. “Hello?”
    â€œHey, you,” he replied.
    So much for calling Rhonda the Realtor. Three seconds into the phone call, Marlboro Man’s voice had already taken hold. His voice. It weakened my knees, destroyed my focus, ruined my resolve. When I heard his voice, I could think of nothing but wanting to see him again, to be in his presence, to drink him in, to melt like butter in his impossibly strong arms. When I heard his voice, Chicago became nothing but a distant memory.
    â€œWhat’re you up to?” he continued. I could hear cattle in the background.
    â€œOh, just getting a few things done,” I said. “Just tying up a few loose ends.”
    â€œYou’re not moving to Chicago today, are you?” he said with a chuckle. He was only halfway joking.
    I laughed, rolling over in my bed and fiddling with the eyelet ruffle on my comforter. “Nope, not today,” I answered. “What are you doing?”
    â€œComing to pick you up in a little bit,” he said. I loved it when he took charge. It made my heart skip a beat, made me feel flushed and excited and thrilled. After four years with J, I was sick and tired of the surfer mentality. Laid-back, I’d discovered, was no longer something I wanted in a man. And when it came to his affection for me, Marlboro Man was anything but that. “I’ll be there at five.” Yes, sir. Anything you say, sir. I’ll be ready. With bells on.
    I started getting ready at three. I showered, shaved, powdered, perfumed, brushed, curled, and primped for two whole