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sophia

Horny Cherry Bombs

I never thought I’d be taking my honeymoon alone and newly unwed, but here I am, ringless, husbandless, and worst of all, wedding-night-less, the horny, re-virginized cherry bomb between my legs firmly in place.

I step out of the airport under an apocalyptic sky and frown. Instead of the sunshiny weather Hawaii is famous for, the palm trees ripple in the howling winds. Several fronds break away and tumble across the parking lot. Travelers scatter with rolling suitcases.

Where are the double rainbows? I sigh.

Though every palm tree tilts, I’ve read they won’t snap. They’re built for storms.

I view their strength as an omen. No, an inspiration! Moving forward, I’m determined to be a freaking palm tree. I refuse to break or, for that matter, be pushed over by any man ever again. I won’t even bend.

Teetering on wedges, I open the door to the car-rental facility and wrangle five large suitcases, a garment bag, and an overstuffed tote to the front desk.

“Aloha. Flight 236 from Chicago?” a teen behind the counter asks as she steps to a computer. She’s rail thin with shoulder-length black hair and fair skin. Her bony shoulders act as a hanger for her company T-shirt. Her nametag reads Jazmine.

“How did you know?” I approach, luggage in tow.

“That’s the last plane. I’m about to close.”

“For a rainstorm?” I glance out the windows. It didn’t look that bad, although the flight was bumpy as the plane descended.

“Hurricane Roman is passing south. It’s not even the season yet. It’s a total freak of nature,” Jazmine says.

“Hurricane . . . Roman?” At the mention of my ex-fiancé’s name, I close my eyes and inhale slowly. I will not think about Roman or the fact that he’s haunting me in the form of a hurricane.

How very butthead appropriate.

“Crazy, right?” Jazmine says, misreading my expression of disgust. “I’ll just need your driver’s license to check you in.”

“Sophia Sinclair.” I slide my ID across the counter.

Jazmine taps the keyboard and hits enter, but as her gaze searches the screen, a cavernous groove forms between her brows. She types again, hitting the enter key twice and a little harder.

“You don’t have a reservation?” She looks up.

“Yes. I mean, no. Technically, it might be under my ex’s name.” I shift my weight from one foot to the other. “This was supposed to be our honeymoon, but it’s more of an un-honeymoon now. Long story.” I sing through the explanation, praying it will help avoid another meltdown. It probably won’t.

I am a palm tree!

I stand straighter, lift my chin, and mask my roiling emotions with my best fake smile.

“What’s the idiot’s last name?” Jazmine asks.

“Benton,” I say with a sigh, relaxing at her Roman jab.

Behind me a bell chimes, and I peer over my shoulder to the front door scraping open. A man wearing a black button-up with a simple tropical print and shorts steps into line behind me. A backpack hangs over one thick shoulder. Beneath the rim of his baseball cap, dark swooping eyelashes laser focus on his phone where he’s scrolling.

“Hmm. Bad news,” she says, and I return my attention. “Looks like Mr. Benton already picked up the car.”

“He what?” I grip the counter.

I thought I made myself clear when I angry-texted Roman and warned him I would be taking this slightly delayed un-honeymoon, not him.

“Can you check again?” I lean in and whisper.