I'd been stewing over it all day and still hadn't decided.
Marriage wasn't like picking a flavor of ice cream.
You couldn't just go, "oops, not that one," and hit undo.
If Ashton were just Ashton, some guy with a decent job and a halfway-decent sense of humor, I might've jumped in headfirst.
But he wasn't.
He was Ashton bloody Laurent.
As in Laurent Global Holdings, Laurent Towers, Laurent being-on-the-news-for-buying-a-small-country kind of Laurent.
While I was busy spiraling in my flat, Yvaine texted me in all caps: GET YOUR ASS OUT. WE'RE DRINKING. NO EXCUSES.
She didn't need to shout, but whatever.
I could use a distraction.
And maybe a bit of tequila would kill my indecisive streak.
I threw on a loose red jumper and skinny jeans, then headed out.
