With fat tears rolling down my cheeks, I slide into the driver’s seat and grab my cell. Stabbing at my contacts list, I know Brad will save my ass. He’ll come rescue me, cuddle me, and let me watch a rom-com marathon while bundled under a blanket on his sofa. If there is any man I can count on to have enough booze and ice cream to drown my every last sorrow through the duration of the holidays, it’s him. Bradford Rhodes will also know how to change a tire because he was raised on a ranch, and as much as I’d love to claim to be Miss Independent, I simply do not.
