Savior Complex: A Small Town Love Triangle Romance

“I missed it,” I admit, absentmindedly picking up a prosciutto-wrapped fig with brie and popping it in my mouth.

“Veggies, Nina,” my mother hisses. I bite my tongue as I return to the kitchen to retrieve the veggie tray from the fridge, wishing I could stuff about five more of those figs in my mouth because they tasted so damn good, and they might numb this aching feeling that’s settling in my stomach.

“I’m just going grab one of those margaritas,” I murmur as I slide the veggie tray on the table by the charcuterie.

“Just one,” my mom calls out as I escape into the garage. I’m twenty-seven years old, and she’s still managing my food. Well, fuck her.

I open the outdoor fridge, note the skinny margaritas, but also the coffee liqueur Aunt Lil keeps chilled in the door. I pull that out, find a red Solo cup and the vodka in my aunt’s and uncle’s treasure trove cabinet of alcohol—all the ingredients I need to make a proper Black Russian. Filling the cup with ice, I pour a liberal amount of vodka, then top it with the liqueur. I swirl my cup, then take a sip, groaning as the sugary goodness reaches something deep inside me.

I finish the cup, then make myself a second. By the time I head back in the house with a skinny margarita in hand, my steps are uncertain, and I have a perma smile plastered on my face.

“There you are,” my mom says, shooting me an annoyed look. The table is already set for dinner, with steaming plates of sliced sirloin, sautéed green beans, and mashed potatoes, plus a large green salad and a basket of rolls. “We thought you got lost out there.”

“I was just…” I realize I’m slurring a little, and clear my throat. “I was noticing the backyard. The garden. It’s really something.”

I have no idea what the garden looks like, but Aunt Lil is all about appearances, including the exterior of her home. She’s probably never gotten her hands in that soil, but her gardeners have likely made it lovely.

Aunt Lil takes the bait, mentioning her prize pumpkins and the gorgeous autumn bouquets she put together that are sure to win Best of Show at this year’s Harvest Festival. But I barely hear her as I take in everyone at the table; rather, the one new person at the table sitting right next to Jordy, holding her perfectly manicured hand that’s home to the biggest diamond ring I’ve ever seen in person. A man with familiar broad shoulders, a chiseled jawline, and blue eyes that indeed have flecks of gold in them. A man with the same look of surprise on his face as he takes me in.

Brayden Winters.

The man who saved me, who spent two hours talking with me as we walked home last night, who matched every goddamn item on that list of qualities in my manifestation of the perfect man…

The man who I knew was taken, but still agreed to take a fucking romantic horse ride on the beach with, and the whole time he’s been engaged to my cousin.

Well played, Universe.

And goddamn, he looks good—even with that shocked look on his face he’s trying to hide. I mean, I was distracted by the way he filled out his sweats the other night, but it’s nothing compared to how he looks now in his button up shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, thick forearms appearing like he’s about to get down to business. Maybe that’s just the Black Russian talking, but holy fuck, the man looks delicious. Under proper lighting, I can see exactly how devastatingly handsome he is, with his clean-shaven face and gorgeous dark hair, luscious thick eyebrows, dimples I could get lost in, and eyes that remind me of the deepest part of the ocean.

That’s when I realize I’m staring, and I’m a whole lot drunker than I thought. I stumble a little as I take the only seat available, which happens to be right across from Brayden. Uncle Dan sits to my left, which is a relief, because if I reek of coffee liqueur, he won’t say anything.

“Pass the rolls,” I murmur to Uncle Dan, hoping to sop up some of this alcohol. Everyone at the table is in double, even as I try my hardest to focus.

“Try salad first,” my mother says, mid-story, and I glance quickly at Brayden to see if he notices, then away again. It’s one thing for my mom to highlight my weight issues among family, but now that we have someone else here, I’m suddenly aware of every word out of my mother’s mouth, how fast my heart is racing, and how much I regret slamming two Black Russians despite knowing I’m a complete lightweight—and I desperately need that bread.

I leap up and snatch the breadbasket, grabbing several rolls and stuffing one in my face. The conversation at the table stops, and I pause my chewing as I remember where I am. Slowly, I replace the basket on the table and perch back in my seat.

My mom gapes at me. “Nina, no one invites the pig to the table.”

I flush, knowing everyone heard what she said. “It was a long drive here,” I say, waving my hand as if to erase her words, and my behavior.

“I offered you the veg…” my mom starts, but I cut her off.

“Hi, I’m Nina. I don’t believe we’ve met.” I stand again, offering a roll-free hand to Brayden across the table. The relief on his face is brief, but unmistakable.

I don’t know whether to be amused by this or offended.

“Brayden,” he says. He takes my hand, holding my gaze for a beat longer than socially acceptable.

“My fiancé,” Jordy adds when he doesn’t. I wrinkle my nose and offer her my most patronizing smile. As in, thanks Dr. Obvious. Or maybe, too bad for your fiancé. Let her figure out the meaning.

“Nina, your mom tells me you work for a law office in Sunset Bay,” Aunt Lil says as I find my seat again. “She says they’re making you partner.”

I snort a little too loudly, then try to cover it with a polite cough. Meanwhile, Aunt Lil is eyeing my ocean-hued hair, probably wondering what kind of law firm I’m working for.

This is my mother’s game—making her daughter sound more important as a way of one-upping her sister’s kid. Jordy probably has some fabulous job somewhere, spurring my mom to make up stories about me.

“Nope, still a barista,” I say, suddenly finding great pleasure in the way my mom’s shooting daggers into the side of my head. Maybe it’s the Black Russian, maybe it’s Brayden sitting across from me, getting ready to marry the wicked witch of SoCal, or maybe I’m just tired of never being enough for this goddamn family. But I seem to have lost all the fucks I had to give. Shit is about to get real. “In fact, I just got promoted to lead barista, which gives me the privilege of staying late while the manager’s nephew peels paint off the walls with his scream-o death metal. The last time I closed, his band managed to chase every fucking customer out of the shop, so I not only had to stay late but there were literally zero tips left for me.”