Page 39 of Broken Love

“So, you’ve been living a life full of experiences since we separated, huh?”

And here we go.

I exhale a sharp breath. “Oh, come on, Cal. Don’t turn that into something. You know what I mean—”

“Have you?”

“Haven’t you? I do recall Fox mentioning something about you spread-eagle with some beefcake.”

She rolls her eyes. “He was just messing with you, Boxcar. Don’t turn this around. How many women have you hooked up with?”

I fall on my hands and rub the heat rising in my cheeks before combing my fingers through my hair. “Caleb…” I heave a frustrated sigh. “It really doesn’t matter to me if you’ve been with other men—”

“Boxcar.”

And there’s the tone. That rage-fueled growl from the back of her throat. It’s the sexiest thing in the world unless it’s directed at you. Then, it’s downright scary.

“I don’t know,” I spit out, stalling.

I close my eyes, searching my head for the perfect response to get me out of admitting to my epic dry spell, but the truth is all I have. Then again, I’ve never been able to muster any sort of superior cognitive function after an orgasm. Especially not one I shot down Caleb Fawn’s throat.

She sighs with annoyance. “Don’t forget to carry the one, Box.”

Panic rises in my chest. “Like, one or two—”

“One or two?”

“I don’t really keep track,” I lie, avoiding her eyes.

I can feel her firing daggers at me, but I really don’t want to admit the truth. I don’t want to admit that I haven’t gotten laid in almost two years because I’m so hung up on her that the idea of being near another woman makes my skin crawl.

Caleb slides off the bed but by the time I realize she’s moving, she’s already out of my reach.

“Wait, Caleb…”

She bends over to grab her shirt off the floor. “You should go.”

I stand up and step closer to her. “Now, hold on. Go ahead, Caleb. Your turn.”

“My turn?”

“Yeah,” I say. “How many men have been in this bed since we separated?”

“Box…”

“Tell me about the beefcake. What’s his sign?”

She scoffs and rolls her eyes so far back I think she might lose them. “Just forget it, Boxcar.”

I stare at her, refusing to blink as she pulls her shirt over her head. It wasn’t my intention to compare notches on our bedposts but she’s the one who started this.

“Caleb, how many?”

“I don’t have to answer that.”

“Oh, but I did?”

Her jaw flexes and red clouds fill her cheekbones. She’s pissed and that’s fine, but this double standard shit isn’t going to fly.

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