Page 82 of Mister Mom

She’s pacing back and forth in front of the kitchen counter when I get there, but her shoes stop clicking on the hardwood floor as soon as I enter.

She stares back at me and dread fills my veins. “Answer the question. What is your real name?”

“My name is Vance Rose, but—”

“Tell me, Vance.” She crosses her arms and cocks a hip to the side.

“Let me explain from the beginning,” I plead.

“Answer the question and I’ll decide if you should explain or not.”

Her lips are already turned down, her eyes about to throw fire my direction. Which seems fair. I already burnt her in the past, suppose she should do the same. My shoulders sag with remorse, not only for what I did to her in the past, but for hurting her again now.

“I was an executive producer under the name Ryder Stone.” My fists are clenched at my sides as I wait for her reaction.

Her arm extends, her finger pointed toward the door. “Get out.” Her nostrils are flaring, her arms shaking.

“Let me explain.” Panic grips me and makes it hard to breathe because I cannot lose this woman. Or her kids. They mean too much to me.

“You walked into this house, into my life. You hugged my kids all while knowing you were lying. You’re a bastard, whoever the fuck you are. Now get out of my house and out of my life.” She faces the doorway and when I glance behind me, Carver’s leaning against the doorframe, his beer at his lips.

There’s no way this conversation can happen while that fucker is here.

I stare at her for a minute and she’s so disgusted that she can’t even keep her gaze on me and she looks away. Pain lances through my chest knowing that I did this to myself. I have no one else to blame. The devastation and self-hatred I’m feeling make me want to lash out and it’s all I can do to keep a hold of myself.

I’m not letting her go without a fight. I refuse.

“When you’re ready for me to explain, call me.”

I step back and walk through the house and out the door with tears stinging the corner of my eyes. Will this be the last time I set foot in this house? That thought is too painful to bear and has me wiping at my eyes.

I’ll give her the space she needs tonight, but I’m not done fighting for us.

21

Layla

Thump.

My head hits the kitchen table when the door shuts. He’s gone.

“What an asshole.” Carver sits down at the table.

I grab his beer and swig down a hefty amount. “And you’re not?” I ask, but the question is mumbled into my sleeve.

“I was. Past tense.”

I peek my eyes up above my sleeve. He’s got to be kidding me. Sitting up straight in my chair, I cross my arms and look him over. He’s his usual put-together self with a new haircut and shave. No stains on his clothes or dark circles under his eyes from partying all the time. “Why are you here?”

His face distorts into an expression that flashes hurt for a second and then it’s gone. Like always, he diverts his gaze, stands and tosses one beer in the recycling and grabs another one from the fridge.

“Carver.” I wait for him to answer.

There was a time he intimidated me. He’s a few years older and in my eyes, he knew everything. He’d come up through the same big platform I had and I thought he’d protect me, understand me. Instead, I have two kids and a cheating almost ex-husband. This is not how I imagined my life at twenty-eight.

“Truth?” he says.

“If you think you can tell me without bursting into flames.”

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