Page 75 of Married to the Frenemy

“That wasn’t your decision to make,” Oliver seethes.

I bark out a laugh.

I should have known something like this would happen. It’s the story of my life. Just when things are finally looking up, something happens to remind me that I’ll never have it all.

That I’ll never be truly happy.

“This may sound like a radical idea to someone as egotistical as you. My body, my fucking choice. If you’ll excuse me…”

I attempt to pull myself free from his grip, but he tightens his hold, causing pain to shoot up my arm. I wince as I struggle against him, venom and disgust swirling in his eyes.

“You don’t get to walk away from me, Haley. Not about this. I told you to?—”

“If you don’t want to end up with every bone in your body broken,” a voice thunders in the distance as the sound of heavy footsteps grow close, “you’ll take your hand off my wife.”

I look away from Oliver to see Beckham storming toward us, fury radiating off him as he clenches and unclenches his fists.

“Now!” he bellows when Oliver doesn’t immediately comply, as if urging Beckham to make the first move.

Based on the wild look in his eyes, I have no doubt he will, if necessary. And will most certainly carry through on his promise to break every bone in Oliver’s body.

While Oliver is tall and somewhat built, he’s no match for Beckham. I doubt he’s ever done a single day of manual labor. Not like Beckham.

After several protracted moments, Oliver releases his hold on me. Beckham wastes no time in wrapping me in a protective hug, keeping me glued to his body.

“She’s your wife?” Oliver spits.

“She is.” Beckham stands in front of me like a protective shield. “So if I were you, I’d get in that shiny car of yours and not stop until you’re far away from Sycamore Falls. If I hear you’ve so much as looked at Haley or her little girl again, I’ll make you regret the day you ever stepped foot in this town. Got it?”

Oliver glowers at Beckham, the tension growing with each passing second. Beckham puffs out his chest, the distaste in his expression almost lethal. I certainly wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of his glare.

Finally, Oliver relaxes his posture, purposefully shoving into me as he pushes past.

“She’s nothing but a cheap whore anyway,” he mutters under his breath, always needing to have the last word.

A dangerous fire flickers in Beckham’s eyes, and before I can stop him, he storms after Oliver, slamming him into the exterior brick wall of the coffee shop and wrapping his hands around his throat.

“Say it again,” he challenges.

But Oliver can’t say anything. Instead, all he can do is claw at Beckham’s hands as he struggles for air.

“Beckham,” I warn, nervously looking up and down the street as several people watch, some of them reaching for their cell phones.

But like all those years ago, he doesn’t hear me, his grip on Oliver’s throat growing tighter by the second, despite his best efforts to free himself. I fear if I don’t intervene, the past may repeat itself. I’ll never be able to live with myself if Beckham is arrested because of me.

Again.

It will only add to the guilt I still struggle with.

“Beckham,” I repeat, this time louder and more urgent.

When I touch my hand to his shoulder, he snaps his wild eyes toward mine. I jump back on instinct, then school my nerves.

“He’s not worth it. Please. Let him go.”

I can see his indecision as he looks between Oliver and me.

Finally, he pushes out a long sigh and releases Oliver. Relief floods my body, and I grab his hand, pulling him away.

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