Page 44 of Unmatched

He lets go of my arm and sits back, recoiling into the pillows. “This isn’t...”

My hands start shaking. I wait for him to say it isn’t working. I’m not for him. That he’s changed his mind about giving things a try and just wants a divorce.

“This isn’t you,” he whispers.

I meet his eyes, and the utter distaste in his expression is like a punch to the gut. I swallow hard, forcing down the rising lump in my throat. And when I finally manage to move my feet, I can’t get away fast enough.

Asshole. I grab my phone and the first clothes I see—a pair of leggings and a T-shirt tossed on top of the dresser—then bolt for the door.

It’s Tuesday morning. If it had been up to me, I would’ve had coffee in my PJs, started some supply orders, and grabbed bagels for Ooh La Pooch on my way in to work. A striptease would’ve been the furthest thing from my mind.

But that wasn’t for me. It was for him.

And it still wasn’t enough.

I lock myself in the bathroom, jam the clothes on, and pull my hair into a bun, then I race for the front door. It’s not until I’m forcing my feet into my Converse that I realize I don’t have a bra, but there’s no way I’m going back in our room now. I grab a hoodie, my laptop and keys, and slam the front door on my way out.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

After a therapeutic stop for coffee, I run to Target and buy a sports bra, but sadly, it’s no substitution for my new favorite T-shirt bra from Allure. I can tell Tomás is surprised to see me when I walk into The Pooch Park, but as soon as I step through my office door, Heartthrob jumps all over me, and I let myself forget every single dude on the planet who isn’t a canine. I spend the morning going over employment applications, working on the dog bakery order, and taking Heartthrob for a long walk. Since I’m not in the mood for lunch, I choke down an energy bar and make the ten-minute drive to check on things at Ooh La Pooch. And it’s a good thing I do because Scarlet hurt her back, our second groomer is out of town at a wedding, and our bather, Alicia, needs help lifting two enormous Leonbergers into our elevated steel tubs.

By three o’clock, I’ve mostly run out of managerial things to do and the only dogs left to be bathed are a couple of toy poodles. I’m also suspicious Scarlet’s been talking with Tomás because she has emphasized at least three times that everything’s under control and I should go home.

She has no idea.

After organizing the front desk and emptying every trash receptacle I can find, I say goodbye to Scarlet and Alicia and sit in my car. My phone has been pinging in my pocket all day, but never with calls or texts from Anton. I don’t know if he’s spent today at the gym, moved out, or is waiting at home to talk to me. And I’m not ready to find out. I’m in no mood to deal with my mother and her onslaught of baby pictures either, but I need something, someone I can talk to about the last twenty-four hours. So I dial Caprice.

“Hey. Uh...how’s your Tuesday?” My voice comes out like a strangled Smurf.

“Did you go through with it?” she demands. “God, you could have at least sent me a text. I was starting to think things went badly.”

“Oh.” My lip curls. “They did.”

She lets out a quiet sigh. “I’m sorry, hon. At least it’s over now?”

A sound comes out of my mouth, somewhere between a desperate laugh and a sob, and because Caprice has excellent listening skills, she simply waits for me to speak.

“I—it’s not over,” I finally say. “Not yet.”

There’s a pause. And then she switches our phone call to video. I reluctantly accept.

She peers at me through the screen. “I just needed to verify no one was standing behind you with a gun to your head.”

I press my lips together, and when she homes in on my face, I wish I could turn off the video again.

“Hey, talk to me. What happened?”

I let out a long breath, studying the bright red tip of my own nose in the corner of the screen. “Well, we were going to give things another shot?—”

“Hold on. You need to back up.” Her brown eyes bug. “He thought he had a date with LonelyGirl8. You showed up instead, and now you guys are kissing and making up? Did I miss a step?”

I shake my head. “It doesn’t matter. I think I already screwed it up.”

“Lydia.” Her brows draw together. “How did you mess up here?”

I look at my lap, my mind churning again through everything that happened at the hotel—from the moment Anton touched me to the moment he left—then back over the awful scenario in our bedroom this morning. But it doesn’t stop there. My brain keeps spinning through other moments—at the Wallace’s party, at Ooh La Pooch last week, even just random nights in our bed.

I can’t go on the way it’s been.

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