Page 3 of Loving You

He flinched but kept his cool. “I’m not giving you the silent treatment. I just have nothing to say.”

“We could see about that wine. It always loosens your tongue. I know you want to yell at me.” Jules took the steps three at a time until he was nearly pressed up againstBronx’s back. His voice dropped, low and sultry. “And maybe smack me around a little bit?”

He’d be a liar if he said he didn’t feel the urge to cause his ex pain. But that was what Jules wanted. He thrived on conflict. It fed his ego, knowing that Bronx was hurting, knowing that he was close to snapping, and all because of him.

Bronx wasn’t going to let it happen. He wasn’t going to let Jules win.

“Come on, tell me how angry you are. I deserve it.”

Bronx turned his head and raised a brow at him, then took the last few steps and walked over to the remaining bin, which was perched on an old card table. Pressed against the inside was a single Polaroid of one-year-old Lucas perched on Dallas’s shoulder. It was before he’d had his implant surgery, so his eyelids were nothing more than tiny commas with thick lashes. He looked like a grown-up now.

It had been years since Bronx had seen those chubby cheeks and goofy smile.

His chest ached. When was the last time Lucas had really smiled? Like he meant it. Like he felt actual happiness.

He swallowed back bitter, angry words. “I don’t suppose you want any of these?”

“What are they?” Jules asked.

“Baby pictures.”

He felt the weight of Jules’s silence, and his sigh sounded like a gunshot. “Better not. They’d probably end up somewhere in the Atlantic.”

God, he was such adickhead. But that was fine. Bronx hadn’t wanted to part with any of them. He pulled the bin close and started toward the stairs, Jules at his heels again.

“So, I saw there were a few things left in the master bedroom. I thought we could divvy up what was left, and then we can maybe grab dinner and?—”

“There’s not a chance in hell we’re having dinner. And you can have whatever’s left.”

“I don’t want whatever’s left!” Jules said, his voice rising to a near shout. “I want you to fucking look at me!”

Bronx didn’t obey. “Why?”

“Because you owe me!”

Fighting back a laugh, Bronx shook his head. “Feel free to trash anything that’s left that you don’t want. This is all I came here for. I’ll sign off on the final walkthrough so we can get it pushed through closing.” He reached for the door and had it partway open before Jules’s arm shot past him and slammed it shut. Bronx froze and bowed his head. “What now?”

“I don’t want whatever’s left,” Jules said, his voice calmer now. He stepped up close to Bronx—not touching, but near enough Bronx could feel his body heat. “I just…”

Bronx held his breath.

“I don’t want to leave it like this. I miss you.” His hand moved to rest on Bronx’s waist, and for a single second—just one—Bronx let himself feel it. The weight of it. The familiarity of being touched by him. For a single breath, he remembered when it had been good. When he’d been in love with this man, and this man had loved him back.

But none of it had been real. Jules was a liar and a performer, and the only thing that mattered to him was winning and getting what he wanted. He didn’t care who was caught in the crossfire. He didn’t care about destroying a seventeen-year-old boy who had done nothing to deserve it.

He didn’t care that everything Bronx had worked his assoff to build had come tumbling down from a single stroke of a ballpoint pen.

“Please don’t touch me.”

Jules snapped his hand back, and Bronx straightened. He hadn’t meant to sound so angry. The point was not to show his emotions. But in that moment, he couldn’t help it. He took a breath, then turned slightly and reached for the doorhandle again.

“Baby…”

“No. I’m not your baby. I’m nothing to you now.”

“That’s not what I wanted,” Jules murmured.

Bronx held back a bitter laugh. “That’s what you signed on the dotted line for.”

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