Page 10 of Sweet Escape

Murphy shared a lot over the years about her struggles with her family. And even though most of her frustration has been directed at her father, feeling that her older brother seemed completely content without her in his life caused her a lot of hurt, too. I witnessed her tears plenty of times, and that was enough for me to add him to my shit list.

Which made itsucha disappointment earlier tonight when Memphis introduced himself at the restaurant bar.

Theo and I haven’t had sex in months, which was mildly frustrating while we were dating, and I was horny and very unsatisfied but just assumed we were facing a lull in our sex life. But now that I know he’s been stepping out? That he’s been getting his dick wet with other women?

I’m infuriated. Infuriated and adamant that I find someone to sleep with so that I can officially move on from Theo and place him squarely in the past, where he belongs.

I thought I’d found the perfect opportunity with Mr. Bartender. By the way he’d been watching me as I teased him, I was almost positive we’d be closing down the bar together and heading ... somewhere.

And let’s be honest, I would have let a man who looks like Memphis take meanywhere.

It’s been a long time since I’ve been ravaged, and he seemed like he could be just the man for the job.

My eyes scan him up and down in the darkness of the kitchen, appreciating the firm cut of his jaw and the way his hair is a little bit too long, possibly tussled from a restless sleep. His broad shoulders and toned arms are crossed against his chest, and his basketball shorts hug his trim hips below that sexy-as-fuck pelvic muscle that I want to lick.

Memphis Hawthorne is a treat and a half.

If only he wasn’t my best friend’s older brother.

And a bossy asshat.

“I guess it shouldn’t surprise me that my sister went to LA and befriended a crazy lady. I hear that place is filled with lunatics.”

My nostrils flare at the jab.

“God, you are everything I assumed you would be,” I tell him, stabbing my spoon into a chunk of ice cream.

“Oh yeah? And what did you assume?”

“Judgmental, for one.”

“Me?” His voice rises, but then he lowers it again. “Says the woman who hung me on a cross when she doesn’t even know me.”

“Bossy.”

“That’s not a critique. That’s a fact, and one I don’t apologize for.”

I growl with irritation. “Ugh. And arrogant. Cocky. Certain you’re always right about everything. Men like you are infuriating. Especially when you look the way you do because you think you can do whateverand say whatever and never face any accountability for the damage you cause.”

Memphis’s head jerks back, and there’s a beat of silence. Suddenly I realize I’ve said too much. Half of that wasn’t even about Memphis, and a thread of embarrassment ripples through me at the knowledge that I’ve pushed too far.

Especially because ... maybe this brittle and irritated feeling is less about Memphis than I thought it was, and more about my own bullshit.

“I’m sorry, that was ...” I trail off, staring down at the last bite of ice cream at the bottom of the carton in my hand.

Maybe he’s right. Maybe I am crazy.

“Don’t apologize,” Memphis says. “Not when you meant what you said.”

Then he surprises me by plucking the carton out of my hand, and I watch with unblinking eyes as he grabs my spoon and scoops out the last bite to eat himself.

I let out a quiet chuckle and shake my head, all my bluster and bravado leaking out of me like a deflating balloon. “I might have meant what I said, but ... it definitely wasn’t all about you.”

He hums softly but doesn’t say anything else. Instead he just stands there, one arm crossed, the other holding the spoon in his mouth, watching me.

And even though it’s dark in the kitchen, the moonlight cascading through the windows is enough that I can see that his eyes are assessing me. Taking me in and trying to figure me out.

It’s not unfamiliar, having a man watch me.

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