Page 37 of By His Play

A sad laugh spills from my lips.

“Who said anything about leaving?”

“You’re mad at me,” she says, attempting to break our connection, but I force her eyes to return to mine.

“Yeah,” I agree. “I am. But that will never stop me from caring or wanting the best for you.”

“I don’t deserve you.”

“No, what you don’t deserve is all this shit. You deserve the world. And,” I say, reaching for her right hand, “if a man ever proposes to you with a ring like this—” I tug it from her finger. “Then I’ll fucking end him. Is this even a diamond?”

She shakes her head. “I grabbed it at the store. It’s?—”

“Not worthy of you. Effie,” I whisper with every intention of following it up with something, but the words die.

Her bottom lip trembles, and I kick myself for upsetting her, but everything I just said is true.

Sliding my hand to the side of her neck, I drag my thumb along the line of her jaw.

My heart pounds harder in my chest as I think about the man who is one day going to ask her to be his wife.

That feeling from earlier returns.

“Give me two minutes to finish this off,” I say, forcing myself to take a step back from her and passing her ring back.

“O-Okay.”

Slowly, she backs away and disappears down the hallway, leaving me standing in the middle of the bathroom.

What the fuck was that?

10

KIERAN

Ileave Effie standing in the middle of the bathroom with candlelight flickering around her.

Closing the door, I pray that it’s going to help her relax and get a good night’s sleep. Hell knows she needs it, and that sherry she started downing is going to help no one.

With the bottle in hand, I take it to the kitchen and immediately pour it down the drain. The bottle is dusty and the label is beginning to peel; I dread to think how old it is.

After tidying up a little, I head toward the guest room, stopping at the bathroom door for a beat to listen to her inside.

It’s quiet, and I can only hope that she’s okay.

As much as I might want to sit next to her, we both need a little space. Or at least, I do.

The revelations of the morning are still running rampant in my head.

I get it. I understand why she did it. But I still can’t get over the fact she kept it to herself, even after I showed up here.

With my teeth gritted in irritation, I continue forward.

Pulling my cell from my pocket, I put it on to charge and wait for it to power up.

I dread to think how many notifications will be on it and how far the gossip has spread.

I no longer care as much about the things that are written about me. Most of it is bullshit made up by pointless reporters, football “experts” who think they can criticize my performance like they have any fucking experience doing what I do, or women who think they can make a quick buck by selling their stories about spending the night with me.

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