Page 127 of Fiery Romance

And then I kept choosing guys who looked like him.

Eventually, I entertained a total douchebag because he was a soldier… just like him.

And now, I’m going on this date and feeling awful because it technically feels like I’m stepping out on him.

But that’s ridiculous.

Clay and I don’t have an understanding.

In fact, it’s because he keeps me dangling just within reach—kissing me and then taking it back, touching me and rubbing up on me and then treating me like I’m nothing but his disposable nanny.

I get that he loves his late wife.

I get that he has his kids to think about.

People have their own baggage.

Obviously, I come with my own.

Fine.

Great.

Then why the hell is he messing with my head?

I feel my thoughts racing louder than the music again, so I repeat the deep breathing technique and spritz perfume on my neck.

I’m going on a date with a nice guy.

I’m going to enjoy that date.

I am not going to think about Clay once tonight.

And if I feel like kissing this guy goodnight, I will do so without thinking about Clay’s kiss.

I rise to my full height—which is a little taller thanks to my stripper heels. In fact, everything I’m wearing tonight is over-the-top sexy.

I told Amy I want to feel wanted.

And if this doesn’t make Byron want me, I don’t know what will.

I’m even wearing my red, sheer lingerie. Although I have no plans of letting him see it, I believe firmly in committing fully to the outfit and there’s no way I could have worn my women’s boxer briefs in this knockout dress.

I smooth a hand down my waist, cock my hip and give the mirror a sultry look. After snapping the picture, I save it so I can upload it at a later time, grab my purse and hop into an Uber.

Yes, I could have used my car.

But taking my car will negate the whole ‘Byron dropping me home and getting a kiss goodnight thing’.

And also… the car is Clay’s.

I know it’s technically mine—I have the title—but everything about it is his. From the boxy body, to the fancy rims, to the high-tech dashboard and the bulletproof windows. Plus, Regan’s car seat is in the back and visible every time I check my rear view.

I’m trying to get away from that tonight. Trying to remind myself of what it’s like to be a young, beautiful woman dating a man who isn’t halfway across the country. Or getting heart-tangled with a man who’s unwilling to admit his feelings for me.

Tonight is about a fresh start.

The driver slows down in front of the restaurant, and I peer through the window fearfully. When I see cars parked out front and other diners in their seats, I let out a relieved breath.

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