Page 24 of Hot Shot

I want to pull her into my arms and hold her. I want to drop to my knees and beg her forgiveness. I want to wipe away her pain and her fear and undo the damage I’ve caused. Suddenly, the angst I’ve felt over telling her seems fucking stupid. It was fucking stupid and selfish and terrible.

Because in the hellfire of that moment, I know exactly why I didn’t tell her, and it has nothing to do withhowto do it.

It’s because I couldn’t stand the thought of not being married to her.

I still can’t.

When she finally stops long enough to take more than one breath, the doorbell rings.

Her mouth snaps shut, jaw set, lips flat and white. “Get rid of them.”

She turns on her heel, ponytail whipping as she marches to the bathroom and slams the door shut.

Maybe I’m in shock, or maybe I’ve only just realized the severity of my situation—it made perfect sense in my head, I swear—but I drift through my house to the front door and open it. Instantly, my confusion deepens.

On my doorstep is an older couple, and between them is a little girl in glasses and braids. She’s looking at the ground, a ladybug stuffed pillow in her arms. She’s miserable. The couple looks grief stricken.

“Are you Wilder Davenport?” the man asks.

“Yessir. Can I help you?” My brows gather. I don’t recognize them.

“I’m Paul Wilson, and this is my wife, Patty. And this here is our granddaughter, Cricket. Her mother is—” He chokes. “Was.Her mother was Ashley Wilson. She said the two of you used to date, about seven years ago.”

Cricket looks up at her grandfather, then at me.

I look down at the little girl. It dawns on me slowly as I take in the shape of her face, her caramel hair. But it’s her eyes that give her away, the same distinctive shade of amber that I share with Shelby and my long-passed mother. And I know something in my bones that I cannot even begin to grasp.

She’s mine.

CHAPTER 8

ONE SCOOP OR TWO

CASS

My furious reflection pants along with me as I glare, blood boiling and heart galloping.

Five minutes ago, I was seconds away from fucking Wilder’s brains out of his skull

Right now? I’m so red, I look like I drank a bottle of hot sauce. Honestly, my guts feel the same—they’re boiling painfully, climbing up my esophagus, threatening me with rage puke.

I turn on the faucet to splash cool water on my face in the hopes I will calm the fuck down.

Thoughts machine gun in my head, ricocheting off my skull, deafening.

Wife. Married. Lies. Husband.

Decade.

Wilder.

I struggle to grasp the truth. How is it possible that I had no idea? Isn’t there some sort of database, for God’s sake? If Iapplied for a marriage license, shouldn’t there be some system in place to flag it if I was already married? To fuckingtellme?

I guess most people know whether or not they’re already married. Lucky them.

Maybe there’s an explanation. Maybe the paperwork got lost in the mail. Maybe he misplaced the papers we signed and was too embarrassed to tell me. Or maybe, for ten fucking years, he’s known we were still married and just…didn’t tell me.

Rage explodes in my ribcage. Hot sauce everywhere.

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