Page 19 of Trashy Foreplay

I grit my teeth. “You’re not going to deny it?”

“I’m not dignifying it with an explanation.” She gestures at the phone I’m grasping in my hand—just as I’m grasping at the last thread of our marriage. “You can believe whatever you want, but you said it yourself. Pictures don’t lie.”

I grab her by the nape, and the wine glass slips from her fingers. The jolting sound of shattering glass is a precursor to the beginning of the end. It twists in my gut with a freshly sharpened blade.

“Why are you doing this to us?” I bring my face dangerously close to hers. “God knows I love you, Monica. But if you’re gonna screw around on me, I’m done.”

She yanks free of my hold. “Things aren’t that simple.”

“No, they’re very simple. We’re either in this together one-hundred percent, or we’re not.” Family expectations and mergers be damned, because I can’t go on playing these mind games with her anymore.

“If you think I’ll let you walk away without a fight, you’re wrong.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Take it however you like, Cash. But I know how much this company means to you and your family.” She folds her arms over her chest. “You’re stuck in this marriage as much as I am. We both knew it going in.”

“The only difference is I loved you!” I launch my cell at the wall of glass, watching it ricochet before dropping to the floor with a thud. The window remains untainted by my rage, but the phone is another story. It’s lying on the marble, bruised and beaten. Undoubtedly broken.

Thick silence stretches between us. I clench my fists, my chest heaving while she stands poised in front of me.

As if she didn’t just smash my heart into tiny shards.

“I’m tired,” she says, sidestepping the puddle of wine and broken glass at our feet. She climbs the stairs, and I watch her go, my mouth agape. Her indifference is confusing. It’s fucking killing me, and I don’t know what else to do but cling to the rope on which she’s got me dangling.

7. Baby, Come Home - Jules

“Hi there, gorgeous. Sleep well?”

His voice registers before the naked, wet chest does. The one I just ran smack into. I rub at the sandpaper in my eyes, and that’s when I find Garen’s mouth tilted up in a sexy grin as water drips from his dark hair. I focus my attention on his face to keep from following the direction of those drops of water cascading downward. The guy’s got some impressive muscles, not to mention ink, and I’m not impervious. But I am afraid if I lower my gaze, I’ll discover he’s buck naked.

I stumble into retreat-mode, and my spine hits the door behind me, still open from barging in without knocking. “I’msosorry.”

“No worries,” he says, moving past me with a wink. “It’s all yours.”

I spy a towel wrapped around his waist as he shuts the door behind him, and I let out a breath of relief. A minute sooner, and I would have walked in on him in a state of total undress. As I take care of business, I mull over the fact that I’m sharing a house with a bunch of guys. A house with a single bathroom. This could get tricky, if not downright embarrassing.

Wide awake now, I go back into Lesley’s bedroom and find she’s already left for the day. Her bed is made, and a note sits on top of her black comforter. A glance at the alarm clock on the nightstand sends my heart into a tailspin. It’s past ten already.

I’ve lost the whole morning, and I still need to scour the Internet for job listings. Not to mention figure out how public transportation works here in Seattle. A couple of long strides brings me to her bed, and I grasp the piece of paper she left for me.

Didn’t want to wake you. Grabbed a ride with Zan, so the Bug is all yours today.

Xoxo, Les

A buzzing sound goes off near the clock, and that’s when I spot her car keys next to my vibrating phone. I let out a weary sigh. I’ll have to face the music sooner or later, so I might as well get this over with. Besides, I don’t want to freak out my parents any more than my abrupt disappearance yesterday undoubtedly did.

I grab my cell, but it’s not a photo of my mom or dad or even Brit flashing on the screen. It’s Chris. I stare at the image of his face for a few seconds before finding the courage to swipe my thumb to the right.

“Hi,” I say, nervousness winding around my throat.

He doesn’t answer right away, and I can’t help but wonder if he butt-dialed me. Or maybe he thought he was calling someone else.

“Hey, babe.”

Nope, he meant to call me. But what’s even more shocking is his tone. It’s nonchalant, as if our relationship didn’t just turn to dust yesterday.

“What do you want?” I ask, running through several possible scenarios. He wants to yell at me some more, or maybe he’s got a secret toothbrush hiding somewhere that he wants back. Or maybe—

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