Page 8 of Til Divorce Do Us Start

Turning the key in the lock, I step inside—only to find my living room buried under a mountain of boxes. And right in the middle of it, sitting onmycouch like she owns the place, is the current source of my growing frustration.

Massivefrustration might be a stretch when it comes to Noelle herself. She’s lithe, all graceful curves and just enough softness to make a man lose focus. But considering the sheer volume of cardboard now swallowing my apartment... yeah. Massive feels about right.

I shut the door harder than intended and she looks up from her laptop. She closes it and uncrosses her legs. When she stands, the light filtering in perfectly shines through her clothes.She must not realize the way the shadow of her body shows in near perfect detail.

The smile teasing the corner of her mouth nearly pushes me over the edge. All this shit is hers and despite it being very clear we can’t live together, here she is! “Is this the hell you promised?” I growl. When she says nothing, I raise my voice. “What the fuck, Noelle. We agreed to see each other for dinner once a week! What happened in two days that made you thinkthiswas a good idea!”

“There wasn’t a question there. I don’t obey demands,” she says sharply.

“You just moved yourself into my house without warning and you want to comment on my fucking tone?” I demand. “The key wasn’t...thatkind of invitation, and you damn well know it.”

“I assume you wouldn’t want yourwifehomeless,” she says, snark and sass locked and loaded.

I grit my teeth and force myself to process the words. After a breath, I manage to speak. “Meaning?”

“My apartment complex was sold. I was given one week notice. Probably illegal, but definitely not enough time to find a place,” she says. Her eyes dip. “I don’t like the situation any more than you do, Colin.”

I grunt. If she really didn’t like it, she would have made something happen. Noelle is that kind of person. One flash of her real smile and others are putty in her hand. I rub the back of my neck, still feeling the sizzle of my own anger.

She knows we get along about as well as two territorial rattlers at the best of times. Is she hoping that if my neighbors hear us fight, we’ll have better grounds for a divorce? Is shetrying to punish me for a very good night ten years ago? What’s her angle?

“If you say no, I suppose my car is an option,” she mumbles. “I could ask Trish to stay for a few days, maybe find something in a month and-”

“Make the guest room yours,” I grumble. Kicking her out now would absolutely hurt our divorce. That’s all that matters. That’s the only reason I’m swallowing my frustration and allowing this.

I head towards the kitchen, but hear her stepping closer. She wears sneakers inside. Great. “This is a shoeless home.”

When I turn to face her, I see her staring at my bare feet. She takes a breath. “You’re letting me stay…for real?”

“Think whatever you want about me, Noelle. I’m not cruel,” I hiss. “Even if it would make hating me easier.”

“You’re not cruel likethis,” she says, eyes sharp and unforgiving. Her anger is so hot. I hate thinking it, especially with her right in front of me. Admitting it to myself feels like rewarding her prickly side. “But you’re plenty cruel in your silence.”

I won’t go back to that night. And if she’s smart, she won’t bring it up either.

“My house my rules,” I say, stepping towards her. “Shoes at the door. Quiet while I’m working, heads up if you’re having guests over.”

“Oh, of course. Heaven forbids you be social.”

“I’m already being charitable.”

“Interesting redefinition of decent.”

“Do you have every comment preloaded?”

“I sure as hell don’t bring a knife to gun fight where you’re involved,” she hisses.

I don’t think she realizes that every time she comments, she comes closer. Her eyes hold mine, unwavering even as they dilate. I nod once.

“Being silent means losing.”

“I’ve already lost,babe, you moved in,” I remind.

“Oh, right. Because you did everything to avoid that, right? You did everything possible to avoid any kind of commitment after getting exactly what you wanted,” she says.

I half expect her to stab me with her finger again, but she doesn’t. She just shakes her head. “Not even three months. I’ll look for a place. The judge will happily grant us freedom from this mistake, and you can go back to your relationship with an empty home.”

“Better than a fake relationship with a scorned woman like you,” I grit out, unable to resist the bait.

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