Page 2 of Bordeaux Bombshell
“I don’t wanna talk.”
“You’re soaking wet and probably drunk—not how I would prefer to have this conversation, anyway.”
I open my mouth to object, but Nate cuts me off with a sharp noise, leaning forward and thrusting his face close enough to mine to kiss. Or bite his nose off. “Enough, Sydney. Just be agreeable for ten goddamn minutes so I can make sure you’re okay.”
Tugging the keys from my unresisting hand, he steps over me, inserting the key in the lock. With an annoyed grunt, I roll to my hand and knees, my bad wrist tucked against my chest. Surprisingly gentle hands skim my hips before grabbing my waist to help me stand. “I can do it.” I roll my shoulder to shake him off, and Nate lets go before following me inside.
The apartment’s entryway is small, and there is nowhere near enough space for both of us as we struggle out of jackets and shoes. Although I seem to be struggling more than accomplishing and eventually stand still, waiting for Nate to move his giant self out of my way.
He takes his sweet time hanging up his coat and toeing off his shoes before backing up.
My coat is halfway off, but I can’t pull my bad arm out of the sleeve without it hurting. With a resigned sigh, I hold my arms out to the side. “Would you just fucking help me take this off?”
I catch a glimpse of his eye roll before I turn my back to him, letting him ease the coat down my arms while I slip my shoes off. Moving down the short hallway, I force myself to suck in a slow breath—willing the anger in my gut to cool to a simmer instead of the usual boil his stupid face triggers.
“Do you have ice?” Nate shoulders past me into the kitchen, once again ignoring the hard work I’ve put into decorating my sanctuary. What kind of caveman doesn’t notice a beautiful rug? Never comments on the aesthetically pleasing mid-centurymodern vibe I’ve cultivated on my shoestring budget? Every time he’s come over, I’ve waited for him to comment, but he never does.
Typical Nate—see goal, achieve goal. Ignore everything else.
Way down deep in my chest, in a locked box wrapped in chains and encased in cement, the last molecule of my heart that still loves him perks up at the concern in his voice. But I drown her out with alcohol and snark, just like I’ve done ever since he walked away from my family. And me.Especiallyme.
“Of course I have ice. Do you think I’m a fucking idiot?”
Not stomping only because I don’t want to piss off my downstairs neighbor, I tuck my bad arm against my chest and body check him away from my freezer so I can pull out a bag of frozen peas. “See, I’m fine. Now go the fuck away.”
He leans in, trying to use his height—the same way he did when we were kids—to get me to stand down. It didn’t work then, and it won’t work now. Not even when he smells delicious, like sandalwood and soap. Just the scent of him is enough to remind my idiot pussy we haven’t had an orgasm in weeks, and our human vibrator isright there.
I sway closer before checking myself and stepping back, irritated at the way my body seems to be living in the past. Back when he was my protector and not who my heart needs to be protected from.
Nate backs up as well, shoving his hands deep in his jeans pockets. “You kiss your mother with that mouth?” There’s an offensive twitch at the corner of his mouth. Motherfucker is laughing at me.
“Fuck you.”
“Fuck you, too.”
Two years. I managed to go almost two years with this asshole being back without talking about the past. If I couldn’t avoidhim, there was always someone else around. Or we were busy doing other things with our mouths.
Two years of shutting out everything this man makes me feel outside of an orgasm, and it’s just as fresh now as it was seven years ago when I woke up to discover he was halfway to France and not next to me in bed.
“Tried it, wasn’t worth the hype.”
“That’s not what you said when my tongue was inside you last month.”
“Yeah, well. A month is a long time. I’ve had better since then.”
A flash of emotion crosses Nate’s stupid face, and triumph settles in my gut. It doesn’t matter if it’s true or not—the reminder that this weird thing we have between us means nothing to me fuels my righteous grudge.
Nate humphs, then smirks. “That wasn’t what they said in France.”
“I’m not one of your French girls, shithead.” I shake the bag of peas. “Satisfied? Now get the fucking fuck out of my goddamn apartment.” Clutching the makeshift ice pack to my wrist, I give him a good, long glare before pointedly looking at the door.
He doesn’t move.
In fact, he leans back against the kitchen counter, making himself comfortable. “I said give me ten minutes. It’s only been two. I have eight minutes left.”
“Last time I checked, it didn’t take more than three for you to ‘prove your point.’” My wet jeans chafe at my thighs, my body aches from tripping and falling, and sweat prickles the back of my neck despite the chill. All I want to do is collapse on the couch, but I refuse to give Nate any more advantage than he already has. “I don’t know why I ever tolerated you. You weren’t this insufferable when we were kids.”
He doesn’t take my bait. “I could say the same to you, sweet cheeks.”
