Page 11 of Bordeaux Bombshell
I noticed.
She keeps ranting, loading the dishwasher with a series of rattles and clinking glassware. “Last time I checked, I didn’t need a savior or a knight in shining armor to take over my life.”
I straighten, setting the heavy pot over on a towel to drain. “Okay, what the actual fuck, Sydney? I’m not trying to do any of those things. I am washing a heavy pot because I don’t want my best friend and his fiancée to come home to a dirty kitchen—because I know it drives him bonkers when the kitchen is messy. You tripped over my goddamn ass the other day and hurt yourself, so I am taking on the heaviest thing because it islogicalfor me to do so since I’m not the one who’s injured.”
“I literally just punched you in the face.” She shoves her hands past me to rinse them off, her body pressing against my side when I don’t move. Maybe it’s childish of me, but I won’t submit to her ridiculous tantrum. We wrestle for dominance of the sink, Sydney sliding under my arm, then using her ass to shove me backward.
I grip the edge of the farmhouse sink, trapping her between my arms and breathing in her perfume. “Nothing wrong with my hands. And your brother’s done worse. I’m fine.”
“Why did you punch Uncle Nate?” Olive’s voice cuts off whatever reply Sydney was about to make. We freeze, her ass pressing painfully into my crotch. Releasing my grip, I back up as quickly as I can, hands up as if to prove I’m not touching anything.
“I, uh, he, um,” Sydney stammers.
“It was my fault, Olive. I scared her, and she rightfully defended herself. And you.” A headache blooms on the side of my head, but I ignore it.
When I first came back, angry and lashing out at everyone, Olive was understandably afraid of me. After making a point of keeping my temper under control around her, she’s finally starting to speak to me. The last thing I want is to fuck up that relationship just because Sydney pushes every single one of my buttons.
On purpose.
“But why are you here?” Olive asks, acknowledging my confession with a solemn nod. “Daddy’s not home.”
Sydney jumps in before I can speak. “You’re supposed to be asleep, missy. We already read two chapters of your book.”
Olive’s hair is sticking up in all directions, her purple pajamas adorned with donuts and cats. “I woke up and heard you. I thought Daddy and Mama Maggie were home.”
Sydney sighs, then gives me a good glare. “Sorry, Pickle. It was just us talking. Uncle Nate is going toleave, and I’ll come read you one more chapter, okay?”
“Goodnight, Olive,” I call as Sydney herds her back upstairs. Fifteen minutes later, I let myself out to the sound of girlish giggles.
Sydney
Hecleanedthefuckinghouse.
“You’re the best,” Kel says in my ear as he hugs me at the door.
Guilt heaps on my head from letting him give me credit for cleaning up downstairs. Technically, Ithoughtabout it. I was planning to do it once Olive was asleep, except when I came downstairs after putting her back to bed, I found Nate gone and everything tidied up already.
But I know Nate will say something to Kel about stopping by, and if I don’t say something now, I’m going to be the one who looks bad. “Nate stopped by. I think he wanted to talk to you about something. He…uh…he helped.”
Kel whistles under his breath and looks around his house. “Nate was here? With you? Unsupervised? And the house is still standing?”
Fighting not to roll my eyes, I step out of reach and grab my coat. I changed back into my dress and heels while Kel andMaggie were putting Jordan down, and now all I want is to go home and take them back off. “Whatever.”
“Love you, Syd.” Kel holds the coat while I slip my arms inside. “Thanks again. And thanks for not starting World War III in my living room.”
“Goodnight, go get some sleep, you weirdo. Give Maggie a squeeze for me.”
By the time I get home and crawl into bed, I’m so exhausted I can barely see straight. But as I lie in the dark, my silky sheets caressing my legs, the sight of Nate on his knee as I blocked him from coming inside won’t leave me alone. He’s been on his knees for me before, peeling my jeans down and worshiping my pussy like the gift it is.
I hate how good he is with his tongue.
And I’ll never admit those French girls taught him a thing or two to do with his fingers that I never would have thought I’d like.
Why can’t I get him out of my head? My whole life, the man has infected my thoughts. Every date I’ve ever been on, I end up comparing the man to Nate. It makes me hate him even more.
Tonight was no exception, and thinking about it builds a fire in my belly. The way his half-hard dick pressed into my ass. The way he took care of the house—and me by proxy. Those long fingers gripping the edge of the sink as I wrestled my way beneath his arms. It should not have turned me on that he was fighting me to clean up the kitchen, but it did.
The constant ember of anger that burns inside me travels down to my core, blooming into a new kind of fire. With an exasperated groan, I roll over and fish a toy out of my bedside table. I slide my underwear off and flick on the vibrator, running it along my inner thigh while my other hand traces circles around my clit.
