Page 3 of Tempting Wyatt
Suddenly, all the red flags I’ve ignored about Malcolm since we met wave wildly in my face.
He’s conventionally handsome but a little on the shorter side, constantly trying to make up for it by reminding everyone on set that he’s the money. He wears entirely too much overpriced cologne and product in his slicked-back hair and takes longer to get ready than I do. Not to mention his rude way of answering calls in the middle of meals, saying, “Sorry, babe, this is important,” as if I wasn’t.
Also, I hate being called babe.
So much.
Even if I could overlook all that and his latest indiscretion, he hasn’t sent Heidi home so we can work things out. He hasn’t even said he’s sorry. He sent her to the bedroom—ourbedroom.
Arrogant son of a bitch, this one.
My entire life, people have mistaken my kindness for weakness—or worse, for stupidity. But I’m done being kind to Malcolm.
Even with the hurricane of emotions whipping through me, I know later, I’ll wish I’d had a little more class and held my head high and left with my dignity intact. But my mom was a waitress at truck stop diners most of my life, so I have an entire vocabulary Malcolm hasn’t heard me use yet.
Heading back to the bedroom, I brace myself for a confrontation with my former friend. I don’t need or want a dramatic showdown—just my belongings.
When I open the bedroom door, the room is blessedly empty. Which means she’s hiding in the bathroom.
Great. So much for getting my favorite hair mask and texture spray.
I make a mental note to order more while sliding off my engagement ring and setting it on the dresser. Even with an abundance of adrenaline flooding my system, I don’t miss the weight that lifts after I take it off.
While my heart pumps like I’m being chased by a wildebeest, I begin gathering my things casually, refusing to give him a reason to call me a child again.
Malcolm follows me, leaning against our dresser and staring down at the diamond on it.
“What are you doing?” He sips his water as if we’re discussing the weather.
Without answering, I drag my designer rolling suitcase and weekender bag out of the closet and open them on the bed. I focus intently on filling them with everything I care about. Which, strangely, isn’t much. My favorite leather jacket, some shoes, a couple vintage T-shirts, my writing cardigan, some zip-up hoodies, tank tops, several pairs of leggings and jeans, and an armful of dresses I haven’t worn yet. All the ones I have worn have memories attached to Malcolm, so I leave them behind.
Heidi can have those, too, as far as I’m concerned.
I have no idea where I’m going to stay, but it doesn’t matter. At the moment, only the leaving part matters.
Tears blur my vision, but I refuse to let them fall. Not here, not in front of him.
After tossing in a handful of bras, underwear, and socks, I zip the sides shut. I grab my yoga mat and strap it to my bag. When I set the bag atop my suitcase and roll them across the floor, my ex-fiancé makes a grievous error in judgment.
He blocks the doorway.
Now, I don’t know if you have claustrophobia or if you know anyone who does, but I can tell you from personal experience,neverblock the exits.
Without a second thought, I knee him in the groin and instinctively step aside as he keels over.
Malcolm drops to the floor like bricks in a wet paper sack.
“I’ve told you how I feel about blocked doorways,” I say evenly, lifting my suitcase over his body and rolling on down the hallway. “It makes me claustrophobic.”
“I’ll have you fired, you fucking bitch,” he groans. “You’ll never work in this town again—I swear it.” The raw pain is audible in his tone. It’s marginally satisfying—a soothing balm to the freshly open wound of seeing him with Heidi.
But not soothing enough that my trucker-trained mouth doesn’t fly open and release everything I’ve held in since I walked through the door.
“Do whatever you need to do, you selfish, soulless limp-dick asshole.”
“You’re nothing without me,” he calls out. “And you never will be.”
The tears nearly leak from my eyes when he stabs me in my most sensitive spot. I am scared to death that the successofRandom Heartswas a fluke. I lie awake at night, worrying thatCaptivewon’t do well. I’m terrified that I got lucky and won’t be able to write another decent screenplay to save my life.
