Page 77 of Mangled Memory
“I could’ve dropped a pin when I was standing in front of the house on Valley Road. Would that have helped?”
“Not really.”
What the fuck?!
Did he justnot reallyme when he got busted walking into some woman’s house? I’m stunned silent. My blood boils, but I have no words for the man in front of me.
I whip around, grab my gear, and head for the car with Christian hot on my heels. I hate that I have to be in the car with him… on a plane with him… breathing the same air as him.
I drop my bag at my feet and fume at the same time Christian slides into the other side of the car. “To the airport,” I say to the driver, not having any clue about when we’re supposed to go home or even what it takes to ready a private jet.
“To Fourteen Valley Road, please.”
“I know you didn’t just say that.” My words are a hiss.
He levels me with a gaze then grabs his phone, as if it holds the answers to the universe. His anger isn’t well hidden. Mine is a hive of hornets lodged in my throat. If I speak, I can’t say that it won’t end what we have. Not that he didn’t end it already with a blonde with a five-hundred-dollar haircut.
I sit and stew in my anger. The hurt beginning to displace it, but I hold fast to the anger instead. I’m tired of being weak, so damned tired of being vulnerable.
Better to be irate than exposed.
“I trusted you,” I whisper-seethe as the town car glides to a stop in front of the house what feels like hours later. Crescentridges mar my palms as I’ve apparently squeezed my nails deep into my flesh for the whole drive. Holding back this dam of emotion isn’t good for me. “How dare you?”
He exits the car and stalks around the trunk to my side. Like hell I’m going to be forced into this situation.
“Drive,” I bark to the man behind the wheel.
“I’m sorry, miss.”
My door is wrenched open, and Christian leans in, swiping my purse and camera bag from the floorboard and stepping aside. He extends a hand but retracts it. My glare must make him think better of it.
I don’t know the woman that hand touched. Hell, I apparently don’t know the man attached to it.
But I know myself. Whether my brain wants to cooperate or not, I know my mind and heart. And if he wants to play this game, the one where he introduces me to his mistress, the one where he shows me this has all been a lie, I’m willing to walk inside and Blow. It. The. Fuck. Up.
I step out and hold my head high, striding ahead of him to the door. The fire of rage is stoked to an inferno inside me.
I knock.And wait.
And wait.
And wait.
My ire is not helped when Christian saunters up next to me as if there’s nothing wrong, withdraws a key, and enters the house.
“What the fuck,Honey?” The endearment on my lips is cutting. There is no sweetness to it.
“Well,Princess.” His tone mirrors mine. “I came home after my appointment to change and find you.”
“Home? How dare—” But I see it.
Oh shit.I see it.
It’s the antithesis of our Cherry Hills Village home. This is the bungalow—if I can call something this spendy a bungalow—that would be everythingIwould choose. Muted colors, but color nonetheless. Robin’s egg blue, rusty coral, butter yellow, lots of white and black.
And the walls are covered with photographs that feel the same.
Columbines.Windflowers. Larkspur and lavender.
