Page 103 of Divorced from Number Thirty-Eight
I feel…nothing.
But because I’m processing that feeling, sitting in the strange and sudden disconnect after the turmoil I’ve been in over the last few days, I’m not focused on the fact that she’s moving closer.
That she’s taking me standing still, me pausing to think as a green light.
To press her breasts to my chest.
To lift on tiptoe and try to kiss me.
“What the fuck, Courtney?” I growl, grabbing her by the shoulders and halting her before our mouths can connect.
“Kiss me, Gray,” she cajoles, her body arching against mine in a calculated move.
My name in her voice is wrong.
Nothing like my Faye who murmurs it like I’m that fantasy of hers, who forgets to be shy when I touch her, who’s earnest and sweet and turns me on with a mere glance, with a soft smile, with her gentle hands on my body.
Not nails biting into my flesh, trying to force me into action.
Not a palm sliding down my torso, heading for the waistband of my pants, hoping to manipulate me into something that is acid on my soul.
“Don’t,” I say, brushing away Courtney’s fingers, shoving her back a pace.
“You like it when I touch you,” she says coquettishly, her mouth curving into a smile as she reaches for me again.
“Don’t.” I stop her before she can make contact this time.
“Gray,” she whines.
I snag her hand and hold it up—it’s the left one, her ring glinting in the soft light Faye left on for me. Another piece of her. Another truth. Another way she cares. And another thing…Courtney never did for me. “You’re engaged,” I remind my ex. “Remember?”
She lifts a slender shoulder, lips tipping up. “My fiancée and I have an understanding.”
“An understanding to fuck around on him?” I ask.
The truth flickers through her eyes.
“He doesn’t know you’re here.”
“I—”
“Don’t lie to me, Courtney.”
“I’m not,” she says, the bullshit palpable, her bottom lip sliding out into a pout. “He doesn’t care what I do.”
I sigh. “Then why are you marrying him?”
She looks away.
And I can tell by the set of her shoulders, I won’t get the truth out of her. She has an agenda and she’ll do whatever she has to in order to achieve it.
“You need to go,” I tell her.
“I need you.” It’s a whine, that pout growing.
“Well, I’m not available. Not today. Not ever.”
“We’re good together.”
