Page 160 of Divorced from Number Thirty-Eight

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Because that sounds…not right.

The hiss grows louder and I hurry into the other room?—

Pop!

I blink.

Then do it again.

Hot pink paint has splattered all over Gray and the door and the floor and…

Oh, my God.

There’s glitter too.

Clinging to the paint, coating him practically head to toe.

“What the fuck?” he growls, reaching into the box and pulling out a piece of paper.

One that has him going still as he reads it.

“What is it?” I ask quietly.

“Courtney sent this.” A beat. “For you.”

I bite my lip.

Because…seriously?

Leaking manuscripts and planting stories and trying to break down front doors…and glitter bombs that don’t even hit their intended target?

He scowls. “Don’t you laugh.”

“I—”

I try not to.

I really do.

But pretty soon my amusement is bubbling up in my chest, my throat, escaping off the tip of my tongue. “I-I’ll just g-get some p-paper t-towels,” I force out through my giggles. It’s not funny—except it is. A big, sexy hockey player covered in neon pink paint and gold glitter and…

After everything she’s done, is this really all Courtney can dish out?

I turn for the kitchen.

“Faye,” he growls.

“Be right back,” I chirp, still laughing.

A hand lands on my arm.

A paint-covered hand.

“Gray!” I screech as he yanks me into his arms.

But then he’s kissing me.

And then I’m not laughing.

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