Page 75 of Divorced from Number Thirty-Eight
Because Courtney is watching us through my fucking window, pounding on the glass like a lunatic.
“Red,” I say more sharply. “Get up.”
Faye’s gaze jerks to mine, but she still doesn’t move. So, I scoop her up, cradling her against me as I stride from the room, ignoring the total disaster I’ve—and then later we—made of the space. Mostly because the total disaster that is my life has shown up.
Just when I was starting to think things could be different…
Courtney fucking reappears.
And if that isn’t fate reminding me I shouldn’t be doing this with Faye then I don’t know what is.
“Gray,” she whispers and I clench my jaw as I move down the hall to the guest bedroom, not wanting to feel her gentle hand on my cheek, the soft stroke of her fingers down my chest. “It’s okay.”
I shove into the guest bedroom, move straight through it, not stopping until we’re in the attached bathroom.
Setting her on her feet, I crank on the shower.
“Wash up,” I order.
Because she’s covered in banana bread detritus.
But also so the sound of the water will hopefully drown out Courtney’s screaming.
I turn and walk away from Faye, hating that mere minutes ago I was planning on taking her to my room, on slowly washing every inch of her body…then tasting her until I accepted the challenge of making her come on my cock again.
That’s not going to happen.
Because of fucking Courtney.
“Gray.”
I flinch. God, why does my name on her tongue feel like torture now?
A reminder of what I can’t have.
Because, fuck, I can’t have it.
“Shower, Red.”
She slips in front of me, her hands settling on my chest, eyes coming to mine. I can’t read what’s in them, except that maybe there’s a flicker of humor in the brown depths. “So many orders,” she says lightly.
Despite the shit-show outside, I chuckle. “Clean up, baby. I’ll deal with her and be right back.”
She winces.
“It’s okay,” I say. “I’m used to Courtney’s shit.”
“No”—she touches my jaw—“it’s just…I need to talk to you about that.”
“Why?”
“Well, she called last night and…” Faye tells me about their conversation. “I was going to warn you when you got home but I guess I fell asleep and then this morning well…”
Our time in the kitchen.
Well, yeah, we’d both been a little otherwise occupied.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I should?—”
