Page 63 of Mr. Misunderstood

He steps forward, still holding his hand to his jaw. “You had no reason to hit me. She’s yours now.” He glances over at Kayla, who has seemingly recovered from the shock and is now standing, ready to leave.

“Maybe she always was,” he adds.

“I’m not the reason your marriage fell apart,” I say in a clipped tone. “But I accept full responsibility for your jaw. I’ll pay your medical bills. Plastic surgeon. Whatever you need to return that smug grin to your pretty boy face.”

“I can take a punch, Black.” He nods to Kayla. “But I know she can’t handle the storm heading your way.”

I grind my teeth together before I give into the temptation to ask if he’s involved. Margaret will uncover the connection if one even exists. If he is working with Alexandra, I can’t risk him knowing that I’m running scared from her threats. And I sure as hell don’t want him questioning our engagement.

“She can handle it,” Kayla says firmly. She sets her napkin on the table and offers me a small smile. “I think we’ve worn out our welcome here. Maybe we should go home so I can feast on something else?”

I walk in front of Mr. Mistake and take her hand. Damn, she’s trembling. I knew an encounter with her ex would shake her.

“You were incredible,” I whisper as we head for the exit. “He’s still trying to lift his jaw off the floor after your pointed BJ reference.”

“Let’s just get out of here,” she mutters. “Please.”

It’s been a long time since I’ve seen Kayla close to begging. Sure, she pled for help after Luna was shot, but that was different. Whatever courage she carried into her encounter with her ex, she shed beside the lunch table. A sideways glance tells me her eyes are brimming with tears.

“We’ll be back at my place in a few minutes,” I say.

“Your meetings—”

“Canceled.” My firm tone doesn’t invite objections. “I’m going to order you a selection of your favorites. Pad Thai, Indian curry, sushi—I’ll have it all delivered. We can put on sweatpants and feast on something that you want to eat.”

“I want you too,” she whispers as we reach the elevator. “But food first. Please.”

I nod and wrap my arm around her as we head for the ground level. She’s still shaking. Her small frame presses against my side as if seeking shelter and comfort.

“I’ve got you,” I murmur.

With my free hand, I pull out my phone and start ordering take-out. Fifteen minutes later, I’m still holding her close as we enter the apartment.

Kayla pulls free to greet her four-legged herd. With the pups dancing around her feet, she heads for the living and sinks to the floor. The dogs surround her. Ava lies at her side, rolling onto her back in anticipation of a belly rub. Luna’s cone brushes Kayla’s shoulder as if the injured Labrador can’t figure out her place in the love-fest with that contraption around her neck.

“Of all the restaurants in Manhattan, Jason went to ours,” she says, drawing Cleveland onto her lap. The terrier puppy curls up with his head resting against her knee.

“He planned it,” I say simply.

She looks up at me, her right hand hovering over Ava’s belly. “Really?”

“I think he wanted to catch you by surprise.” I don’t mention my theory that her ex might have launched the blackmail campaign. “After what? Three years? You’re back in the city, in what he considers his world.”

The elevator door dings and glides open. “May I leave your take-out?” the doorman calls.

“Yes.” I walk into the foyer and pick up the bags before the door fully closes. “Thank you, Jimmy.”

“You don’t think it’s a coincidence that he showed up on the same day Alexandra went on a morning show and questioned if our engagement is real,” she says as I return to the table.

“Might be.” I set the food on the coffee table and pull it over to Kayla. Then I open the bags and pull out the plastic to-go containers. “But I eat lunch at that steakhouse two or three times a month. The hostesses greet me by name. And I always have someone from my office call ahead for a table. My best guess? Someone on the staff tipped him off.”

“Jason hated you by the end.” Kayla reaches for the curry.

“Really? Just at the end?” I want to ask her why he changed his view of me. I’m also searching for a way to inquire if she spilled my deepest, darkest secrets while curled up in bed with that bastard. But I’m afraid if I attempt the question, I’ll accidentally say I fucking hate that you slept with him.

“Oh, Jason loved you, or the idea of you, in the beginning. He had a direct connection to a famous billionaire.”

“Through you,” I say pointedly.

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