I sit in the middle of the couch, Regan on my lap, Rory and Raymond on either side, Riley leaning against the back.
“The kids wanted to talk to you about something,” I explain.
Her gaze flickers to each of them. “What’s up?
“We don’t like him,” Rory says.
It takes a moment for Chelsea to understand. “Him?” Her thumb points over her shoulder. “Tom?”
“He’s a douche,” Rory confirms.
“He doesn’t seem very smart,” Raymond adds.
“He’s booooring,” Rosaleen chimes in.
“He’s cute,” Riley says. “But you could do better.”
And Regan ties it all together. “No!”
God, she’s eloquent.
Chelsea laughs. “All right. Well, thank you for sharing your thoughts. Your feelings are duly noted. Now”—she sweeps her hand to the stairs—“go to bed.”
When the predictable groans and complaints begin, I back her up. “Go on, guys, just make it easy on yourselves. Rory, help Regan brush her teeth.”
“I’ll be up to tuck you in in a minute,” she tells them as they file past her like baby ducks in a row. Then her eyes fall on me, locked and loaded. “Can I speak with you outside? Now.”
And her tone means business. Guess her panties are twisted, but that’s fine with me—’cause my panties are pretty goddamn twisted at the moment too.
Okay, that didn’t come out right . . . but you know what I fucking mean. If she wants a fight, I’m more than happy to give her one. Or more than one.
Multiple.
Long, sweaty, bed-breaking . . . shit! What the hell is wrong with me?
Once the kids are upstairs, I follow her out the back door, my stiff strides matching her stomping ones, onto the dark patio. The French door slams with a bang and she doesn’t waste any time whirling around to face me.
“This isn’t fair! You can’t do this!”
“What exactly do you think I’m doing, Chelsea?”
“Turning the kids against any man I go out with. My love life is not up for a vote!”
The only words I process from that statement are love life. What the fuck is up with that?
“You have a love life?” I ask, horrified. The popcorn I ate during the movie with the kids turns to lead in my stomach.
She pokes my chest. “I have the right to be happy!”
Poke.
“Believe it or not, Tom actually finds me attractive!”
Poke.
“He likes talking to me, spending time with me!”
Poke.
“He wants me . . . even if you don’t!”
I catch her hand, spin her around, and press her back against the wall of the house. She glares up at me, chin raised, fearless and daring, her ice-blue eyes cold with fury.
Thinking straight went out the window when she started talking about other men. Weighing the consequences of my actions came to a halt the second she said I didn’t want her.
As if that was even fucking possible.
Now it’s all just mindless instinct. Pure emotion, fire, need. The need for my touch to be the last one she feels tonight. My lips her goodnight kiss. Not. Fucking. Tom’s.
“Wanting you was never the issue, Chelsea.”
I lean against her, feel her breasts achingly soft against my chest, my knee between her thighs, where she’s warm and heavenly. My face so close to hers, we breathe the same air.
She pulls against my grip, bucks. “It is!” she hisses. “That’s what you said. This—me—isn’t what you wanted.”
That awful night is a blur. A vague memory of foreign nervousness, regret, and stumbling words. I don’t know what the hell I actually told her.
“Did I?” I press even closer, letting her feel exactly how hard she’s wanted. “Then I’m an idiot.” My eyes drink her in, every inch—her panting lips, flushed cheeks, the throbbing pulse in her neck that tells me she wants me too. “And even worse—I’m a liar, too.”
My mouth covers hers and I taste her moan—it’s long and desperately relieved. She whimpers as I release her wrists, just so I can touch her, and she wraps her arms around my neck, pulling me closer. I suck on her bottom lip before delving back into the slick sweetness of her mouth.
It’s been so long. Too long.
She arches against me and all I want to do is grab her, lift her, and fuck her against the wall.
It’s that thought that brings sanity roaring back.
Shit, what am I doing? I told her this had to stop, and then . . . Fuck, I’m a caveman.
Gently, I grip her arms and force myself to step back, separating us. I stare down at the stone patio, so I don’t have to look at her. “Chelsea, I’m . . . This was a mistake. It won’t happen again. I’m sorry.”
She doesn’t say anything at first. But I can feel her. Feel the confusion and then the anger—it radiates from her in thick, weighted waves. When I finally look at her face, her mouth is more of a snarl than a frown. Her brows are drawn together and her eyes shoot blue sparks.
And sick bastard that I am, it turns me on even more.
Until she speaks. “You know, Jake, I always knew you were capable of being an asshole, when you wanted to be. But I never, ever, thought you’d be a coward.”
And she walks away. Opens the French door and slips back into the house.
And I feel like fucking dirt. Like the kind that gets trapped under Cousin It’s claws. That’s me—a speck of filth under the tiny nail of a small goddamn dog.
27
The next day, at work, I’m at the very top of Sofia’s shit list. This is driven home when she comes barreling into my office and slams the door behind her. Eyes blazing, hair flying, she braces her arms on my desk, leaning over me.