Page 51 of One Little Mistake
“Give it here. You can’t do anything yourself,” she snaps, snatching the phone from my hands and pressing it to her ear.
Looks like someone was hoping for a very different kind of night and is now fuming. I tune her out and watch, bored, as shefails to get a cab. Cynthia mutters something under her breath and shoves the phone back at me.
“I’ll figure it out myself,” she says firmly, shooting me a furious look, as if she caught me cheating on her during our marriage.
“Don’t be stupid. The weather’s a nightmare out there.”
“What do you expect me to do? Crawl into bed with the two of you?” she snaps, throwing a venomous glance toward the bedroom.
“I’ll drive you myself. My ‘tank’ can handle the weather. When the roads are clear, you can come back for your car.”
Cynthia looks like she wants to argue, wants to storm off dramatically and slam the door behind her—but then she visibly deflates and gives in.
“Wait here. I’m going to change,” I tell her, heading toward the bedroom.
CHAPTER 19
Max
The nightlight is on in the room. Erin stands by the window, her back to me. She flinches slightly when the door clicks shut behind me and we’re left alone.
Once again, I find myself studying her figure. Not stick-thin like Cynthia. Erin has long legs, perfect posture, and a head of thick, beautiful hair. She looks meek, at least on the surface, not the type to be a schemer. And judging by everything, probably loyal too. Her boyfriend is a complete idiot for leaving her.
Though, to be fair, my ex-wife also seemed perfect at first, and look how that turned out.
“I’m heading out for a few hours,” I say, not sure why I feel the need to explain myself. “Cynthia’s too scared to drive in the blizzard, so I’m taking her home. I’ll be back right after.”
I realize I’m drawing a very clear line between me and my ex, for my own sake, as much as for Erin’s.
She turns to face me. A tiny wrinkle forms between her perfectly shaped brows. She’s clearly thinking hard about something. Then she breathes out, relaxes a little, and steps toward the bed.
“You don’t have to explain yourself. And nothing’s going to happen to me if you’re not home overnight. I feel fine.”
Yeah. She definitely misunderstood the whole situation.
Erin lifts the corner of the blanket and hides underneath it, shielding herself from my gaze.
“I’ll try to be quick,” I say, lingering for a second. “If you want, I can crash on the couch. I get it. I’m a stranger to you, and you probably don’t want to share a bed.”
Lie. I don’t get it at all. I’m just saying it to be polite. Honestly, even if she asked me to sleep on the couch, I’d still end up inthe bedroom. After half a year of wrecking my back on a lumpy mattress, sleeping in my own bed feels like pure bliss.
“No, it’s fine. It’s your home, after all. I already feel bad enough for everything that happened and for bothering you again,” she says softly. “Just… grab an extra blanket from the closet, please.”
“Sure,” I nod, then head into the walk-in closet to grab some warmer clothes.
“Sweet dreams,” I toss over my shoulder as I leave the room, immediately spotting Cynthia pacing back and forth in the hallway, her heels clacking loudly against the floor.
“Let’s go,” I say, grabbing my car keys from the console, throwing on my jacket, and steering my ex firmly toward the door.
Cynthia stays silent, her face tense, her mind clearly racing. Every few steps she sneaks strange glances at me, like she wants to say something but doesn’t. Fine by me.
I swear, if she so much as hints about “giving us another chance”, I’m kicking her out of the car. Right there. Blizzard or not.
“New car?” she asks, arching an eyebrow when we get to the parking garage and I disable the alarm.
“Yeah, just bought it,” I say, deciding that opening the door for her would be way too much—she can manage. I walk around to the driver’s side, get behind the wheel, and wait until Cynthia climbs into the SUV herself. Then I start the engine, crank up the heater, and pull onto the street.
There’s already a good amount of snow on the ground. The roads are covered, but not so badly that you can’t drive at all. I keep my speed slow, the wipers working overtime. Every now and then, we pass another car. The heavy silence between us feels suffocating, so I turn on the radio, but halfway through theride, Cynthia reaches out and turns the volume down. She pins me with a stare and finally can’t keep her sharp tongue in check.
