“I know I don’t deserve it, but I hope you’ll give me another chance to spend the rest of my life making up for it.”
She didn’t move away.
I was going to kiss her.
I leaned in slowly. She didn’t stop me. Her breath hitched, her lips parting just a little, and for the first time in what felt like forever, I felt like she was mine again.
But then, just as my lips were about to brush hers, she pulled back, her eyes shining with unshed tears.
“I can’t,” she whispered, her voice breaking.
Then she got up and left, locking herself in the bathroom for an hour. I left her alone for the rest of the day. I hadn’t meant to make her cry.
I heard her talking to him later. I wondered what it was about him that made her cling to him and how I could separate them. I figured I’d figure out how when I moved into her place. It would be me and her for the most part.
Later, as we got ready for bed, I acted like my back was still bothering me. “Can you rub it for me?” I asked, lying down on one of the beds.
She hesitated but climbed onto the bed behind me, her hands warm and steady against my skin. I closed my eyes, savoring the feel of her touch. It didn’t take long for her to fall asleep.
I turned slowly, careful not to wake her, and wrapped my arms around her. She fit against me like she always had, like she was made to be there. I grinned into the darkness, my mind formulating other plans.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand, and I reached for it without thinking. Ciarán’s name flashed on the screen. I answered before the second ring.
“My wife is asleep,” I said, my voice low so I didn’t wake Jordin. Then I hung up and turned the phone off, tossing it back on the nightstand.
Jordin stirred but didn’t wake. I tightened my arms around her, my grin widening.
This was just the beginning of the war I was going to wage against her singer.
thirty Four-Oak
I knew something was off the second we pulled into the driveway of my temporary home. The house was too big, too ostentatious, and completely devoid of her warmth. We used to live in a three-bedroom ranch-style house because she didn’t do gaudy. Didn’t do extravagant. She liked comfort—things that felt like home.
She didn’t even help me out of the car. She parked, got right out, and let me make my own way. I actually preferred that.
When I reached the front door, she was fidgeting with the keypad, avoiding my eyes as she unlocked it. I was suspicious, but I wasn’t about to blow up before I even got inside. Not yet. Maybe I was reading the entire situation wrong. Or maybe that singing motherfucker had bought her a house.
She pushed the door open, and it became abundantly clear: This wasn’t her house.
Standing in the middle of the living room, barefoot in black joggers and a fitted T-shirt, drinking from a glass of water, was Ciarán. He looked like he owned the place.
Because, apparently, he did. His awards were everywhere.
“Welcome home,” he said, flashing that same cocky smirk—the one he’d worn the night he showed me that video of him and Jordin.
I gripped the handle of my cane so tight my knuckles turned white. “No fucking way.”
I didn’t move from the doorway, still trying to process what was happening.
Jordin dropped her bags and rubbed the back of her neck, looking guilty as hell. “I was going to tell you,” she started, her voice hesitant.
“When?” I cut her off, my voice sharp. “After I walked in and found this motherfucker in your house? Because that’s when you’re telling me.” I wanted to shake her. This was cruel.
Ciarán chuckled, setting his glass down on a table. “Technically,ourhouse,” he said easily. “But you’re welcome to stay.”
I stared at him, my jaw tightening so hard it ached. I turned back to Jordin, trying to keep my voice steady. “You live with him?”
She sighed. “Yes.”
