I didn’t need to put my destination in the GPS; I knew exactly where I was headed. It had been my preferred spot to wallow for days now.
Years, actually.
Reversing out of my driveway and onto the narrow street that sliced through my development, I pointed the truck toward the main road and went back toward Reno.
With the window rolled down, the dry desert air funneled inside the truck. Drying my damp hair was about all it was accomplishing. It certainly wasn’t cooling my emotions.
Parked out front of Bexley’s house, I shut the car door quietly. Finally where I wanted to be, there was no need to make a grand entrance. I would just sit with my back to the door and my ass on the concrete like I’d been doing.
At least, that’s what I told myself right up until I reached the front door and started banging on it like a tiger at mealtime at the zoo. If the surface in front of me were mirrored, I was pretty sure I’d see claws and teeth in my reflection.
No one came to the door, so I pounded again. The idea of her kids being home didn’t even bother me. Nothing did. Not when it had been two freaking weeks since I’d last met with the investigator.
I needed a fix, and for some reason, after waiting so long, I’d convinced myself that nothing other than face-to-face contact would satisfy the urge.
Lucky for me, I knew those newspaper people didn’t like to work weekends unless they were being paid overtime, or they’d be camped outside my house when I left and probably would have followed me here.
My fist met with the wood again, and for a fleeting moment, I thought about leaving. This was risky. Why would I gamble dragging Bexley into this equation when I’d hidden my dealings from the investigator?
The urge was too fucking strong. I couldn’t leave. I’d wait. Now that I knew she’d tossed out her sorry sack of an excuse for a husband.
And I’d keep waiting.
More pounding in my head. And on the door.
“What?”
The door flung open, and my eyes first met with her bare feet.
“No ... no ... absolutely not,” or something of the sort came out of her mouth as my gaze roamed up her body.
Tight yoga pants hugged Bexley’s legs—capris, because I could see her bare calves. They were just as muscular and tanned as back then. She had on a sheer pale blue tank and some lacy thing underneath, the straps sticking out from the tank. Her golden hair was drying in wavy lengths around her face. She looked how I remembered, but better. Way fucking better.
“Shh,” I whispered as I studied her face up close. It was the first chance I’d had in fourteen years, other than grainy photos and the very rare run-in.
A few fine lines radiated from her eyes as her brow furrowed. She wore no makeup, other than on her lips. They were glossy and smelled like cherries.
Old habits died hard, I guessed. Obviously, since I was standing at Bexley Rivers’ front door with my words stuck in my throat and my heart thundering in my chest. My confidence was long gone, my mouth dry, and my mind a frazzled mess.
“Aston,” she said, her voice raw.
“Can I come in?”
I stood on ceremony at the threshold, waiting for her to invite me in. I certainly didn’t think our little reunion was meant for broad daylight.
“I don’t know.”
Leaning in close, I asked, “Are your kids here? Your family?”
She shook her head. “I have to hold on to something. I feel kinda faint,” she said as she pressed her hand to the doorjamb.
“Let me come in. We’ll sit down. You’ll feel better.” That familiar confidence surged back in my veins.
“Why are you here?” She kept her gaze on my shoes.
Immediately, I wanted to shove off the designer loafers. They were a visible reminder of the divide that ultimately separated us.
“Why?” she said again.
