I held my phone tighter, knuckles going white.
“I know you didn’t like Mathew being here?—”
“You got that damn straight.”
“But stop acting like this was preplanned or something. I didn’t know he was stopping by.”
“You still let him in.”
“I’m sorry.” But honestly, why the hell was hethismad?
“Not okay.”
I took a deep breath. “I realize he’s not welcome in your home, but you don’t have to bethismean to me about it.”
Axel stepped into my space because of course he did. Probably knew that having him this close made me feel even more confused about my feelings for Mathew because instead of imagining Mathew’s hands on me, I was very much wondering what Axel Pierce would feel like, pinning me against this very wall.
Traitorous body.
“Post the damn photo and be done with it.”
I clenched my jaw so hard, I’m surprised my teeth didn’t crack. “Try that again. This time with less venom and more basic human decency.”
“Don’t lecture me about manners when you were just making out with another guy in my foyer.” The words came out sharp enough to cut glass. “But sure, let’s pretend this is about my tone.”
Okay, you know what? I needed this. I needed to remember that Axel was hot and cold. Because before this moment, the way he was glaring at me like I was an offensive stain in his home, I’d almost forgotten that I’d promised to get back at him for that coffee prank.
I smiled sweetly. The kind of smile that should’ve come with a warning label.
“You’re absolutely right,” I purred, already plotting.
He narrowed his eyes at me. I could tell he was officially worried.
And he should be.
22
FAKE FIANCÉE TIP: MAKE SURE YOUR VANDALISM IS TECHNICALLY JUST INCONVENIENCE, NOT A FELONY. #LEGALLYPETTY
DAKOTA
Okay, look. I didn’t slash Axel’s tires.
Technically.
All I did was slowly let the air out of each one, carefully, so as not to damage his precious rims. Vandalism wasn’t exactly my style. I preferred psychological warfare. And after the way Axel had been treating me? The salt in my coffee? Fast-forwarding all the clocks to give me a panic attack? His hostile treatment after Mathew stopped by?
What. A. Dick.
I stood back to admire my handiwork. His prized Mercedes—the sleek black S-Class he probably polished every Sunday like it was a religious ritual—sat deflated in the underground parking garage like a very expensive, very sad balloon animal. All four tires kissed the concrete with a pathetic wheeze of finality.
Beautiful.
The harsh fluorescent lights overhead cast shadows that made the whole thing look even more dramatic. The once-aggressive stance of the vehicle now resembled a sulking teenager, its chrome grille practically pouting against the floor.
The garage smelled like old tires and concrete dust, with that particular underground parking musk that never quite goes away, and somewhere in the distance, a car alarm chirped twice and went silent.
I’d left the valve caps arranged in a neat little row on the hood. A professional courtesy, really. The kind of thoughtful touch that would make him even angrier.
