“Why do you always use his full name like that?”
“Sinclair,” I warn.
She huffs, rolling her eyes. “So what if it was him. He’s my friend.”
“He’s a sleazebag.”
“He’s not!” She stares daggers at me. “That’s just your opinion.”
It’s fact. But telling her that will only delay me getting the information I want.
“When?” I grit.
“It’s not important.” She frowns, unable to meet my eyes once more.
“When?” I repeat, leaning to the side until I capture her gaze with mine.
She presses her lips together, her face pinching like she knows I’m not going to like what she’s about to say.
“Two weeks after the funeral.”
Rage erupts like molten lava, racing its way around my body, enough to make Brad Garrett-Charles spontaneously combust with just one look from me if he were here now.
“The funeral,” I echo, dropping my head into my hand and rubbing at the intense throbbing in my temples.
“Over two years ago, okay? So you can stop acting all pissed about it. And we didn’t go all the way. I got upset and we stopped.”
“You got upset?”
She shrugs. “It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine. He took advantage of you when you were grieving.”
“It wasn’t like that.”
I drag in a deep breath before I explode. I want to kill the guy. Right this second. I want to get in my car, drive back to the city, and mow the fucker down in the street. Then I want to disembowel him with my bare hands and let the rats eat what’s left.
“You may not be able to see it, Sinclair. But itwaslike that,” I snap, regretting it as her eyes immediately turn glassy and her bottom lip trembles.
“Are you going to fight with me now? Is that how this goes?” She sniffs, wrapping her arms around herself. It pulls my T-shirt tight, but it still swamps her, making her look vulnerable and anxious.
Jesus Christ, I’m an asshole. I just took her virginity on the floor and made her bleed. And now I’m more concerned about some other guy than taking care of her.
I blow out a slow breath, shaking my head. “No, Princess. No, of course not.”
She watches me with shining eyes as I stand. Then I sweep her into my arms, bridal style.
“What are you doing?” she asks, looping her arms around my neck to hold on.
“What I should have done first,” I answer, striding from the room with her.
I take us to my bedroom, then straight through into the ensuite before grabbing a towel and placing it onto the counter by the sink.
“Sit,” I say, placing her on top of it so it’s not too cold for her.
“What are you doing?”
She watches me as I grab a pair of sweatpants and pull them on, then start to fill the giant freestanding bathtub.
