Again.
Instead, I squeeze it until my hand goes numb. This is war.
Also…FUCK YOU!
Then I turn my rage to Chloe. Because fuck her too.
Her number isn’t in my phone anymore. Doesn’t need to be. It’s seared into me just like everything else I wish I could forget.
My thumbs move on instinct. Fueled by bourbon and fury. The message is brutal. Blunt. No poetry. Just shrapnel.
I hover over send. My reflection in the screen looks warped.
What am I doing? This isn’t me. I’m not this guy. The one who rage texts the people who fucked him over. I’m the guy who walks away because the fight just isn’t worth it.
But then I see her again, bare skin, Jackson’s hands, that smirk.
Screw it.
I hit send.
CHAPTER 6
UNKNOWN NUMBER
RORIE
There’snothing like coming home with sore feet, smeared lipstick, and absolutely no idea where your left earring is. Ugh!
The door clicks shut behind me with a soft thud, and I kick off my heels with a groan. Cool relief floods up from the plush rug as it meets the soles of my aching feet.
My apartment greets me like an old friend—cozy, chaotic in a way only I can decipher.
Unopened mail leans over the edge of the kitchen counter. A jacket I meant to hang up days ago lounges across a dining chair, possibly claiming permanent residence. It smells faintly of candle wax and lavender cleaner, but there’s a whiff of a less charming scent—probably the leftovers I forgot to throw out.
Still, it’s home. Cluttered, imperfect, but safe. And all mine.
I shed my dress, swap it for an oversized tee, and collapse onto the couch. The cushions sigh beneath me, worn and familiar. My fingers graze the spine of the small town romance I’ve been half-ignoring for weeks. I flip to the bookmarked page, but the words blur, too sweet, and too tidy for my frayed mood.
Should’ve picked up that dark romance. The why choose with pages and pages of smut. Definitely a better fit for my current mood.
With a dramatic sigh, I toss the book aside and pad barefoot intothe kitchen. Ice cubes clatter into a glass. The vodka tonic bites cold and clean, cutting through the ambient drone of appliances and the quiet shuffle of the city outside my window.
I take a sip. Let the cold burn distract me.
What the fuck was that with Nolan Rhodes tonight?
One minute he’s looming at a rooftop bar like a fallen angel in rolled sleeves, and the next he’s tossing verbal grenades left and right. And I let it happen. Worse, I enjoyed it. For a full thirty seconds, I forgot to hate him. I forgot his firm beat me. Again.
I take a longer sip, trying to wash the thought down with vodka and denial.
I mean, really. Whatwasthat?
His stare felt like he was dissecting me, sorting reactions for some internal dossier.
For a bit, I let him win the stare-down. Barely. But still.
Infuriating.
