If the past year has taught me anything, it’s how many facets there are to the diamond of life. I have friends—goodfriends—who picked Dean in the divorce because they thought I was what was wrong with my marriage.
And you know what?
I was part of it. Takes two, right?
But I wasn’t all of it, and their thinking that he was totally innocent has been a blow.
Especiallywhen he’s already out promoting his upcoming new show with his mistress, who will forever be his mistress to me, no matter where their relationship goes. According to the private detective my divorce attorney recommended, Dean was already heavily involved with her before he filed the paperwork to make me his ex.
“I was going to talk to you about the kids and the ranch,” Flint says quietly.
Like he’s being thereasonableone.
I fucking—yes,fucking—hated it when Dean wouldlogicme after he did something stupid that I had every right to be upset about, and I’ll bedamnedif I’ll let another man—even a man who’s hotter than the Deep South in August—ever again make me feelless thanbecause I have emotions.
Dammit.
“I’m sure you were,” I reply as I work the knot in my hair. “And I’m sure you think I’m an absolute stick-in-the-mud for telling you no. But if my choice is between disappointing you or putting myself, and therefore my daughter, at risk, then it’s pretty clear what I should choose, isn’t it?”
If that’s not another sigh coming out of his mouth, he really needs to have that loud breathing checked out by a doctor. “Can I please help you get out of there before Earl smells your dinner and comes to check it out?”
My heart leaps into my throat. Yes, I knew it was getting dark, butwhydidn’t I think about the smell of our food?
Whichhebrought here and is clearlyhappyto blame me for. “I’m doing just fine.”
“You’re making it worse.”
“Donotmansplain to me how to untangle hair, please.”
“And how much experience do you have with hair in chains?”
“You’d be surprised.”
“Shit. Right. You did it all the time on your show.”
“You watched my show?”
“Tonywatched your show. He talked about you all the time. Whenever I’d swing by, he’d make me watch it too.”
A wave of grief for a man I talked to not nearly enough in my adult life stabs me in the chest.
He finally had a tie-severing falling-out with most of Mom’s family several years ago, and I talked to him less and less after that.
Knowing what I know now, I wish I’d made more of an effort to stay in touch beyond the occasional email or phone call. He always had a way of making me feel so happy anytime we’d communicate.
While we’ve been talking, Flint’s approached me like I’m a wounded mountain lion.
I hold a hand in front of myself. “Donotcut my hair.”
“Hold the light,” he replies gruffly, handing me his phone, the pocketknife nowhere in sight. “You can’t see to untangle it from that angle.”
I take his phone. Our fingers brush, and I smell salt and lime. The man smells like a margarita without the tequila burn. Ironic, considering all he does is burn me.
“Shine it on your hair,” he orders.
“Iam.”
As well as I can, anyway. When he tugs gently to untangle the strands, I feel it on my scalp, and my scalp is a freaking traitor.
