I bristled. “Uh, sure.”
“How long were you with your ex?”
A humorless, bitter chuckle escaped my lips—fueled by disbelief at myself. “Almost four long years.”
“But Chris isn’t Kacey’s dad?”
He was starting to wonder and it made the breath in my lungs freeze. I squeezed out, “No.”
“Why were you with him so long?”
“Necessity I guess.” The most basic of answers.
“Did—did he hurt you often?”
My fingers picked at a loose thread on my pajama bottoms. “No, that was his first time hitting me.”
His low voice was throaty. “There are lots of ways for a man to hurt a woman, Miranda.”
He didn’t have to say more. I knew what he meant.
A need to defend my honor propelled my answer. “It takes two.”
“Not always.”
“I consented.”
“Coercion isn’t consent.”
“Why are you assuming I was coerced?”
He said nothing for a moment and ran a hand over his head. When he responded, the edge in his voice gave me chills. “Because I’m having a really hard time believing you ran out and fell in love again so soon.”
His words squeezed the air out of me. Of course it looked that way. Not likehewas one to talk though. I knew for a fact he shacked up just as quickly. Anger surged through my veins as I remembered her. Tall, long-legged, auburn hair, and dark eyes. Gorgeous. She had opened Jack’s front door wearinghist-shirt.
My breathing grew labored at the horrible memory. It had crushed me. “Oh puh-lease. Don’t act like you didn’t test drive other women that fast.”
He was taken aback. “Miranda…” He shook his head. “I didn’t.”
I wanted to rip him a new one for lying. But every moment I spent in Jack’s home was acting out a lie—and my lie wassomuch worse.
“Why are we out here”—I glanced at the digital clock glowing from the oven—“at 2 a.m. talking about my sex life?”
“Sorry,” he growled.
Adrenaline scorched my veins. Anger peaked. I wasn’t sure if I was angry at Chris for manipulating me into intimacy so many times, angry at myself for letting him, or angry at Jack for sniffing it out and acting like a saint when Iknewhe wasn’t.
“I need to get to bed.”
I stood to go and he grabbed my forearm. “Wait.”
When I stopped, his hand slid to mine, grasping my fingers.
“I’m sorry, Miranda.” His thumb glided over my knuckles. “That was way too personal. I’m just—working through a lot of questions I guess.” He gave my hand a soft squeeze.
“It was too personal. Thanks for apologizing.”
His hand dropped to his lap. “Okay, well, goodnight.”
