Charlie hasn’t budged in the last few minutes, and he’s sprawled across the bed, taking up most of the space. I lift his arm, very carefully, hoping not to wake him, placing it across his stomach. Then I peel back the covers and climb in.
He’s on the top of the bed, and no part of his body is in contact with me, but it still feels like such a betrayal to be lying in bed with another man. My chest heaves as I glance sideways at him.
He looks like a fallen angel in sleep. His jet-black hair has flattened out, falling across his forehead, brushing the tops of his strong brows. His full lips are slightly parted, and his chest rises and falls as he languishes in slumber. I watch him for a few minutes, still trying to figure out how we got here.
How someone I once considered one of my closest friends could seemingly switch personalities overnight.
Or has he always been like this?
Have those dark glimpses I’ve caught on occasion been the truth, and he’s become adept at disguising his true self?
One thing is for sure—I’m about to find out.
For a brief instant, when I wake the next morning, I believe I’m protected in Kai’s arms. Until reality comes crashing down upon me.
At some point during the night, Charlie must have undressed and climbed in underneath the covers with me, because his bare leg is sandwiched between mine, and his large hands are resting on the exposed skin of my tummy. My top must have ridden up in sleep. Acid snakes up my throat, and a sob rips from my mouth as I stare, horror-struck at the place where his hand is.
Memories of waking up with Kai’s hand in a similar place return to haunt me, and it’s no act when I wrench Charlie’s hand away and scramble out of the bed, hitting the side of my head off the bedside table in the process. I cry out as stinging pain zips along my skull.
Charlie bolts upright, his wild eyes instantly alert as they latch onto mine. “Shit. What happened?” He crawls across the bed toward me.
I lift my hand up to halt his forward trajectory. “Don’t fucking come near me.” I wince as I dab at the sore spot on the side of my head, silently cussing when my fingertips come away red. Great, I’ve broken skin, and I doubt it’ll be that easy to disguise in such a prominent place. If Drew or Kai see it, they will go fucking apeshit.
“Did I do something wrong?” he asks, his brow puckering.
“Who said you could strip to your boxers and get into bed beside me?”
And who said you could put your handthere.
You motherfucking asshole doucheface fucktard bastard.
“Abby.” He swings his legs over the side of the bed, and I purposely avoid staring at his carved abs and broad chest until I remember it’s what someone in my shoes would do—sneak peeks at the prick even though I’m still furious with him for screwing someone else. I’m coy about it, glancing quickly at his hot body before averting my eyes. But not before I see a glint of pleasure light up his eyes. “Darling.” He sinks to his knees beside me.
“Don’t call me that. Save it for your bit on the side,” I hiss.
“You know there’s no one but you. That was an error in judgment, and I already promised it won’t happen again.”
“As if your word means anything.” I glare at him before deliberately softening my look and sighing. “Look, Charlie.” Forcing back bile, I gently cup his face. “I’m trying, but you can’t expect me to be happy about you sneaking into bed with me. You fucked someone else the night of our wedding. That’s not something I can forget overnight. Or even in a week or a month. You have a lot to do to prove to me it was a onetime thing. To prove I mean what you profess I mean to you.”
“Abby.” He leans into my hand, rubbing his face against my palm, and he reminds me of a newborn puppy, nuzzling into his owner, desperately craving attention. If Charlie hadn’t been brought up in a loving environment, with two parents who worshiped each other, and him, I’d say he was starved for affection.
But that simply isn’t true.
“I mean every word of it. I love you, and I will prove it to you. Just give me a chance. Please.”
I eyeball him without blinking as I pretend to think about it. “Okay. But we need to take it slow. And that means you don’t sleep in my bed unless I tell you you can.”
“Mom is going to think it’s weird,” he says, reaching out and pressing soft fingers to the sore spot on my head.
“Your mother is grieving. She won’t even notice. And if she does, it’s not any of her business.”
“Let me attend to that,” he says, purposely ignoring my comment. Evasive Charlie does little to reassure me he is sincere.
I nod, letting him help me to my feet. He walks me into the bathroom, keeping one arm wrapped firmly around my waist from behind, and I deliberately pretend I don’t see the giant bulge straining his boxers.
He positions me on top of the closed toilet seat before he stalks to the large overhead cupboard, pulling supplies out. Kneeling in front of me, he cleans the cut with some water and cotton balls. Then he pats it dry with a towel and fixes a Band-Aid in place. “Does it hurt?” he asks, gently prodding the small lump.
“Not really.”
