But he hid his phone. Heliedto my face.
That’s not the kind of thing I can just shrug off and pretend we’re back to laughter and spine-shifting sex. But what if it was a fan messaging him and I’m being ridiculous?
A fan, my ass.
I know Brady well enough by now. He doesn’t strike up long conversations with randos from his channels.
I’ve seen the women who come piling into his DMs. They must have their notifications cranked up every time he posts so they can race to comment first and get his attention.
They’re obsessed, ready to hook up faster than a right swipe on any app.
Or maybe I’m just so into him I really am bursting out of my cocoon, emerging as a paranoid bitch.
He sips his water as Queenie trots over for a head scratch, his eyes never leaving me. “Lena, let’s hear it. You might as well tell me.”
“Tell you what?” I bite off.
“What crawled up your ass and died. If you don’t talk, we can’t do anything about it.”
We.
That one little word darts past my defenses and shreds my heart.
My face heats.
“It’s just—well, who were you texting?” I demand. “And don’t lie to me, Brady.”
His face is a mask, impassive, telling me too much without uttering a word.
With a huff, I throw up my arms, shaking my head as I pace to the other side of the island in his kitchen.
“Look, if there’s another woman—a sidepiece or whatever—I get it.”I also hate it.
Why should a man like him limit himself? He didn’t want me because hewantedme, at least at first.
That came later.
Shit, but here I am.
Standing in front of him, red faced and unraveling by the second. Money aside, I’m not so different from Nancy Loomer, after all.
I’m prone to overthinking, wondering if he ever wanted me at all or if I was just a convenient fuck the minute I wound up under his roof.
“This isn’t real. I get that,” I say as he stares at me, apparently speechless. “But can you just behonestwith me? If there’s someone else ... I’d like to know.”
My voice breaks, and I bite my lip.
Have I mentioned Ihatethis?
His brows crease. He looks at me like the crazy woman I am.
“What? You think I’m seeing someone else?” he asks softly.
“If you’re not, I think you want to. Why else would you lie about texting?”
A hint of telltale redness creeps into his cheeks.
Feeling better yet? Bravo, Lena.
