Reeve would step back.
Reeve would leave.
But Cillian…Cillian can’t afford to walk away.
I squint at the doodles on my toecaps, picturing Quinn hunched over my shoes with her indelible markers. I trace her initials, then mine, then the bleeding heart in between that encompasses so much of our past.
I want that heart to be whole again. Whole and unencumbered.
No more blood.
No more scars.
No more damn strings.
Something splashes on the floor, spilling down my leg—someone’s drink.
Chapter 13
Cillian
“Oopsy,” says a bright voice.
My heart careens to a stop when my gaze sets on a girl with long blonde hair and a narrow face that, from afar, could be mistaken for Quinn’s, but from up close, is vastly coarser—Lara Collins, Polly’s younger sister.
I might hate the girl as much as I loathe Trenton. And not because she slipped into his marital bed before his sheets were even cold, but because she stood idly by when my best friend finally dared ask for a divorce, and Trenton cut her face.
“What a klutz.” Lara giggles, fishing a packet of tissues from her mini bag and unfolding one while I stand there like the raccoon I once caught rooting through my camper.
She presses her tissue against the wet spot on my joggers—a spot that is way too close to my dick for comfort. I finally snap out of my daze and clap her wrist.
Trying to keep my tone flat, I say, “It’s fine.”
“No. No. Please. I insist.”
“AndIinsist that I’m fine,” I all but growl.
Lara suddenly flutters her lashes and whispers an awed, “Wow.”
“Wow,what?” Electra snaps, examining Lara from button nose to porn star lips. If it weren’t for her lighter coloring, she’d be the spitting image of Polly.
“He your boyfriend?” Lara asks, while I wonder what the fuck she’s playing at, waltzing around unmasked.
Do I also wonder how Electra will answer? Yes, I do.
My date narrows her eyes. “Why?”
“Because if he isn’t, I’d like to buy him a drink.”
I realize then why she’s here—because Trenton must be losing patience and wants to learn if I’m making actual progress.
“He doesn’t drink,“ Electra says.
“Doesn’t have to be alcohol.” Lara smiles, that college girl, sultry smile that disguises the venom behind.
“Not interested,” I say, slipping an arm around Electra’s waist and parking my hand on that slice of skin between her top and jeans. Though her body is as rigid as a wooden post, her skin is all goosebumps.
Lara pouts. “Shame.” She balls the tissue in her hand and reaches over to blot my pants once more.
