Her gaze slides down my bare chest, lingers a fraction too long at the waistband of my boxers, then zips back up.
“Right. You’re right.” She takes a small step back. “I’m sorry. I should have called.”
“Yeah,” I snap. “You should have. And not until after nine. Because, Saturday.”
“I’ll go,” she says, voice small, apologetic. “I’ll… I’ll go.”
“That’s probably for the best.”
She turns, starts down the steps, and that’s when a Kia Telluride I know all too well jerks to a stop at my curb like God heard my prayer for more sleep and laughed.
Because of course Victoria Foster would show up at my house at 6 a.m. when my ex-wife is leaving and I’m standing at my open door practically naked.
The driver side door flies open. Tori barrels out. And damn, she’s hot. Not like, good looking hot—which she is, because she always looks amazing—but like, fucking angry hot.
Stephanie startles like she’s been shot at.
“Are you fucking kidding me?!” Tori yells, and the sound of it hits my porch, my chest, my stupid, hungover brain.
If the neighbors weren’t awake before, they probably are now.
Stephanie freezes, looks from Tori to me and back. “I was just leaving,” she says, and hustles toward her car like she’s outrunning a storm.
Tori rounds the front of her SUV, hands waving, eyes burning with fury. She points at me like I’m a dead man.
“Your ex-wife, Leo? You couldn’t even stick your dick in some random Tinder twat to get yourself off? You had to go and sleep withher?!”
She punctuates that statement by jabbing a finger toward the street where Stephanie is fumbling with her keys.
“Wait,” Stephanie asks. “Who are you?”
“That is none of your damn business, Champagne Problems,” Tori snaps. “Now go the fuck home.”
I laugh. I can’t help it. She’s so sexy when she’s angry. And—ouch, fuck,my head.
“You think this is funny?” she shrieks. “She’s married, Leo. MARRIED.”
I shrug because I’m stupid, and also because why does she care?
Which reminds me.
“I thought you went back to Moraine?” I toss out. “Back to yourhusband.”
At first, Tori looks like I slapped her. Then the rage returns.
“I did,” she fires back. “To getdivorced, you dumb idiot.”
All the air goes out of my lungs. I swear it’s like someone just kicked me in the chest and I cannot breathe.
Wait. What?
I stand there in my doorway like a frozen gargoyle, mouth half open, nothing useful coming out.
Her expression morphs from fury to exhaustion. “I’m too fucking tired for this,” she mutters, turns, and climbs back into the SUV.
The next thing I know her door slams shut and she’s speeding away before my knees remember how to bend.
“Tori. Wait!” I call, and then I’m running down the steps, forgetting that I’m not wearing shoes. The porch is rimmed in frost and my entire driveway is a sheet of ice posing as concrete.
