“I've been checking on you every day. Malice has kept me posted.”
“Malice calling and checking in is not the same, Grim, and you know it.”
“Oh, I’m Grim today?”
“Yeah, and for the rest of the year,” I muttered, sliding the envelope toward him without flinching. “A prenup?”
Lesley didn’t reach for the papers. Didn’t even blink. Just sipped his coffee like the air between us wasn’t thick with tension.
“I didn’t send these, Coco, I don’t need anybody to do my bidding,” he said, calm and unmoved.
“Yet, they still ended up here. That tells me everything I need to know.”
“What does it tell you?”
I shrugged, playing it off, but my voice cracked just enough to betray me. “That I’m here on borrowed time and not to be trusted. I don’t want your money.”
“Coco—”
“Don’t.” I held up my hand. “I’m not mad. Just... disappointed. I thought we were starting to move in a different way. I thought maybe this wasn’t just about performanceanymore. But your absence made it clear what this is. I’ll act accordingly.”
I turned back to the stove, the sizzle of bacon filling the silence. My hands moved faster than usual, sharper than usual, scraping the pan too hard, clattering the spatula against the skillet, plating his food as if it were a chore rather than care. Toast hit the plate harder than it needed to; bacon was stacked carelessly, and eggs were folded with no finesse.
I slid the plate across the island, not bothering to smooth the edges or wipe down the mess I’d left behind.
His hand came down, covering the plate before I could pull away. He didn’t even look at the food. He looked at me.
“I ain’t eating nothing from you that wasn’t made with love or from the heart.” His voice was low, steady. “If it’s coming from spite, keep it. I’ll starve.”
The words cut through the heat of my frustration, leaving me bare for a second.
“You serious?” I asked, arms crossing tight.
“Dead serious,” he said, eyes never leaving mine.
“You had both,” I shot back, my voice catching. “Until you disappeared. Until you left me in this house after I shared my shit with you. That’s where you lost me. I’m disappointed.”
“Disappointed by what, Colecion? You ain’t telling me nothing.”
I laughed, bitterly and short, then turned back toward the stove like I was done. “By you acting like my feelings don’t matter. I didn’t cross your mind once.”
I barely got two steps before his hand clamped around my waist and yanked me back. My breath hitched as my body collided with his, rigid and unmovable, the spatula still dangling uselessly in my hand. He pulled me down into his lap like I weighed nothing. My knees buckled, thighs pressing tight together on instinct.
I should’ve fought, pushed off, stood my ground. Instead, my palms flattened against his shoulders for balance, heat rolling through me where his grip locked me in place. My heartbeat stuttered, traitorous, giving me away even as I tried to keep my face neutral.
“You got my number. You could’ve called instead of letting this brew.” His tone was casual, but the look he gave me told me he was serious.
“And look sad and desperate? No, thank you.”
“How does calling your husband make you sad and desperate?”
“Oh, you do remember. And no husband of mine would have had me sitting here for two weeks with no contact.”
“You're right, and I don’t have an excuse for it. But why haven’t you signed the papers?”
“Do you want me to sign them?”
“I want to know why you haven’t.”
