“Oh yeah?” He scoffs. “Whose name is on the lease?”
“Are you being serious?”
“I want you gone by the time I get home.”
“Where will I go? I have no money because you never give me any.”
“Thank God for small favors. Now get the hell out. You’ll be hearing from my lawyer—oh, wait,I’mthe lawyer. I guess that means you’ll be hearing fromme. Consider this a warning that you’re about to be served with divorce papers. And good fucking riddance.”
I’m crying now. Big snotty sobs. And I’m utterly torn between reminding him how good we used to be together and begging him to reconsider, and taking the out he’s giving me.
“Do I need to call security and have you escorted the fuck out?”
Jesus—who is this man?Okay, so he hasn’t exactly been Prince Charming lately, but he never curses at me. Or when he does, he immediately apologizes.
He picks up the phone to make good on his threat.
Inside my head, I pull on my big girl panties and turn my sadness and fear into pure anger. “I’m leaving,” I say, swiping my hand across his desk and sending his hot coffee right onto his crisp white button-up shirt.
“Fuck!” he jumps out of his chair and raises his hand as if he’s going to take a swing at me.
I duck and race to the door, turning to say one last thing. “I hope you get everything you deserve.”
An hour later, I’m putting four suitcases and three trash bags holding our belongings into a cab, knowing the fare will overdraw my account. I give the cabbie the address of Amelia’s daycare and wonder just what I’m going to do once my next paycheck runs out. If I ever get it at all.
Chapter Sixteen
Kenna
I wake in a pool of sweat, my mind instantly fixating on the texts Cyrus sent last night. Those three horrible texts from another new phone number. He knows I moved out of the apartment. He reminded me how good he is at finding people. He even posted a picture of my new car on my old street. He emphasized how time is running out and promised to make good on his threat. Butwhichthreat?
Over the past few days, I’d all but convinced myself he would never do anything to Amelia. As soon as I found out about his gambling problem, he couldn’t get us out of his life fast enough. But then I recall what that guy Luke said about people like Cyrus doing things they didn’t know they were capable of. Is Cyrus capable of kidnapping? Would he use her to pay his bookies? Though it seems unlikely, I can’t take that risk, even if I’m trying to somehow rationalize staying in this town.
This town.
I stare up at the ceiling, reminiscing about yesterday. It was perfect. The walk. The coffee. The swimming. Making dinner together.
But I’m not sure it had anything to do with the town at all.
I close my eyes and think of every look, every touch, every laugh I’ve shared with him over this past week. And that kiss…
Has it really been a week?
I sit up as a pang of guilt washes over me. I’ve been here for an entire week and haven’t paid Carter a single penny of the agreed-upon amount. He probably thinks I’m a liar, and maybe a moocher.
Footsteps overhead have tingles shooting through me. I glance over at a sleeping Amelia, put on my robe, and take money out of my purse. Then I head upstairs as quietly as I can. It’s still early and I don’t want to wake the kids.
When I open the door to the kitchen, I stop dead. Carter is facing away from me, standing in front of the stove wearing only a pair of sweatpants. His back is lean and muscular and…hello… there’s the tattoo that was peeking out from his shirt the day we met. The one I caught a few brief glimpses of at the pool. I couldn’t make it out then without any obvious ogling, but now, with his back turned, all bets are off and I catch myself holding my breath in an attempt to remain absolutely silent as I take in the incredible sight.
It spans the upper part of his back between his shoulder blades. It’s hard to say what it is exactly. It almost looks like a stylized bird. A phoenix maybe. With wavy lines that could be wings coming out from a center that resembles a sun. Or an eye. It’s very artistic. I swallow hard, the urge to trace every bit of his sexy tattoo with my fingers, or maybe my tongue, overpowering.
He turns, and I wonder if my internal moans weren’t so internal. Smiling at me with a devilish grin that alerts me that he has, in fact, caught me ogling, he waves the spatula in his hand. “Pancakes?”
“What?” My brain struggles to work as I tear my eyes away and attempt to look anywhere but at him. “Oh, um, thanks, but I never eat before coffee.”
He strides over to a cabinet, pulls out two coffee cups, then fills them. He hands me one and I read the mug: World’s Greatest Dad.
“Shouldn’tyouhave this one?” I ask.
