Page 121 of The Right Kind of Wrong

Monroe flicked her gaze back to him, only for a moment. “How’s your hickey healing?”

Denny was undeterred. He crossed his arms over his broad chest and leaned back against the worn leather booth. “Quite nicely, thanks for asking. Though, I did get myself a new one, so I suppose I’m right back where I started.”

And what a way to put it. Monroe, too, felt like she was right back where she’d started.

In this town. Hanging out with her childhood best friend. Trying to clean up after her brother’s mistakes.

The only thing that was different was that she didn’t have to worry about her mom on top of everything, even though she’d give anything for that not to be the case.

Well, there was also one other major difference, and Denny was doing his damnedest to pry it out of her.

“You gonna tell me about him?” Monroe asked, her eyebrow raising defiantly, somehow able to hear the twang in her voice over the zaps and bangs and punches reverberating from the games.

Denny picked up a coaster and twirled it around. “Are you going to tell me why Blake Bettencourt’s been practically skipping around the shop this week?”

Because we’ve both been having such good sex that it’s a wonder either of us is still walking.

She didn’t say that, obviously.

But that’s what had been going on. All week, like some sort of almost-nightly occurrence that was never planned ahead of time but was always spurred on by one of them—usually Monroe, now that she was thinking about it—as the last wisps of sunlight disappeared below the horizon.

The first time, she’d call it fifty-fifty, even though Blake had been the one to escalate things at the swimming hole first, earlier in the day.

The second time—well, that was technically Monroe, who’d texted Blake on Monday night under the guise of checking in on her first dance classes of the week. But Blake, as she was prone to doing, had risen to the challenge, asking to borrow a cup of sugar, of all things.

They’d been inside within five minutes, with Blake splayed out on Monroe’s bed, naked and dripping for her. Monroe had gone down on her eagerly, Blake’s heels digging into Monroe’s back forcefully until she had come in her mouth.

Blake, coming all over her chin, panting into the darkened room, had been enough to leave Monroe on the edge. When she’d crawled up Blake’s body seconds later, her own need apparent as soon as Blake slid inside of her, she’d come with her own muffled cry, the taste of Blake on both of their lips.

Then, Monroe had done what she usually did when she felt emotionally overwhelmed. She’d retreated.

Blake hadn’t suggested coming over the next night. Monroe had felt an annoyed slither of satisfaction that she’d been right not to reach out.

Blake’s life was peaks and valleys, and Monroe needed to make sure that she didn’t force things between them.

With Sylvia, Monroe had known the score. Even though they’d been in a relationship, it had been quid pro quo.

Blake didn’t need anything from Monroe. Not art. Not money. Not time.

She wanted her, and that in and of itself was terrifying to consider. It meant that Blake saw something that Monroe herself wasn’t aware of.

Any sane person would love it.

But Monroe had never said she was sane. Or well-adjusted.

Monroe had burned through more canvases this week than she could afford to lose, unless she wanted to explain to Sylvia why she had a half-dozen pieces of a naked woman who, thematically, didn’t fit the show that she was working on in the slightest.

Then, Wednesday night, Blake had finally reached out.

Monroe still cringed when she thought about how quickly she’d responded to Blake’s text message.

They’d fallen back into bed again, fucking until the early hours of the morning.

After an incredibly domestic evening of making Maisie dinner and then watching a movie on the sofa, with Maisie snuggled between them, of course.

It didn’t matter that they weren’t talking about what they were doing, except for the requisite promises that neither of them would let having sex interrupt their friendship.

Monroe knew that she was risking too much.