Page 128 of The Right Kind of Wrong

Monroe accepted, putting her phone facedown on the coffee table and walking away before she asked Blake to come over. Anything she didn’t know paled in comparison to the one thing that she did: She couldn’t stay away from Blake, and there was no way forward but through.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Blake had miscalculated somewhere.

She, Monroe, and Holland were seated at a high-top table at Slider’s, with a live band in the corner playing some up-tempo country cover.

She was looking at Monroe, but she wasn’t the same woman who’d held Blake in the hot tub less than two days ago, their bodies pressed together as they’d breathed in the same air.

The same woman who’d been fucking Blake’s brains out all week.

The same woman Blake had opened up to, at Monroe’s encouragement, about her fears and insecurities.

It felt like, at some point between last night and today, a chasm had opened up between them.

When she’d invited Holland along, she’d thought Monroe would appreciate having a small group to spend the night with. It would certainly diffuse any public scrutiny about what the two of them were doing out together on a Saturday night. Plus, it was hard for her to keep her hands to herself around Monroe, so it had made a lot of sense in that respect, too.

Someone in Cypress Falls was always watching, ready to trade gossip like it was currency. She didn’t want Monroe to have to be on the receiving end of any of it.

And yeah, she hadn’t expected that Holland would take charge, showing up at her house earlier tonight with an offer bordering on an insistence to drive everyone, but between Monroe texting her last night and her and Holland showing up at Monroe’s front door when it was time to leave, something had shifted.

If Holland had noticed, she was pretending that she didn’t. “First night out without Maisie?” she asked Monroe over the music. She looked effortlessly gorgeous in a tank top and tight jeans, her strawberry blonde hair tousled after she’d run her hands through it a few times.

They’d already covered Maisie’s return to daycare, which had been agreed upon after another day at home on Friday and an apology to Billy, the kid Maisie had hit. Blake had had to pry those details out of Monroe like she was extracting teeth.

Holland was finding herself in a very similar situation now. “Yeah,” Monroe said absently, looking around at the surprising volume of people packed into the space.

Slider’s, once a month, became something akin to a honky-tonk, staying open late and offering alcohol. Blake wasn’t sure of the legality of it, but it was just one of those things that happened, and the town, at large, seemed to accept it.

They’d arrived less than an hour ago, and she was about to head to the bar for another round, just to get some breathing room. Or, at the very least, to collect her thoughts.

She’d met different versions of Monroe already. Sad. Overwhelmed. Elated. Turned on. Content.

The Monroe sitting next to her was none of those things.

She was fidgety and, frankly, agitated as all get out, her eyes never staying on Blake or Holland for longer than a few seconds.

Holland hopped down from her stool and picked up their empty glasses. “I’m going to grab us another round.”

Traitor.

She disappeared without another word, even though she did give Blake a confused look over her shoulder.

Which Monroe obviously didn’t catch because she was intent on looking anywhere except the two of them.

Underneath the table, Blake could feel Monroe’s thigh vibrating. She put her hand on top of it, resting enough weight on it to be soothing but not to stop Monroe if she was intent to keep jittering her leg.

Monroe stilled, shooting Blake a glance.

Blake didn’t move her hand. No one could see it, anyway. She had moved her stool as close to Monroe’s as she could, and their thighs were practically pressed against one another anyway.

“Is everything okay?” she asked, now that they were alone. “Is this about being away from Maisie?”

Monroe let out a noncommittal sound. And sure, she wasn’t the most overtly communicative woman Blake had ever met, but this was a whole new level, even for her.

Too bad Blake really had a thing for emotionally closed-off brunettes with piercing blue eyes.

Blake glanced over to the bar. Holland was talking to Lainey, who was acting as the bartender tonight, while men tried to cut in every few seconds, probably to buy Holland a drink.