Page 45
I point toward the living room like it’s obvious. “The damned couch.”
He sighs, frustrated. “Tell me how the hell would that look? We’re supposed to be a couple. Dallas finding me crashed out on the couch like a one night stand says differently.”
“That’s your God damn problem.”
He doesn’t answer. Just steps in and shuts the door behind him—quietly, deliberately. Then he reaches for the hem of his shirt, starts peeling it off like we’re not in the middle of a God damn emotional hurricane.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I reach out, trying to stop him.
He towers over me, catching both my hands in one of his, invading my space. “Lou, I’m fucking exhausted, and so are you. Now, you can either get in that shower and crawl into bed with me…or I’ll make you.”
“You can’t make me do shit,” I spit, even though every inch of me is burning, raw and aching like I’m on fire.
Henry leans in, eyes sharp as knives, cutting through every lie I tell myself. His thumb catches my bottom lip, pulling it down slow, like he’s daring me to break. “Wildflower,” he breathes, voice low and brutal, “you can run this place like a fortress—but don’t fool yourself. You’re desperate to let go. To stop fighting. To finally feel something real.”
Fuck him. Fuck that truth pounding between us like a hammer. It’s a trap, and I’m caught in the center, suffocating.
I wrench my hands free, my body trembling with the fight I can’t win, and storm toward the bathroom, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the walls.
“Put a fucking line of pillows between us.” My voice cracks, but I don’t care. I need the distance. I need the space. I need to breathe.
I barely close the shower curtain when the door creaks open. “Jesus Christ,” I snap, voice rough and tight.
Henry clears his throat, stepping inside with that easy confidence that makes my skin itch. “Figured it’d be better to talk with the water running—so Dallas doesn’t catch anything.”
I squeeze a dollop of shampoo into my palm, trying to steady my shaking hands. “Talk? About what?”
The silence stretches, thick and heavy. Then he says, low and steady, “About his file.”
The words hit me like a punch to the gut. I yank the curtain back, meeting his gaze. He’s leaning against the sink, all inked muscle and sharp angles, dressed in nothing but black boxer briefs. The sight roars through me like a warning—wanting, aching, but also the reminder of everything I’m not allowed to want.
“No,” I cut in, voice sharper than I intend. “I don’t want to hear about his fucking file. You didn’t see what she did—the way she pulled that brick and slammed it on the damn coffee table.”
Henry’s mouth quirks in that infuriating way. “She didn’t slam it.”
I glare, voice hard and fierce. “I said no, Henry. He’ll tell me in his own time, his own way. Not like this.”
His eyes narrow, a dangerous gleam in them—the same one I saw at Evie’s baby shower. “Careful, Lou. Talking like that, someone might start to think you plan on sticking around.”
I swallow hard, forcing the words out like splinters. “You think I’d dedicate all this time to being around him and then just dip? I’ll still be in his life…but from a distance. Like the fun aunt. Same way I am with Charlie and Bash.”
Henry doesn’t move. Just stands there, arms crossed over that ridiculous chest, eyes calm but cutting. “Sure,” he says softly, almost like he’s agreeing with me, but there’s a bitter edge to his words. “Just the fun aunt.”
A beat of silence.
“But you should’ve seen your face, Lou. When he said they always get rid of him.”
He doesn’t push, just lets the quiet do the work before turning and leaving me alone in the bathroom where the silence suddenly feels deafening.
Steam curls off my skin as I step out of the shower, and I almost blink at the sight—a neat line of pillows stretched across the middle of the bed, our silent truce waiting. There he is: Henry. Every inch of that golden, solid body laid out like a God damn trap, glasses perched low, a book resting casually in one hand like he actually plans to read it.
His eyes catch mine over the rim, those wild hazel storms flashing, raking down my body like heat I can feel in my bones. He tries to look casual, but that kind of fire never hides—not from me.
Usually, I sleep naked. Hell, he knows it, but tonight, I wear a loose tank and shorts—tiny rattlesnakes coiled all over them. Cute. Venomous. Just like me.
He doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t need to. That smirk hiding behind the book says it all, and I’m not about to let him win.
Before he can open that smart mouth, I strike first.
