She pokes my chest. “I have the right to be happy!”

Poke.

“Believe it or not, Tom actually finds me attractive!”

Poke.

“He likes talking to me, spending time with me!”

Poke.

“He wants me . . . even if you don’t!”

I catch her hand, spin her around, and press her back against the wall of the house. She glares up at me, chin raised, fearless and daring, her ice-blue eyes cold with fury.

Thinking straight went out the window when she started talking about other men. Weighing the consequences of my actions came to a halt the second she said I didn’t want her.

As if that was even fucking possible.

Now it’s all just mindless instinct. Pure emotion, fire, need. The need for my touch to be the last one she feels tonight. My lips her goodnight kiss. Not. Fucking. Tom’s.

“Wanting you was never the issue, Chelsea.”

I lean against her, feel her breasts achingly soft against my chest, my knee between her thighs, where she’s warm and heavenly. My face so close to hers, we breathe the same air.

She pulls against my grip, bucks. “It is!” she hisses. “That’s what you said. This—me—isn’t what you wanted.”

That awful night is a blur. A vague memory of foreign nervousness, regret, and stumbling words. I don’t know what the hell I actually told her.

“Did I?” I press even closer, letting her feel exactly how hard she’s wanted. “Then I’m an idiot.” My eyes drink her in, every inch—her panting lips, flushed cheeks, the throbbing pulse in her neck that tells me she wants me too. “And even worse—I’m a liar, too.”

My mouth covers hers and I taste her moan—it’s long and desperately relieved. She whimpers as I release her wrists, just so I can touch her, and she wraps her arms around my neck, pulling me closer. I suck on her bottom lip before delving back into the slick sweetness of her mouth.

It’s been so long. Too long.

She arches against me and all I want to do is grab her, lift her, and fuck her against the wall.

It’s that thought that brings sanity roaring back.

Shit, what am I doing? I told her this had to stop, and then . . . Fuck, I’m a caveman.

Gently, I grip her arms and force myself to step back, separating us. I stare down at the stone patio, so I don’t have to look at her. “Chelsea, I’m . . . This was a mistake. It won’t happen again. I’m sorry.”

She doesn’t say anything at first. But I can feel her. Feel the confusion and then the anger—it radiates from her in thick, weighted waves. When I finally look at her face, her mouth is more of a snarl than a frown. Her brows are drawn together and her eyes shoot blue sparks.

And sick bastard that I am, it turns me on even more.

Until she speaks. “You know, Jake, I always knew you were capable of being an asshole, when you wanted to be. But I never, ever, thought you’d be a coward.”

And she walks away. Opens the French door and slips back into the house.

And I feel like fucking dirt. Like the kind that gets trapped under Cousin It’s claws. That’s me—a speck of filth under the tiny nail of a small goddamn dog.

27

The next day, at work, I’m at the very top of Sofia’s shit list. This is driven home when she comes barreling into my office and slams the door behind her. Eyes blazing, hair flying, she braces her arms on my desk, leaning over me.

And I have a whole new respect for Stanton. Sofia can be pretty goddamn intimidating when she puts her mind to it.

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

“If you want an actual answer, you’ll have to be more specific.”

“You’re playing games with Chelsea. And it needs to stop.”

Obviously, Chelsea filled her in on our interaction in the garden. I wonder what she said, how she described it. And I don’t actually mind that Sofia is taking her side—Chelsea deserves to have someone in her corner.

“I didn’t mean to.” Weak. So fucking weak.

“You’re tearing her apart, Jake. She doesn’t know which end is up.”

I flinch.

“So either shit or get off the pot. Either you’re her friend, or you’re more than her friend—you can’t have it both ways.”

“I fucking know that!” I snap. “I’m her friend.”

Sofia straightens, folding her arms. “Then I suggest you start acting like it.”

• • •

Sofia’s verbal attack bugs the shit out of me the rest of the day. My focus is crap because of it—so I cut out early and drive straight to Chelsea’s house. To talk to her. To make sure we’re okay.

’Cause I really fucking need us to be okay.

There’s a strange car in the driveway when I pull up—a white Chevy Suburban. The front door is unlocked, so I walk in. The house is quiet, so I make my way into the kitchen and look out the glass of the back door. Chelsea’s wearing overalls and a tiny white T-shirt. Her hair is pulled into a shiny bun. Ronan is crawling around on a blanket beside her. She’s in the vegetable garden, smacking at the ground with a shovel, maybe a hoe.

And she’s not alone.

Beside her, talking easily, swinging his own tool, is Tom Caldwell.

And he . . . fits. Looks like he belongs here—in a house with a garden, a ruglike dog, and a three-car garage. The kind of guy who goes to PTA meetings and Boy Scout jamborees. They match—him and Chelsea—as fucking nauseous as it makes me to admit that. I think of Rachel and Robert McQuaid’s wedding portrait in their upstairs bedroom and can so easily imagine Chelsea and Tom’s faces in their place.