Two Wrongs: A Second Chance Romance (Trouble by Numbers Book 2)

by Donna Alam

  I squeeze my eyes, hooking my arm around one of the turned colonnades flanking the archway while trying to force a good, hard cry. Wonder how much tears weigh? I reckon I’ve put on at least three pounds in tear retention since leaving LA.

  Oh, God, I’m so very, very . . . ‘Fucked.’ The word is little more than a whisper expelled on a harsh breath.

  ‘Right there, as I recall. Epically.’

  I squeeze my eyes tighter at the sound of those smooth bass tones, my mind fighting the images his words create; of the time I’d hung onto this very post as he’d demanded I get there, his dirty promises filling my ears as he’d pounded me from behind.

  I should’ve known. Should’ve anticipated he’d be here. I purse my lips against the things I want desperately not to say—the angry and the intimate. Things I have no license to utter today. All the things I don’t want him to hear. Regret. Shame.

  My body begins to tremble at the muted sound of his bare feet against the tile—a slow progression, almost as though he draws closer only because compelled, reluctant because he knows he shouldn’t feel the draw.

  This is a sentiment I recognise like my own name.

  Should’ve known.

  Should’ve anticipated.

  Should’ve answered that letter a different way.

  ‘I’m pretty sure the wood still bears your nail marks.’

  Though I try to keep my eyes closed, they flutter open at the pull of his voice. Finding him standing less than a foot away, his arms are stretched high, his fingers touching the top of the archway. It still hurts to look at him. At how beautiful he is. Lean like a rock climber, he’s all angles and planes, and my eyes can’t help but map the contours of his bare arms as, inexplicably, my fingers itch to do the same. To trace the trail of dark hair peeking from the hem of his dark t-shirt. To run my hands over the ridges of his abs to his penny-coloured nipples and—

  ‘Cat got your tongue, baby?’

  My cheeks redden as my eyes snap to his face. Embarrassment is the least of my worries, my thoughts falling away. Tall, dark, and handsome doesn’t even touch this man—high, ruddy cheekbones, a mop of not-quite-black hair, and eyes a shade of green as changeable as the sea. Eyes that are, right now, a muted, stormy green.

  He lowers his arms, one hand reaching out, ghosting my cheek. Unprepared and suddenly empty, I lean into it, immediately regretting the motion.

  ‘You brought me back to reminisce? Really?’ My stomach twists along with this bitterness, but being a bitch is the only way I can deal with him and retain my sanity. ‘And you have my dog,’ I spit, leaning away—away from his body. Away from the scent of him.

  It’s not so much a smile as a cynical twist of his mouth as his hand drops. ‘Seven months and that’s all you have to say?’

  ‘Oh, I have plenty I want to say,’ I snap immediately. ‘You told me you’d gotten rid of him!’

  ‘I believe I said rehomed.’ A line of tension sits between his brows; I’m going to take it as guilt.

  ‘Yet here he is.’ One hand on my hip, I find myself using the other like some sarcastic game show model, indicating the scruffy mutt by my side. ‘Do you know how I’ve suffered, worrying about him? Wondering if he was okay—if his new owners were good to him? If you’d killed him.’ I regret this the instant it’s out of my mouth.

  ‘The fucking dog.’ One minute, his hands in the air, his movements jerky—what the fuck hands—and the next, they’re on his cheeks. ‘The fucking dog she worries about; but of the husband she left behind, not a fucking thing. Haven’t you wondered about me? Worried how I was doing?’

  He steps into me; his fingers tight on my arm as the smell of his cologne assaults my senses, taking me back to another time. Another time in the archway, my fingers clasping the wood as we made love. As we fucked. And that’s the beauty of it; even when we were fucking, we were making love.

  Dylan’s nostrils flare, his gaze following the path of my own; he knows where I’ve gone, and his anger softens. ‘Don’t you have anything to say to me? Aren’t you glad to be back, Edera?’ he asks gently. Softness spoken from his mouth contradicts the hardness from his eyes. I close my own, and purse my lips for good measure. ‘Why doesn’t that surprise me?’ he asks, his tone now cold and cynical.

  I shake my head, fighting against tears as he steps closer still, pressing his hard body against mine.

  ‘I’m here for only one thing.’ Well, two now. I want my dog back, but I’m not giving him any warning.

  ‘All that matters is you’re here.’ His cheek caresses mine as he leans his lips to my ear. ‘Welcome home, Edera Velenosa.’ My Poison Ivy.

  Chapter Seven

  Dylan

  I lean back before I kiss her cheek. Those honey eyes of hers blink at my welcome, seeming to lack guile. Good job I know her better than that.

  Edera Velenosa. My Poison Ivy.

  ‘That can’t be all you’ve brought me here to say.’ The soft brogue of her accent gets me in the chest every time. Like home. I haven’t heard from her in over half a year, and what she has said has been nothing but bullshit, so why do her soft words have me feeling like this? Like the blood in my veins is lava, every inch of my skin prickling with heat. What is it I’m feeling—rage? Relief? And why the fuck does she look the same, so soft and sweet? Beautiful and real.

  ‘Couldn’t you have put it in a letter?’ Her tone is cool, her eyes cold. ‘Paid your lawyer to pass on your best regards?’

  Her words dial up my rage; fuck her and her cool attitude. Just fuck her. She doesn’t fool me; she’s running scared and deflecting. Fuck her and fuck this shit, if I’m supposed to care.

  Stick with the program, asshole. Don’t let her suck you in again.

  ‘Maybe I just wanted to see your sweet face.’

  I fill the words with anything but sweetness as I step away. I want to be over her. I want to say that, when my gaze drew over her face after so many months parted, I’d felt nothing but distaste. Our parting. What a joke. We no more parted than we were cleaved. There was nothing clean or surgical about her leaving.

  She hacked. She sawed. We broke.

  Seeing her again, I was sure I’d be able to keep my heart as stone cold as my face. That I was over her. That what I wanted now was only revenge.

  Yeah, I want to say those things, but that’d make me as bad as she is. But maybe not nearly as bad as I plan to be.

  ‘Dylan.’ Her voice is tired like she has a right to be sick of my shit when, clearly, it’s the other way around. ‘Why am I here?’

  ‘Plain old blackmail?’ Ivy raises a brow like she’s implying it’s a dumb move. It’s not, because she’s standing here, isn’t she? She can try to hold her superior attitude, but she knows I’ve won. And if she hadn’t shown, I would have posted another piece of video porn. ‘You want your divorce, and while I have a fuck tonne to say about that, I want to hear why. I want to hear your side of tawdry, my adulterous little wife.’

  She flinches, her eyes sliding away, and I get a sick sense of satisfaction from her pain. I’m currently the kid who captures butterflies just to pull off their wings. I know what I’m doing will slice away her dark-haired prettiness and leave her in pain. And yeah, I’m a sick fuck because I want her to hurt—I want to be the one to cause her that hurt—and not so I can soothe her or make it better in any way. No, I want to wreck her. Take her apart bit by bit until she understands the truth of what it is to be wiped out. Obliterated.

  To her shoes, she says, ‘We’ve been through this already. I can’t take back what I did.’ Her head rises slowly, and in the honey of her eyes lives the truth. It was always there. I was just too fucked up and broken to see it. And though I see now, what I don’t see is why. ‘Dylan, you can’t doubt what you saw.’

  I choose not to take her words as a taunt—as I no doubt did before—and see them today for exactly what they are. Acts of evasiveness. Fuck that, again, because what I saw broke my fucking heart. I turn away from her coo
lness at the memory and rake my fingers through my hair. A picture paints a thousand words, and what I’d walked into that morning spelled nothing but misery. I know the truth of it now, but that fucking picture. That’s indelible. Permanent. And a lot like hate.

  I stare out at the garden. I never stay in this house, not since she left. It sits empty, and the truth about the dog is I pay a fortune for someone to stay here with him. I can’t be here, and I can’t be with him, but I sure as shit wasn’t going to let her take him. She gets nothing. Nothing but what I’m about to serve her.

  Good thing we were never together long enough to have kids.

  I take a deep quelling breath, my shoulders rising and falling with it, and then turn back to face her. ‘Cut the shit, Ivy.’

  ‘Tell me what you want from me.’

  ‘So fucking reasonable. Been polishin’ your chakras, babe?’

  ‘If you brought me here to fight—’

  ‘Don’t flatter yourself.’ She flinches while I sneer. ‘I brought you here to end this thing.’

  ‘We could’ve done this on paper. I sent you the documents.’

  ‘And perjure us both,’ I return. Her face is a picture; surely, she had to know this day was coming. ‘Where’s the fun in that? See, we both know the truth now, baby. We both know you lied.’

  Chapter Eight

  Ivy

  He says nothing else; he doesn’t need to because there’s nothing else to say.

  I can’t offer him an explanation. A reason. I can only stand in front of him and be judged. I want to say I feel the weight of his censure and disgust, but all I feel is his triumph. A triumph short lived, and possibly unsatisfactory for him. He stares at me for a moment longer, the weight of his gaze almost suffocating, before he turns on his heel and storms from the room.

  A moment later, the front door slams.

  ‘Anyone would think he owns the place,’ I say to the now empty room, Nigel long since having trotted off in the direction of the kitchen.

  Dylan knows, and I’m numb. Not processing. Unmoving and just stunned. But fuck him and his victory because this house may no longer be my home, but I’m not one of his things. He doesn’t own me. He makes it sound as though I’m the only one on trial here just because I did what I did before he ruined me.

  Call it self-preservation, because the only reason I’m not pooled on the floor is that I. Left. First. I saw the signs; barely married and he’s telling the actress he’s filming with that I’m just his hair stylist. His hair stylist! And yes, maybe I was, but only because he insisted I be on set to fix his hair. Dylan isn’t that vain; I thought it was because he wanted me near, but now, I think it was probably the thrill of being able to feel me up while risk being caught. Seems nothing’s better than feeling up your wife while her hands are busy.

  What is it with men? Creeping up and grabbing your arse when your hands are sudsy or full of tint?

  But it wasn’t so much my job title I objected to even if it felt like he was punishing me that day. What I objected to was his intonation, his tone. That throwaway line.

  Oh, she’s just my hairstylist. Just. Just!

  And I very much objected to how he waltzed on by with her pawing his arm, all doe-eyed and star struck.

  So we’d fought that morning.

  So he was tired of us being a secret, but I had my reasons.

  So he didn’t know I’d already begun to look at flights to take him home to meet my family. Screw what his agent said because when I said I had my reasons, the slime ball’s words were part of it.

  Right now, he doesn’t need a wife, Ivy. He needs to feed the fan beast—make them think he’s dating the ‘it’ girls of this world; models, starlets, daughters of famous parents. Are they or aren’t they? Who will it be next? He needs to cultivate this persona; make the world ask just who is Dylan Duffy?

  If anyone cared to ask, I’d tell them the truth right now: Dylan Duffy’s a complete twat.

  As a star’s wife, you’ll have to prepare yourself. Actors fall in and out of love during the roles they play. It’s make believe, sure, but for them, at those moments, it’s real. You know what I’m saying, Ivy. Yeah, I knew what he was getting at. That people stray. You have to be prepared to watch from the sidelines, babe.

  Not happening, babe.

  Nigel pads back into the room, flopping onto his bed by the unlit fire. I don’t know whether he’s been fed or walked, exactly what time it is, or which side is up and which is down currently. I’m so tired I’m almost dead on my feet. But I still have one more thing to do. I slide open my phone like a dutiful friend. I’d sent Fin a text from the cab telling her I’d landed and that I’d Skype her soon, but I’m not in any sort of mood to be grilled again. Actually, I’m surprised she hasn’t called to ask what the delay is. I shoot her a quick text to say I’m off to bed and that I’ll call tomorrow, instead. Closing my phone, I slide it into the back pocket of my jeans.

  Bed. I need sleep. My mind’s not working so well, and I’m in no mood for combat. That is if he even returns. We can continue this in the morning; he and his black temper can go rain someplace else for now.

  My suitcase is small and light, having packed for only a few days, so it’s easy to carry upstairs. Though his note didn’t mention a timescale, I’ve no intention of staying long. The master suite is the first door on the left at the top of the stairs, and though I pause at the doorway of the room that was once ours, I don’t go in. Instead, I walk the hallway to the room farthest away. The scene of the crime is something I don’t need to see. Wonder how many women he’s had in there since?

  I’m surprised Nigel isn’t behind me; he used to sleep at the end of our bed. It’s hardly surprising he isn’t trotting at my heel. He probably feels like I abandoned him, too. Once I’ve brushed my teeth and removed the grime of travelling by virtue of a quick shower, I shove on a tank top and shorts set, then leave the bedroom door open a wee bit. That way, should the woolly mutt change his mind, he won’t resort to howling.

  It has been known. A couple of times, Dylan locked him out of the room. Nigel’s a bit of voyeur, and Dylan didn’t like him staring when we . . . you know. No need to worry about that happening again. Not for me, anyway.

  The linens are cool against my skin, though I feel off balance lying in the guest room. I’d decorated this room with my parents in mind, hoping they’d visit once they’d gotten over my husband bombshell.

  That’s never going to happen now.

  I’d turned the thermostat higher before collapsing into bed because I hate sleeping in the frigid air conditioning. Give me good old Scottish weather with the rain pelting the windows and the wind outside blowing a gale—give me that, and I’ll show you the perfect antidote. The upside of living somewhere where it rains three hundred and fifty days a year—a hot toddy, a Kindle, and the central heating turned up full blast. There’s just something about a room feeling like the sauna in a Swedish massage place.

  And that’s pretty much the last thought I have.

  It’s dark. The floor creaks, but for some reason, I don’t open my eyes. I’m not frightened, reassured perhaps by the quiet whine of Nigel. Seems I’m not the only one having their sleep disturbed. My breath halts as Dylan’s voice whispers in the darkness; a small praise I don’t quite catch. My heart jumps into my throat even as, without opening my eyes, I can see him patting Nigel’s head. Without any real cognitive processing, I continue my feigned sleep as Dylan’s body lands heavily on the chair across from the bed.

  Then nothing. No further movement. Just the sounds of our breathing, deep and even. I know he’s watching me, and my skin prickles from the weight of his gaze, the fine hairs on my forearms standing like pins. The room is warm now, overly so, and I’ve kicked the blankets to the end of the bed, it seems. I’m suddenly aware of my tiny pyjamas; have my boobs fallen out of the thin cotton tank? Without reaching to touch, I can only guess, and even as I do so, my nipples harden against the fabric.

 
I’m not flashing him, am I?

  Guilt comes next. Because I feel uneasy that he’s here? That I pretend to sleep? Whatever the cause, I fight the urge to open my eyes. A sick sense of need fuels my sleeping pretence as my mind and heart are suddenly filled with a million conflicting things.

  The clink of ice against a glass brings me out of my confused misery, and the sense of him taking a sip makes me almost want to lick my lips. I manage to keep my breathing deep and even, though the cogs in my mind whir. Why is he here and what am I to do about it?

  ‘I hate you.’ My heart stops again—properly. His voice is little more than a whisper; an exhausted sound in the darkness that pierces my chest. ‘I really, really hate you,’ he repeats, his voice a little stronger now. Then he utters my name like a curse.

  Tears of shame and rage burn in my throat; my molars gripped so tight I feel a shooting pain. I did this to him—I’ve caused this hurt. But the fact is—we’re a matching pair—he made me feel the same.

  ‘I have all this . . . stuff inside me—this fury,’ he whispers, the words of a one-sided conversation I’m not meant to hear. ‘I’m famous for smashing cameras and trashing bars and hotel rooms as much as for my work these days. That’s all your doing. You fucking ruined me for better things. Better fucking things; what does that even mean? What was better than you and me?’

  The glass hits the dresser followed by a muffled bang of his knees against the floor, the mattress dipping a little as he rests his elbows there. He’s so close; his soft breath suddenly feathers my skin.

  ‘My God, how I hate you.’ I can feel his fingers hovering, almost touching my hair. I want, though I shouldn’t, to feel him more solidly. I crave the contact, though I tell myself it’s a physical thing. That I miss his touch, but I don’t miss him. More lies I tell myself.