He groans again, and the soft sensation of his nose nuzzling against the back of my neck sends a line of pinpricks down my spine.
I’m not sure what the hell I’m doing here. But the reason I was compelled to seek comfort in the arms of the only man who’s ever truly broken me is a glaring question mark I’m choosing to ignore for the time being.
I’m here.
That happened.
It is what it is.
My phone chimes, somewhat muted from the inside of my clutch on top of Royal’s kitchen counter.
“You wanna get that?” He pulls the covers over his eyes. “Been going off all morning.”
“Sorry.” I climb out of bed, full-glory naked, and yank the covers off him to wrap myself in a makeshift sarong.
“Hey . . .” He reaches for the covers, but it’s too late. I have them.
I glance back and capture the beautiful view behind me. God, he’s so fucking sexy. Seven years were very kind to him. He’s all muscles and tattoos and just enough hair in all the right places.
Royal flips his pillow over his face, blocking out the sunlight, and my stare lingers on his naked body a little bit longer. I’m half-tempted to run back over and pounce on him, demanding another round. We were doing some serious making up for lost time last night, and I don’t think we came anywhere near making up for a fraction of those years.
I turn to my clutch, unsnap it, and pull my phone out.
Five missed calls.
Ten minutes apart.
All from Brenda Abbott.
I can’t deny the sinking feeling that threatens my footing. Considering what went on last night and Brooks’s propensity for manipulative tactics, I’m guessing this isn’t going to be a nice phone call.
That, and she’s probably calling to yell at me for dodging out of the fundraiser. But I couldn’t lie. I couldn’t stand there and tell boldfaced lies with a smile on my face.
Sucking in a breath, I press her name on my screen and bring the phone to my ear.
She answers in the middle of the first ring.
I grip a nearby bar stool and climb up, resting my elbows on Royal’s counter. They feel like Jell-O already.
“Demetria.” Brenda’s never called me by my full name before. “I’ve been trying to reach you since last night.”
She doesn’t ask if everything’s okay, and I know immediately that’s not what this is about.
“Delilah said you were sick, but I was with you just before that, and you were completely fine. Ugh. I’ve never been so humiliated in all my life,” she whines. “You should’ve been there, speaking to the donors. I don’t think it would’ve killed you.”
In four years, Brenda’s never once lectured me or spoken down to me. I let her rant and rave, let her get it out of her system, and I sit quietly on my end of the line and take it.
“I know exactly what this is about.” Brenda’s voice turns into a snippy huff, and my heart thumps. I glance at sleeping Royal across the room, and he rolls to his side, smashing his pillow with his muscled arm. “I know all about you and your trampy ways, Demi.”
I cough, choking on my spit, and turn away from Royal. “Wh-what?”
“That’s right,” she says. “Your neighbors have told me all about the mystery beau in the black sports car who comes to your house every night.”
Fuck.
“I’ve known about it since last week, and the only reason I covered for you was for Brooks’s sake. I couldn’t have my son waking up to find that his dutiful fiancé was entertaining another man in her free time.” Brenda’s tone is hurried, impatient. She’s been harboring this, holding on to this information and waiting for just the right moment to dump it on me.
That explains a lot.
“My son, my beautiful son, was in a coma, Demi, and you were screwing around on him like some floozy.”
“Brenda, I can assure you, it was nothing like that. I know how it looks, but the truth—”
“I’m not interested in your version of the truth, Demi. I trust my source a hell of a lot more than I trust you right now. Besides, that evening I stopped over . . .” She stops, sending my stomach into a freefall. “Well, let’s just say I wasn’t born yesterday. And his car was parked in the street. Don’t think I didn’t put it all together.”
“Do you have any interest in the truth? At all? Because I’d love to let you in on some factual details before you hurl any more insults my way. I know you. You’re saying things you’re going to regret.”
Royal stirs from the bed, and I glance his way. We lock gazes, and I swat him away, mouthing that everything’s fine. He rolls his eyes, not believing me, and struts his naked ass toward the bathroom.
“Brooks told us this morning that you left him.” Brenda’s voice is wavy, shaken. There’s a quiver that tells me, despite the first couple of minutes of our conversation, her heart is broken just as much as I thought it would be. “He was so distraught, we could hardly comfort him. Do you have any idea how it feels, as a mother, to see your son in so much pain? Not just physical, but emotional?”
My jaw hangs. “Wait . . . who’s ‘we’?”
“Your parents. Robert and Bliss showed up this morning. They brought Brooks homemade cinnamon rolls and a copy of the Wall Street Journal. So thoughtful of them. And when they asked where you were, Brooks couldn’t hold it in anymore. He was so upset, Demi. And I didn’t have the strength to tell him the truth.”
A reserved sob filters from her end.
“You have it all wrong.” I close my eyes, slicking my palm along my thigh. “I didn’t leave Brooks. He left me. The night of the accident, he called off the engagement and left to be with her.”
“With whom?”
“Afton. The reporter from the Herald.”
Brenda scoffs from her end. “This is preposterous. I refuse to believe any of this.”
“She’s pregnant,” I say. “You’re going to be a grandmother.”
“You’re making this up.”
“Brooks isn’t perfect, Brenda. He’s made mistakes, and he’s done terrible things, and I suspect the only reason he wants you to think I left him, is because it makes him look like the victim here.” I massage my temples. “When he was in the hospital, I came across some credit card statements. They were all cash advances, taken out in my name. Almost two hundred grand worth.”
“Oh, good grief. How convenient. You’re trying to extort us, aren’t you?”
Groaning, I set the phone down, take a deep breath, and resolve to end this conversation the way my father taught me.
“Brenda, please tell Brooks he’ll be hearing from my attorney.” With that, I end the call.
Two warm hands curl over my shoulders, followed by lips pressing into the curve of my neck. Spinning me around on the bar stool, Royal gifts me a toothpaste kiss and a dimpled half-smirk.
“What was that about?” he asks.
Sliding off my seat, I brush past him and locate my clothes from last night.
“I have to go home,” I say. “Got a whole lot of fires to put out now, thanks to Brooks.”
“Yeah? What kind of fires? Need help?”
I shake my head, and the sheet falls to the floor. I find my bra and fasten the hooks behind my back. My dress is crumpled over the back of his sofa. I fluff it out and step into it, shimmying it up my hips.
“Not only do I now have to explain the entire Brooks situation to my parents, but I should probably worry about finding a new place to live. Oh, and getting my job back.”
When I’m dressed, I check my reflection in a wall mirror and cringe when I see the streaks of mascara under my eyes and the pallor of my bare complexion. I look like I was screwed three times, hit by a train, buried, and then reborn.
Royal slinks his hands around my belly, standing behind me in the mirror. I’m all Walking Dead over here, and the man still can’t keep his hands to himself.
“You really should come home with me next week,” I meet his gaze in the mirror. “For Th
anksgiving.”
“Demi . . .” He exhales slowly, spinning me to face him. “They don’t want to see me. Trust me.”
Royal kisses my mouth, more than likely an attempt to silence my pleas. A successful attempt. I’m rendered speechless for a few moments, and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.
“Besides,” he says. “I’m spending Thanksgiving with Mona.”
I jerk away. “Mona?”
“My biological mother.”
My expression softens. I never did know her name, and he never once spoke about her growing up.
“Just the two of you?” I ask.
Royal bites his lower lip with his perfect teeth and gives a quick nod. “I’m all she has. Not going to leave her alone on Thanksgiving. Not when I know how that feels.”
I lift my hand to his cheek, letting his five o’clock shadow tickle my palm, and get lost in his stormy eyes for an extra minute or two. He’s a good person. I feel it. I know it when I look at him.
Whatever he did . . . couldn’t have been that bad. Or maybe I’m still too blinded by love to be able to read between the lines.
“I’m going now,” I whisper.
He kisses my forehead. Lets me go. Watches me leave.
I refuse to believe that he’s done anything so wicked and vile that it could keep me from loving him the way I always wanted to.
Leaving his place, I miss him already. Or maybe it’s the comfort I find only in his arms. In two short weeks, we’ve settled into this easy place, this happy medium between not asking too many questions and not giving too many answers.
I need to know the truth about that night, and I know the truth is coming.
But if it changes everything, if it steals him away from me again, I don’t know that I want it anymore. Despite everything that’s happened in the last two weeks, I haven’t felt this kind of contentedness in years.
And I’m holding onto it with every fighting breath I have.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Royal
The trim on the Challenger is gone, and I’m all masked up, sanding the faded paint off my Challenger. Music blares from the shop speakers. For once, I get to control the radio. That’s the beauty of having the place to yourself on a closed Sunday morning.
Four quarts of OEM royal blue are shaken up and ready to go. I’ll sand this thing down, apply filler as needed, prime, and paint. It’s going to take a couple of days, but I’ll be working all day tomorrow, so it won’t matter.
By the time this thing leaves the shop, she’ll look brand fucking new. She’ll finally have some look-at-me shine to go with that hear-me-roar growl she’s got under the hood.
Crouching down and checking a rusted spot behind the rear left tire well, the music comes to a dead halt.
I yank off my mask, rise to my feet, and scan the place. The glass windows toward the lobby shake, telling me someone’s opening doors.
I’m not alone.
I call out a couple of times. No answer.
Rod said I could have the place to myself today.
The door between the shop and the lobby swings open, and from the dark struts Pandora Patterson. Her plump lips are twisted into a devilish smirk, and she’s wearing a mini skirt that leaves nothing to the imagination.
Pandora’s top hangs low, her cleavage on full display.
“Hey, Royal.” Her eyes flash, gliding to my lifted car. She knows damn well I’m marooned here. “Daddy said you were borrowing the shop today. Thought I’d come by and see if you needed a hand.”
Her fingers tug at her blouse, pulling the sheer fabric aside as she leans over.
“Whatcha working on?” She snaps her gum.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
Pandora pouts, her brows meeting. “That’s not a very nice thing to say, Royal. Not when I practically own this place.”
“Rod owns it, not you.”
She bats her hand. “Same diff.”
I re-mask and crouch down, giving my undivided attention to my more-deserving Challenger.
“Saw that rich bitch leaving your place this morning.” Pandora’s heeled feet come into view in my periphery. “She was dressed to the nines.”
I ignore her.
“You know, I thought she looked familiar when I saw her the other day.” There’s a vindictive chuckle in her words. “And then I figured it out. She’s engaged to that coma guy.”
“Not anymore.”
Pandora bends at the knees, coming down to my level. Her hand on my shoulder makes me cringe.
“I don’t know that rich bitch that well,” she says. “But I’m guessing she doesn’t deserve some scumbag loser like you, Royal. And I’m sure you agree that your ugly past is going to do her no favors. No favors at all.”
My fists clench. “Leave, Pandora.”
“Her future’s going to be a whole lot brighter without someone like you in it.” She moves toward the lobby, the toes of her Lucite heels dragging on the concrete. “But I think you already knew that.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Demi
My family home has a sickening silence in the air. It’s not warm and bustling. The smell of my mother’s Sunday dinner doesn’t greet me. There’s no garbled blare of the TV fading in and out from the family room.
But I know they’re here.
Their cars were in the garage, and Derek’s shiny loafers were parked by the front door.
“Hello?” I call out.
The thumping of feet coming down the stairs precedes a solemn-faced Delilah.
“Hey,” she says, unsmiling. She must know the fate I’m about to face. “They’re in the kitchen. Waiting for you.”
“Have you told them anything?” I whisper.
She shakes her head. “I wasn’t sure what you were going to tell them, so I didn’t say anything.”
“Were they freaking out?”
Delilah tromps down the rest of the stairs and slips her arm around my shoulder before resting her chin against it.
“Yeah,” she says. “But don’t worry. I’ve got your back. We’ve got this.”
She gives my arm a squeeze and escorts me into the kitchen, where Mom, Dad, and Derek sit with despondent faces and folded hands. They look like a three-person judge and jury, and this entire setup reminds me of those ridiculous family meetings we used to have every Monday night growing up.
Great. I haven’t had a chance to plead my case, and already they’re looking at me like I’m guilty.
“Before you say anything.” I take a seat across from Derek. If I’m going to be staring straight ahead at anyone, I choose him. “You should know that Brooks isn’t who you think he is.”
Dad clears his throat, adjusting his posture and narrowing his stare.
“I just want to know what the hell is going on,” he says.
Mom clamps her hand loosely across her lips, her eyes glassy. I know that look. She’s so choked up she can’t bring herself to utter a single word.
“You should’ve seen Brooks this morning,” Dad says. “He lost it. Never seen a man in worse shape than that.”
Mom clutches at her heart, eyes averted.
Brooks is a manipulator. Those were faux tears. He sucked them all into his maelstrom with a convincing show of shallow emotions.
“He’s playing the victim,” I say. My lips part as I attempt to elaborate, but my words are cut short by the wooden smack of my father’s balled fist against the table.
I jump.
Delilah reaches for my hand, giving it a quick squeeze.
“Demetria, you’re a grown woman. You need to accept responsibility for your actions. Coming in here, immediately placing all the blame on Brooks, is grossly immature and irresponsible of you.” My father’s face is the same color of Brooks’s Porsche. He sucks in air, holding his breath between words. Something he only does when he’s stark raving mad. “Now tell me, why the hell would you break up with your fiancé after he’s just been in a car accident? Do
you have any idea how that looks? How that makes us look to the community? The entire town is going to be talking about this by Monday.”
“Dad.” I love that Delilah has the courage to interrupt one of his rant sessions, because I sure as hell don’t. “You need to hear her out.”
Derek sits across from me, shoulders slanted, seething, shooting silent daggers my way.
“Okay, Demi. Tell us. What’s going on? What did Brooks do to deserve this?” Derek asks. For a second, I feel betrayed. I thought he was on my side.
Whatever Brooks said this morning, however he acted, he’s stolen their loyalty right out from under me. I’m quite certain he missed his calling in life. The man should’ve been an actor, not a financial advisor.
“Brooks ended the engagement the night of the accident. He left.” I swallow the hard ball in my throat. “He left to go be with his mistress. And his mistress happens to be carrying his child.”
Mom rises, pushing the chair away and heading toward the kitchen island. She rests her elbows on the marble before burying her face in her hands.
“I don’t believe it,” Derek says. “Brooks loved you. He was obsessed with you.”
My eyes roll. “And it was all an act. Our entire relationship was built on a foundation of lies.”
“Now, just wait one minute.” Dad’s face pinches as he sits up. His flattened palm lifts in the air. “How do you know this, Demetria? Where is your proof?”
“At first, it was something I heard. Something somebody told me,” I say. “And then I saw them together, with my own eyes, the night of the fundraiser. I went to Brooks’s hospital room to speak with him alone about everything, and he claimed that he didn’t remember anything. I left to go home. There were some things I needed him to see, some things that might help him remember, and when I got back, the other woman was in there and they were discussing the pregnancy. She’s already fifteen weeks along.”
“Goddamn son of a bitch,” Dad says through clenched teeth. “I don’t believe this. I don’t want to believe this.”
Mom returns to the table, dabbing bloodshot eyes with a tissue. “We loved him like a son.”
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