Page 72 of Bottles & Blades

Jean-Michel sighs.

Chrissy giggles.

He doesn’t comment, though, just turns onto a road and slows, preparing to pull into a driveway.

But then he stops abruptly, half-in and half-out of the street.

“What’s the matt—” Chrissy begins.

“Stay here,” Jean-Michel orders, throwing the car in park, sending his door flying open. His tone is bordering on harsh—or at least, far sharper than anything he’s used with the girls or I at any point this evening.

“I—” Rory’s sentence is cut off by the door slamming.

“What’s going on?” I ask quietly as Jean-Michel strides forward, his body illuminated in the headlights for a moment and then thrown back into the shadows.

Not for long, though.

Because then he’s storming up a well-lit driveway, by an expensive car parked in it, and isn’t stopping until?—

“Oh shit,” Chrissy whispers.

“I second that,” Rory mutters.

“Who is that?” I ask of the woman standing at the top of the drive, her hands on her slender hips as she turns to meet Jean-Mi.

There’s a long blip of quiet.

Then Chrissy answers.

“My mother.”

And I’m not thinking about Jean-Mi’s orders.

Or how angry he might be for me ignoring this particular one.

I’m thinking abouthim.

Which is why I throw open my door and rush up the driveway.

Twenty-Two

Jean-Michel

Rage boilsunder my skin as I round the hood of my car and move toward where Angela’s standing.

In Chrissy’s driveway.

What right—whatfuckingright does she have to be here?

I know I’m not hiding my fury as I close in on her. I see it in the triumphant expression on her face, in the smile that starts to spread out along her mouth, in the glee in her eyes.

She’s still beautiful, which is a fact I fucking hate.

Blond hair, gorgeous body that she dresses well.

It’s too bad that whatever rot she had in her when we got married has spread, grown through each and every bit of her insides.

I can sense it in the air around her, and it fucking stinks.

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