Page 42 of Hungry Hearts

“Tell me what happened.”

Because he’s Nolan, I tell him everything, from her sad eyes at my bar, to our texts, to spending the afternoon in my apartment, to finding out she was married. My jealousy over Flynn Fuck Face was semi-accurate. He may not be her husband but he’s in her life. He’s been a part of her life since childhood like Nolan’s been in mine.

“And she didn’t deny it?”

“Nope.” I pop theP, or at least try to. My lips are numb from the vat of Jack Daniel’s I’ve been swimming in.

“Hey, baby.” Kayla runs her long nails across my chest and sits on my lap.

Her mini skirt is hiked so far up her legs I can see the strip of her red thong. I’m surprised she’s even wearing underwear.

I can’t be upset with Maxine for telling Kayla I was up here. If she landed on my lap eleven nights ago, I’d already have my hands under her skirt. She sucks my earlobe between her lips and coos. “Wanna get out of here and have some fun?”

The fuck I do. But not with her. Maybe I should. A quick fuck will take my mind off Maia’s betrayal. Only my dick doesn’t respond in the slightest, not even with her rubbing her fine ass on it.

“Not tonight, baby. I’ll call you soon.” It isn’t a lie. When I’m ready to dive back into the emotionless sex pool again, she’ll be the first I call.

She sucks my bottom lip between her teeth like she did to my earlobe. “You know where to find me.” I don’t even watch her ass sashay as she walks away. She’s not offended in the least by my brush off. That’s what makes things with Kayla so easy. And she knows what I like.

So does Maia. Although Maia doesn’t have to try so hard. And really, what I like is anything she wants to do to me. I don’t have a preference when it comes to her. Just having Maia in my arms, in my bed, is good enough for me.

Hell, it’s more than good enough. It’s everything.

Was everything.

“Christ. You really are in love with this Maia girl.”

“I never said love. And she’s not a girl. She’s a fucking perfect specimen of a woman. Which, apparently,Adamalready knew and is why he snatched her up before me.”

“Want me to do some digging? Maybe they’re separated or something?”

Nolan’s good like that. He doesn’t cross into illegal stalking territory unless it’s for his tight circle. The aces and their women. I shake my head. “If they were, she would have said something. She hasn’t even called or texted. It’s done. I’m fine.”

I stand and stumble into the table.

“Fine isn’t the word I’d use.” Nolan drapes one of my arms over his shoulder.

“Fucked.”

“Yeah. I’d say you’re fucked. In more ways than one.”

“And not in the way I want.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

I DON’T REMEMBER MUCHabout my trip up to the penthouse. There’s a vague recollection of Nolan carrying me like a princess to my room and tucking me in, but that could be him messing with me while I was stupid drunk.

I haven’t been drunk like that since we celebrated the opening of Red. Falling down drunk leads to stupid decisions, many of which I made when in New Orleans. As the owner of a respected fine dining establishment, it isn’t good for business to be publicly intoxicated.

My raging hangover is another reminder of why I don’t do this stupid shit anymore. I scrub the fuzz off my tongue and gargle twice with mouthwash. My closet has plenty of clothes I could change into, but I don’t feel like showering and changing here. Yeah, the shower would make me feel better, but I don’t want to feel better.

My stink, my headache, last night’s clothes are a reminder to never fall for a woman again. They’re all evil, conniving liars. I close my eyes and zombie walk to the kitchen. A greasy breakfast sandwich and pot of coffee are necessities if I’m going to drive across the city to my apartment.

While the coffee brews, I swing open our fridge. I find a bagel and pop it in the toaster. A few minutes later, I’ve downed one cup of coffee and pour another in a travel mug and eat half a bagel. It doesn’t hit the spot like grease so I toss the rest in the trash and forge my way down to the parking garage.

At least I don’t have to fight with commuters on a Sunday morning. Somehow, I make it to my parking garage and into the elevator. The walls barely hold me up. I’m tired, angry, hungry, and my head feels like someone keeps bonking me with a rubber mallet.

When the doors open, I drag my feet down the hall, my eyes downcast, barely open, as I search my pocket for my key. I’m a few feet from my door when I stop and straighten. There’s a body sitting in front of my door.

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