Page 43 of Hungry Hearts

Her knees pulled up to her chest, her curtain of brown hair hanging down to the floor.Fuck. I’m not in the mood for this. Do I want to see Maia? Hell yeah. I want to pull her in my arms and hear her tell me it was a lie. She doesn’t have a husband and I’d dreamt the whole thing.

She lifts her head, and the dried streaks of tears shouldn’t pierce my soul like they do. If I were Nolan or Trey, I’d bark at her. Christ, even when Drake learned of Nora’s betrayal—although it wasn’t with another man—he’d cursed her and kicked her to the curb.

I’m not that guy though. I’m a sucker.

“Maia.” I say flatly instead. I don’t ask what she’s doing or send her away, but I’m not about to open my door and let her in, either.

“Can we talk?” She rises to her feet, her chin still hanging low as she looks up at me with those sad, whiskey eyes.

“Sure.” Fuck, I’m a sucker.

She moves to the side and I unlock the door. Pretending to be a little bit of an asshole, I go in first and don’t hold the door for her. Because, yeah, that’ll teach her to mess with me.

“Coffee?” I ask, again, the sucker people-pleaser in me comes out.

“No, thank you.”

I can’t look at her or I’ll be tempted to kiss her and beg her to leave her husband. Instead, I open the fridge and search for ingredients to make a breakfast sandwich. I need grease and ibuprofen.

Maia stands on the other side of the kitchen counter and doesn’t say a word as I slam drawers and cabinets. The extra noise only hurts myself, but as I said, I’m a sucker for punishment.

When the bacon is sizzling and my English muffin is in the toaster, I swallow three pills and wash them down with my now-cold coffee. I make another pot, flip the bacon, crack a couple eggs, butter my muffin, and a few minutes later, I have the greasy sandwich my hangover so desperately needs.

“You said you wanted to talk,” I say around a mouthful of food, not caring about manners. Manners left whatever kind of fucked up relationship we had as soon as I discovered I was the other man.

“I can wait until you’re done eating.”

“When I’m done eating, I’m taking a shower and going to bed. Alone.”

She clutches her neck and her cheeks turn a shade of pink that used to make my dick stand to attention. My jeans grow tight. Christ. My dick doesn’t get the memo that we’re not supposed to like Mrs. Maia Remington, if that’s even her name.

Maybe I should ask Nolan to drudge up her family info. No, that’ll only prolong my getting over her. I take another bite of my sandwich. As soon as I’m done, she’s gotta go.

When I have one bite left and she still hasn’t said anything, I set it down on my paper towel. Sucker, remember?

I stare at her. Even tired, with purple smudges under her eyes, she’s gorgeous. She didn’t dress up for me. No point. She must know begging for my forgiveness isn’t going to happen whether she’s wearing a fuck me skirt like Kayla was last night or jeans and a sweatshirt like she’s wearing now.

“Does your husband know you’re here?”

Her throat bobs as she swallows and shakes her head. “No.”

Fuck it. Steam bubbles through my body and I push off the counter. That admission alone is reason enough to kick her out. I don’t lie. I don’t cheat. I march across the apartment to the front door and yank it open.

“Out. Go back to your husband. You insulted me enough by making me the other guy. Next thing you’re going to tell me is that there are kids involved.”

When she doesn’t deny that accusation either, I clutch at my hair, tugging at the scalp. My chest convulses as my body tries to decide whether it’s going to cry, choke, or scream until my lungs burst from my throat.

My chest heaves. Any second I’m going to hyperventilate and this is all going to turn into rage. I’ve never hit anyone in my entire life and I’m afraid I’m about to combust. My mouth is ready to spew hateful, hurtful things, making a bigger, more explosive mess than when I was in middle school and playing around with a five-pound bag of baking soda and gallon of vinegar in the middle of my parent’s kitchen. I won’t lay a hand on Maia, but my walls are about to take a pounding.

“Get. The fuck. Out.”

“Ryder,” she pleads, finally lifting her gaze to mine.

Her eyes are a pool of tears. Tears I shouldn’t care about. It’s not my fault she’s in this situation. Even if her husband is a raging asshole, she should have been upfront with me about it. I would have helped her leave him, then I would have fucked her brains out.

“He’s dead.”

My head reals back. “You killed him?”

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