Page 8 of Play Dirty

“Somewhere dark,” he says knowingly. “Your ex or something to do with what happened.”

“Yes.” No point in denying it.

“You shouldn’t.” He reaches out and brushes a strand of hair out of my eyes. There’s a breeze up here that’s sending the tendrils hanging from my messy updo in every direction.

“I can’t seem to help it.”

“Do you miss him?”

“Fuck no.” The response is genuine and immediate.

“Then let it go. I know it’s easier said than done but replace those memories with better ones. The friendships you’ve built since leaving New York. The way Ally looks to you like a big sister.” He motions behind us. “The family you’ve found here with the Phantoms.”

His eyes are still fixed on mine, and I can’t look away.

In almost any other time and place, I would lean in, tilt up my face expectantly… but not with him. Not now. I don’t want to ruin whatever this is.

Our easy, budding friendship.

He’s in the middle of a messy divorce and has his three kids with him. He’s not looking for a girlfriend. And I’m not interested in casual sex, even though my body seems to disagree when I’m near him.

I know he knows what I’m thinking.

He feels it too.

“I wish I could,” he whispers out of nowhere, brushing his knuckles across my cheek.

“I know.” I let my eyes flutter closed and lean into the warmth of his hand.

Just for a second.

A tiny moment of intimacy that reminds me I’m still alive.

And when I open my eyes again, he’s gone.

Chapter3

Marty

“Daddy, I’m hungry!”Five-year-old Martin, Jr. comes into the room where I’m changing sixteen-month-old Bradley’s diaper. He has his hands on his hips indignantly, brows knitted into a frown that reminds me of his mother so much it’s like a gut-punch.

“Just a minute, buddy,” I reply.

“I’m hungry!” He stomps his foot. “I want hot dogs!”

The tantrums began after his mother and I separated, but they’re worse than ever since I picked them up. I wanted to start family counseling, but my soon-to-be ex refused to sign off on it, so I go on my own. Desperate for answers to questions I don’t know to ask.

I have a hangover and my stomach’s a little off after how much partying we did at Ivan and Chey’s wedding, and I’m trying to get my shit together before leaving for the morning-after brunch. Gabe and Harper are throwing it in their back yard, a more casual and relaxed event where the happy couple will open presents before we send them off on their Australian honeymoon. Where they’re having another wedding reception for Chey’s extended Australian family.

I’m tired just thinking about it.

“Daddy, I can’t find my shoe.” Three-year-old Emma’s eyes tear up as she stands there holding one pink Mary Jane.

“Give me a second, honey.” I pull up Bradley’s shorts and hand him his pacifier. He grins and crawls away as I get to my feet.

“Martin, there are carrot sticks and juice boxes in the fridge. You know we’re going to eat when we get to the party.”

“I don’t want carrot sticks!” he yells.

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