Page 35 of Craving Consequences

I force a laugh under my breath, trying to shake the heaviness sinking into my body. Maybe I am just overheated. Maybe I have had too much sun. Maybe I am starved for attention like Bron says.

But that’s no excuse.

I don’t condone this type of behavior. Infidelity in any format is wrong. My choices have been clear the moment I agreed to let Bron take me out. I kept that promise steady for two years. Betrayal to him is a betrayal to myself and I won’t be that person.

I refuse.

Still, I flinch with the crack of another log splitting.

CHAPTER SEVEN

EVERLY

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“Where’s your pet?” Lauren stretches her long, toned limbs and sweeps her glasses back into her tangled riot of corn silk gold.

“Lauren,” I plead, exhaustion heavy in the single sigh of her name.

She lifts a naked shoulder. “What? I can be curious.”

There is nothing innocent in her feigned casual remark. Lauren doesn’t have a subtle bone in her body, a fact that I usually admire, except when it comes to Bron ... or my relationship with him.

“He’s busy,” I remark, careful to keep my features neutral when slicing slivers of lime for the beers.

Lauren flops into one of the barstools at the island opposite and drops her chin into her cupped palm. “I didn’t realize being an absolute waste of space took up so much time. He makes it look so easy.”

“Lauren!” I have to suck in a breath to calm my annoyance before facing my friend. “I’ve asked you to stop.”

Lauren purses her lips, utterly unbothered by the bite in my voice. She drums her manicured nails against the marble countertop, each tap deliberate. “I heard you, my heart. But I’m not about to lie and dress him up as something he’s not. You do that just fine on your own.”

I press the knife harder into the lime than necessary, the citrus spray misting my fingers. My shoulders tighten, guilt and frustration knitting tight across my spine.

“I don’t—” I start, but she cuts me off with a lazy wave of her hand.

“You don’t have to defend him to me.” She leans back, folding her arms under her chest, her breasts plumping dangerously high over the simple band containing them. “But maybe you should stop defending him to yourself.”

The words hit harder than they should. Harder than I want to admit. I force my gaze down, pretending sudden fascination with arranging the lime wedges into neat, trembling rows.

“I’m happy,” I lie, the words tasting like acid on my tongue.

Lauren doesn’t push. She just hums under her breath, low and skeptical, and spins lazily on the barstool.

“I’m just saying,” she murmurs, voice dropping into something almost too soft to hear, “if you ever wake up and realize you deserve better, you wouldn’t have to look far.”

My head jerks up sharply, my heart tripping. Panic surges up my throat like bile. I half expect her to be looking out the patio windows at the two standing side by side, beers fisted in meaty fists, chatting comfortably between themselves.

But she’s not. Her sharp, gleaming eyes are knowing. Amused. Fixed on my face.

“What are you talking about?” I croak around the desert filling my throat.

She continues to sway lazily from side to side, expression the smug arrogance of a naughty cat.

“I’m just saying. You’re hot as fuck. You leave that pile of rancid trash and you’d have a parade of men begging at your feet.”

I relax. Slightly. The crippling tension is still a razorblade at my windpipe, but I manage to resume my task without slicing off a finger.

“I don’t want a parade of men. I’m fine with Bron.”

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