Page 18 of The Sculptor

I couldn’t pursue a relationship with Duke back then, and I can’t now.

Duke Potter is too good of a man.

He doesn’t deserve this broken version of me.

He deserves the woman who laughed in his arms and kissed him senselessly. Not the woman who can’t let go of a past they once shared.

My phone buzzes, and I pull in a cleansing breath before I look at it. No matter what, Duke doesn’t deserve to get tangled up with me or this business I have with Langston—at least until I’m sure my theory is correct.

Dr. Potter: And what is it, exactly, that I would mess up? Langston’s unconditional love for you?

I can almost feel the smirk bleeding into his typed words, but before I can say anything, another text comes through.I can’t know for sure since I’ve only had one long-term relationship. Still, I’m pretty confident you are supposed to love everything about the person you’re promising forever to—not upgrading their tits disguised as a wedding gift.

My fingers can’t move fast enough to blast out a response.I’m not that gullible! I knew the tits weren’t a gift, just like I know what I am doing marrying Langston! I don’t need your input, Dr. Potter. I can take care of myself just fine, fuck you very much.

I don’t even have time to throw my phone before he texts right back.

Yet, you cower at his demands—I’m thinking that’s hopelessly toxic, boo.

Rage blinds me.Fuuuuuuuck You!!!!!

Dr. Potter: Please! I wish someone would fuck me—it’s been a while. But more than that, someone should probably fuck you. The congressman looks disappointing in the bedroom department.

I can’t. I can’t do this with him anymore. The more I text him, the more he keeps me hooked, making a simple apology—okay, more like an explanation text—turn into a whole conversation.

Me: Goodbye, Dr. Potter.

My phone dings.In my professional opinion, this text is a cry for help. I can’t ignore it.

Not a moment later, the phone rings, but it’s not just a call. It’s a video call.

What a bastard.

I answer on the fourth ring just to make him wait. “What if I would have been in bed with Langston?” I prompt, trying—and failing—not to make eye contact with his amused hazel eyes.

“Then we’d have a far more interesting conversation,” he snaps back. “But then again,” he flashes me a heated look, “maybe we still can. Do tell, Ray. What is that little number you’re wearing?”

Shit.

I toss the phone onto the bed and strip off the old T-shirt, riddled with holes and paint splatters, and find a nightgown Langston bought, slipping it on.

“Come on, Ray, don’t be like that.”

His infectious laugh makes me smile, and that pisses me off more than his words. Why do I let him get to me like this?

Because you love him, stupid.

“I’m sorry. I’ll pretend I didn’t see it. Cross my heart,” he swears on the other end of the phone with a chuckle.

But the fact is, he did see it, and he knew instantly the T-shirt used to be his.

“Though, I’m impressed the shirt held up this long,” he continues, undeterred. “Look at the tag and tell me the brand. I should probably buy more of them. What’s it been, twenty years?”

Inhaling, I look to the ceiling for patience and pick up the phone. “Eighteen years, but that’s not relevant.” Ignoring the cutest, most adorable grin ever given to a man, I snap. “Why are you calling me?”

He shrugs, the movement drawing attention to the snug T-shirt, which then draws my eyes to his bulging muscles.

“I could flex for you. All you have to do is ask.” He brings one arm into the camera, and I snap out of the lustful haze.

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