Page 9 of Sip
A squeal of excitement pops in her throat before she laughs. Fuck if I’m looking forward to it too when I’ve never looked forward to anything in my life.
”You’re on!”
Still shining, she unbuckles her seatbelt and prepares to leave. For the best, I remind myself. She’s unharmed, and after an update to my brother, I’m out of managing her security. The rest is between them. With quick steps to end our discussion and— more importantly— our connection, I stride around to her side and open her door, holding out my hand to assist her out. Only because she’s a tiny woman in a huge SUV. Otherwise, I wouldn’t touch her at all.
Except she doesn’t release me once her sneakers hit the stone. Instead, she wraps her arm around my waist and gives me another enormous hug. When her cheek lands against my chest, it takes everything I’ve got not to stroke her hair lifted high in a ponytail despite how damp the strands are.
“Thank you for the ride. I appreciate it.”
Finally, she steps away, safe from me hauling her back into my grip.
“See you Saturday!”
Full of relentless enthusiasm, she waves and spins around, jogging up to her front door. I watch long enough to make sure she’s inside and force myself to leave. And figure out a way to explain to Shane why I’m exercising with his fiancée.
Grace:Do you have recycling bins? If so, how many?
I stare at her ridiculous text. She’s serious. She’s nuts. She’s adorable.
Me:I have no clue
Grace:No worries. Please check and let me know so I can get us some if we need them.
Us. We. I let out a sigh. Her optimism about the happy little family she thinks their marriage is creating kills me.
“What’s wrong?”
I never knew what guilt felt like until her. I glance up at my brother who watches me with a look that reflects his impatience from me checking my phone rather than listening to him drone on and on about how my cousins are fucking everything up at home since our uncle’s murder and that I need to go there and take over before we lose anymore foothold than we already have. Reminding me once again thatI’msupposed to make sure everyone does exactly whathewants.
Which is growing old real fucking fast. “Nothing. Just a question that I didn’t expect.”
His expression hardens, and he leans toward me, tapping his fist on the desktop. “You know I don’t give a damn who you sleep with, but I’m warning you. Do not let some stupid bitch distract you. This is important. If you fuck it up, I’ll–.”
Now I’m pissed. “Have I ever fucked up before?”
He’s got nothing because I haven’t. His eyes narrow from my terseness. Normally I don’t argue back because I don’t give a fuck. I do what needs to be done and ignore him. This morning I’m antsy and spun up. Mad at her. Mad at him. Mad at myself. “Maybe you should take your own advice. Things are going to be different when Grace moves in.”
His head is shaking before I even finish my comment. Irritating me that he thinks he has me figured out. Has her figured out. He doesn’t get either of us at all.
“Nothing will change. She won’t be a distraction.”
Smug fucking bastard. So dismissive of me and my suggestion, he looks down at his tablet and scribbles more notes. Already returning his focus back to work rather than the argument I’m trying to start.
“Really? A woman in your bed every night isn’t something you can easily ignore.”
I’m baiting him and I don’t know why. I just want to fight.
“She won’t be in my bed every night. She’ll have her own room and can do what she pleases as long as she obeys me and is a good mother to my children.”
The reminder of him fucking her pushes me too far and I jerk to my feet. Unable to sit here and be rational about how little he cares for her beyond her popping out his kid, I need some oxygen.
I yank open the door and ignore him calling my name, furious at me that I’ve left with business still to be resolved. I motion to Ansel, his best strategist, waiting in the hallway, to go in. His turn to put up with my brother’s bullshit. I head to the garage assuming that’s where recycling bins are stored. The guard flicks his attention to me before returning his focus to protecting our fleet. He knows better than to question me.
I scan the entire back wall and sides. Not a single container lines the perimeter, so I head to the hallway leading to the kitchen, even peeking in the laundry room and walk-in pantry. Nothing.
Mrs. Gunderson stands at the sink rinsing tomatoes corralled in a colander. “Do you recycle?”
The woman spins around surprisingly quick for her age.
