Page 46 of Forever Finds Us
Roxanne
‘Hello’? ‘Nice to see you’?
What the fuck was that?
Thoughts of finding Teton Tom out at the abandoned house when Dan and I had driven out there and how he was now enjoying ESPN on Dan’s couch while he rested his twisted ankle dissolved from my head.
Plopping down in a chair after Brand and his… date left Coffee Shot, I felt the wind leave my sails. The whole fucking boat sank, and I stared out the café’s big Main Street window as the man I was pretty sure I’d been falling in love with and the painfully beautiful woman walked away. Her sexy, flowing black hair shone like obsidian in the sun and fluttered lightly in the wind, and it only highlighted further that she was probably only five-six.
Her high heels, though, they gave her a step up and accentuated the most perfect ass in a pencil skirt I’d ever seen on a woman. My own ass beneath me felt like a flubbery seat cushion that had always had a very distinctive heart shape, and in my uniform? Forget about it. There were no perfect, round globes on my backside. The only way to obtain those bouncing orbs would be butt implants, and just thinking about two of them digging into my glutei maximi during a stakeout made me cringe.
Brand held his hand behind the woman’s back to guide her where he wanted her to go, not touching her, but fucking close enough!
One-two-three.
Dear God, the man looked fine in a suit jacket. The deep charcoal color made his eyes almost glow blue, and it fit him like it had been made specifically for him. Maybe it had been. He could afford bespoke business wear.
And goddammit, he’d worn a cowboy hat. A fucking cowboy hat and it was so hot, I hadn’t been able to speak!
For her?
Why had he never worn it for me? Because if he had, there were things hidden in my mind I’d read about in book club and imagined alone in the dark of my bedroom on lonely nights, and those things he would earn simply by showing up in that smoke-colored, felt, sex hat.
I hadn’t even known he owned one, but that woman got the corporate cowboy version of Brand, and I didn’t? Why? ’Cause I was a cop? ’Cause I wasn’t gorgeous like her? Probably.
One-two-three.
His jeans hugged his thighs like I wanted to, and the crisp, white shirt beneath his jacket molded to his chest. The jacket itself was a perfect fit, and it wrapped his biceps and pecs like a present.
He’d worn brown snakeskin, square-toed cowboy boots, but they were expertly worn in. Even they were sexy, and the brown belt around his waistband and his flashy, silver belt buckle made my mouth water when I imagined what he could do to me with that strap of leather and what the imprint of the buckle would look like on my skin.
My hands fisted on the café table, and I wanted to bang my head on it. What the hell had I even been thinking? There was no way a man like Brand Lee would want me. Sure, maybe for a few hard pokes of his stick, but not for the long haul. He had money. Connections. He needed a woman like Miss Laser Hair Removal. She probably wore designer crotchless panties.
“Ughhh.”
As I tried to curb the obsessive need I felt to tap out “The Star Spangled Banner” on my leg, I felt a presence standing just behind my shoulder. Whoever it was smelled like Cinnamon Toast Crunch cereal, but I couldn’t be bothered to turn to find the source of the delicious breakfast scent.
From my reaction to Brand and his raven-haired mistress, the whole town of Wisper probably already knew Brand and I’d had a fling, or a three-night stand, or whatever the hell the gossip mill would call it.
So then they shouldn’t be surprised about the ugly, flat-out jealousy I felt toward the woman crossing Washington Street with Brand, now hanging on his arm and laughing, like they were lovers who’d just met by happenstance but couldn’t believe their luck, and now they would go to her car, and he’d drive to a hotel. Not a motel. No, there would be no cheap, discounted room in the middle of the night. They’d drive to Jackson, and Brand would whip out a stiff, black credit card at the fanciest joint in town, probably with teardrop-shaped crystal chandeliers, and they’d spend whole days and nights ordering room service and fucking politely.
Not like me and Brand. Every time we’d been together, our sex was the opposite of polite. It was messy and hard and possessive. It was the kind of sex you had with a… secret. With a mistress.
Wait, am I the mistress in this scenario?
“Of course that’s how this story ends,” I whispered to myself, giving in and letting my fingers tap to their heart’s desire. I rolled my eyes and tried to breathe undramatically, but my lungs wouldn’t seem to cooperate. Air wheedled its way up my throat, like a stubborn five-year-old being pulled through a department store by her mama, but a loud breath finally squeaked out of my mouth when the person behind me spoke.
“Gina Scott.”
“Huh?” My head whipped itself around at the female voice belonging to the person now bent and peering over my shoulder. “Oh, Tabitha.” I acknowledged her, but my head turned right back around like a scene out of The Exorcist. Great, now Brand and his hussy had stopped on the sidewalk. His date used her hands to talk, as if she couldn’t waste one precious ounce of her kinetic energy in case it might turn him on too. “Hi.”
Completely deflated and trying not to whine like a wounded dog, I sighed. And had Tabitha never heard of personal space? She was practically cheek to cheek with me. I hadn’t even noticed she and her eerily perky double Ds had been in Coffee Shot with Brand and the mystery woman, but could the universe send me any more hints? You’re not good enough. You’re too old. Too tall. Too imperfect. Not pretty enough. You’re not interesting enough to be CEO girlfriend material.
One-two-three.
“Hi,” Tabitha said brightly, and she pulled the chair opposite me closer and sat next to me, so she could watch the almost-PDA down the street too. She set her to-go cup on the table between us and flicked her fingers toward the window. “Call me Tab. Everybody does, and that wretch of a woman is Gina Scott, Brand’s ex-girlfriend.”
There was my confirmation. Old lovers. “I knew it.”
