Page 19 of When We Were Us
My lips tip down at the memory, and it takes everything in me not to groan out loud. I scratch at the scruff on my chin. These two pushy assholes.
Gorgeous.
Perfect.
Like a literal dream.
Just like I knew she would. Because, even as thrown off as I was, I couldn’t ignore that it felt really good seeing her again. So good in fact that I’d gone home that night and fisted my cock in the shower to the memory of her standing there in red Chuck Taylors, skintight jeans, and a little white tank top. That perfect honey blond top knot… I’d imagined peeling those jeans off and?—-
Hutch nudges me with his knee.
“How do you think she looked, asshole?”
A sly grin spreads across his face. Dick. He knew exactly what I had been thinking.
“You're so fucked.” Hudson laughs, tipping his beer back and draining it.
CHAPTER EIGHT
wrenley
Derek
Wrenley, answer your phone.
We need to talk.
I need to know when you’re getting your stuff from the condo.
You’re being ridiculous.
I’m putting your things into storage. I’ll pay for the first month. When you figure out what the hell it is you’re doing, let me know and I’ll be glad to give you the information.
It’s been three weeks. You’re being extremely childish.
If I don’t hear from you in the next 24 hours, I’m calling an attorney. I was hoping we could work through this civilly, but you’re being incredibly selfish, Wrenley. I just want your name off my condo. And yes, since I put up the deposit, it is in fact mine. Also, our clients won’t wait forever. Get your shit together.
Call me, NOW.
I dropmy phone and fall back against the pillows. I have no less than twenty text messages from Derek in some state of irritation or condescension just like these. He sends one every couple of days or so, and I ignore them every single time. This last one came in at six-forty-five a.m., while I was still sleeping. Thankfully, it did not wake me from the most glorious sleep of my life after way too many beers last night.
I don’t want to talk to him, much less give him the satisfaction of thinking he can push me into doing something before I’ve had time to decide exactly what it is that I want. I am not the one who cheated. Yet, for some reason, he thinks I owe him any kind of response. He doesn’t get to demand anything from me, and until I am good and ready to deal with him, he can screw himself.
The sudden silence outside my window has me sitting up. It isn’t until it’s quiet that I realize I’ve been hearing the steady drone of a lawn mower in the fifteen minutes since I cracked my eyes open.
My closest neighbors are Duke and Emily Hayes, and their yard is over a half mile away, across a road and a field of alfalfa.
I sit up, throwing my legs over the side of the bed, and pad to the window. The back grass is suspiciously short, and two tied-off trash bags are propped against the garage. Someone is most definitely outside mowing my lawn.
I cross back to the bed and pick up my phone. Seven-fifteen.
“Who the hell?” I mutter, throwing on a cardigan over my pajama shorts and tank top, and head downstairs.
As I slip my feet into my flip-flops, I see the silhouette of a man through the sheer curtains on the window. He’s bent over and looks to be emptying the catcher of the ancient lawn mower my grandparents have had forever. The telltale outline of a ball cap on his head has me gritting my teeth.
I am so not in the mood for another round with Hank. Especially not after waking up to more texts from Derek. Men and their bullshit testosterone.
I pull my hair up into a bun and secure it with the hair tie around my wrist before I pull open the door.
