Page 48 of One More Kiss

ZANE

The door slamsagainst the wall and startles me out of sleep. If Oscar's got some bullshit—

"Get the fuck up, asshole."

My eyes widen and I grin into my pillow. She's here. I compose myself, putting on a bland expression as I sit up to look at her.

She's livid and so fucking sexy I'm sporting a semi.

"Can I help you?" I ask.

Her nostrils flare. Probably not a good idea to provoke the beast.

"Oh, you can help me alright. You can help me by telling me why you bothered to pretend to love me and why you married me when you were only going to keep whoring around."

Her hands are clenched into fists at her sides. But even with all the pissed off she's got going on, she looks pale. Flying gets her sick. I hate that she went through that but, fuck me, if that's what it takes to get her to speak to me, so be it.

"What are you talking about? As you can see, I'm in bed alone."

"Right now. But what about club girl?" she asks.

"Who?" I ask, genuinely confused. I haven't been with anyone.

She scoffs, pulling out her phone and showing me the article.

"Good to know your phone works for something," I bite out before looking at what she's talking about. I snort. "Christ. That was a photo op for charity. You can't believe the gossip sites, Jen. They'll make shit up just to get readers. You know that.”

"Right. Charity. A charitable fuck, I’m sure."

Now I'm getting pissed.

"You can't really think that I fucked someone after we made vows."

"Can't I?" she asks, folding her arms across her chest.

"No, Jen, you can't."

We stare at one another.

"Why didn't you answer your phone or text? It's been how many days," I ask.

She rolls her eyes. Is she fucking with me right now? I get out of bed and make my way to stand in front of her.

"Why." I take a step forward making her back up one. "Didn't." Step. "You." Step. "Answer." Step. Her back's against the wall.

"My phone was broken."

"Explain." I demand.

"I dropped it in the hotel parking lot where it broke, then I ran over it when I peeled out," she says, poking me in the chest. "Broken."

That explains a day, maybe two, but not this many. "I see you have one now, though. I bet there's still no call or text from you on my phone."

"Winner, winner, chicken dinner. You think I'd give you the courtesy of that after that article and you sent a courier basically demanding I call you?" she asks. "As if."

"I want to show you something. Don't move," I tell her, pointing.

Her nostrils flare again.

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