Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 138287 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 691(@200wpm)___ 553(@250wpm)___ 461(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138287 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 691(@200wpm)___ 553(@250wpm)___ 461(@300wpm)
“I guess it does,” was all I could think to say. “Although, maybe not for long.”
Ricky’s brow dipped. “So, what happened today?”
Connor said proudly, “Rita’s a fucking tank, that’s what happened.”
When Ricky’s eyes landed on me, I explained, “We have to be married one year and one day before we can file for divorce, because—” I smiled patiently at my husband. “—Connor won’t sign the damned papers.”
Surprisingly, Connor smiled, pressing a kiss to my temple and closing my eyes, I reveled in it.
We shouldn’t be like this. Not while we’re talking about divorcing. But we were because we never seemed to do things in the typical manner. And that was one of the things I loved about us. It was exactly the reason I humored our relationship. I thought that maybe, just maybe, we could make it work if we just avoided convention and took the road less travelled.
Ricky frowned at us, first peering at Connor then his eyes came to rest on me. He spoke slowly, thoughtfully, “You’re both taking this rather well.”
I couldn’t deny it. I didn’t blame Ricky for his hesitance. It was an odd situation.
Connor led me into the main entrance. It was white, marble, and stunning. A chandelier hung from the tall ceiling. From my position, straight ahead was the kitchen, to my left was a room full of guitars and music equipment and to my right was a home theatre.
I took a step forward and Connor lifted his arms, looking awkward and uncomfortable. “Hey, you mind if I shower?” When I threw him a peculiar look, he uttered a tentative, “The meds. They make me sweat.”
Oh. “Sure. No problem.”
He stepped into me. “You’ll still be here when I get out?” His hands gripped my chin and he gently shook it. “Not gonna try to escape, right?” His eyes narrowed before he wrapped an arm around my waist and held me to him. “Because that would suck.”
I looked up, into his eyes, and near-whispered, “I’ll be here.”
He huffed out a long breath before lowering his face. When he touched his lips to mine, I pressed into him, showing him I needed it just as much as he did. And then he was gone, rushing up the stairs. He pointed at his brother harshly. “Don’t steal my girl.” Before he disappeared into an open doorway, he winked.
The second he was out of sight, I took in a deep breath and exhaled shakily.
Ricky stared a long moment before he jerked his chin. “C’mon in. You hungry?”
“No. Thanks.” I followed him into the kitchen and faltered when I saw it.
This house was not what I imagined.
It was masculine yet warm. Dark wood on the floors, whites and creams colored the interior, vivid artwork lined the walls…. It was gorgeous.
Ricky pulled out a seat on the opposite side of the counter. “Here. Sit.” I silently sat and watched as he opened the fridge and pulled out everything needed to make an omelette.
The words I spoke were slow and cautious. “He’s still on methadone?” I didn’t understand. Rehab was long over.
Ricky’s eyes widened. “God, no.” He retrieved a bowl from a cabinet. “He’s on anxiety meds.”
Ah. Thank God. That sounded far less scary.
He went about cracking eggs into a bowl and beating them. He talked to me as he did. “I’ve never seen him like that.” I didn’t know what to say. “Did you spike his drink?”
“What? No!” But when I saw his shoulders shaking, I realized he was pulling my leg. “Oh.” He laughed harder and I smiled. I saw a lot of Connor in Ricky. The most obvious, they were both smartasses.
When he started to chop up a green bell pepper, he peered up at me. “He talks about you all the time.” He did? “He was actually excited to go to mediation today.” Ugh. So was I. “Anything to see you again.” Same. Then he got serious. “He doesn’t want a divorce.”
Without Connor around, I found honesty, hard and true. “Neither do I.”
Ricky nodded solemnly. “I can see that. So why are you fighting him?”
My throat stuck. “You don’t know what he did to me.”
“I do,” he said. “I heard the song. I know what he did. All of it.”
“Then you know exactly why we can’t just pick up where we left off. We have too much history now. Trust has been broken.”
He poured the eggs into a pan and they sizzled. “Trust can be mended.”
It was easier said than done.
At my silence, he came forward to lean his elbows on the counter. “Picture this. Connor Clash, famous, rock god, wanted by women and men alike, the unobtainable man, groupie lover, happily single, falls for a twenty-something-year-old virgin.” He waved his arm in my direction. “Some li’l bit of a woman who hasn’t ever really lived before. What do you think, he wanted that?” Turning back and moving the pan around, he stated, “Shocked the shit out of him, left him feeling less like himself than ever before, because suddenly, he depended on somebody, wanted and needed somebody. And Connor didn’t need anybody.” He pointed the spatula in my direction. “Until you.”