Page 28

Rebeka

HALFWAY TO THE APARTMENT, dread rolled my gut, making me queasy. What in the hell did I do? At a red light, I scanned the clean dash and took a deep, memory-making sniff of the new truck smell. No way would he let me keep this thing after leaving him like that.

Shit.

The quick consideration of turning around was dashed as my stubborn ruling side pushed the gas pedal down, urging me faster through the side streets, putting more and more distance between me and the asshole.

At the front door of my apartment, I dropped the truck keys the second it was locked behind me and turned for the kitchen. The half-empty bottle of white wine rattled against the pint glass in my trembling hand. Only after half the glass of cold, crisp goodness was in my belly could I take a deep, calming breath. I topped off the glass with the remaining wine, grabbed the emergency bag of last year’s Halloween candy from the top of the fridge, and slid down the cabinets until my ass hit the cracked linoleum.

Vibrations against my ass sent my heart in overdrive, only to have it plunge when Ryder's name flashed on the screen instead of the person I wanted.

Ryder:Hey, just checking in. After yesterday and being around your dad, I wanted to make sure you weren't sitting on the kitchen floor drinking.

Ryder:You moved on from that asshole. Keep reminding yourself that. Nothing that happened was your fault.

Ryder:You deserve better than he could've ever given you anyway.

Ryder:Let's find Mr. Rebound. How about Dos Amigos my next night off? Kyle said he'd be DD.

Mr. Rebound. Even though it didn't sound appealing at the moment, I had no reason to say no.

Me:Count me in.

Ryder:All serious, you okay?

Me:Yes? No?

Me:I want to be. But how can I when he said he doesn't remember? How can I move on when I don't know if he's the one who sent me away or not?

Ryder:Either way, he didn't fight for you. That's what matters, doesn't it?

Ryder:Thirteen years, Beka. Thirteen. You owe it to yourself to move on.

Me:Yeah.

My thumbs paused over the bright screen at a pounding knock at the door. Instead of putting energy into standing, I crawled on all fours to the front door and pulled it open.

“Groveling?” Brenton said, humor lacing his words.

“Drinking.”

“Ah.”

Hot, dry air whooshed into the warm apartment as I shoved the door wider, allowing him to enter. Still on hands and knees, I crawled back toward my candy picnic. At the click of the bolt, I paused and shot a glance over my shoulder to find Brenton still at the door, blatantly staring at my ass.

Knowing exactly what I was doing, I gave it a little wiggle. His nostrils flared as his gaze shifted to mine. My breathing tripped and mouth went dry at the want pulsing off him.

“Careful, Beks.” One more long look at my full, round ass and he marched past to the kitchen. “What do you have to drink?”

“Whiskey's in the pantry, vodka in the freezer, chilled white wine in the... wait, nope. All that is in my belly.”

“It's been thirty minutes.”

“I'm a pro, what can I say.”

“Anything nonalcoholic?”

“Shit. Sorry. Um.” I mentally inventoried the fridge's contents. “There's a gallon of tea in the fridge.”