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“You’re my only shot at grandchildren, Tessa,” my mum teases as Mike pays the bill. Tessa chokes on her water, and I pat her on the back. She coughs a few times before apologizing, but when she recovers, her eyes are wide and she looks embarrassed. She’s overreacting, but I’m sure she was caught off guard by my mum’s crass and out-of-line statement.
Sensing my anger, my mum says, “I’m only teasing. I know you’re still young,” and childishly sticks her tongue out at me.
Young? It doesn’t matter how fucking young we are, she doesn’t need to be putting that shit in Tessa’s head. We’ve already agreed: no children. My mum making Tessa feel guilty and obligated won’t help anything—it’ll only cause another fight. The majority of our fights have been over children and marriage. Neither of which I want, or will ever want. I want Tessa, every single day for the rest of forever, but I won’t be marrying her. Richard’s warning from the other night creeps its way into my head, but I push it away.
After dinner, my mum kisses Mike good night, and he heads to his house next door. She’s following that stupid tradition of the groom not being able to see the bride before their wedding night. I think she’s forgotten that this isn’t her first rodeo; those stupid superstitions don’t apply the second time around.
As much as I’m dying to take Tessa in my old bed, I can’t do it with my mum in the house. This shitty place has no soundproofing, nothing. I can literally hear my mum each time she rolls over on her creaky mattress in the next room.
“I should have booked a hotel,” I whine as Tessa undresses. I wish she’d sleep in a parka so I wouldn’t be tormented all night by her half-naked body. She slips my T-shirt over her head, and I can’t help but stare at the curve of her tits underneath the fabric, the slope of her full hips, the way her voluptuous thighs almost fill the bottom of my shirt so it hugs to her skin. I’m glad the shirt isn’t too loose on her; it wouldn’t look nearly as fucking good. It wouldn’t make me this hard, and it sure as hell wouldn’t make this night so damn long.
“Come here, baby.” I hold my arms open to her, and she lays her head on my chest. I want to tell her how much it means to me that she handled the Natalie situation so well, but I can’t find the right words. I think she knows; she has to know how terrified I was that something would come between us.
Within minutes she’s asleep, clinging to me, and the words flow freely as I run my fingers over her hair.
“You’re everything to me,” I say.
I WAKE UP SWEATING. Tessa is still latched on to me, and I can barely breathe through the thick air. It’s too hot in this house. My mum must have turned the damn heat on. It’s spring now; there’s no need. I unhook Tessa’s limbs from around my body and wipe her sweat-soaked hair away from her forehead before walking downstairs to check the thermostat.
I’m half asleep when I turn the corner to the kitchen, but what I see next stops me in my tracks. I rub my eyes and even blink to clear the distorted image that has formed in front of me.
But it’s still there . . . they are still there no matter how many times I blink.
My mum is sitting on top of the counter, her thighs parted. A man stands between them, his arms wrapped around her waist. Her hands are buried in his blond hair. His mouth is on hers, or hers on his—I don’t fucking know—what I do know is that the man isn’t Mike.
It’s fucking Christian Vance.
Chapter one hundred and thirty-six
HARDIN
What? What is happening? For one of the few times in my life, I find myself speechless. My mum’s hands move from Vance’s hair down to his jaw, her mouth pushing harder against his.
I must have made a noise—probably a gasp, I don’t fucking know—because my mum’s eyes spring open and she immediately pushes at Vance’s shoulders. His head quickly turns to me, his eyes go wide, and he steps away from the counter. How did they not hear me coming down the stairs? Why is he here, in this kitchen?
What the actual fuck is happening?
“Hardin!” my mum says, her voice high with panic as she jumps down from the kitchen counter.
“Hardin, I can—” Vance starts. I hold up my hand to silence them while my mouth and brain work together, trying to make sense of the fucked-up sight in front of me.
“How . . .” I begin, the jumbled words flying through my mind not really connecting. “How . . . ?” I repeat, my feet beginning to move backward. I want to get away from them as fast as I possibly can, but I need an explanation at the same time.
I look back and forth between the two of them, trying to reconcile the people before me with those that I thought I knew. But I fail to do so, and nothing makes sense.
My heels hit the back of the stairs, and my mum steps toward me. “It’s not—” she begins.
I’m relieved to feel the familiar burn of anger beginning to chip away at my shock, sweeping over me and pushing away any vulnerability that may have been present seconds ago. Anger I can deal with—I revel in it; shock and stunned silence, not so much.
I’m walking toward them again before I realize what I’m doing, and my mum steps back, distancing herself from me, while Vance steps in front of her. What?
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” I interrupt her, ignoring the selfish tears shining in her eyes. “You’re getting married tomorrow!”
“And you,” I seethe at my old boss, “you’re fucking engaged, and here you are about to fuck my mum on the goddamned kitchen counter!” I lower my hand and strike a harsh blow to the already damaged countertop. The cracking sound of the wood splintering excites me, makes me want more.