Page 2

Chapter two

The Lonely Hearts Café, London

Hunter

“How fucking ironic,” I mutter as we approach the café Isabella demanded I meet her at. The white sign with pink writing proudly displays a broken heart as decoration. Sit down and make friends . I don’t need fucking friends; I need my wife.

My security guard beside me grunts in agreement, but I could probably tell him the sky was green, and he would agree with me. Yes-men, that’s all these two escorting me today are. This quality is handy in some situations but not in others. The men I truly trust challenge my statements, even when I don’t want to hear it. I’m well aware of my unhinged existence, but the truth is, I have nothing to fucking lose.

I push open the rickety wooden door of the tiny café. It’s dreary and certainly lives up to its name. No bastard would enter this place and have their mood improve. The walls, which I am sure were once white, are now a dismal gray stained with yellow as if customers have smoked here. However, the smoking ban has been in place for years. Each table has a worn pink tablecloth surrounded by plastic chairs; in the center is a blue vase holding a cheap, fake flower.

In romance films, this type of establishment is portrayed when the male lead has been discarded and is drowning his sorrows over a cold cup of tea in the middle of the night. Today's music playing in the background could be used in the next Hallmark movie when the love story goes wrong. I chuckle at the irony of finding myself exactly where I should be—the man completely in love with the woman who doesn’t want him.

“Make yourself scarce,” I tell my guard. I can’t remember his name. “Bella said no muscle; we will do as she asks.”

“Shall I remove her security as well, Boss?” he questions.

“That will be her decision. Now, fuck off. I’ll call you when I need you.”

He nods and walks off, leaving me standing in the middle of the café surrounded by everyday Joes enjoying a drink after their blue-collar shift. One man, still dressed in ahi-vis vest and hard hat, sits sipping at a mug of something at a table nearby. Black cracks weave over what I assume is porcelain.

My skin crawls at the thought of the bacteria the vessel could carry, but I say nothing as the waitress approaches. The woman, most likely in her fifties, stalks across the café, a fake smile plastered under her bright red lips. Thick black curls fall around her shoulders atop a cliché black-and-white uniform.

“Alright, mate,” she purrs.“ Just take a seat, and I’ll be with you.” I blink at her, semi-stunned by the words chosen to address me. In my forty-three years on earth, I don't think anyone called me mate , certainly no one who was a stranger anyway. “Ya deaf? Take a seat.” She spins on her heel and strides toward the swinging door at the rear of the building. I slink into the nearest seat to wait for both the server and my wife to appear.

Ten minutes pass and nobody bothers with me. I tap my leather sole against the sticky tiled floor as my annoyance increases. Just then, the waitress reappears with a teapot and a single mug. She places them on the table and smiles.

“I didn’t order tea,” I mutter, and her lips widen further turning her beam almost comical.

“Here at Lonely Hearts, we pride ourselves on knowing how to cheer our customers up,” she half-sings. “And you, sir, look like a tea drinker.” She disappears again before I can protest that I prefer coffee and that customer service relies on listening to the person paying the bill. Beaten, I lift the teapot and start to make my drink.

I feel her presence before I see her, the way she has affected me since we were kids. Even though I’ve not seen Isabella up close in the flesh in years, it hasn’t changed how I feel about her, this deep sense I have of needing to protect her. From the moment I met her as a thirteen-year-old boy, she was the girl for me. Life had been mapped out so beautifully before it all went wrong, and I’ve hated myself ever since.

She weaves through the clutter of tables and chairs, wide hips skimming the cheap plastic with each step. The memory of my greedy hands holding them in years long gone pops into my head, and my cock hardens instantly. My unfamiliar nervousness only appears when thinking of Isabella, and how I fucked up so severely ravages my body.

Back at the Zumba studio, I had been running on adrenaline. The divorce papers were handed to me when I entered a meeting. It had taken all my self-control not to storm away to find her. Only days later, I was marching through the door of her dance class, demanding I see her.

Isabella saunters over and stops in front of me. Her dark eyes hold mine for a beat. I stand and move to hug her in greeting. She immediately takes a step backward out of my grasp. Her plump lips purse in disgust as if offended at the thought of touching me. She flicks her plait off her shoulder, causing her breasts to wobble a little with the movement. I bite my lip to stop a comment that should be kept inside from slipping out.

“Stop staring at my tits, Hunter,” she hisses, and my wayward pupils that dropped like a schoolboy snapback up. She glowers angrily, and I clear my throat.

“What would you like to drink, Bella?” I ask, moving to pull out her chair. She lifts her hand, thrusting her palm in my direction. Her long fingers are poised straight, no rings in sight. It is my turn to glare at her. “Where are your rings?”

“At the pawn shop.”

Her retort is slick to the point of perfected practice. The nervousness subsides slightly, making way for aggravation.

“I’m not staying, Hunter,” she says shortly. “I know why you’re here. No, I won’t be discussing this with you. Please sign the divorce papers and let us both move on.”

“No,” I reply, my tone that of a teenager. I sit down in my chair and lift the cup of tea to my lips. “I don’t believe in divorce.”

Isabella huffs loudly before taking two steps forward. With her trainer-clad feet almost touching the leg of my chair, she leans down and narrows her eyes, appearing like a snake that has locked onto its prey.

“You are not even a husband. You need a marriage first, so don’t think of it as divorce. It is merely a cancellation of a contract. I’m one less thing for you to pay for.” Her Spanish accent causes the words to sound almost romantic even though they aren’t. Her heritage is another thing I have loved about her since we met. She has fire in her like no other, and part of my reason for agreeing to her demands of living apart two decades ago was so that it was never extinguished. I couldn’t bear to see her in pain again.

“I may not be…” As I argue, she turns on her heel and walks away. Jumping from my seat, I scuttle after her like a puppy. She reaches the exit, and I grab her arm. She spins to face me, nothing but fury and hatred emanating from her. The expression on her face is identical to the one she wore on our wedding night—one of complete loathing. It brings me up short, and I let go.

“Good decision,” she hisses. Her bodyguard appears, a brute of a man with a ragged scar running down his cheek. There have been rumors there’s more to their relationship than boss and employee, but nothing has been substantiated. If that were the case, I figured if he had feelings for her, he would keep her safer than a man who didn’t. However, my initial reaction was to take him to the tunnels deep under the city and dissect him.

“Everything all right?” he asks, his voice monotone.

“Yes, thank you, Ronan,” she replies with a wide smile. Her eyes visibly sparkle as she looks at him. He returns her pleasantries with a nod.

“Of course, she’s fucking okay. I’m her husband.” His focus moves to me, and he stares impassively as if I were no more than a passerby. The green mist that immediately appeared gets thicker at his lack of professionalism. “Remember who pays your wages.” At this comment, he openly smirks and I step past Isabella, closer to him.

“With all due respect, sir,” he says, insanely sweet, “my orders are to protect Miss Isabella from any threats, whoever that may be. You chased her across this café and physically assaulted her.”

“I did not!” I snap, furious at being thrown onto the back foot.

“You touched her without consent, did you not?” His words hang in the air between the three of us. I glance at my wife, pressing her lips together, attempting to hide her amusement. She looks away as soon as she catches my eye.

“Yes, but…”

“Well, sir, that is exactly the behavior I am here to intervene on.” He straightens his shoulders like standing in line at the army. “And I pride myself on a job well done.”

“Let’s go, Ronan,” Isabella says, interrupting the show. “I think we have made our point.”

“No point, Miss. Only following Mr. Devane’s orders.” She laughs out loud this time, her hand lifting to her lips too late. She touches the other man on the arm affectionately, and my heart sinks.

“You do make me laugh,” she purrs before turning back to me. “Please, Hunter, sign the papers. Let me go.”

With that, they both turn their backs and walk away.