Page 4 of Love and Forgiveness (Rough & Ready Country #6)

Chapter Two

WOLFE

Izzie may be pissed at me, but I’ve got shit to be enraged about, too.

My wife’s surrounded by male museum curators and employees, most of them way older than her.

Some of them married. So, I know it’s more or less irrational.

Nevertheless, I’d still like to put my fist through every one of their faces.

One guy looks younger than the rest. I don’t recognize him from town.

He’s sticking awfully close to Izzie’s elbow, and I’m ready to kill the motherfucker.

That was always one of my greatest areas of insecurity in our relationship—her in the presence of good-looking, educated men.

I’m a fucking savage. I’d sacrifice my body and life to save her in an instant, but I could never compete for her mind. I’m too damn stupid.

Izzie beelines straight for my table, and I see the younger man grab her elbow. Thankfully, she pulls away from him, looking slightly annoyed. I’m moments away from messing up his pretty face. Lucky for him, he follows, staying a few steps behind her.

I appreciate the sway of her ample hips and generous tits as she approaches in a tight knee-length black skirt, matching pale pink sweater set, and white wool vintage swing coat with big gold buttons.

And that’s not to mention the sexy, flesh-colored pumps decorating her shapely stems. She’s dressed to the nines, and I’m irate, trying to figure out who she wants to impress.

All I know is she’s as smoking hot as the first day I met her when she spilled water down the front of her shirt, giving me a glimpse into heaven.

She stops directly before the table, putting her hands on her hips. I swear she gives Selma and Laurie tense glares before directing her rage at me. “I suppose you’re celebrating your big win?”

I shrug, aware that Selma’s hand rests on my shoulder again. The woman is persistent. I’ll give her that. I’m even more aware that Izzie can’t take her eyes off it. “If that’s your way of congratulating me, thanks, I guess,” I grumble.

Drawing in a deep breath, Izzie cocks her head to the side. “You know, I have to hand it to you. I never saw this coming. I had no clue you could be this manipulative.” She shakes her head, punctuating the statement.

She knows her accusation is unfounded. I can tell by how her eyebrows hover on her forehead for a split second before dropping back down.

She blinks nervously, too. I may be many things—a thick-headed ass, a stubborn jerk—but being manipulative is not among my faults. Selma loops her arm around my neck.

Now, she’s gone too far. I pull away, ordering her to have fun with Rutger. Izzie’s face instantly relaxes. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she was jealous.

Clearing my throat, I explain, “It was too good to pass up. Besides, I made a promise nine years ago, and I’m not about to break it.”

Sadness flashes across her face, and she opens her mouth to speak before hesitating.

She purses her generous lips, and the gesture sets my heart aflame.

What I wouldn’t give to taste those plump, ruby-colored lips one more time.

Heaven and Earth, for starters. Finally, she asks, “And which of your many promises would that be, Wolfe?”

The jab of her last words doesn’t go unnoticed.

I was a workaholic during our marriage and an absentee dad, especially when the kids were babies.

Ironically, it took our separation for me to finally settle down because one thing was for sure.

I wasn’t going to let the court give me any less than fifty percent child custody.

I often wonder what Izzie expected when she married a soldier of fortune. I guess it sounded hot when we were twenty-something nomads. Back then, she was just as likely to travel for art conservation work as I was as a private military contractor.

We both lived rootless lives as contractors, going to the highest bidder.

But always finding intrepid and crazy ways to hook up when our schedules allowed.

And the time apart only made the sex more sizzling when we finally got together—like two fireballs colliding.

It felt exhilarating and amazing, and it suited us both perfectly … until it didn’t.

If Izzie were honest, she’d admit both of our jobs came with broken promises. I had little control over my schedule, location, and what I could and could not tell her. The same went for her, though. Then, she got pregnant with Matt, and I insisted she move to Hollister, close to my foster family.

Maybe that was a mistake, but I wanted to keep her and our baby close to family and safe.

Being a big city girl and world traveler, I’m not sure she ever got used to living in a town of two thousand.

Nevertheless, I can’t regret it because my line of work comes with unexpected dangers, even to my family.

All I know for sure is that every problem on the planet was blamed on my job and our shared former lifestyle after that.

It took me a while to get the message. After all, I didn’t say I was dumb for no reason.

But when I did, I changed everything. Almost overnight.

Up to that point, I thought my career was the biggest problem in our marriage.

Six months into divorce proceedings and three months into being back in Hollister, and I know better.

She hasn’t made one move to return to me, although I’ve established a steady gig that rarely involves travel.

Hell, she won’t even give me the time of day.

Looking darkly in her direction, I reply, “Which of my promises? The most important one, Izzie. To keep you safe, protected. To never let anything happen to you.” I’d give my fucking life for her without hesitation, and she knows that from our time in Afghanistan.

Her eyes wander to my left hand, unsurprised by the simple white gold band still locked in place. In return, my eyes glance towards her empty left hand, where I haven’t seen an engagement ring or wedding band since I’ve been home. I frown.

A question’s hung in my mind for months now.

It’s on the tip of my tongue, but there’s no way I’d ask it in front of so many people.

Was I that bad to be married to? I’m sure she’d say yes.

I’m not ready for a rundown of what a loser I am, though.

The truth is, I should have never married her in the first place.

I was never smart enough for her and should have known better.

I guess I thought amazing sex and total devotion could make up for my lack of education.

Just like I thought the ridiculously good money I made as a PMC in combat zones would make up for my long absences. I was misguided on both counts.

“I don’t need your protection,” Izzie replies, raising her chin defiantly.

She always knows what to say to piss me off.

But I’m not falling for it this time. Instead of devolving into another argument, I reply quietly, “You’re the mother of my children, so you’ll always have my protection.

No matter what. And now, so will the multi-million-dollar museum collection you’re in charge of.

Ormsby Security won’t let anything happen to it. ”

The younger man listens raptly to our conversation, hanging back slightly.

I don’t miss the way his hand comes up to grab her elbow again.

I could break his fucking pencil neck between my thumb and forefinger, and I don’t hide the smile this thought elicits.

But I’m sure he makes up for what he lacks in brawn in intellectual prowess, an area I’ll forever remain outgunned and outmanned.

Turning towards the man, Izzie introduces, “This is Dr. Richard Fairfield. He’s an associate professor in the Anthropology Department at Sac State. He’s been coming over to help organize the Native American basket collection.”

Izzie’s a PhD candidate in the same department.

A picture of what’s going on becomes more apparent by the minute, sickening me.

“That’s some drive, Dick,” I reply, using every ounce of self-control to steady my voice.

If he draws any closer to her and makes one more move on my wife, all bets are off, though.

My glare says it all, and Izzie’s face blanches.

The bumbling professor doesn’t take a hint, though.

He and I are going to tangle before this winter’s over.

Leaning forward, he offers his hand, and I accept it without hesitation, gripping it so tightly I hear his knuckles crack. That’s right, motherfucker. I’m not the man you want to mess with.

I might feel sorry for him if he wasn’t in such close proximity to the one woman my world revolves around.

I let his hand go right at the point where the grimace on his face turns to panic.

He steps back quickly, visibly shaken and muttering trained pleasantries under his breath.

I fucking hate him. I don’t know if it’s solely from seeing his hands on my wife or if there’s more to it, but I fucking hate him.