Page 7 of Love and Forgiveness (Rough & Ready Country #6)

Chapter Four

IZZIE

“As fun as this conversation’s been, I’m done.

” I mean to deliver the line in a steely, sarcastic tone.

But it comes out sounding more like a frustrated scream.

My response is in total disproportion to the last statement and the general flow of the conversation.

This realization makes me even angrier because it points to his innate ability to still get under my skin.

I look back up the alleyway, sure someone is still eavesdropping on us.

Wariness shrouds Wolfe’s gaze, and his eyes follow mine. They narrow, and puzzlement crosses his face. I’m certain he’s about to ask me who I’m looking at. But he stops short.

Instead, he whispers, “You know, at some point, we need to talk about all of this—”

“We’ve talked this subject to death!”

“I don’t mean in the therapist’s office or before a court mediator or a judge. I mean you and me airing it out together ... along with our feelings.” He swallows hard, his face looking exhausted.

More dangerous territory. I can’t go there with him.

Instead, my voice rises as I exclaim, “No, everything I needed to say has already been said. And I’ve heard more than enough from you.

Wolfe, I can’t even talk to you for five minutes without feeling like my head will explode.

I don’t want to do this with you anymore.

Day in and day out. That’s the whole point of getting divorced.

So we don’t have to see or fight each other anymore. ”

Hurt flashes in his eyes, and I instantly regret my words.

He steps forward until we’re inches apart.

My breath catches in my throat as his musky smell and faint tones of aftershave envelope me—such a familiar and beloved smell.

The spicy, woodsy cologne that always had me burying my nose in his clothes when he was away.

Even though that comforting odor could undo all the hard work I’ve put into building walls between us, I refuse to step back.

I can’t let him think he can physically intimidate me.

He points towards his chest. “Just hit me. Use me as a punching bag. Get out all of your anger. You know I can take it.”

I laugh exasperated, looking away to the side of the alley leading to the Saloon’s front facade. “You’ve got to be out of your mind,” I say, shaking my head.

“No, I’m serious, Izzie. Hit me. Get it all out. Fucking use me as your punching bag. It might make you feel better, and it would hurt a whole helluva lot less than some of the things that come out of your mouth.” The last statement makes my heart ache.

“Hit me,” he says again, smacking his chest. “I’m serious. You’d be doing us both a favor.”

I take domestic violence seriously, and I’m not about to turn over a new leaf as an abuser.

But it’s not like he and I are technically a domestic unit anymore.

And the offer’s too tempting to refuse. Especially when I think back to Wolfe’s last overseas contract in the UAE and his buddy Rutger’s Facebook page.

I’ll never forget the clubbing pictures Rutger posted, including some of my drunken husband with two overly affectionate blondes.

The thought of those pictures still makes me nauseous.

But I did the right thing. I didn’t jump to conclusions.

Instead, I asked him about the photos and the girls over Zoom while he was still working in the UAE.

Instead of explaining, he went wordlessly morose, ending the call. His response confirmed my worst suspicions and one of my dealbreakers: infidelity. After that, Wolfe acted hardened and aloof anytime we spoke and started throwing around the word “divorce.”

It gutted me, triggering some of the most painful memories of my childhood.

My parents put us kids through an excruciating, prolonged divorce that ensured we grew up in family court.

“Divorce” was the one word I made Wolfe promise never to say to me before we got married.

Yet, he didn’t even hesitate when push came to shove.

Seeing red, I channel the thoughts into physicality, smacking his chest with my hand.

“Come on, is that all you’ve got? I think you can do better than that.”

He doesn’t have to ask twice. I hit him again, much harder this time. “Ouch!” I cry, shaking my hand. His chest is so hard it’s like hitting a wall or a boulder. I should know better. I used to sleep on those hard, angular planes.

“Hops,” he scolds. “The point isn’t to hurt yourself. I meant, throw a punch at me, like I taught you.”

I shake my head, nursing my hand with the other one.

“Are you okay?” He grabs my hand, caressing it tenderly. I inhale sharply at the sparks of electricity left by his touch, and his eyes turn towards mine, warmer and more gentle than I’ve seen in a long time.

“Nothing looks broken,” he says quickly, letting go of me.

He shrugs, kicking the ground with his combat boot, and his hands are fisted at his sides.

“I’m sorry if my company’s new contract inconveniences you.

But after the initial consultation, I guarantee you’ll rarely see me.

After all, I own the company. I’m not personally providing the security.

And once the kids get older, you can see even less of me. ”

I bite my lower lip. I’m stuck between reminding him to sign the divorce papers and apologizing to him. Not so long ago, he was the only person on this planet I counted on seeing for the rest of my life. I feel a part of me dying with that expectation.

Instead, I excuse myself. “I need to get back inside. Everyone’s going to think I ditched them.” I’m so close to tears, my voice shakes, and it’s not because of the stinging in my palm.

He nods, concern washing over his face. But thankfully, he says nothing. The last thing I need right now is a close examination of my emotional state—a hot mess. “Yep, I’ll walk you inside.”

Twenty minutes later, Wolfe escorts me to my Toyota, the only vehicle left in the dark museum parking lot across the street and a few blocks from the bar. I accept his offer begrudgingly because there’s no arguing with him when it comes to safety.

The evening’s over for me. I don’t feel like drinking, and I’ve lost my appetite, especially since Wolfe’s group and the unmarried portion of mine have buddied up with Selma and Laurie. I can’t stand the sight of those two anywhere near Wolfe, even though I know it’s irrational.

I also second-guess myself for leaving the kids with Wyatt, Birdie, and Zane. This makes me even more pissed at Wolfe for bringing up the custody discussion in the first place. I haven’t done anything wrong, but guilt still puts me on edge.

The heat from Wolfe’s hand radiates into my lower back as he leads me to my car, although his hand skims carefully over my shirt, never pressing into the flesh beneath.

“Please promise me you won’t park here next time you’re at Lucky’s. It’s too dark and dangerous, Izzie. Do what I always tell you. Please. Park under a streetlight where everyone can see you, and start carrying mace.”

“You don’t need to worry about me,” I reply, eliciting a fierce growl from him. But inside, a part of me is touched that he still cares. “Besides, you’re parked over here, too.” I point out his truck at the end of the street corner.

“Honey, nobody’s going to approach me. Just my height alone scares the shit out of people. You can’t say the same thing.”

At my red Toyota 4Runner, he looks nervous. I never see him like this. Clearing his throat, he points over his shoulder towards Lucky’s. “For the record, I’m not going back in there tonight. I can call you in half an hour, if you want proof.” He looks down as he says the last phrase.

The words touch and trouble me simultaneously as I wonder what happened in the UAE.

It’s the most critical question in our marriage and one he’s made clear he won’t answer.

I should ask anyway. After all, what do I have to lose at this point?

But he’s got me so well-trained to avoid specific topics that I frown instead, biting my tongue until it should be bleeding.

Wolfe’s brows furrow as he brings his eyes to mine, brushing a stray hair behind my ear. My heart soars at the simple action, and I work hard to control my breathing.

Shaking my head, I point at his wedding band, trying to lighten the mood. “Probably not the best accessory for getting laid at a bar anyway.”

He looks away for a long moment, and I almost swear he’s choked up. When his blazing eyes meet mine again, I’m sure of it. He swallows loudly, scrunching his face as he says, “You know that’s not what I want.”

I shouldn’t ask the next question, but I can’t stop myself. “What do you want?” It’s a question I need to ask myself, too.

His eyes meet mine, searching them for a tense moment. My heart hammers behind my rib cage so loudly I’m sure he can hear it. “Did you really just ask me that?” he growls dangerously, caging me against the side of the Toyota. Looking up, he scans the parking lot cautiously to see who’s watching.

I feel tiny when his gaze returns to me, and he leans forward, letting me feel his arousal against my stomach.

He’s rock-hard, and I’m instantly drenched.

It takes every ounce of willpower not to lift my leg and wrap it invitingly around him.

It’s been so long, and I miss him viscerally—with every inch of my flesh and bone.

I let out a ragged breath as he cocks his head to the side, moving closer to me.

His warm, musky fragrance both comforts and heightens the desperate need for satisfaction as his lips drop to my neck.

His hot breath envelopes the tender flesh of my décolletage, and my nipples instantly harden.

My breasts grow heavy with desire, and my head feels foggy from need.