Page 180 of Pucking Sweet

They don’t need me.

I bet they’re happier without me.

I only break things.

Why would anyone ever love me?

It sucks now, but this pain will eventually fade. Someday, I’ll beable to fucking breathe again without it hurting. Can you imagine if I was in any deeper when I started to pull away?

My doorbell rings again.

Fuck.

Rolling out of bed, I click on my bedside lamp. That’s right, I have two now, one for each side of the bed. And my bed is on a frame. And my walls are painted, and I have curtains. Janice and her team have been hard at work these last few weeks putting all the finishing touches together on the house. It actually looks like someone lives here now. Hopefully all the new built-in features and the kitchen renovation will help me sell it faster.

I sure as fuck can’t live here. Not when Cole installed a library on my second floor and ordered eight boxes of books to fill the shelves for Poppy. Half the book covers are pink. The asshole took the smallest bedroom off the master and converted it into a walk-in closet for her. He added an industrial fridge in the kitchen. What’s a single guy who never cooks gonna do with an industrial-sized fridge? Check it now, and the only thing you’ll find is beer, takeout containers, and half a bottle of ketchup.

I pause halfway down the stairs as I hear my front door open.

Oh, fuck.

Did someone just break into my fucking house? My heart starts to race as I consider my options. I left my phone up by the bed, and it’s not like I own a gun. I think there’s a hockey stick in the laundry room. I’m pretty deadly with that. How do I get to it? I definitely should’ve put on a fucking shirt and some pants.

The door slams shut. “Honey, I’m home!”

Oh, you are fucking kidding me. I jog down the stairs in my boxers and socks, practically sliding on my new hardwood floors into my living room.

Cole is standing over by my front door, two suitcases and a backpack at his feet, a fistful of grocery bags in his hand. “Hey. Did you not hear me ringing the doorbell?”

“Did you just break into my fucking house?”

He brings the groceries into the kitchen. “Don’t be dramatic. It’s not breaking and entering if I have a key. Whoa—” He pauses,glancing around at the kitchen and all the new furniture in the living room. Then he grins. “Bud, this looks fucking amazing. You love the dark cabinets, right?”

“Wait, but youdon’thave a key,” I shout, following him.

“You have a hide-a-key rock in your potted plant. I just used that.”

“So, you don’thavea key so much as youstolea key,” I reason, pressing my hands flat to the granite island countertop. “And then you used that stolen key to come into my house in the middle of the fucking night?”

He chuckles. “It’s not even eight thirty, Nov. We have games that start later than this. What’s the big deal?”

“The big deal is that you weren’t invited!”

He hefts his shopping bags onto the island and starts unpacking them. “What, like I’m a vampire? You gonna rescind my invitation like you’re Sookie Fucking Stackhouse?”

“Yes!”

He pauses in his unpacking, two containers of oatmeal in his hands. “No.”

“Yes,” I say again. “God, just getout, Cole. Don’t you understand? I can’t fucking have you here.”

He tips his head to the side in that way he does. “Why not?”

Groaning, I drag both my hands through my hair. “You know why.”

“I’m sure that I don’t.” He pulls a few more groceries from the bag—eggs, milk, a package of shredded cheese. “I have absolutely no idea what goes on inside that toxic head of yours. But I can imagine it’s a lot of really terrible shit that sounds something like ‘I’m not worthy’ and ‘No one will ever love me.’”

I cross my arms over my bare chest. “Don’t make light of my personal fucking baggage.”