Filthy English
My mouth opened. “I haven’t had time to process it!” I groaned and flopped back against the pillows. “I mean how am I going to explain your name on my body to people?”
He looked at his nails, completely unconcerned about my distress. “I don’t see the problem, love. Most girls would love to have my name on their body.”
I trembled with banked anger. “The problem is you’re Dax and I’m me! We don’t go together.”
His face darkened, and I almost thought I saw hurt there. No, that couldn’t be right.
His chest swelled as he took a breath. “Fine. Tell them you were drunk and it was an impulse. That’d be the truth, right?” He pivoted away from me, strode over to the window, and pulled the blinds open. I blinked as he dropped down and started doing push-ups, his clipped voice counting out a fast one hundred.
Of course, I watched. Because I’m clearly still drunk. Not really, but I felt woozy just being naked and this close to him.
With his sculpted muscles executing an effortless athleticism, he rose up and down from the floor, the tendons in his arms and shoulders bulging.
I tore my eyes away.
I should be mad at him for acting so surly—but I wasn’t. Maybe it was because his one-eyed monster was rock hard and seemed to be looking right at me.
He stood back up, and then as if he’d had enough of me, he stalked into the bathroom and shut the door.
Well.
His moodiness was worse than a teenage girl on her period, but right now I couldn’t worry about him.
I needed clothes!
Jumping out of bed, I ran to the closet and pulled out a white peasant top with lace at the hem and a pair of cropped red pencil pants. Because of the tattoo, I went braless.
Next stop was the mirror. I let out a gasp. Holy morning of shame, my hair was a bush on one side and flat on the other. Globs of leftover mascara and black eyeliner smudged the skin under my eyes. Groaning, I pulled a brush out of my make-up bag and went to work on the tangles.
Crap!
I should have never drunk tequila!
I should have never gotten a tattoo!
But at least you didn’t have unprotected sex!
I snorted.
My phone rang. Rummaging through the mess I’d dumped out on the bed from my bag, I snatched it up and answered.
“What?” I bit out.
“Remington?” A familiar male voice came through the speaker.
The room spun. Only one person used my God-given name.
“Hartford?” My hand clutched the phone like a lifeline.
A beat of silence. “Yeah,” his deep voice said, and I heard flapping in the background as if he were outside and it was windy. I imagined him in Raleigh, finishing up his morning run and walking back to the apartment.
Leftover anger bubbled to the surface, but I kept my voice even. “What do you want?”
“To see you.” A long sigh. “Look . . . I’m sorry.”
Elation surged. My eyes closed in relief.
He wanted to see me. He was sorry.
I bit my lip to keep a shrill laugh from escaping.
“Remington? Are you there?”
“Yes, I’m here.” I paused. “What—what are you sorry for?”
“I don’t know. Everything, I guess.”
He didn’t know?
My free hand gripped the edge of the nightstand.
“Remington? Are you there?”
I inhaled a deep breath. “I’m here. Are—are you sorry for the wedding dress I’ll never wear? For the gifts I returned? The emails and phone calls I had to make? For hurting me?”
“Remington—”
“You know what? Stay on your break. Tell your study buddy I said hello, and fuck off.” I hit the end button.
Tears threatened my eyes and I pushed them down. Don’t cry. Don’t cry.
“Remi?” Dax had come out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his middle. His hair was wet from a shower and rivulets of water traced down his chest to his hips. His forehead furrowed as he raked his eyes over me. There must have been something telling in my expression because in three quick strides he stood in front of me. “Who was on the phone?”
I rubbed my face. “Hartford,” I croaked, trying not to break.
He exhaled, sat down on the bed next to me, and gave me a gentle shoulder hug. “Shit. I’m sorry. Are you okay? Do you want to talk about it? I know I joke around a lot, but people tell me I’m good to talk to.”
I looked at the phone and then back at him. I did want to talk, and somehow I knew Dax would keep whatever I said between us. “Our relationship was so easy, you know? He never cheated or even glanced at another girl, and I’m sure he could have. He wanted me, and I thought he wanted me forever, but . . .” I twisted my wrist, aching for my bracelet. “It’s just . . . after my dad died, I wanted someone like him. I even had a list. I wanted someone kind. Responsible. Smart. Someone who’d help me take care of Malcolm someday and wouldn’t mind that he was part of the package. But sometimes . . . I think I miss the idea of Hartford more than him.”
He brushed a strand of hair out of my eyes. “Do you love Hartford?”
I closed my eyes. “I do, but we were so perfect, and maybe this is weird, but part of me wonders if maybe true love or soul-mate love isn’t perfect or easy at all, but dirty and hard and crazy.” I sucked in air. “I don’t know. I’m confused and angry—yet I want to see him.”
He tilted my chin up, his eyes meeting mine. Compassion mixed with something else I couldn’t define—sadness?—crossed his face. “I’m here for you, whatever you need. I—I’ve never been in love, but I can see you’re hurting, and it makes me . . .” He stopped.