Chapter 15
Grace
Who the hell is at my door at 11:34 p.m.?
I peep out the side window and see a familiar car parked crookedly in my driveway, bumper hanging over the edge of the sidewalk. My heart slaps around in my chest as I tie the sash of my robe around my waist. I breathe in a shallow breath and unlock the front door. With a clammy hand, I pull it open.
My husband steps inside.
"Daniel..." I say carefully. "What are you doing here?"
He is literally the last person I expected to see here right now. Isla texted me about fifteen minutes ago from Flynn and Murray's where she's having a drink with her fiancé, Reuben. She told me that she just saw Daniel at the bar with that Brittany Delaney chick all over him. I didn't cry. I worked hard to keep those tears inside. I just resigned myself to the fact that my husband was about to fuck another woman tonight. I have no right to be upset. I'm the one who filed for divorce.
Yet somehow, here he is. Standing in front of me, reeking of hops and bad decisions.
He's a sexy disheveled mess – the first three buttons of his shirt undone, his tie hanging loose around his neck. He stands in the foyer taking a superhero stance; hands fisted on his hips, feet shoulder width apart, head held high. The fabric of his unbuttoned jacket fans out around him like a cape.
"I'm here to make love to you," he announces, slurring his words.
Seriously? I shake my head. Unbelievable!
"Did you drive here?” I scowl as I examine his face. “You're drunk!"
He ignores my interrogation. "I want you, Grace."
The hard-on pressing against the front of his pants confirms…that is the truth!
I roll my eyes.
I admit that I've had my fair share of daydreams about Daniel showing up here to sweep me off my feet. It was never like this. He’s drunk and incoherent. A hot mess.
I turn away, sighing as I pad into the kitchen. "I'm gonna make you some tea.”
Dragging his feet, he follows after me. “Didn’t you hear me, Grace? I’m telling you that I want you tonight. I want to make love to you.”
I flick the switch on the electric kettle and the water begins to boil. “You are not the man I fell in love with. The man I married. I look at you, and I don’t know who the hell you are.”
Tilting his head to the side, he gives me an impish, bewildered look. “So…I’ll take that as a ‘no’?”
“You’re being an idiot right now,” I hiss, folding my arms across my chest and shaking my head. I ignore the fact that my body is warming up with desire.
Yes, I do want him to make love to me. But not like this. He isn’t even thinking straight in his inebriated condition. As much as I want him, I can’t stoop that low. “You think that you can just waltz in here after all these months, tell me that you’re horny and we just fall into bed together? That’s not how this works, Daniel.”
He stands in the doorway. “I’m trying to have a serious conversation with you. Why aren’t you taking this seriously?” He seems genuinely perplexed and frustrated.
“Well, mainly because you’re drunk and you probably won’t remember any of this in the morning.”
“I’m not drunk,” he says dismissively. “Maybe a little…loose. But definitely not drunk.”
I stare at him incredulously. “Daniel – you’re hammered.”
Shaking his head, he scoffs and limps a few inches forward. “I think I’d know it if I were hammered.”
God, why is he so combative all the time?
"Do you always have to win every fight?" I growl.
He stumbles a little then props a hip up against the stove. "Having my wife in my arms tonight is the only 'win' I'm looking for. Does that make me such a bad guy?"
I pause and look into his eyes. Under all those gallons of liquid stupidity, I catch a glimpse of the man I love. He’s standing there vulnerable and needy. The part of me that’s longing for him as much as he’s longing for me, begins to act up, prodding me to give in. But what good would that do either of us? Drunken sex will only dig this hole deeper.
Needing to get away from him before I do something stupid, I slam the cup of tea onto the counter and march right past him. "I'm too tired for this crap. I'm going to bed."
Abandoning the tea on the counter, he stumbles after me and plops down on the couch in the living room.
"That big, warm bed...” he calls after me. “I didn't buy it so you could lie in it all night and cry yourself to sleep. I bought it so I could fuck you. Make your toes curl. Make your spine curve off the mattress. Make you claw at the sheets."
Facing away from him, I squeeze my eyes shut as his words crawl down my spine, settling between my thighs like a whisper against my aroused flesh. I have to remind myself that he's drunk. He may want me right this minute but he'll wake up in the morning, hating me as much as he usually does and we'll be right back at square one.
Before I even reach the stairs, the sound of his snores fills the room. I spin around and watch him, lying on the couch with one arm hanging off, lips slightly parted.
What a handsome mess.
I run a hand over my stomach, well aware that he got drunk at the bar but he didn’t take some random woman back to his apartment. He came home to his wife when he could have easily had a wild night with someone else. He’s handsome and successful and charming as hell. There must have been a line of women waiting for his moment of weakness so they could have their chance with him. But he came home to me.
I briefly consider calling Keeland to come and get his best friend but I quickly decide against it. He looks so damn peaceful. In a bat-shit crazy kind of way. I’ll let my husband spend the night in his house on his own couch.
Tiptoeing across the room, I grab the quilt from the arm of the recliner and drape it over him. I flick off the lights and go up to my room.
It isn't until I'm at the top of the staircase that I realize...I'm wearing a smile on my face.