In the Unlikely Event

Woman: “Then what?”

Mal: “Then I take her and we’re leaving. She likes the beach, so maybe we’ll go somewhere with a lot of sun. Greece or Spain. South of France, maybe.”

Woman: “Isn’t she mad at you for having her here?”

Didn’t take a genius to figure out I was her, and I was also about as welcome as gonorrhea.

Mal: “She has no idea about Rory, and I plan on keeping it that way. Makes things simple. I like simple.”

Woman: “I could be simple for you, Mal.”

Mal: “Certainly you can, and you are.”

Whoever she was didn’t pick up on the insult. Shame. A punch in the nuts was just what the doctor ordered for Mal.

Then the noises started. The tongues and thrusts and skin slapping skin. My thighs squeezed, and the hollow place between them ached. I thought of interrupting him, too—you know, an eye for an eye and so forth—but didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing that I heard.

That I cared.

No.

I moved to my room, threw myself onto the bed, flung an arm over my eyes, and shook my head.

Down, girl.

But it was too much, and I was too weak. I shoved my hand into my jeans and played with myself to the sound of Mal having sex with another woman.

It’s not cheating, I told myself the entire time. I’m not touching him. I never will. Callum and I just didn’t get to finish what we’d started the night before.

I decided not to leave my room unless Mal called me for work. It was stupid to think we could patch things up. He was a different person, and I needed to stop making excuses for him in my mind.

I texted Callum a string of messages telling him I missed him, turned my laptop on, and worked into the night. My mom called a couple times, but I sent her to voicemail. Mal and the woman ended up doing the very same thing Cal and I had been about to do the night before, and extra loudly, no doubt so I could hear.

What kind of merciless, ruthless, immoral monster cheats on his wife and also hides the fact that her half-sister and his once-upon-a-time crush is living with him for two months?

Listening to him drilling into a woman who wasn’t his wife put the stamp of disapproval on Mal, and that is very good news.

I am no longer jealous of Kathleen, or interested in being civilized with her husband.

Anyway, that was yesterday, and today I woke up to the faint sound of music and the strong scent of food: bacon, eggs, freshly brewed coffee, and banana bread.

My mouth waters, and I struggle to swallow my saliva. I’d kill for a good cup of coffee. Besides, seeing as I have nothing but negative feelings toward Mal, it shouldn’t be too hard to face him.

I crack my door open and step into the living room barefoot, my red plaid pajamas barely covering my legs and messy hair tangled like wild branches around my face. I halt in the cove between the living room and corridor, my heart slowing along with my step.

Ashton Richards (yes, the Ashton Richards) is sitting in Mal’s living room, smoking a joint and wearing a golden robe with his initials printed on the breast pocket, along with sunglasses indoors. He sips his coffee and reads through something in Mal’s notebook, while his staff runs around in the background, cleaning and cooking like magical cartoon animals helping Cinderella get ready for the ball.

I can’t help but notice that Richards, despite his many apparent flaws if you believe what the media says, is undeniably gorgeous. He looks like a really hot version of Jesus—a long-lost Hemsworth brother with long hair.

Mal sits across from him in a recliner, his legs crossed over his coffee table, chewing on an unlit clove cigarette and throwing a rugby ball at the ceiling. “Boys Don’t Cry” by The Cure is playing from a portable radio, and I will not let the fact that Mal kept his cassettes or his old-school radio endear him to me. He is not a romantic.

There are platters everywhere in the open kitchen, breakfast nook, and on the table. They hold pastries, fruit, a full English breakfast, and coke.

Hold on. Coke?

My eyes widen as I zoom in on the silver platter with white lines running across it. Richards lifts his head from the notebook he’s reading and waves in my general direction.

“Someone hand the chick an NDA. I’m trying to work here.”

A blonde girl who looks eerily similar to Ryner’s PA, Whitney, jogs toward me with a thick stack of papers and a pen.

Mal ignores my existence. His cheekbones are ruddy, tinted pink, and I wonder if it’s from the cold or from last night’s orgasms. He has that lost Peter Pan look—charismatic and unassuming, yet so easily destructive. I can’t even hate him all the way, no matter how hard I try.

“Who’s the hottie?” Richards nudges Mal’s leg with his own, tilting his chin to me.

“My sex slave,” Mal deadpans, catching the ball and spinning it on his finger like a pro, his eyes still hard on the ceiling.

Is there anything this man can’t do?

Yes, stay faithful.

“For real?” Ashton rips his sunglasses from his face and leans forward, checking me over more closely.

I fold my hands across my chest, aware that my nipples are puckered from the cold.

“Isn’t she a little…underdressed?” He raises a thick eyebrow over his crystal blue, Caribbean Sea eye.

I’m going to kill Mal.

Straight-up choke him. Not even in his sleep. I want him to be fully present when it happens.

Mal follows Richards’ gaze until his eyes land on mine. I’m still silent because I’m waiting to see how far he’s going to take his weird story.

“She has a hobo fetish, so I turn a blind eye to her fashion choices,” Mal explains, resuming his ball spinning. “I humor her, but I draw the line at pissing in public and flashing randoms.”

I nod, sending a sugary smile to Ashton Richards. The blonde girl hands me a contract and a pen, and I sign it without even looking, my gaze still on her boss.

“Mal is just being humble,” I begin. “He’s the one with the hobo fantasies. In fact, he loooooves trash. Just look at this place.” I hand the girl the pen and motion around us. “Sometimes I think he won’t rest until this place is a dumpster. I once caught him making love to an empty can of baked beans.”

“Tomato soup, actually,” Mal amends, straight-faced, but his purple eyes are twinkling with mischief. “And that can has a name. Laura.”

Ashton is looking between us now, laughing so hard tears are rolling down his cheeks—a young, hot version of The Big Lebowski.

“Young love. Fucking inspiring. What’s your name, honey pie?” He grins at me.

“Rory,” I say at the same time Mal volunteers my full name.

“Aurora Belle Jenkins. Her ma’s entire cultural education obviously stems from Disney. Personally, I think Cruella de Vil suits her better.”

“Personally, I think men who cheat on their wives and keep secrets from them should be stoned to death by a herd of baseball pitchers,” I retort, heading toward the kitchen and treating myself to a cup of coffee from the new machine that’s been installed since yesterday.

I snag a pastry from a huge platter in the breakfast nook and tear off a piece of it with my teeth.

“You should move to Saudi Arabia,” Mal suggests. “Adulterers get the death penalty. Of course, that’d put you at risk, too.”