2. You Poleaxed Me at Hello - Cash
I’d recognize the small of that back anywhere. If the familiar curves of her tight little body doesn’t clue me in, the tramp stamp at the base of her spine sure as hell does. It’s a simple inscription of the word “love” inked into her skin with sprawling strokes. She got the tattoo when she was sixteen to spite her father.
I still remember when I saw that ink for the first time. She’d worn a skimpy bikini that day on her sweet sixteen, no doubt displaying her rebellion for her father to see. He noticed it, all right. Saw her as nothing but a disobedient young girl.
Not me. She’d stepped out of her family’s pool, water dripping down tanned skin as those tiny pieces of red material emphasized curves too sexy to belong to a young girl, and that was the moment I saw her as more than the daughter of my father’s best friend.
The memory rips through me, and no matter how many times I tell myself to stop torturing my eyes, I can’t stop staring at the photo on my phone. I have no idea who sent it to me, but the visual makes me want to burn the image to ashes. She’s straddling some faceless guy’s lap, obviously naked, and he has his arms snaked around her. Anyone with two eyes can see they’re fucking. I can’t make out his face, which just pisses me off more.
A text message flashes across the screen, and I ignore it as a monotone voice comes through the speaker overhead, announcing final boarding for flight 291 to Seattle. Instead of heading for the gate, I battle with myself in the men’s room. My palms are a sweaty mess at the thought of getting on that plane while this relentless rage courses through me.
I don’t like flying.
Truth is, I despise giving up that kind of control—the kind that leaves one vulnerable to other people’s errors. But since I stepped up as CEO of MontBlake, hopping on a plane several times a month has become the norm. I’m a hands-on guy, detail-oriented, and no way in hell was I prepared to trust anyone else to see the Denver project through to the end. CEO or not, my first love will always be architecture.
Too bad I didn’t account for my wife turning into a cheating bitch. A pang of guilt knifes through me at thinking of her in such derogatory terms, but it’s short-lived. Maybe if I’d seen her betrayal coming, I’d be more equipped to handle the anger boiling in my gut.
All I want to do now is smash my fist through a wall. Any wall will do, even the grimy one in this bathroom. Hell, the grime on the tile doesn’t even bother me, nor does the thought of broken and bleeding knuckles. My hands curl into fists at my sides, and only the fact that I’m standing in an airport bathroom stops me. This day will surely go down in history as the shittiest day of my life, and I’m not up for going to jail on top of it.
Besides, I refuse to give her the satisfaction.
At this late hour, the restroom isn’t overly crowded. A few men come and go, shooting me sideway glances, but I’m too busy pacing as I imagine the upcoming confrontation with Monica to pay them much attention. However, the reflection of the crazed man in the mirror gives me pause. This stranger looks like me, with familiar gray eyes and dark hair. Rage, hurt, and betrayal play across his face, and I shouldn’t be taken aback, but I am. This guy looks like a tool, ragged around the edges and older than twenty-nine.
I’m disgusted with myself, because deep in my gut I sensed something like this going down for a while. I push my left hand through my hair, and the sight of my wedding band smacks me in the face. What a farce that piece of jewelry is. I work the gold band from my finger and pocket it.
Then I inhale a deep breath.
A late flight is the only thing standing between me and the confrontation I crave. Turnabout is fair play, and now she’s the one who won’t see me coming. In fact, she’s probably fucking him right now in our bed, secure in the belief that her secret is safe and she has until tomorrow night before her idiot of a husband returns home.
Despite the distance she’s put between us these past few months, I resist letting go of the hope that my marriage isn’t a total sham, and that some part of the woman I married loves me too. It slices me too deep when I dwell on how quickly things changed, of how she morphed into a frigid version of the woman I thought I’d known. Thought I loved.
Goddamn it…still love.
A man in a business suit joins me at the sinks, and I catch the questioning glance he aims in my direction. I’m a disaster, no doubt about it. The photo of her with another man came through just as I’d stepped out of the shower back at the hotel. I’d thrown on a pair of slacks and the first shirt I found before tossing my scattered belongings into a carry-on. Peeking at the watch on my left wrist, I grimace. If I don’t get my ass moving, I’ll miss my flight.
Taking a few deep breaths to calm the hurricane roiling inside me, I grab the handle of my carry-on and leave the restroom. My cell dings again as I rush toward Gate 47. Sidestepping a woman who appears as rushed as I feel, I pull my phone out and glance down at the screen with a frown.
Monica: Why aren’t you answering my texts?
Oh, she is pissed. Her words alone don’t hint at her anger, but I can hear her tone in my head as I stride through the airport. Before I give in to temptation and forward her the incriminating photo I found in my inbox, I set my phone to vibrate and stuff it back into my pocket. She’ll get no warning from me.
I reach the gate with three minutes to spare. As I swipe my boarding pass, a vibration goes off in my back pocket. Probably another text from her, but it could easily be about work too, even at this late hour. Cursing under my breath, I fish for my cell again as I cross the jet bridge.
Kaden: How did the grand opening go?
Boarding the plane, I return the flight attendant’s greeting with a quick nod as I shoot off a reply to my brother.
Me: Went off without a hitch.
Can’t say the same for my personal life. I shove Monica’s betrayal to the back of my mind, determined to keep it there until I’m able to drop my anger into her lap. After what she’s done, she deserves an in-person verbal lashing.
I make my way to my assigned row in first class, distracted by Kaden’s text, and push my carry-on into the storage bin above. Letting my computer bag slide off my shoulder, I stow it under the seat in front of me before sliding in next to a blonde whose attention is glued to the small window at our right.
My palm vibrates with another text.
Kaden: Glad to hear it. Got any plans tonight?
I swallow a groan, already knowing where he’s going with this, and I’m in no mood to explain my early flight home on top of it.
Me: Nope, just bed.
Kaden: Too much work and not enough play makes you cranky as fuck. You gotta live some of the time, little brother.
Little brother. He loves throwing that in my face, even though he’s only six minutes older.
Me: I’m beat. Talk to you tomorrow.
I switch the phone to airplane mode and slip it back into my pocket. That’s when a hot tingle travels through me. Even before I turn my attention to my flight companion, the power of her stare sends electric shocks through my system, beginning in my arms and firing off in my legs.
Jesus. Those eyes.
They’re large and round and outlined by thick, long lashes. Something about them draws me in, and for a crazy second, I swear I see myself in her gaze. Her bottomless pits of seductive chocolate overflow with the same kind of pain rioting through me. She’s a complete mess, going by the red rimming those mesmerizing eyes.
In my entire life, I’ve never had such a strong reaction to a complete stranger. But as the seconds pass, matching the thudding beats of my heart, I’m paralyzed. The last thing I expected when I boarded this plane was to fall headfirst into another poleaxing moment.
Fuck me.
Consider me poleaxed.