Page 92 of Love What's Left
I traced her features with my gaze, lingering on those pretty lips that would not, in fact, be wrapping around my cock. “What the fuck am I going to do with you now?”
She stilled, her glare every bit as incendiary as it had been, but, suddenly,knowing. She’d understood. She knew the hole I’d dug for myself—how I teetered on the edge of losing my soul.
Her lips curved upward in a feral smile.
32
Gabriel
I’d planned to sleep in the guest bedroom after my workout, but I wasn’t ready to climb under the covers and stare at the ceiling. I’d had to get out of the house.
Now, I run a hand through my shower-damp hair and look up as the waitress approaches with my drink order. Her smile is sympathetic, but she added an extra swing to her hips when she turned my way. Her sympathy would extend further than a few kind words if I flirt back.
I stare at the table as she sets the glass of amber liquid and ice in front of me.
“Thanks,” I say.
“You bet.” She hesitates, then ventures, “Rough night?”
How to answer that question? “My wife hates me?” “I’m avoiding my house because I can’t face the look of betrayal in her eyes?” “I’m lonely as hell and want to stop fighting for one damn night because I’m too fucking exhausted to keep going?”I clear my throat and give a friendly, but not too friendly, smile. “Nah. Just tired. Busy week. I’m waiting on someone.”
She nods. “I’ll keep an eye out for your friend.”
I pull the wrapper off my straw, then start tying knots in it. One at a time. Tie a knot, then snap it off and toss it to the table. Then another and another, making a little pile of paper bows. When I reach the end of my straw wrapper, I remove the cocktail napkin from under my glass, rip the paper into strips and start again. The knots in the red paper remind me of Sydney’s belt and how she kept her rings safe by tying and tying.
I glance at my drink, then work the paper into another knot.
A quick check of my phone shows Sydney hasn’t texted. No shock there. She’d tear her own fingernails out with pliers before she’d make the first move after a fight, if you could even call it that, and she didn’t want me there in the first place.
I tie another bow, snap it off, and add it to the pile.
A man, taller than I am by an inch and a half, with light brown hair that looks like he stuck his finger in a light socket, pulls out the chair across from me, and lowers himself to sit.
Glasses perch on his lightly freckled nose, but they don’t cover the bleary sleep deprivation in his blue eyes.
“Sorry, Henry. I didn’t think about the baby. You probably aren’t getting much sleep as it is.”
He glances down at my ever-growing pile of knots and untouched glass. “I’m glad you called.”
Our waitress stops by our table and fans her face. “Two of you? Your mother must be proud. That is some gene pool.”
Henry frowns. “Our birth mother was an alcoholic and an addict who overdosed on a combination of prescription painkillers and alcohol, leaving behind two motherless sons who never fully recovered from her loss. Also, we’re both married.”
Subtle, Henry.
She freezes, then clears her throat. “Sorry to hear that. About your mother, I mean. Er . . . congrats on the being married part?”
Henry nods then flips open the menu. “Thank you. Our wives are delightful. I’d like water, with lemon slices in a separate dish, not floating in the glass. I’d also like a glass of unsweetened iced tea and a large order of nachos.”
When she walks away, I shake my head. “She was making small talk. You could have said ‘thank you’ and moved on.”
“She was flirting. Probably for the purpose of a bigger tip, but I refuse to participate. It’s disrespectful to my wife.”
There’s no point explaining there are subtler ways to handle these things. Henry is Henry.
He pulls a black fidget spinner from his pocket and flicks it. I pick up a strip of paper and tie another knot, my attention solely on my fingers.
Henry indicates my glass. “What is it?”
