Page 68 of Love What's Left
He laughs, then he nods to my plate. “Can we classify today as a success?”
“One hundred percent. I wasn’t anxious at all. It would have taken a mind reader to target my food here.”
He nods, but his eyes have a little dent between them.
I set down my fork. “I get it. I have no proof that someone I know drugged me in the past, and no rational reason to think they could sneak into our house or tamper with our food supply either. All I have is a gut feeling that someone I trusted did me dirty.”
“You’re probably right that someone you know helped him. Ignoring your instincts is usually a bad idea.”
“Except when those feelings are nothing more than my subconscious trying to compensate for past trauma and making me think everything is a crisis.”
He plucks a deep pink blossom from a nearby bush. Leaning forward, he tucks it above my ear. “Except then.”
The desire already coiling through me twists to an almost unbearable level.
“All that silky tan skin draped in sunlight and hibiscus, your hair loose and wild, lips sweet with sugar, and your eyes reflecting the sky. You tear me apart, rearrange the pieces, and put me back together with one look,” he murmurs.
I sleep next to this man every night. He told me he loves me.
What did I do in the past that has me afraid to give in to my feelings now?Moving to a sexual relationship won’t change anything on a fundamental level. We’re already emotionally attached. I could take that step.
“Gabe? I thought that was you!” A man walking on the other side of the street shouts our way.
McRae lifts his head and eases back into his seat, a frown crossing his features before he hides it with an affable smile.
The dark-haired man, stocky with a bit of a belly and several inches shorter than my husband, huffs his way over to the knee wall between us with a beer in hand. A beautiful mid-twenties blonde in a white sun hat, a gauzy summer skirt, and white bikini top trails behind him carrying a fruity-looking drink.
McRae rises and they reach over the wall to clap each other on the back.
“I haven’t seen you in years. It’s got to be a decade,” the man says.
“Close to that. Are you here on vacation?” McRae asks.
“A couple weeks of rest and relaxation. I was sorry to hear what your wife went through,” the man says.
Gabriel nods. “Thanks.”
The man looks at me in expectation. In my periphery, Dave steps closer.
“Sydney, this is Regis Martell.Thefourth. Regis, my wife Sydney.” Gabriel puts an arm around my waist as I join him.
“Nice to meet you, Sydney. Don’t worry about the number after my name. This clown likes to yank my chain. Call me Rege.” Rege’s glassy eyes and overly hearty laugh remind me of my father and his friends. Different tax bracket. Same drinking-buddy vibe.
Normal people can cut loose and have a couple drinks on vacation. All your friends drink occasionally. Drunk on vacation doesn’t mean this guy is an alcoholic.
All true, but nothing on earth can stop my heart from racing and my stomach from tightening into a fist while I stand within touching distance of an unknown intoxicated man. The smell of the beer alone makes me want to vomit.Get a grip, Sydney.
I manage a socially polite smile but eye him warily. “Hello, Rege.”
“You must’ve had to drag this one down the aisle,” Rege says to me.
“I was the one doing the dragging,” McRae says.
Rege roars with laughter. “That’s what she wants you to think. I hope that prenup is airtight. I know better than to fuck smart women.”
What a dick.
Behind him, the blonde rolls her eyes and plays with the huge diamond in her left ear.
