Page 53 of Total Abandon

“Chloe, I said I don’t want to talk about it,” he grumbles, running a long finger around the collar of his tuxedo and giving it a tug like it’s uncomfortable.

I might have sort of, maybe,justkissed one of the rims on his Aston Martin on the entrance to the underground parking garage when we got back to the penthouse. Zeke had become very silent and despite my apologies, only grunted a handful of tense words at me for the rest of the day. “What can I do for you to forgive me?”

“Stop talking about it,” he shoots back, flipping down a hidden compartment and pulling out a frosted bottle of beer.

Clamping my jaw shut, I train my eyes out of the window. We’re on our way to a charity fundraiser at the house of some esteemed socialite. Instead of raising money for children in need, or animal abuse, or any number of worthy causes, this one happens to be in honor of the yellow crested ibis—an endangered bird that migrates from Peru. When I asked why on earth we were showing our faces at something so ridiculous, he simply grunted that “it was expected” and turned away.

“But even now I’ve stopped talking about it, I still feel like you’re mad at me.” I’m unable to let it go, apparently.

“For the love of God, woman. I’m not mad at you!” he snaps, taking a deep pull of his beer. He winces and his long lashes dust his cheekbones as he closes his eyes for a beat. “Okay, I am mad. But I also know it’s just a car, so I’ll get over it.”

Smiling, I reach over and pluck his beer out of his hand, taking a sip. “Tell me again why we’re going tonight?”

He takes the beer back with a small scowl. “I bumped into an old friend the other night and she told me she thought our engagement was fake. If she’s thinking it, so are others. We need to put on a good show in public.”

She.That one word lights an illogical storm of tension in my stomach. “Did she?” My voice is clipped even to my own ears. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that “old friend” plus “she” equals someone Zeke has had sex with. Fuck, maybe he had sex with her again.

He lets out a low, loose chuckle that makes the hairs at the back of my neck dance. “Yes, she did.”

Silence settles over the car again, nothing but the steady, quiet hum of the engine filling the air. Snatching up my clutch, I pull out a compact and check my makeup in the small round mirror, using a scarlet fingernail to make sure my fire red lipstick is perfectly lined up. A large hand closes over the compact, snapping it shut. Glancing over, I see him gazing at me with an odd look on his face. “Don’t do that.”

Blinking at him, I frown. “Do what?” He surprises me by sliding his hand behind my back, gripping my waist and pulling me across the back seat toward him. Pine and citrus musk fill my nostrils as my hip bumps into his, his fingers flexing.

“She’s just an old friend and nothing happened.” His polished mahogany eyes sparkle as he stares down at me, piercing through my soul as though he sees right past the veneer I present. “You fuss over yourself when you feel uncomfortable. You look perfect, mi fuego. There is no need.”

My lips part in surprise, but even though I try to grapple for something smart to say, nothing comes. He’s hit the nail on the head, and the astute observation makes my stomach clench. Too much order makes me itch, too much white, or anything too neat. It’s a visual representation of what I’ll never have. But somehow, when it comes to my appearance, it’s the opposite. I need to be neat and tidy and presentable, if only to hide the jumbling mess inside.

“You do anger management breathing exercises.” It’s the only thing I can think to say, like a wounded animal backed into a corner that needs to try and even the score.

He flashes a small smile. “Yes.”

“Why?” His fingers pulse once around my waist and a shudder runs down my spine, my flesh burning beneath his touch.

“Why do you feel the need to be perfect on the outside?” he shoots back.

Damn. Point taken. “Forget I asked,” I say quickly, swiping the beer from his hand and taking another swig.

He laughs, the warm sound wrapping around me like an embrace from an old friend as he flips up the lid to the hidden bar and grabs another bottle. “You have your things and I have mine, Chloe. We did meet in a therapist's waiting room, after all.” Air hisses from the cap as he uses his thumb to flick it off.

“Cheers to that.” I offer my beer neck up to his, and he clicks his against it before taking a deep pull.

***

“You simplymusttell us about your recent launch, Zeke. We’d all be so interested to hear about it.”

My finger taps my champagne flute to the rhythm of the classical rendition of “Shape of You” by Ed Sheeran being played by the string quartet in one corner of the cavernous function room. It’s very Bridgerton-esque, but even I have to admit it’s catchy. The music is about all I’m enjoying. Although, I did have a brief love affair with a crab and crème fraiche vol-au-vent—wow.

“Maybe another time, please excuse us.” Zeke’s hand slides down to my hip as he steers me away from the preening bunch of women that had harangued us.

“I thought only rock stars had groupies,” I snort, dipping my head politely as the sound draws attention from a nearby group. We’re in the home of a British earl who spends half his time in the states throwing money away on frivolous parties. The sprawling estate is jaw-dropping. Hidden away in Scarsdale, it boasts nine fireplaces, a library, a pool, tennis courts, and two guest cottages—so I was told by the pompous owner mere moments after we crossed the threshold.

“I’m young, rich, and devastatingly handsome. That makes me a rock star to any socialite looking to snag a husband.” He smirks, his eyes flashing mischievously at me.

I huff out a laugh, but even though he’s joking, I can’t say he’s wrong. “I wonder if they would still feel the same way if they knew you dip potato chips in grape jelly.”

He tips back his head and lets out a deep laugh that warms me from the inside out and I find myself joining him. “Diego put me on to it, it’s surprisingly good. Kid has taste.” He looks so much younger when he’s relaxed and happy, without the weight of the world on his shoulders. My heart kicks up a gear as my eyes trace the sharp lines of his face, the straight aristocratic nose, and those devilish, full lips.

“Guerra.” The singular word sends ice shattering through my veins, swallowing up the warmth of moments ago. Every muscle in my body locks, and I turn my head to see Anthony Sweeney standing with a leggy blonde on his arm, watching us with hawk-likeeyes. A faint ringing emerges in my head, and I’m unable to look away from the man who moved heaven and earth to make me suffer after I left him. The man who is smiling smugly like he’s just delivered a winning blow by being here.