Page 78 of Floored (Frenched 3)
My house was so quiet I heard the crunch of his footsteps in the snow as he came up the driveway, a few minutes before eleven. I was expecting his knock, but I still jumped when it sounded, three sharp bangs on the glass. Pinot Grigio in hand, I stumbled to the door and opened it.
My confidence flagged when I saw the way he lit up at the sight of me. When I felt the way my heart beat faster at the sight of him. Somewhere in the back of my mind, hope sprouted. Maybe it’s not true. Maybe I should ask and not accuse. Maybe I should listen to his side.
“Hey,” he said, his eyes clouding with concern when he noticed my troubled expression. “What’s going on? Everything OK?”
“We need to talk.” My voice shook.
“Uh oh. Sounds serious. Are you breaking up with me already?”
Tucking my hands inside the sleeves of my sweater, I stepped back from the door. He shut it behind him and took off his snowy boots, careful to leave them on the rug. He wasn’t wearing his uniform, but he was wearing a thick blue toggle-close sweater with a flannel shirt underneath that made me want to get inside his clothing and stay there.
He set my wine glass aside and reached for me, and before I could stop myself, I let him take me in his arms. Kiss my head. Rock me a little. “Hey you. What’s up?”
It felt so good. So damn good. But growing in the pit of my stomach was the sickening dread I used to feel when my parents would get home from a party and I knew an argument was coming. Maybe I don’t have to say anything. Maybe I can pretend not to know. We can just have sex and ignore this another day. Then I glanced at the dead plants on my windowsill and came to my senses.
What was left of them after the pickling, anyway.
“I want to talk.”
“OK.”
“I can’t talk like this. You have to let me go.”
He squeezed me tighter. “Never.”
I pushed him away and moved a step back. The room spun a little. “Don’t say things like that.”
He looked confused. “Things like what?”
“Things like never, when it comes to letting me go. You don’t mean them. You’re a liar.”
He glanced at my wine glass. “Are you drunk?”
“No,” I said, although it was obvious I was.
Charlie narrowed his eyes. “Erin, what is this about?”
“This is about you making a fool of me.”
“And how did I do that?”
“You have a daughter!” I burst ou
t. “A daughter! And you said nothing to me about her, not for months! And you know I kill plants!”
Charlie’s mouth hung open for a second. “What?”
“And an ex-wife too! How could you think I wouldn’t find out, Charlie?”
He shook his head slightly. “Where is this coming from?”
“Do you deny it?”
“No,” he said carefully. “But I don’t like the way you’re attacking me with it.”
I coughed and sputtered. “You don’t like it? You don’t like it? You’re a piece of work, Charlie Dwyer. You march in here, with your badge and your drill and your hard wood, and you lie to me and seduce me and get me to fall for you, and now you don’t like it that I found out the truth?”
“Seduce you! Erin, what the hell? This isn’t like you at all.”
