Taming Her Bad Boy

“Your ex showed up here. I told her to leave. I thought you were paying attention.”

Her tone annoys me. “Don’t be smart, Vi. You could’ve given me a chance to handle it.”

“Didn’t need you to. I handled her myself just fine.”

Her feigned indifference only irks me more. “Vienna, what—”

She leans in and wraps her arms around my shoulders, pressing her lips against my ear. “Oh, right. I forgot, you prefer my submission rather than taking care of myself.”

I pull back like the hot, breathy words she’s just uttered have scalded me. “That is completely out of context and you know it.” But be damned if her heated breath and the mere mention of submission doesn’t make my cock stir. “Obviously, your feistiness showed up at the completely wrong time.”

“Funny, so did your ex-wife.”

And with that, Vienna saunters away from me, heading toward the bar for another drink.

CHAPTER FOUR

Vienna

That is not how I planned my engagement party to go at all. I’m sure if you ask anyone, the idea of having their future husband hold them back as his ex-wife crashes the party and insults her is pretty far down on the list of things they thought they’d do during what was supposed to be a fun, celebratory night.

Now, I’ve spent the remaining hours of the party tossing back vodka shots with the two women who work at the Garrison Gazette with me, coupled with putting just as much energy into avoiding having to be one-on-one with Cohen. All while prying eyes watch, waiting for more drama.

To be honest, it doesn’t make me angry that he disliked my attitude. The part that gets me fired up is that he didn’t think I should speak up for myself. The goddamn woman was making blatant digs at me, like I did something wrong by allowing Cohen to fall in love with me back in high school. Like it was my fault that their marriage ended.

I hadn’t even been in Garrison then. I hadn’t spoken to Cohen in years. And I sure as hell wasn’t the reason for their marriage’s demise. Maybe the memory of me was, as Cohen so eloquently put it once, but that’s not my fault, either.

I wait until the very last person is gone from the community centre before I hug my parents and head toward my fiancé, who is waiting silently near the front door for me. He’s obviously been ready to head back home to his place for a while, but been too sheepish to actually come and tell me so.

Good. He wanted me to enjoy this party, and so what if it took me picking a fight with his ex and taking shots with my friends from work to do it? That’s not exactly typical Vienna style, but it did make the overpopulated, over-decorated night more bearable.

“Ready?” Cohen’s already got the keys in his hand, and he’s turned away from me, pushing the door open. At least he’s still got enough manners to hold it open for me as I pass by.

The ride home is silent. I watch him out of the corner of my eye, and though my vision is a bit fuzzy at the edges, blurred by the vodka, I can see very clearly that his jaw is set tightly and the one hand that’s clutching the steering wheel is white-knuckled.

I sigh loudly and wait for him to say something, but he doesn’t. I can tell he’s deep in thought and rigid with anger.

Cohen and I have argued before, but I don’t think we’ve ever made it this long without saying something to each other.

He pulls the car into the driveway and kills the engine. This is when I think he’ll speak to me, finally. But as I unbuckle my seatbelt, he pushes open the driver’s side door and exits the car. I’m forced to follow him into the house silently.

Inside, I give up. I’ve got no intention of following him around all damn night waiting for him to be ready to talk, hoping he’ll want to mend the riff between us.

If he wants to go to sleep angry, so be it.

I hear the shower running across the hall, but Cohen hasn’t come into the bedroom to grab any clothes from his dresser. That’s when I realize first that he has every intention of just tossing his robe on that hangs behind the bathroom door...

And sleeping on the couch downstairs.

The man is really

going to let this percolate overnight. Really?

I wonder then if he’s just avoiding me now because I was avoiding him at the party—an eye for an eye—but that’s never really been Cohen’s way of doing things.

As I remove my earrings, staring at my reflection in the mirror of my armoire in the bedroom, I think of him as he usually is—so cool, collected, and patient. So damn organized and put together.

So undeniably sexy.