“Yes.”
“How many times?”
“Twice.”
Tim stood. “Get your things and get out.”
“I’ve already packed.”
His gaze immediately sought the top of his mother’s hutch—a piece he’d inherited when she’d passed away about five years after he and Denise had moved in together. Denise’s thimble collection wasn’t there.
He’d teased her about the damned thing enough times. Complained about it the time or two she’d coaxed him into using a dust cloth. He should be glad to see it gone.
/> Turning, he glanced behind him. The family room was equally bare. No dried flowers. No china figurines. She’d even taken the blanket that she kept on the back of her chair.
She’d left the chair. But then, he’d purchased it.
He hadn’t noticed anything missing until now.
“Like I said, why are you still here?” The coldness in his voice was in direct contrast to the anger raging through him. Anger because he was scared to death.
She’d played him for a fool. He’d given her everything he had and . . .
“I’m here because I want you to know why I’m leaving,” she said, still sitting at his table. Like it was her table, too.
It wasn’t. Not anymore.
And that chair? The one she’d occupied every day—sitting at the table with his brothers and their wives and kids, taking her place as a member of his family—for twenty years, wasn’t hers anymore either.
“Because you’re an unfaithful hag.”
“Tim, please sit down.”
He recognized the obstinate tone in her voice. She wasn’t budging. And he wanted her gone. He sat. But he wouldn’t listen to a word she said. She was a lying witch.
“I love you.”
Try again.
“I’ve always loved you. But I need to be loved, too.”
“I loved you.” The words were defensive. Nothing more.
“I know you did.” The soft tone got to him. And he ordered it not to. She was after something. And what more was there to take? If she thought she was getting money out of him . . .
He wasn’t listening.
“Just not enough,” she said. “I don’t know what it is with you. You’re such a great guy. Kind and funny and smart and . . .”
Shut the hell up. That’s what he wanted to say to her.
“But you can’t seem to give your whole heart. All these years, I kept hoping that you’d get over your aversion to marriage, but . . .”
For a second there, he relaxed. That’s what this was about. Marriage. Again. They’d been through it a dozen times or more. And they got through it each time.
And then he remembered about the bastard who’d slept with his woman. Correction, his ex-woman.
“I’m forty-three, Tim. If I don’t try to have a baby in the next year or so I’ll have lost any chance . . .”