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The Dirty Truth

Page 50

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I scan the room in hopes that my server is making his way over, but no dice. Tapping my fingers, I wait. And I continue to pretend Matt’s penetrating gaze isn’t getting under my skin and dampening this once-in-a-lifetime breakfast experience I’m about to enjoy.

Reaching for my water, I take a sip and purposely angle my body away from him, giving him a literal cold shoulder. But evidently the message isn’t received loud and clear, because within seconds, the audacious asshole is seated at my table.

“Elle,” he says under his breath. He leans in as if he’s trying to make this an intimate moment. His familiar cologne, the kind I selected for him last Christmas, assaults my air space.

I lean back. “Excuse me, what is this?”

“You have no idea how good it is to see you.” He ignores my obvious disgust, reaching for my hand, but I retreat before his fingertips have a chance to brush mine. “Tried to contact you, but you changed your number.”

“Right. The number I’d had since I was eighteen.” It was a huge pain in the ass to switch it, especially in the midst of recovering from a freaking brain aneurysm. Granted, my mom did most of the work. But still. It took me weeks to memorize the new one, and my bank shut down all my accounts for a couple of days because they thought it was a fraudulent change. I wouldn’t have changed it if he hadn’t blown up my phone twice an hour, every hour for the first forty-eight hours like a complete psychopath.

“You could’ve just blocked me,” he says.

I sip my water and remain calm. “So you could call me from a different number?”

“I just wanted to make sure you were okay.” A frustration bleeds through his words, as if I’m the one who has wronged him in this situation.

“I am. Thanks to your wife. She saved my life.”

“Yeah.” He hesitates, dragging a palm along his square jaw as he sucks in a breath—a move I used to find sexy as hell. “I heard.”

I hope Claudia gave it to him and then some.

“I’d love to thank her myself,” I add, “but that might be awkward given the circumstances.”

“I’m really sorry about everything.” His voice softens, and his gaze is relaxed, as if he’s trying to disarm me by showing he gives a damn. “I think about you all the time, Elle. Every day.”

I nod toward the table where the beautiful brunette sat a minute ago. “Yeah, seems like you’re really struggling to move on. All that guilt must really be getting to you.”

He rolls his eyes. “Come on. She’s a client.”

“If you say so . . .” Not that I care or that it matters, but once a liar, always a liar.

His expression intensifies, the corners of his mouth pulling into a disappointed frown.

“I really am sorry, Elle,” he repeats, as if I didn’t hear him the first time. “I’m sorry I hurt you. I mean that. I want you to know that.”

“I’m not the one you should be groveling to. I’m not the one who took vows with you or birthed your children.”

His gaze lands on the salt and pepper shakers that divide us, and he raps his fingers on the tabletop.

“Claudia left me,” he says under his breath.

“Smart woman.”

“Ah, you must be the pencil dick I’ve been hearing about. Nice to finally put a face with a name,” a man’s voice interjects from behind me, and within seconds West Maxwell appears at the side of our table, his muscled hand digging into Matt’s shoulder before giving it a friendly yet not-so-friendly squeeze. “Thanks for keeping my seat warm. But I’ll take it from here.”

My surroundings grow blurry for a second, and I pinch the underside of my wrist to make sure this isn’t a dream.

“Sometime this century would be great.” West sniffs before stooping down to kiss my cheek.

West Maxwell kissed my cheek.

His rich scent invades my lungs and clings to the air around us as if he’s staking his territory.

Matt’s gaze flicks from West to me and back, and he offers a smirking huff, as if he thinks this is a joke—but his amusement vanishes the second West motions for him to hurry it along.

Matt slides out of the chair, eyeing the two of us with the trepidation of someone being pranked. But the joke is on all of us, because I have no idea what West is doing here or why he’s suddenly playing the part of my knight in shining armor.

“You ready to go, babe?” Matt’s breakfast date slash client sidles up to him, slipping her arm under his. “We should get going—we’re touring that loft in a half hour, remember?”

West doesn’t hesitate to take his spot, sliding into his seat and unbuttoning his suit coat in one fell swoop.



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