The Wrong Man (Alpha Men 3)

“That was different. It was meant to be just then. Just that one time.”

“It was twice.”

“I think of it as one extended encounter.”

“Can’t we extend it even further? Can’t we just continue where we left off? Just a consensual, adult sexual encounter that started in November and will end when I leave.”

“No. I don’t think so. That was then. This is now. Things have changed.”

“What things?”

“For one thing you’ve been in a serious relationship since then . . .” She paused, and her eyes widened. “Oh my goodness, please don’t tell me you were involved with her when we first met.”

“I’m a one-woman-at-a-time kind of guy, Lia, so no, I wasn’t involved with anyone else when we first fucked.”

She winced. “Just so you know, that kind of language does nothing to endear you to me.”

“Just so you know, I don’t actually give a fuck. I’m not proposing marriage here, Lia. Just sex. And that means taking me just the way I am, crude, crass, and common. I won’t pretend to be something I’m not just to appease your delicate constitution.”

Her lips thinned, and her jaw went up.

“And I’ve changed,” she said. “Back then I was . . . unsure. Still rebounding from my failed engagement . . .”

“It was more than a year later, wasn’t it?” he asked incredulously.

“I don’t bounce back very quickly. Anyway, I was vulnerable, and you were lucky enough to capitalize on that vulnerability.”

He laughed at that, the sound cynical. Was this woman for real?

“Is that what you told yourself? That I took advantage of your vulnerability.”

“No. I needed something to make me feel better about myself, and you were there. I suppose I took advantage of you. You were . . . you were my rebound guy.”

He choked back another laugh at that. He liked that. He liked that she was proud enough to want to turn the tables on him.

“Sure, I like that. I like being your rebound guy. I can keep being that.”

“I don’t need a rebound guy anymore. I did the rebound thing. I need something else now. Someone else. Someone who’ll stick. Who’ll want to start a life and a family with me.”

“Boring shit that can wait a few more months,” he dismissed. “I was your rebound guy, now let me be your final fling guy. Let me be the last wild thing you do before you settle down.”

“I . . . no.” She looked away and swallowed again. “No, thank you. Your breakfast is ready. Please have a seat.”

Always so fucking polite. He dragged a chair back and sank down at the table. Did she really think the conversation was over? Just like that? Apparently so—she smoothed her hands down the front of her pristine pinafore apron and smiled serenely at him, her eyes carefully blank. He returned the smile with a glare and watched in grim satisfaction as her expression faltered. She turned away and picked up a couple of plates. She crossed the short distance between them and placed his breakfast neatly in front of him before turning away to retrieve a mug for his coffee.

Sam stared down at his plate resignedly. She’d shaped roses out of a couple of strawberries and centered them on top of a stack of waffles. More freshly sliced fruit was prettily placed in a separate bowl. She returned with his coffee and a side plate of crispy bacon.

“Stop turning my meals into weird little pictures, it’s fucking pointless,” he groused before spearing his fork into the stupid flower and bringing it to his mouth. He chomped it down without ceremony, and she sucked her lower lip into her mouth and contemplated him for a long moment.

“It’s a habit. But from now on I’ll try to remember that you have no soul and take no enjoyment from pointless, pretty things.”

“It’s food—as long as it’s edible, I don’t care about the presentation,” he said defensively, feeling like a dick now.

“I care about the presentation,” she said softly, her voice carrying a hint of stubborn defiance that surprised him. “I take pride in my accomplishments, Brand. And while they might seem completely pointless and dumb to you, I do it because it makes me happy. And I couldn’t care less what you think about it.”

“I’m sorry,” Sam said begrudgingly. He was being a prick, he knew it, but sexual frustration, combined with constant pain and discomfort, were not conducive to charm and good behavior. It was a poor excuse, but it was the only one he had. He wanted to say more, but those were the only two words that came out and, in the end, the only words that really mattered.

She nodded an acknowledgment of his apology, looking somewhat mollified, and Sam went back to his breakfast.

“I brought a chicken pie for lunch. It needs to go in the oven—the heating instructions are on the container. Oh, and my mother baked you a cake. Chocolate fudge—she says she hopes you enjoy it.” She nodded toward the island, where a beautifully iced, decadent-looking chocolate cake stood on display on a glass cake stand.