Wrong For Me

“What?” she shrieks and turns her glare on me, but I don’t take my eyes off the road. “You’re lying.”

“Not lying. I have a copy of the will. I can show you as soon as we get there.”

“How—why would he add you into his will? And when?”

“It was before I left.”

“Why, Alec?”

“Precaution.” I lick my lips and briefly glance her way. “And he wanted us together, in the end.”

“Yeah, well, the end is here, and so is a five-foot-seven blonde with fake tits and a Botox smile.”

“Look, I know everything is fucked up right now, but—”

“Fucked up?” she shouts. “Fucked. Up?” she scoffs. “Fucked up is my having to work ten times harder than any man to make Blaze because of who I am. Fucked up is my best friend purposely hiding things from me and then trying to play me when he feels threatened. My dad being murdered and you being married and bringing your wife, who was the last person to speak to him before he died, into my home—which is apparently yours, too—is an unimaginable disaster. How I let this happen is beyond me.” She drops back in her seat, her head falling against the headrest. “I wish I still thought I loved Rowan instead.”

My head snaps her way, and her muscles lock up, her eyes squeezing tighter as she realizes what she just admitted.

I yank the wheel right and skid to a stop. I quickly shift into park, throw off my seat belt, and slide across the seat until I’m right fucking against her.

“Oakley.”

“No,” she whispers.

“Look at me.”

She hesitates, taking a deep breath, before her lids open, and a blurry mess of aqua blue stabs me right in the chest. Her bottom lip starts to tremble, so she sucks it between her teeth.

My shoulders drop. “Baby …”

She shakes her head, glancing away, but I gently place my hand on her neck, bringing her stare back to mine.

She swallows, whispering, “Tell me I’m dreaming. Say this isn’t real. That my dad isn’t gone.” Her eyes flick between mine. “Tell me there isn’t a woman in my home, waiting for you to come back to her. Tell me you’re not married. Tell me … you’re mine.”

I shake my head, softly stroking her cheek.

She swallows, leaning into my hand, all while slinking closer to the door to get farther from me. “Then, tell me you hate me.” Her tears start to fall, her face pinching. “Please.”

I clench my jaw, my head starting to ache. “Can’t do that.”

“Then, you’re useless to me.”

My eyes narrow as I tip my chin. “You said, you wish you still thought you loved my brother. What does that mean?”

She stares, giving me nothing.

“Tell me you love me, and I’ll fix this. Right fucking here, right fucking now.”

A bitter laugh leaves her, and she shifts away from me, tearing me up a little more with each inch. Then, with a deep inhale, resolve steels her eyes, and I watch as the shield rises, a hard glare I recognize all too well taking over.

Shit.

She’s cutting off the pain.

Numbing herself.

“I’ll never give you control by being the weak little lamb you’re asking me to be. Play your games, force yourself on me as long as you want, Alec.” She slowly shifts her eyes back to mine. “But, if you think I’ll lie there and play nice, allowing the two of you to make me squirm you’re dead fucking wrong. Now”—she scowls—“we’ve been gone for hours. Better get me home, so you can tuck your wife back into bed.”

I stare at her, and when I see this conversation won’t go anywhere else tonight, I slide back to my seat and head for the house.The second we walk through the door, Oakley tosses her bag and sweater to the floor, slowly moving down the hall with her head held high, shocking the hell out of me when she whips off her shirt and tosses it in Marissa’s face as she steps out of the bedroom door.

Marissa doesn’t flinch, but her eyes follow Oakley down the hall. When Oakley stops and turns, my eyes slide back to hers, and she fucking winks.

It’s dark and dirty, and it stirs heat deep inside me, meaning it does exactly what she wanted it to.

Marissa’s blank stare is slow as it slides to mine and holds.

Oakley’s move is bold, playing a woman for her man, especially one who’s territorial over her husband.

Problem is, Oakley has no idea who she’s messing with.

Another thing that’s my fault.

Oakley slams her door, and I spin for the kitchen. Yanking open the fridge, I grab a water bottle and down it.

Her footsteps are almost silent, but I know she’s standing there.

“Where’d you go, husband?”

“Blackline.”

“Why?”

“You expected things to change because you showed up, unannounced?”

She hums. “No, not exactly, but I can’t help but wonder what influence she has over you.”