Good Girl (Love Unexpectedly 2)

When you’re the product of a man who was so desperate to keep his affair with a cocktail waitress secret that he didn’t acknowledge his illegitimate child until his legitimate one died, fidelity becomes kind of a thing. And yes, not wanting to touch your fiancée but not being able to touch another woman took its toll in the form of me jerking off more than I have since junior high.

I’d like to think it’s this sort of sex hiatus that made me go at Jenny Dawson like a starving man, although if I’m going to man up and be honest about it, I have a feeling I’d have gone after her like that no matter what my situation.

That girl is like crack to me. Sweet, addictive, and fucking dangerous.

And because I’ve finally come to grips with the fact that I have zero chance of keeping my hands off her for as long as she’s in Louisiana, I realize it’s time to deal with the skeleton in my closet known as Yvonne.

I opted to move to downtown Baton Rouge after graduation, but Yvonne insisted on staying in Village St. George near her parents, friends, and adoring fan club. She lives in a four-bedroom condo her father gave her as a college graduation present, complete with a Mercedes and butler.

Yes, I said butler.

I don’t have many regrets in life. I try to do the whole “mistakes are just life lessons” type of mental trick. You have to when your life’s been as jacked up as mine.

But I do regret proposing to Yvonne.

I regret that I left the ring on her finger as long as I did.

Most of all, I regret that I let her and my father convince me that I could live their life. A life with golf games and pointless conference calls and charity events for children whose names they’d never know or care to know. And butlers. Did I mention the butlers?

I regret not figuring my shit out earlier—both that I’d always be happier in work boots than loafers and that the work boots would never fly with Yvonne.

I have regrets, yes. But as I find a parking spot on the street near Yvonne’s condo, I also feel relief.

For the first time since I called it off, I feel something other than trepidation and guilt. I did the right thing. For both of us.

The doorman greets me with a friendly wave. “Mr. Walcott! Haven’t seen you in a while. Ms. Damascus said you’ve been traveling for work?”

I give a noncommittal smile. Fucking Yvonne. Traveling for work, my ass.

Still, I’m not surprised. The woman was ballsy enough to send out wedding invitations. She’d think nothing of lying to her doorman.

I didn’t call first to see if she’d be here. She already has home-court advantage; I don’t want to give her a chance to start scheming.

If she’s not, I still have a key, but I’m guessing she’ll be here. Yvonne graduated from LSU the same year I did—it’s where we met—but she’s never even tried to put her sociology degree to use, instead preferring the socialite lifestyle. Her idea of a busy day is having back-to-back hair and nail appointments, so unless I’ve caught her on spa day, I’m fully expecting her to open the door when I knock.

I’m right.

Her lips part in surprise. “Preston.”

She, like most people on this side of my life, has always called me Preston. I asked her once if she could call me Noah, at least when it was just the two of us, and the only answer I received was a snort.

“Yvonne.”

She looks…the same. She’s dressed in a knee-length white skirt and light yellow blouse, both of which are just formfitting enough to show off her steady diet of salads but not clingy enough to be outright sexy. Her light brown hair might be shorter; I’m not really sure, don’t really care. But her face is the same. Eyes are cool and blue, lips are glossy and pinched, nose thin and just a bit longer than is fashionable, but she’s never gone through with her threats to get a nose job, I suspect because its current shape is better for looking down at people who are beneath her.

Which, by her estimation, is everyone.

“Darling,” she gushes, immediately stepping forward to wrap her arms around me.

I stand perfectly still as she rubs on me, waiting for it to be over. She steps back and frowns, although I’m not sure if it’s because of my lack of response or because of my attire. Judging from the once-over she gives my jeans, boots, and Henley, I can tell she’s displeased.

One of her favorite words, by the way. I’m displeased, Preston.

She steps aside, gesturing for me to come in.

I do, but I don’t go farther than the foyer. What I have to say to her won’t require me to stick around.

“What are you doing?” I ask quietly, turning to face her, hands shoved in my pockets.