Perfect Chaos

Lainey flinches, and I nod my agreement. It was hell, and just thinking back to the state the whole nasty affair had my mother in makes me quake with rage. I swear, if I ever see Annabella again, I’ll have to hold myself back from spitting on the bitch. “I know how it feels to be kicked when you’re down, Lainey.”

“So you also know what it feels like to want to protect yourself,” she counters quietly.

I can’t argue with that. But I pulled myself back and quickly concluded that my ex-wife did me a favor, even if she was a heartless bitch while doing it. I didn’t really love her, but knowing a woman could be so fucking callous certainly set the standard for my love life from there. “I do,” I answer simply, if only to enforce how much alike we are. Yet while I’ve been happy with my lifestyle, content to keep my mind and my money, I know Lainey isn’t as content. She’s full to the brim with bitterness and resentment. She’s fighting the notion of finding someone she can trust again, and that just makes me all the more determined to prove she can trust me. Not all men are arseholes. Not every man will hurt her. It seems ridiculous that I, the player of all players, am prepared to show her that. But I am. If there was one thing I saw in the years I had my dad in my life, it was his respect for my mum. He adored her. Yes, he worked long hours, but it was never to hide from his wife. It was always to provide everything she’d need. And what I learned through Annabella is that not all women deserve that level of respect mixed with devotion. This complicated, broken woman? She craves a similar kind of devotion. She told me so herself. And I want her badly enough to face my own fears of being shat on again. I need to see where this could take us.

I pick her up and carry her into the kitchen, placing her on the worktop and nestling myself between her spread thighs. Then I wipe under her eyes before skating my palm onto the side on her neck, under her hair.

She looks at me, and I can see the desperation in her wild blue eyes—the need for hope. I want to be the one to give her that hope. “I don’t romance women, Lainey. Not unless I want something in return.” I smile a little, encouraging a tiny one from her. “And I certainly don’t cook for them in my home.”

“You didn’t cook.”

“Trivial issue,” I reply flippantly on a roll of my eyes. “It’s the thought that counts.”

“Okay,” she relents, her smile soft.

“You’ve made me lose my line.”

“You don’t romance women,” she reminds me quickly, almost eagerly. She wants to hear this, and she should relish in it, because I can’t quite believe what I’m going to say.

I move my hands to her shoulders and rest my palms there, looking at her seriously. “I also don’t pursue women. They don’t stick in my mind, nor do they make my stomach twist when I see them. They don’t make me lose my breath or stammer over my words. They don’t make me wish for round two before round one is over. They don’t make me want to tie them to my bed so they can’t leave. And they definitely don’t make my heart ping.” I squeeze her shoulders hard, reinforcing the next and final line. “But you do.”

She recoils a little from my confessions, but I don’t regret a word, no matter how overwhelmed she is. Besides, she told me that she likes me, and I’m the epitome of everything she hates. It doesn’t make much sense, but I’m still clinging to that small admission with everything I have.

“Lainey, you have filled every brain cell I have since I met you. I’ve fucked you daily in my head, kissed you to the end of the earth, and before we hooked up, you’re the reason I failed to get two separate women to climax.”

She cringes. “Too much information, Ty.”

“But it’s significant information, Lainey. Really fucking significant. I’m not functioning at work, and I’m definitely not functioning in the bedroom.”

“You weren’t that bad,” she counters quietly. Her attempt to try and make light of my situation spikes a light laugh, and I find myself dipping and pushing my lips to her forehead, inhaling her scent deeply. What I did with Jenna was fueled by an irate yet determined arsehole wanting to hurt the woman in front of me. Childish, one might say. Naturally, I’m not mentioning Jenna . . .

“I only seem to be able to function with you around,” I admit. “I’m fucked if I know why that is, but it is.” I pull away and push some sticky strands of hair from her face, shrugging my apology. “Don’t you see? What you’re doing is draining you. I can see it. You’re so determined to prove something to yourself, I don’t think you even know what that is anymore.”