Every Little Thing (Hart's Boardwalk 2)

I’d fought the urge to cry. Tom had never made me cry and I wasn’t about to start letting him make me cry now. “You are an asshole.”

“I’m an asshole,” he’d repeated. “Now will you come back to bed?”

“You can’t just say you’re an asshole and think that makes it okay.”

“I know,” he’d whispered. “But I don’t want to argue about it out here in the middle of the night where we might wake up your neighbors.”

I’d wanted to scream, “Fuck the neighbors!” Instead I’d nodded reluctantly and followed him inside.

He’d tried to lead me by the hand but I hadn’t wanted him to touch me.

Even back in bed, when he’d spooned me and rested his chin on my shoulder, I’d stared at my wall, listening to his breathing change, feeling his body relax before his snoring kicked in.

Anger had filled me, mingling with fear.

Not just because Tom had pushed me away . . . but because . . . of how it had made me feel.

I should have been burning with hurt. Deep, anguished hurt.

Any normal woman whose lover pushed her away would feel deep, anguished hurt.

Mostly my pride had been hurt.

Mostly I felt pissed off.

And that’s how I felt now, lying on Jess and Cooper’s couch. I’d known that night that Tom and I were over. I just didn’t want to believe that I’d spent ten important years with a man who wasn’t right for me.

The fear, that fear of starting over crept upon me again, and my chest tightened in panic. Sucking in a lungful of air I sat up. Even though it was only four forty-five in the morning, I decided I might as well get on with my day. I left a note for Jess and Coop, promising them I’d see them later and thanking Jess for being there for me. And then I got in my car and drove home.

Although I was awake I also felt like I had a hangover even though I hadn’t had any alcohol. I felt that empty nausea/hunger in my belly, the faded energy in my limbs; something I hated since on normal days I found myself blessed with a boundless amount of energy.

I wasn’t in the mood to deal with anyone today, but no matter what, I had a business to run. My intention was to go home, shower, eat, and get to the inn.

It was not my intention to have to deal with Tom.

Unrealistically, I had expected him to just slink away and accept my pronouncement that we were over. But his car was parked in my driveway and since he had a key I knew he was waiting inside my small house for me.

That made me angry on many levels, but mostly because I’d made my mind up—no matter how scary it was—that I was starting over without Tom Sutton in my life. Right away. Immediately. Which meant I wanted him gone immediately. I didn’t want him in my small house, taking up too much room, touching my things.

Yet, I knew that was unrealistic. I had to get out of my car and deal with him.

I felt that horrible nausea rise up toward my chest and took in a shuddering breath.

My front door led straight into my sitting room. Tom sat on my corner sofa, chalk white, dark circles under his eyes. He stared at me, pained, haggard.

It soothed my pride that hurting me at least caused him pain.

“You’ll need to give me back my key,” I said.

His gaze turned pleading. “Babe, please, let’s not do anything rash.”

The fact that he thought I could forgive him for his disloyalty renewed my anger. After ten years he didn’t know me well enough to know that I considered loyalty of the utmost importance in any relationship?

“Speaking of ‘rash’ . . .” I put my hands on my hips, glaring at him. “I’m guessing I’ll need to be tested for STDs since you were fucking someone else while you were fucking me because I know last night wasn’t just one mistake and that you’ve probably been fucking her for a while and how many others were you fucking?” I rambled, something I tended to do when I was either excited or enraged.

I also didn’t think I’d ever used the word “fucking” so many times in one sentence. But I think I could be forgiven on this occasion.

Tom stared at me wide-eyed. “It was a mistake.”