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I exhale.
Ex-wife.
Ex-fucking wife.
“Ex-wife,” I whisper aloud. And that’s finally enough to snap me out of it, to make me remember, to see reason. I push out a breath through my nose, tuck away the anger I don’t have any right to feel, and move over to them.
“…and I was thinking,” the man says. “If you’re not doing anything tomorrow, maybe we could go grab a drink?—”
Rage flares anew, blasting through the shield I’d erected around my emotions, around that possessiveness, around the past.
Was this motherfucker asking my woman out on a fucking date?
I’m going to kill him.
I’m going to slice him into a thousand pieces.
Brit’s shoulders hitch up, clearly recognizing the same shit I do, and uncomfortable with it.
Her teeth press into her bottom lip, eyes darting to the side, away from the asshole in front of her.
“—or,” the dumb fuck says, “we can go for a coffee?—”
“She doesn’t like coffee,” I snap, making them both turn around.
“I—uh—I—” The dipshit stammers, off-kilter either because the ex-husband of the woman he’s trying to hit on is two feet away, or because his pickup of my ex-wife isn’t going as planned.
Brit’s gaze comes to mine, eyes narrowing, brows pulling into a deep frown. “What are you doing?” she mouths.
I flick my brows up, challenging her. “Saving you from this dipshit,” I mouth back.
She comes closer, rises on tiptoe, mouth coming very close to my ear that has my balls, my dick remembering that mouth, those lips, that tongue other places—better fucking places. “I don’t need saving from this dipshit,” she hisses. “And I don’t need you to save me.” Then she drops back onto her heels, turns to face Dipshit McGee and says, “How about a run instead?”
I inhale sharply.
Because that’s our thing.
Was our thing.
Dipshit’s eyes go wide, but he’s already nodding like one of those bobbleheads they give away at the Gold Mine, flopping his skull around like an idiot. “A run sounds great.”
I snort, drawing both of their focus.
Brit is glaring.
Dipshit is…dipshitting—and more importantly, he doesn’t realize what he just agreed to. Brit is a fucking professional athlete, and yeah, she’s nearing forty, but she’s also one of the fastest runners I’ve ever met.
This fucker has no idea what kind of torture he’s just signed up for.
“Ignore him,” Brit says, pulling out her cell. “Why don’t you give me your number and we can arrange a time?”
“Kind of like we’ve arranged a time for a parent-teacher conference?” I ask archly—and also like an asshole.
Because…I’m an asshole.
“Yes,” she says, eyes shooting sparks at me. “One you were late for, so I told Ms. Carlson to feel free to step out and make the phone call she needed to make?”
Yup. Asshole.
