Page 33 of Married to the Enemy

And now? Now the brat had ratted him out.

He could see it plain as day. Freddy was the one who’d told Jenny what went on. Freddy, sitting there in his damn wheelchair, pretending he was helpless when in reality he’d undermined Jim at every turn.

Jim’s fingers tightened around the neck of the beer bottle until his knuckles popped.

If Freddy thought he could ruin him, thought he could go running to some do-gooder social worker and get away with it, he had another thing coming.

Jim finished the beer, slammed the bottle onto the counter so hard it cracked, and leaned back in his chair.

Maybe, it was time to be a real man. To take care of the problem at its source.

Freddy thought he could make trouble. Thought he could expose what went on in Jim Fuller’s house.

Fine. Jim would teach him a lesson he’d never forget.

Chapter 19

The hospital waiting room smelled like antiseptic and stale coffee. Raffe sat stiffly on one of the hard plastic chairs, elbows braced on his knees, staring down at the floor tiles as if sheer willpower could hurry Freddy through surgery faster.

Jenny and Evangeline had gone down to the hospital cafeteria to get some coffee, so it was just him and Mia waiting impatiently for news.

Mia fidgeted, her foot tapping an uneven rhythm against the linoleum. Every so often, she glanced at the clock. Then at Raffe. Then back at the clock.

It was driving him nuts.

“Stop it,” he muttered without looking up.

“Stop what?”

“That.” He waved a vague hand. “The clock. The foot. The staring. It’s like waiting on a bomb to go off.”

Her eyes narrowed. “So, I’m supposed to just sit here and let my brain spiral into panic?”

“Yeah. Exactly.” He leaned back, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Panic quietly.”

Mia huffed, then straightened. “Fine. We’re going to play a game.”

He shot her a look. “This isn’t a playground.”

“Word association,” she continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “I say a word, you say the first thing that pops into your head. No thinking.”

“No.”

Her lips curved into the kind of grin that meant trouble. Before he could react, her hand darted out, fingers wiggling toward his side.

Raffe jerked, catching her wrist before she made contact. He pulled her closer—instinct, pure and sharp—until she lost her balanced and fell over against his chest. For one heartbeat too long, her soft hair brushed his jaw, her wide eyes staring into his, heat sparking between them like an exposed wire.

His pulse thudded. Too close. Too dangerous.

He let her go, gently releasing her back into her seat. “Fine. I’ll play,” he growled, more to keep her from touching him again than anything else.

Her grin widened in victory.

“Cat,” she said.

“Dog,” he shot back automatically, trying not to roll his eyes.

“Spring.”