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Trey’s hands went to his hips, and he stared.
Like really stared at me.
I could feel a weird energy vibrating off him, and I didn’t understand what it meant.
I watched his throat move as he swallowed. “I have not,” he said through nearly clenched teeth, “and I will not dick around on you. I told you I love you.” He swallowed again. “I swear to God I haven’t cheated.”
My stomach knotted up completely and I felt lightheaded with all his lies.
I leaned against the island. Man, I was freaking tired.
Freaking bone tired.
Tired of dealing with Gigi’s hate.
Tired of dealing with my team’s hate.
Tired of trying to get out of an unfixable marriage.
A marriage that really wasn’t a marriage—had never been a marriage in the first place.
And I was tired of dealing with a man who had a problem bigger than either of us could handle.
A problem that only one of us saw.
His eyes held mine and he spoke to me in a growly voice, “I said, I haven’t cheated. And I’m not going to cheat. I don’t know what you heard. I don’t fucking care what you heard. I’m telling you the truth.”
A loud, obnoxious, laugh bubbled up and out of me.
I smacked my hand on top of the island and kept laughing.
“What the hell’s so funny?” Trey’s voice was full of resentment and anger.
Which was real rich considering what he’d done last night.
I mean, no, we weren’t together anymore. But we were still married.
It still made me feel like crap that he did what he did.
“Lexi, I’m fucking serious. What’s so funny?”
I was done.
Like really super done.
“You smelled like a perfume factory this morning,” I slammed the pen in my hand onto the island, “and your shirt was incorrectly buttoned. Is there more than one freaking explanation for that? Hmm, husband?” I really laid it on thick with the last part.
He straightened up and let his hands slide to his sides. “That happened on the dance floor, Lexi.”
His hands balled up into fists—which was exactly what mine were doing.
“Yeah, Trey. Men take my shirt off on the dance floor all the time!” My sarcastic voice rose to the point of yelling, now.
“I’m not lying,” he said in a cool, even tone that made me want to slap him so hard right now.
“You are lying. I know it. I may be young, but I’m not stupid.” I felt hot tears creep to the corners of my eyes—but I refused to let him see them.
“You came home completely blitzed, reeking like perfume, and wearing a shirt that was not buttoned how it was when you left my place last night. It doesn’t take a detective to figure that shit out.”
