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“Ex-fiancée.” I glance at the empty ring finger on my left hand. She follows my gaze, then releases her hold on my other hand. “What are you going to do now?”
48
Two weeks later
Cade
“I’m fine,” I growl at Declan, who’s helped ease me onto the couch in the living room of my penthouse. It took two mother-fucking-weeks to be discharged from the hospital—two miserable weeks of waiting, hoping for her to visit—and fuck, if I’m not relieved to finally be back home. I knew she wouldn’t be here. I know she’s staying with one of her friends, but nothing prepared me for how empty the space would feel, how deserted, how lifeless my home would feel without her. I walked inside, and the soul of the place seemed to have been sucked out of it. Fucking hell, it’s not like she was here that long, yet the thought of being here without her sends a shudder of despair up my spine.
Declan straightens. “Should I get some water for you, and place it within reaching distance?”
“Nope.” I lower my chin to my chest.
“Sure you don’t want me to help you upstairs to bed. Those stairs can be a bit much to navigate right now.”
“I’m hurt, not dead,” I scoff. “I can make my way upstairs, thank you very much.”
“Hmm.” He strokes his chin. “You sure you’re okay?”
“Yep.”
“Sure you don’t want to organize for some help around the house?”
“Yep.”
He leans forward on the balls of his feet. “You going to keep acting like the spoiled, pissy boy then?”
“Yep.” I pause, then scowl up at him. “Ha, ha, very funny, Beauchamp.”
“All part of the service, King.”
I blow out a breath. “Sorry for acting like a woman on her period—" I wince. “Forget I said that. Didn’t mean to insult the fairer sex.”
He stares. “You apologized for an insult that’s second-nature to your misogynistic self?”
I scowl. “Trying to turn over a new leaf, but it’s not easy.”
“Most good things in life aren’t easy to come by.”
I angle my head. “Are we talking about the same thing?”
“Aren’t you talking about winning her back?”
“No… Yes—" I rub the back of my neck, then wince when the wound in my side protests. “I don’t know.”
He walks around the table and sprawls in my recliner, then turns around and throws one leg over the armrest. Fucker makes himself comfortable, like he’s going to stay here for a while.
“Umm, don’t recall inviting you to stay.”
“That’s fine, I invited myself.”
“Motherfucker,” I say without heat.
“Charming, King. This how you treat a friend who’s gone out of his way to accommodate your crabby bouts of anger?”
I force my shoulders to relax. “Sorry about that; you don’t deserve it.”
He stares again. “Fucking hell, is it sunny outside?”
