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If fate decided that she should spend her life with Bryant, she’d get it.
People hugged and guys slapped each other on the back. The happiness in the room was palpable. He tried to shove down his resentment and envy. All these men were sure of their futures, secure in the knowledge they would spend the rest of their days with the woman they loved.
One-Mile hated that he might have to let his girl marry another man. But for her safety, he would stand back and let her—no matter how much it killed him.
Hell, the odds weren’t good that he’d even be alive by then.
Speaking of which, he didn’t have any time to lose.
When Cutter headed for the exit again, One-Mile tossed his half-empty plate into the bin, then turned to Logan. “I need to talk to you. I have to regroup, and I need a hookup on more supplies, but I’ll have to call you later.”
“What? No, goddamn it. You owe us some fucking answers,” Logan shouted.
But One-Mile was already across the room, trying to block Bryant from leaving. As he barreled closer, the Boy Scout stiffened.
Former British MI5 agent Heath Powell stopped a conversation with his wife mid-sentence and grabbed Cutter’s arm. “Let it go, you two.”
One-Mile reached them and glared at Powell. “This has nothing to do with you.”
“It’s fine,” Cutter assured. “I’ve got to go anyway. Great to see you, Heath. Let’s get together soon.”
Powell nodded but he clearly wasn’t buying Bryant’s aw-shucks bullshit. “You have my number.”
One-Mile watched from the corner as Cutter circled the kitchen shaking hands, hugging some of the women, then finally brushing a kiss across Callie’s cheek before heading down the long hallway—straight for the exit.
Did this asshole seriously think he was leaving without telling him where Brea was and if she was all right?
“Hey, fucker! You’re not marrying Brea.” There. He’d said what every other person at this party expected him to. Bonus, it should get Bryant’s attention.
But no. The Boy Scout simply slammed the front door between them.
Maybe he could have been less flippant…but what the hell? Weren’t they both on Team Save-Brea anymore?
They had to be. Cutter might be a lot of asswipe, but he’d never let anything happen to her.
If you want a different response, maybe you should be less of a flaming asshole.
Blaming his month of isolation and frustration, he jerked the door open and followed outside—just in time to watch Cutter peel away from the curb. One-Mile chased him down the sidewalk to no avail, cursing a blue streak.
Fuck. He’d screwed the pooch. Now what?
Reluctantly, he whipped out his phone, which he’d retrieved from his Jeep earlier, and dialed Cutter’s number.
The asshole answered on the first ring. “What were all the growls and death stares about?”
Who the fuck cared? “Where’s Brea?”
“At my apartment. Her day at the salon ran long, and she was too tired to come to the party.”
“But she’s otherwise all right?”
“Yeah. Everything’s good. Pregnancy is all fine.” Cutter hesitated. “She’s even doing a lot better with her dad.”
That made him damn glad on her behalf.
“Great. Thanks.” One-Mile jogged down the street toward his Jeep. “Sorry for being a douche back there.”
“You mean you’re sorry for being you?”
“I don’t want to do this with you, man.”
“Fine.” Cutter sighed. “Did you come to the party all the way from Mexico just to see her?”
“More or less.”
“Is Montilla dead?”
“No. Long story. I’m following you back to your place. I need to see her.”
Hold her. Kiss her. Love her.
One-Mile needed that so fucking bad.
“You don’t know where I live.”
Um…I’ve fucked Brea in your bed. “I’ll figure it out.”
“I’m still not convinced you’re good for her.”
“That’s not your decision.”
He had more questions, but he’d far rather talk to Brea herself than the Boy Scout, so he hung up and hunkered down for a long drive.
The trip back to Lafayette was long and dark and seemed to last forever. He stopped once for strong coffee but otherwise caught up to Cutter quickly and maintained his position on the guy’s back bumper for the majority of the ride.
As they drew closer, his palms turned damp. Would Brea be happy to see him? Would she welcome him, even though he hadn’t yet slayed her beast? Or had her feelings for him changed?
One-Mile tried to compartmentalize his worries as he parked a few spots down from Cutter, locked his Jeep behind him, then trailed the Boy Scout across the lot and up the steps to the front door, all the while wondering what Brea would do when she saw him. Welcome him with open arms…or say that she’d realized he was a bad bet and decided to move on?
Brea set aside the pregnancy book she’d been reading, then rose and stretched with a forlorn sigh.
Every time she was in Cutter’s kitchen, she remembered the night she’d spent here with Pierce. The way he’d stood across the darkened apartment with righteous fury and lust burning in his eyes. The moment he’d swept her off her feet—literally—before he’d worshipped her pregnant belly, then ravaged her to boneless satisfaction all night.
