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I sigh. “You’re not taking no for an answer, are you?”
“Nope.”
I wave him inside. “Fine.Give me ten to brush my teeth and change clothes.”
“Nice shirt, by the way,” he remarks as I head toward my bedroom.
My back stiffens, and I don’t bother looking back at him. “I’m behind on laundry.”
“Liar.”
What is happening?
Confusion crackles inside me as I get dressed in leggings and a baggy sweatshirt, tug my hair into a messy bun, and slide on flip-flops. I’m worried his visit has something to do with Devin. Swear to God, my husband had better not have done anything stupid enough for me to castrate him for.
Maliki is holding a gold-framed photo when I return to the living room. My wedding photo.
I clap my hands. “We need to make this quick.”
He gives the picture one last glare and sets it facedown onto the table. “After you.”
I hop down each step and spot Maliki’s Camaro as soon as we hit the parking lot. I inhale a deep breath when I get in, attempting to pick up the scent of a woman as if I were a golden retriever. All I detect is the rich amber of Maliki’s cologne.
Maliki doesn’t say a word, and I tug my phone from my purse. There’s a text from Ellie, a voice mail from my mother, and nothing from Devin. I talked to him before I went to bed last night.
I respond to Ellie’s text and drop my phone in my lap. As much as I want to call Devin, I can’t. Not yet. When I peek up, I notice we’re driving out of Blue Beech.
“Whoa, where are we going?”
Maliki keeps his eyes on the road and doesn’t say a word.
That only pisses me off further. “I want goddamn answers, Maliki, or I’m jumping out of this car.”
His fingers clench around the steering wheel, and he still stares ahead, as if he were waiting for something to run out in front of us. “Trust me on this. No matter what’s happened between us, you know damn well you can trust me.”
“Are you kidnapping me?”
“Negative. If I recall, you once told me you’d make the worst hostage—something about hot wings and hair shit. Not dealing with those problems.”
I can’t help but smile at the memory.
He scrubs a hand over the stubble of his cheek. “Do you love him?”
I stare blankly in his direction, his question taking me aback. “Who? Devin?”
“No, the other man you’re married to.”
I punch his arm. “I forgot how irritating you are.”
He rubs the spot I hit, and relief hits me when he finally glances my way. “You love how irritating I am. Just like I love how fucking irritating you are.”
Momentarily, in my mind, our situation dissipates, and I shut my eyes, savoring his compliment.
Then, I remember I’m married.
I adjust my ring and fix my eyes on the solitary princess cut diamond.
“Seriously,” I say. “What is this about?”
