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“To your girlfriend,” I say in clarification.
Candace seems like a nice, understanding woman. But I can’t imagine that she’d appreciate the idea of Davis sharing a bed with me.
Davis’s eyebrows shoot up into his really nice hairline. He’s quiet for a while, then he tiredly scrubs a hand down his face. “I don’t have a girlfriend.”
It’s my turn to crinkle my forehead. “Uh, yeah. You do.”
I’m so terribly confused now. He’s denying it? Why would he do that? It’s not like he hides it. I’ve seen him parading around town with the woman more than once. Is he just trying to protect my feelings? He doesn’t need to do that. I may not like it, but I don’t want him to lie to me.
He deserves to move on. He deserves to be happy.
“I do not have a girlfriend,” he insists. “I haven’t had a girlfriend since…well,you, I guess.”
“But Candace…?” It feels weird to even speak her name. “I’ve seen you with her, Davis. At the movie theater. At the park. Walking around town.”
“Candace is…complicated.” Davis starts pacing, something he does anytime he struggles to find the right words. “I…I…We, um…”
Then the truth smacks me like a brick to the side of the head. Oh my god—are they fuck friends?!
They’re fuck friends!
Davis has a fuck friend!
I try to keep a neutral face, while deep down my stomach coils at the idea of my ex-husband just casually slingin’ it around town.
I’m about to be sick.
“Candace is…”
When the weirdness becomes too much, I look away, twisting my fingers in my lap. “We don’t have to talk about it…” I say, maybe a bit too harshly.
He grunts bitterly. “Yeah. We don’t have to talk about it.”
You’d think that I’d be happy to hear that he hasn’t given his heart away to another woman. But here I am, actually preferring the idea of Davis in a relationship with Candace rather than him being a big ole manwhore around Honey Hill. Because I know Davis, and that’s just not the kind of guy he is. Or was. Or…whatever.
I force myself to think about anything else, because I refuse to entertain the thought of Davis sleeping with random women.
Back when we lost our virginities to each other, he was only ever supposed to sleep withme. And now, here we are, carefully keeping our distance from each other while we talk about sleeping with strangers.
We’re a mess.
In any case, Davis Westbrook is a single man now. What he does with his penis is not my business. And I’d do well to remember that.
He gives me his back, making a pallet of blankets on the floor. “Look—we don’t need to share the bed. I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”
“Fine,” I say softly, hating the way my tear ducts prickle.You can’t cry now, Alana. Hold it together.
Guilt, hurt and remorse do a three-way tango in my belly as I slip out of my tight pants, quickly climb under the sheets, and pull the blankets all the way up to my chin.
Davis gets down onto the floor, yanking the knitted covers up over him. As he rustles around, I try not to look in his direction because it hurts too much. I hate admitting that I’m wishing he were here in this bed, wrapping his arms around me.
The fire roars and crackles in the corner of the room. The drizzle patters lightly against the roof. Beyond that, the room is filled with silence. A heavy, deafening silence that makes it impossible to drift off to sleep out here in the middle of the woods.
With nothing to do but stare at the bright blaze on the other side of the cabin, my internal thoughts are louder than ever. I seriously hate how much this hurts. I hate how much I wish that everything were different. I hate how much I wish I were still his and he were still mine, dammit.
Out of nowhere, something loud—and quite fast—scurries across the wood floors.
Holy shit!
