“That’s why I lied.”
“Dammit, Eve. I’m seventeen years older than you. We can’t do this. You’re . . . Fuck, Eve, you’re closer to my son’s age than mine.”
My breath freezes in my chest. “Son?”
“Yes, I have a seventeen-year-old son.”
I swallow hard. “I didn’t know that.”
“Of course you didn’t.” He pins me with a scowl. “We haven’t exactly spent our time together talking.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks. “Right.”
He shoves two hands through his hair. “This is my fault. I followed my dick rather than common sense.”
“Ouch.”
He recoils from his own words, but shakes it off and meets my eyes. “I’m thirty-eight years old.”
I shrug. “I don’t care.”
“Well, I sure as shit do!”
“I messed up, but it’s not like I’m a minor. My age is just a number. I’ve lived on my own since I was fifteen. Paid my bills with my own money since then too.”
“Right. You’re doing stellar job at that.”
What in the hell does that mean? “What did you say?”
“Your bills, Yvette W. Dawson, are not being paid with your own money or any money for that matter.”
My entire body heats, and I know my face is bright red with anger and embarrassment. “You fucking snooped through my mail?” This is unbelievable. What else did he go through? “I may have fudged my age by a few years, but I would never go through your mail.”
“You can’t compare the two. Your lie got us naked. My snooping only pissed you off.”
“No. I’m way more than pissed off.” I’m furious! More accurately, I’m humiliated, but whatever.
Digging in my purse, I manage to scrape up some crumpled dollars and a handful of coins. “I should’ve known: rich good-looking guy like you, who’s all growly and controlling in bed, going through my shit. You know what?” I point at his face. “This is why I should’ve stayed gay.” I drop money on the table, sending change rolling off and bouncing on the floor. Good. He can pick them up. “I’m outta here.”
He grips my wrist. “Eve, sit.”
“No way, stalker.” As the words fly from my lips my insides are screaming that I’m going to push him away. He’d walk away sooner or later. Why not give him a shove off? Fuck, even that feels like a knife to the chest.
“Hardly a stalker, doll.” His voice takes on a warm tone, and his thumb rubs circles on the inside of my wrist. “Let me explain. Your mail was lyin’ out on the kitchen counter.”
It’s as if there’s a purr underscoring his words. My knees go wobbly, and I sit to avoid falling. Where am I gonna go anyway? We’re at least fifteen miles from my house, and whatever money I had before I dropped it on the table isn’t enough to get me home.
“I’m still mad at you.”
His expression relaxes a fraction of not at all. “Feeling’s mutual.”
I glare, and for some reason it releases the tension in his jaw. Not a smile by most standards, but closest thing I’ve seen on the man. Minutes ago he was ripping into me about my age, and now he’s calm. Bi-polar? Not that I’d be surprised. He’s way too hot to be mentally stable. Now that we’ve just thrown my age, his son, and his snooping into the mix, there’s no way we’ll hook up again.
And another one walks away.
*
Cameron
Huh? That’s it? I expected tears. D’lilah always busts out with the waterworks when we fight, but not Eve. I need to break things off with her. Shit went from simple to complicated, and complications are something I don’t need. But even as the words “this is over” sit on the tip of my tongue, I can’t force them out.
I like this woman. She’s young, clearly has some things to learn about budgeting her money, and na?ve about who she takes drinks from, but she’s not immature. It’s in her eyes: the hardened way she looks at me when I expect her to be vulnerable. Like now.
Women are emotional, crazed with it, and after treating this woman like a slam piece, I just blew her off because of her age and gave her shit about being in debt. I’m no genius, but I think that qualifies me for the Dickhead World Records.
After forcing her to take back the money she tossed on the table, I pay the bill and we’re back in the truck. She’s quiet, which is good because it gives me time to figure out how the hell I’m going to handle breaking things off. I can’t continue to sleep with a twenty-one-year-old girl. Can I?
My phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out to see Ryder calling.
“Ry, what’s up, man?”
Throat clearing. “It’s me.”
“D’lilah?” What the hell? “Where’s Ryder?”
“Oh, he’s here. Um . . . I’m at your place. You weren’t answering my calls last night and I worried, so I drove—”
“You drove?” Drunk.