All About the D

“Sorry about that, gorgeous,” he says, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “Let me get my car. I’ll drive you.”

I nod, relieved I won’t have to stand outside and wait for an Uber.

Even though this isn’t the man I want to be with, even though it’s killing me to walk away from Josh, leaving seems like the right thing to do.

And maybe on some small level, Nate’s kindness gives me hope that chivalry isn’t dead after all.





11





Josh





I bang on Evie’s heavy, wooden door with my fist like I’m an invading conqueror about to bash it down off its hinges. Jesus fucking Christ, she needs to talk to me.

Her dog barks, but no one comes to the door.

It’s a drizzly night as usual, and I pull off my glasses, dry them off on my shirt hem, and put them back on, waiting for her to answer. Raindrops run down my face and into my eyes, and I slick my hair back.

I step back from the door, trying to catch my breath, because I literally ran to her house after Tiffany’s limo dropped me off. Since I wanted to talk to her so badly, I hadn’t bothered to go up to my place or change out of my tux. Leaning over, I rest my hands on my knees and regroup.

Truthfully, I’m not completely sure why I’m here now, except that I have to explain what happened, and she wouldn’t let me at the party.

Which was a clusterfuck from beginning to end, starting when Tiffany morphed from my ride to my fiancée once we arrived at the museum. She was clearly full of shit with the “we’ll go as friends” crap she fed me because when I helped her out of her coat, I noticed she was sporting an engagement ring.

Before I could open my mouth, flash went the cameras, and Tiffany and Josh were back together again.

Almost like the press knew the narrative, knew to pounce on this story.

Standing there, I felt like a fucking fool. Especially since I never actually gave her a ring.

Of course we weren’t engaged, but that ring seemed to be the only evidence anyone needed to celebrate our pending nuptials. It thrilled my mother, and I couldn’t do anything to stop the extremely public slow-motion train wreck from happening. My parents have the Cartwright offspring trained well. We don’t argue or correct one another in public, and we certainly don’t correct people like Gwen Waller.

But during the car ride home, I had it out with Tiffany and made it clear we were over.

I knew the next thing I had to do was come straight to Evie and explain.

But now that I’m standing here on her doorstep at midnight, I’m reconsidering.

I’m really hoping that douche she was with isn’t here.

What if he is?

I take a step back and debate whether I should pound on the door again or just leave.

Watching her dance with him made me crazy. Waves of possessiveness and jealousy—emotions I never felt with my ex—shot through me all night. But worse was seeing the hurt in her eyes when she met my so-called fiancée.

Fuck.

I knock again, hard. Chauncey barks louder.

Damn it, answer the door.

I hear the deadbolt unlock, and the heavy wooden door swings open, revealing Evelyn corralling her dog behind her.

My God, she’s stunning. Dark hair loose and down around her shoulders. Pouty lips and sex-kitten eye makeup. Barefoot now, but still wearing that sexy-as-fuck gold dress, she looks like a screen siren, all full curves and flawless skin, except for those light freckles on her cheekbones.

And she’s glaring at me with those piercing gray eyes like I’ve maimed her dog.

“Can I come in?”

She stiffens and puts a hand on her hip. “No. What are you doing here?”

Her dog escapes and comes outside on the porch, prancing around me and wagging his tail. He’s old but enthusiastic. I crouch down to pet him, and I think I see her mouth the word “traitor” to him.

I straighten back up. “I need to talk to you.”

“We have nothing to talk about.”

“What it seemed like tonight—it wasn’t what you think.” I take a step forward and lean on the door frame.

Chauncey goes back in the house, but Evie stays put. While the dress covers her and drapes around her curves, from this position I have full view of her ample cleavage.

Eyes up, dude. Because, yes, I like her for more than her exquisite body. She’s brilliant and quirky and so fucking sweet. Just being around her makes me smile.

But she’s not smiling now.

Her eyes harden, and her voice gets even lower and more alluring—probably because she’s so pissed.

“Oh, no?” She laughs mirthlessly. “You mean you’re not engaged and your families aren’t planning the wedding of the century? Wow, I must have misheard that entire conversation.” A deep sigh leaves her. “Go home to your fiancée, Josh. It’s midnight. You have no business seeking out another woman’s company right now.”

I stare into her eyes. “I swear I’m not engaged. God’s honest truth. Please let me explain.”

She stares at me as the anger in her expression dissipates, becoming something sadder. Her voice drops to a whisper. “I think I heard enough tonight. You should go.”

Fuck.

My stomach sinks. This can’t be it. I want to get to know her more. Hell, I want to date her. Want to spend every minute listening to her talk, helping her restore her house, washing her damn dog.

Getting to know that banging body.

I can’t have her shut the door on me. Not now, not like this.

Inspiration strikes. It’s probably stupid, and it’s possible she might laugh in my face, but I’m batting for the fences anyway. “Can I at least get my shirt back?”

Thinking of my shirt reminds me of the way she wore it, braless in the park.

Control your thoughts, man.

Letting out another sigh, she finally relents. “Fine.” She turns on her heel in a huff, leaving the door open, and strides towards her bedroom. I close the door behind me, then double-step it to catch up. Chauncey prances between us.

I follow her down the hall, watching the way the fabric moves over her body, and I just start talking. At this point I have nothing to lose.

“You must think I’m a real asshole.”

She doesn’t turn around to respond. “I do.”

“Tiffany isn’t my fiancée.”

“That’s not how she acted. That’s not what everyone said. In fact, I’m pretty sure I had a front-row seat for the introductions. Maybe, if I’m lucky, I’ll be invited to the wedding! Chauncey, sit, buddy.”

As we pass a dog bed in the hall, she points. He ignores her and wags his tail. I give him a look and motion toward his pillow, and he dutifully sits with a creaky-old-man sigh. Good boy. At least someone listens to me.

I try again. “We were together so long, people just assume—”

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