What the hell is Sandra saying to Ash? Fuck. Is she going to ruin everything? Wait. Is there anything to ruin? I force those thoughts out of my mind. Now is not the time to worry about my relationship with Ash.
When I reach the house, Sandra is staring Ash down. She motions to the golf cart and practically orders Ash to bring her to me. Princess Sandra strikes again.
“You are not going anywhere with Ash,” I growl when I reach the porch.
“Show’s over!” I glower at the crowd on the lawn until they give up and begin dispersing.
“I’ll just …” Ash waves toward the inside the house and retreats before I have a chance to stop her. I’ll deal with her later. The bigger problem is standing right in front of me.
“Rowan,” Sandra purrs as she drags a sharp fingernail down my chest.
I capture her hand. I don’t want her hands on me. There’s only one woman whose hands I want to feel on my body, and she just ran away looking like I destroyed her microphone and stomped on her laptop. Fuck!
“You don’t touch me,” I growl at her.
“You tell her, Rowan!” The crowd cheers.
Shit. I thought I got rid of our spectators. But when I turn my glare on them, they shrug and shuffle their feet. They’re not going anywhere. Fine. If they won’t leave, I will.
I open the door to my house and drag Sandra inside. I don’t want her in my house – the home I’ve been sharing with Ash for the past weeks – but what choice do I have?
“What do you want?”
“I want you back, of course. Why else would I be in this honky-tonk town?” She tilts her chin up as if she’s better than everyone in this town. Not hardly.
I cross my arms over my chest. “What makes you think I would take you back?”
“Darling, we both know I’m the only woman who will accept your little problem.”
Little problem? How dare she bring up my problem? Wait. Shit. Did she tell Ash? Is that why she ran away as soon as I arrived? Does she realize I’m damaged goods now? I want to follow her, but I need to get rid of my ex first.
“What’s wrong?” I sneer. “Did you use up all of my money?”
Her gaze drops to the floor. Bingo!
“I’m not a football player in the NFL anymore, Sandra. I don’t have millions to give you.”
She glances around my house. “You’re not hurting for cash.”
Because I’m smart and invested my money. Or at least what money was left over after I was forced to hand over half of my earnings to her in our divorce. I’m the one who sweat and bled for that money. She’s the one who spent it all on purses and shoes. The judge didn’t care, though. How is fifty/fifty fair when one partner worked and the other used shopping as an excuse to day drink?
“And you have your business.”
My heart spasms as if she reached inside my chest cavity and squeezed my heart. I force myself to take a breath. I made damn sure the money I used when I established the bakery was free and clear of Sandra. She can’t get her grubby fingers on it.
I snort. “And how much money do you think a bakery in a – what did you call it again? – a honky-tonk town earns?”
Thanks to the tourists in the summer, I make a more than decent living, but nothing Sandra would accept. If she can’t buy a new thousand-dollar handbag each and every day, it’s not enough money. Her priorities are seriously whacked.
“I know the bakery is merely a consolation prize after what happened.”
“What happened?” I grumble. “You mean my knee being crushed and having to learn how to walk again?”
And Sandra, being the caring wife she was, left me while I was still struggling with my recovery. The doctors said there was no way I could play professional football again and she couldn’t get out the door fast enough. Bryan’s not wrong when he says my ex’s a bitch.
She looks me up and down. “Let’s leave the past in the past, shall we? You’re walking now, aren’t you?”
Thanks to hours and hours of grueling physical therapy, sleepless nights when the pain nearly undid me, and more ice baths than any man should have to endure. I thought my balls were going to permanently lodge themselves in my scrotum when I continued to freeze them off in ice bath after ice bath.