“I was horny,” I snap back. When he frowns in confusion, I bite out a noise of frustration. “I don’t even know where to begin, honestly. Let’s start with the fact you own Sinners Anonymous. I’ve been confiding in that hotline every day since I was thirteen. It was my fucking diary, Rafe! When did you realize I was calling it?”
I tap my foot, waiting for a reply. Eventually, he palms his jaw and grinds out an answer. “After the thunderstorm in the phone booth. I reversed-called the number.”
I feel sick. I haven’t come to terms with the fact he’s behind the soothing robotic voice that has listened to me for all these years. Every time I let my brain go there, I squirm with embarrassment, thinking of all the cringy stuff he must have heard. I also feel stupid as hell; looking back, he’d dropped so many hints. He knew my favorite breakfast, the cocktail I like. That I can’t braid my own damn hair.
“A game is only fun when both people know they’re playing it. Anything else makes you an ass,” I grit out. “You had a million opportunities to tell me you owned it, but you didn’t. And when you didtell me, it was only for selfish reasons.” A fresh wave of anger burns the lining of my stomach. “And thewayyou told me? Jesus Christ, don’t even get me started.” I storm over to the dresser, snatch up the million-dollar check and wave it around. “What the fuck is this? I’ll tell you what it is; it’s a coward’s way out. You thought I’d take the money and run, and then you wouldn’t have to break it off with me. Newsflash—” I toss the check at his feet. “I’m still here!”
We both stare at the crumpled piece of paper on my carpet. I sweep it up and put it back on my dresser. I’m manic with anger, but I’m not stupid.
Sucking in a deep breath, I tighten the bed sheet around myself and try to steady my voice. “It’s crazy, actually. I’ve been ranting at you for five minutes, and yet I haven’t even touched on the fact you dangled me over the side of your yacht like a fucking fish on a line.”
We stare at each other, my glare hotter than hell, his unreadable. Eventually, he nods, dropping his elbows to his knees and rubbing his hands together.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly.
“Sorry isn’t good enough,” I whisper back.
His eyes flash. “Then what will be, Penny? Because one thing’s for sure; I’m not walking this earth without you.” He laughs bitterly, running a paw over his chest. “I tried it. Didn’t like it.”
Silence trickles down the walls like syrup. Suddenly, I realize something: I don’t know what I want from him. He doesn’t know what to give me. We’re just two idiots who don’t know how love works.
My throat feels like sandpaper. “Well, then. Figure it out.”
He groans, rolling his neck. “Rory didn’t tell me about this bit.”
“What?”
He rises to his feet, shaking his head. “Nothing, baby.”
I avert my eyes as he gets dressed, knowing that if I watch those biceps flex as he tightens his belt, I’ll be back face down on the bed, waving my ass in the air, and my monologue will have been pointless.
I follow him to the front door, which is flapping against the frame, thanks to his donkey kick. The only reason I haven’t been robbed is because two burly men stand outside it. My cheeks heat when I realize they definitely heard my entire outburst—and worse, me screaming Rafe’s name in a different way all night. But as we walk to the entryway, they politely turn away and stare at the walls.
Rafe turns, gripping the bed sheet and yanking me toward him before I can dodge his reach. When I try to twist my head, he cages my jaw with his hand and presses his mouth to mine. “I really am sorry, Queenie,” he murmurs in a way that makes my knees go jelly-like. “I’ll figure it out, I promise.”
I don’t dare breathe; I’m too scared something cute will come out. Instead, I fist the fabric at my sides, and watch him cross the threshold.
“Wait,” I blurt out.
He turns at the top of the stairs, hopeful eyes clashing with mine.
“Black.”
They narrow. “What?”
“That’s the color I want my Birkin.” I pause. “The first one.”
Then I slam my broken door shut.
“Grovel.”
I stop spinning my poker chip and frown. “What?”
Rory stares at me from across the breakfast table, like she just discovered I only have one brain cell, and she’s wondering how I survive day-to-day. “She wants you to grovel, Rafe.” Her lip curls into a sneer. “And rightly so. Goose, no wonder she disappeared off the face of the planet, you absolute weirdo.”
I cut a knuckle over my jaw and stare at the marble countertop. I wonder if I smack my head against it, if it’ll knock some common sense into me. The worst part about Rory’s reaction is that I’ve only told her the super-sanitized version of the story. Losing the kiss bet, the check, and the necklace. I skipped over the whole hotline thing, the wild enemies-with-benefits sex, and of course, the fact that I dragged Penny out to the yacht bow in the pissing rain. And she’s reacting like this?
Yeah, I’m a grade-A cunt.