“I’m not—”
“Two weeks? Damn, Kitty Cat.”
I shut my eyes and shake my head, trying to will away the flush creeping up my neck. Damn my pale skin.
“When is the last time you had sex?” My attempt to reclaim the upper hand has me turning the color of a candy apple.
He considers, his lips moving while he studies the ceiling. “Three weeks ago.”
“Three weeks ago? Are you ‘itchy?’” I ask with a disbelieving grunt.
“I’m dying.”
His tone is sincere, and I can relate so much I don’t know what to say.
“Are you?” he asks softly.
“It’s been two months, what do you think?” I mumble.
I expect him to overreact to the length of time I’ve been celibate, but he doesn’t. “You saw him but not enough. Go on.”
“One night he mentioned his new associate Maria who was helping him sell an apartment building. I was certain that’s who he was cheating on me with.”
Barrett gestures with a hand. Obviously.
“Saturday night I decided to show up at his office.” I pick at the material on the chair’s arm while I talk, the burn of shame igniting my cheeks. Embarrassment I can handle. Shame is more challenging. “And he was there with Maria. She was pretty, blond, and they were sitting very close.”
“This all sounds like cheating to me.”
“I followed him Sunday afternoon. He picked up Maria at the office and drove to the apartment building where they were supposed to go. I showed up Monday in his office at seven A.M. when he was working early, and she was there again. They were drinking coffee and poring over contracts.”
“The plot thickens.”
“I confronted North that evening. I told him I suspected him of sleeping with Maria and confessed that I’d followed him to work and to the apartment building. He wasn’t angry. He was sad.”
“Sad?”
“Sad. He said he wasn’t cheating, but he was ready to end our relationship. The only reason he could think to leave me was disinterest, and he didn’t know how to break it to me.” I swallow and force myself to continue, unable to stop now that I opened the dam. “He said the reason he hasn’t had sex with me was less about him being busy and more about him not wanting to lead me on. He was waiting for the right time to dump me, and since I broached the subject he took the opportunity to do it then and there.”
Moisture pricks my eyes and I bat my lashes. I cried Monday and Tuesday. And then I cried more on Wednesday and Thursday. I’m not crying today. I have a life without North and I’m determined to live it.
When I’m finally brave enough to lift my face, Barrett’s expression is neutral—he doesn’t appear pained for me or angry on my behalf.
“Need to revenge fuck someone?” he asks.
“That’s your suggestion?”
He shrugs. “It works. It helps. We’re both itchy.”
“You’re the one who's itchy, Fox. Probably from the last hostess you screwed who left behind an STD.”
He chuckles, unoffended.
“Have you ever been in a relationship that lasted longer than two minutes?” I snap.
“Yes.”
I blink. Really?
“How long were you together?” Now I’m curious.
“Six years.”
I know I look startled. How can I not? It’s startling. “Six years?”
“On and off.”
That makes more sense.
“Alternately, you could rub one out while I watch,” he offers.
My mouth drops open as his spreads into a smile. “That was a joke. Unless you’re considering it, in which case it wasn’t.” He points to the door. “That knob locks.”
I push out of my chair. He wraps a hand around my elbow and turns me. Now I’m standing awkwardly between his spread thighs, face to face with a man I am trying not to like.
But damn, does he smell good. With gentle fingers, he holds each side of my jaw. He studies my mouth for a prolonged moment before meeting my eyes.
“You’re going to be okay, Kitty Cat. He was holding you back. Guy who doesn’t care enough to cut you loose is a complete dickhead who doesn’t deserve your time. He was a coward. You’re the brave one.”
It’s such a tender comment, especially following the lewd one a few moments ago. Have I misjudged him? Under that bravado is he all heart—a muscly teddy bear?
“Do you at least want to make out while I have you here?” I swat his hands away but can’t hide my smile. He chuckles, pleased with himself at drawing one forward.
Unbelievably, I feel a bit better than before I came in here. But I have a role to play. So, when he slides off the edge of the desk, and hands me my coffee cup I take it, and then march out of the office ahead of him.
Chapter 9
Catarina
Date numero dos.
I wasn’t sure how Barrett was going to react to being thrust into a stuffy country club—and moreover, I wasn’t sure how he’d be dressed. He was a sports guy, not a golf guy. The differences between football and golf are too many to number.
“You look...like a golfer,” I tell him approvingly as we place our clubs into the cart. His bag is pristine. His clubs gleaming. “I take it you don’t play often.”
“Your bag is pink. Your shorts are pink.” He lifts his eyebrows. “And you’re judging me?”
“Men dominated this sport for too long. It’s my right as a card-carrying member of this country club to rub their noses in the fact I’m a woman.”
He slides his sunglasses to the tip of his nose as if blatantly checking me out. I stand taller in my pink shorts and white top, making sure to pull my shoulders back and push my breasts forward.
A smile crests his lips before he pushes his sunglasses back up. Men. So weak.
“I don’t play often,” he says, “but I did once play a celebrity tournament with Bill Murray.”
That tracks.
We set out to play our nine holes. Barrett’s swing is atrocious, but his ball consistently lands about one hundred yards farther than mine, forcing me to play catch-up during all nine holes. His short game sucks, so I recoup by sinking putt after putt.
“I’m better at mini golf,” he grumbles, stuffing his putter in his bag. At least he quit swearing.
“I’ve never seen anyone eight-putt before,” I tell him sweetly, smiling as I recall his multiple lip-outs and putts that rolled waaaay past the hole.
“You try catching a fifty-yard pass with two defenders breathing down your neck, Kitty Cat, and then we’ll talk.”
It’s easy to forget that the man beneath the butter yellow polo and beige golf pants is a powerful and incredible athlete. Or he was anyway, before he blew out his shoulder.
We climb onto the cart, and I reluctantly agree to let him drive. He’s thoroughly ruffled when he learns that the cart has a speed limit and it’s not a high one.
“I imagine it was hard for you to give up football. ” I say.
“Players don’t last forever. We know that. Hell, an NFL career for most of us lasts around the time mine did anyway.” He shrugs as if he took the injury and the subsequent loss in stride, but he couldn’t have. He loved to play. He’s told me that several times.