And it’s all my fault.
“Then he shouldn’t have hit me,” Ian growls.
“Then you shouldn’t have hurt Reese,” River tells him with a casual shrug of his shoulders. “Now, we’d really like to get on with our day, and I’m sure you would too. So if you could be so kind as to open the damn door, then we’ll be out of your hair in a jiffy.”
“A jiffy?” Ian laughs then turns to me. “Where’d you find this pretty boy?”
River’s hand flexes at his side. “This pretty boy is about to––”
“Stop!” I shout, closing the distance between a very pissed-off River and me. My palm brushes against his lower back in hopes of keeping him grounded as I murmur, “I just want to grab my stuff. Ian, will you please let me into the apartment? I’m seriously begging you.”
River’s jaw tightens as he scowls over at me before returning his attention to my ex. Apparently, he doesn’t like the idea of me begging. But he doesn’t shrug off my touch. If anything, he leans into it.
Watching our silent exchange, Gibson clears his throat, and I drop my hand back to my side.
“Please, Ian?” I whisper.
Ian dangles his keys like he would a treat for a dog. “Only if you promise that we can talk later.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Milo interjects. He shifts his weight to hide me behind him, and it cuts off my vision until I’m staring at my brother’s broad back.
“We just need her stuff, and then we’ll be out of your hair,” Jake explains in a calm voice, attempting to placate him.
“Promise me,” Ian orders while completely ignoring my big brother, who’s practically blowing steam from his ears.
Bad idea, Ian.
River’s grip returns to my waist, tighter this time, but I pretend that I don’t notice his silent warning. He doesn’t want me to cave to Ian’s demands. Unfortunately, I don’t think I have much of a choice.
“Fine,” I grit out. “I promise.”
Satisfied, Ian announces, “You have five minutes.”
Ian walks straight toward Milo. Then, like Moses and the Red Sea, we all separate onto opposite sides. The key slides into the lock with ease before Ian opens the door and ushers us inside.
My feet freeze in place as I take in the apartment. Everything looks exactly the same. I’m not sure why I’m surprised, but it feels like it’s been years since I last stepped foot in here when it’s only been twenty-four hours or so. A warm hand nudges me forward to keep from blocking the entrance, and I look over my shoulder to find the owner.
With a teasing grin, River prods, “Why don’t you show me that bedroom. Maybe I can help pack your panties.”
I snort, then smack him on the chest while inside, I’m singing. It feels good to smile.
“Come on, horn dog,” I mutter under my breath, finally shaking off my nerves long enough to remember why the hell I’m in Ian’s apartment.
It’s funny. This was my apartment before he moved in. As I look back at my relationship with Ian, I’m not even sure when he officially moved in and claimed it as his own, but he’s smooth like that. Convincing. And with the right dose of confidence, even the craziest ideas can seem sane when delivered with his surety. My fingers graze the white walls lining the hallway as I push aside the memories and approach the bedroom.
Our bedroom.
He wasn’t always a complete asshole. In the beginning, he was almost…sweet. Kind. Caring. Made sure I was satisfied. Then things changed. It was all an act. Like the stupid frog in a pot of hot water analogy, only I was the frog. And I was burned alive before I even realized it.
Gibson follows behind River and me as I catch myself staring at the soft, gray comforter strewn across the bed. The one we bought together after I came home from work to see he’d spilled wine on our previous one.
He never drinks wine.
My mouth floods with acid. It was probably one of his sluts.
“Come on, River,” Gibbs mutters before striding toward the closet and wrenching open the doors. When he finds my gym bag, he tosses it to his friend. “Fill it up with her shit.”
Like a pair of bumblebees, the guys buzz around the room, gathering my stuff from the drawers, cabinets, closet. Everything. Until the bedroom is practically empty, and Gibbs takes a final scan of the room.
“Hey, Riv, you got the rest? I’m going to go check the bathroom.”
“Yeah. I think we’re pretty much done here. We’ll meet you in the family room in a sec.”
With a final nod, Gibbs disappears into the bathroom and leaves us alone.
I catch River rummaging through my lingerie drawer, but he doesn’t comment as his bruised hand grabs a dark red thong before shoving it in the bag with the rest of my stuff.
His knuckles are angry and raw from hitting Ian, and I cringe as I inspect them from afar.
Why would he punch him? The guy barely knows me. If Milo had punched him, I wouldn’t have batted an eye. Hell, even Jake throwing a sucker punch would’ve made more sense than what happened outside, and he’s the least combative person I’ve ever met.
But River? The calm, sarcastic womanizer seems like the prime example of being a lover, not a fighter. But he did fight today. For me.
Unable to help myself, I close the short distance between us, then grab his hand and take a closer look. His knuckles are slightly swollen with a few angry red bruises peppered across them.
He must’ve hit him hard.
“Can I help you?” River asks, his voice thick with sarcasm.
“Sorry. It’s just… Ouch,” I mutter while gently brushing my thumb along the back of his damaged hand.
“Yeah, you’re kinda a pain in the ass, Reese.”
I’d be offended if it weren’t for the crooked grin that’s threatening to say hello on his face.
“To be fair, I didn’t tell you to hit him,” I point out.
“True. But someone had to defend your honor.”
“Is that what you were doing?” I laugh as those same stupid butterflies wreak havoc on my insides.
His tongue darts out and slides across his bottom lip as his chest rumbles, “Something like that.”
“Hmm…,” I hum before realizing how close we’re standing. Carefully, I look up at him. “It looks like it hurts a lot.”
“Wanna know what would make it feel better?” His question is delivered with a playful bounce of his eyebrows that makes my heart gallop like a freaking racehorse.
How can one man be so damn charismatic?
It isn’t fair. Especially when I know he acts this way with everyone yet still manages to make my knees weak anytime he directs it at me.
Knowing I’m going to regret it, I ask, “And what’s that?”
His penetrating eyes drop down to my lips. Instead of answering me, he surprises me by asking, “Why’d you jump in when he called me a pretty boy?”
“Because if I didn’t, you would’ve gotten into a fight.”
“And? What, you thought I couldn’t take him?”
I laugh, even though he looks kind of serious. Like the pretty boy comment bothered him. I don’t know why he would be offended by a statement like that. The guy is pretty. I mean, he gets paid to be looked at. He’s a model, for Pete’s sake. A gorgeous model. One that I’m seriously having a hard time staying away from. But it’s the vulnerability in his gaze that really does me in. The need to be seen as more than a pretty face. Just like how I want to be seen as more than the vulnerable little sister who’s managed to screw up her life in ways she never could’ve imagined.