Hold On (Page 51)

Quicker than the last, I got rid of that one.

I’m sorry.

I stared at those two words on my phone, my thumb hovering over the send button.

It moved and deleted.

I turned off the phone and tossed it on the bed, lifting both hands to press the base of my palms to my eyes, trying to soothe the fire.

That didn’t work, so I unfolded out of bed and went to the bathroom to take off my makeup in order to start getting ready to try and get some sleep.

I knew this would be an impossible task.

And when I finally lay alone in the dark, I found I was right.

* * * * *

Garrett

Garrett stood on his balcony having a smoke, his head bent, his phone in his hand.

He engaged it, distractedly making note he needed to get a new one because that crack was fucking irritating.

His thumb sliding across the screen, he went to his texts.

Specifically his and Cher’s string.

DONE.

That was her last.

Fuck.

He turned off his phone and looked to his view.

She was right.

When he woke early, he should have woken her to discuss how they’d play the Ethan thing. He’d jumped the gun, made a decision that wasn’t his to make.

So she was right to be angry.

But she’d lost it, spewing shit that was completely out of line.

Which pissed him off.

He didn’t hide it. She knew it, and it was written all over her by the time he’d walked out the door that she regretted it. And anyway, that was Cher. She didn’t often hold back.

But since then…nothing. No apology. No Cher being cocky-cute or a pain in the ass in a good way to try to cover it up and move on.

Nothing.

The look of her waking up, the way her eyes were on him, the touch of her mouth to his throat, that fucking kiss, it all penetrated his brain.

He’d gotten in there.

You got somethin’ worth fighting for, you fight for it. You do not sit on your ass waitin’ for it to come back to you.

She’d been right.

But the way things were with them, she was also partially wrong.

She needed time. He needed time. Cher wasn’t stupid. She paid attention. She knew she took it too far this morning. He knew before he even walked out her door that she wished she could take it back.

But he was pushing, and he was pushing at a time when any sane, logical woman who knew his history with his ex-wife would have the smarts to push back.

Cher was pushing back for more than just that, but there was also that.

He needed to cool it. He needed to give her some space. He needed her to know that he was moving on, and his decision to explore moving on with her, which meant with her and her boy, was a risk worth it for her to take.

Staring at the parking lot, Garrett made a decision.

He’d give her a week.

He took a drag, inhaled, let it go, and decided it was time to cut back in order to prepare to stop altogether. Ethan did not hide he dug having Garrett around that morning like he never hid he dug having Garrett or any of the men around.

It was over three decades ago, but he didn’t forget what it was like to be a kid that age, drinking up all that was around you, storing it inside to let evaporate the shit you didn’t need so the man you wanted to be could flood out when the time was right.

He didn’t need to give Ethan the idea anything was cool that was not.

So the smokes had to go.

He was bending to stub it out when he saw headlights in the parking lot. With mild curiosity, he looked that way and saw a car driving through the lot to get to the other side of his building where the tenants and their guests parked their cars.

But he knew that silver Land Rover.

She could not be serious.

Christ, he thought this bullshit was over.

“Fuck,” he hissed, scowling at the Rover while straightening.

He walked inside, slid the door closed, and secured it. He then moved to the kitchen bar and tossed his phone on it, not wanting to do that but instead wanting to call Cher, talk out their shit, and not go to sleep on it the way things were. Or, at the very least, text her something to let her off the hook thinking he was still pissed at her.

That wasn’t giving her time, so he didn’t do that.

Instead, he did what he absolutely did not want to do.

When the knock came at his door, he walked to it, looked out the peephole, and felt his jaw set.

He slid off the chain, turned the bolt, and opened the door.

He moved firmly into it and looked down at his ex-wife.

She was shorter than Cher by several inches. She had lots of red, wavy hair whereas Cher’s blonde brushed just past her shoulders. She had green eyes that flashed with fire or humor, not Cher’s dark brown that, even when she didn’t know it and wouldn’t want it, shone with warmth.

And right then, Mia Merrick was in the mood to play games.

“Go home, Mia,” he ordered.

She looked up at him, eyes hooded, but he could read them. He’d had years of that. The woman couldn’t hide anything from him.

She was angry.

And she was something else too.

“Haven’t heard from you in a while, Merry,” she said softly.

“Sorry. My bad,” he replied. “Congratulations, babe. Wish you all the best,” he told her with far less emotion than he’d spoken to Cher that morning, which meant his voice was a black void it was a wonder the bitch didn’t disappear into.

Unfortunately, she didn’t.

He watched a slow grin lift her lips.

She thought she’d read him.

She might have heard about him and Cher, it was doubtful she hadn’t, but even if she did, she didn’t know she’d lost the ability to read him six days ago.