Getting Even by Avril Tremayne

Author:Avril Tremayne
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Harlequin
Published: 2018-07-30T13:11:46+00:00

CHAPTER ELEVEN

IT WASN’T UNTIL Rafael was barricaded in the second bedroom, having closed the door with a definitive I-am-in-control-goddamn-it click, that he took a proper breath. If you could call the great, slurping gust of air he sucked in then blew out with a “Fuck” attached to it an actual breath.

He threw his manuscript on the bed and proceeded to tear at his hair until his scalp hurt.

She’d had to walk into the kitchen just as he’d finished reading the damn death scene—more vibrant, more badass, more seductive, more everything than the inadequate Hope his moronic Alejandro was tormenting himself over in Stomp—and slay him where he stood. Or where he sat. Hell, he couldn’t remember what he’d been doing. Sitting? Standing?

Drooling, either way, his dick twanging like a divining rod in her direction all through that conversation in the kitchen.

So what had he done?

He’d set. A goddamn. Schedule!

Good job, imbécil.

No idea how he was supposed to fuck her out of his head within two weeks when she was off-limits to him for sixteen out of every twenty-four hours! And it wasn’t like she was going to let him play happy families with her for the other eight hours—which was the point she was making with that strategic bend-over at the end.

Insect? Scuff mark?

“Give me a fucking break,” he muttered.

She’d known exactly what she was doing. Almost-wearing that goddamn T-shirt as a goddamn dress, which was obviously a cast-off of one of her motherfucking husbands. Talking about earning his book, banging his brains out.

And the really sick thing about the whole situation was that everything about what she’d said and done in that kitchen encapsulated why he’d fallen so hard for her in college. Because she moved in whatever kind of line she had to, to get what she wanted—straight or curved or twisted—but always forward, never backing away.

He’d been a fool not to predict she’d cut him off at the knees when he’d left, no matter how many emails he’d sent, calls he’d made or letters he’d written promising to come back. He just...just hadn’t expected her to do that when she loved him as much as he loved her. Hence the books. A form of therapy to get him past the anger and hurt—and still, he’d never come to terms with it.

Yet now, years later, all it had taken was one moment, her bending over in a kitchen, for him to not only understand why she’d done what she’d done, but to actually admire her for it. She’d made a straight-line decision because he’d taken the curved-and twisted-line options away by leaving without telling her why he was going or even that he was going.

Hope in Stomp wouldn’t have had the strength to kick him to the curb so decisively!

Which is why he was falling way out of love with the languishing Hope. So out of love, he was going to rewrite her. Make her kick more/kiss less ass.

He picked up the manuscript, took it over to the window and thumbed his way through to the part where Hope touched Alejandro in her fake sleep.

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