Page 49 of Unruly

Me:

Only if you do the thing with the tongue again. Be there at 8.

What the fuck was I thinking? I’m thirty-two, not some horny teenager.

I flip on the lights, kick off my boots by the door, and stare at the mostly-rearranged living room as if it might somehow offer answers.

It doesn’t.

If anything, the sight of mostly-finished projects and displaced furniture only sends another wave of anxiety rolling through me. Cash cannot walk into this house and see it in its current state.

Thought you didn’t care about this man? I think to myself. The truth is, I shouldn’t—I don’t. But still I spring into motion.

I’ve been procrastinating getting these photos hung up on the wall, so I do that first, stepping back every few minutes to make sure they’re straight.

Then I wrestle the new rug I bought last week into place, smoothing out the stubborn corners underneath the couch, until it finally sits exactly where I want it.

Once everything is finished, I gather the discarded packaging, fluff the couch pillows, and wipe down every visible surface. By the time I’m done, the room looks intentional instead of chaotic, the furniture actually matches, and the artwork fills the empty wall space. For the first time in weeks, it feels like a place someone might actually live in. Taking it all in, a small spark of satisfaction cuts through my nerves. It isn’t perfect, but it’s done, and that’s good enough.

After the living room, I hurry down to my bedroom and tidy that up. There are still clothes I haven’t put away from unpacking—I throw some in my closet, others in my new armoire. By that time, I’m buzzing.

If I’m going to get fucked, I’m doing it looking like a goddamn meal.

After several minutes of changing my mind—and my outfit, more than once—I finally slip into something a little sexier. Not over-the-top, just enough to make me feel confident when I catch my reflection in the mirror. I smooth my hands down the fabric of the slip dress, take a steadying breath, and try to ignore the nervous flutter building in my chest.

I’ve seen the tight little things the girls in town wear for him. But this soft slip dress is shorter, silkier. I want him feral when he sees it on me.

I head into the kitchen to grab a glass of water. Halfway through filling it, I hear the low rumble of a motorcycle pulling up, and my stomach drops. I move to the window and peek through the curtain just in time to see Cash kill the bike under the porch light, swinging a leg off and pulling his helmet free. His red hair is messy, and even from here, that cocky set to his shoulders is unmistakable.

“Shit,” I mutter, heart hammering. What the hell is he thinking? If people see his bike at my house the whole damn town will be talking about us by noon tomorrow.

Grabbing my garage opener, I hit the button and step outside before he can even knock. “Cash, what the fuck are you thinking? Move your bike into the garage before anyone sees it!”

He grins, eyeing me up and down. “Did you dress up just for me, Darlin’?”

My face flames. “Move the fucking bike into the garage—now.”

His brow lifts as he gives me that smug look, but he doesn’t argue, just pushes his bike inside next to mine. I close the door fast, plunging us into the dim garage light. Then Cash grabs his backpack and heads inside behind me.

I step into the kitchen and welcome Cash inside, and he takes it as an invitation to walk directly in my living room and begin snooping, hands in his pockets. “Nice place. Colt said you were doing some redecorating. It looks good—the living room is finally coming together from last time I was here.”

“Yeah, it’s coming along. Do you want something to drink?” I ask, leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed tight like I can hold myself together that way.

“Sure, that would be nice,” he says, still looking at my knickknacks on the mantle.

I grab two beers out of the fridge and open them, then turn around to find Cash no longer in my living room. A small panic settles in. “Cash …”

Too late. I follow after him and find him standing by the dresser, holding up a piece of white lace lingerie I’d buried in the back of a drawer. It’s a white lacy set that Zach had gifted me for our honeymoon. I haven’t worn it since then, and I’m not really even sure why I packed it when I moved out. Maybe I was planning on burning it. Who the fuck knows. But now, seeing it Cash’s hands, my face burns.

He turns it over, a wicked little smile tugging at his mouth. “This yours, Darlin’?”

“Put it back.” My voice is sharp, but he doesn’t listen.

He looks at me with it in his hands. “Why don’t you change into this instead so I can fuck his pretty little wife.”

Heat floods my cheeks and core at the same time. “Soon to be ex wife, thank you,” I say, trying to snatch the lingerie back from him.

He holds it out of reach. “Yeah, let me ruin every memory you have of him.”