Page 80 of Stud

He reached for me, but I batted away his arms. “I thought you were supposed to be out.”

“I was…but I got caught up on staining a table and figured I’d hit the hardware store after meeting Ellen.”

Lies. Nothing but lies. “Is she in here? In your room?”

Furrow sinking deeper in his brow, he glanced at his bedroom door, then back at me. “Who? What’s going on?”

“Your girlfriend, that’s who. Is she in there? Hiding in your goddamn sheets?” I shoved past him and smacked the door so hard it cracked against the wall. Empty.

Owen pleaded with me to talk, explain. I ignored the traitor. I tore through his closet, even though it was clear no one was inside. I made for the bathroom next. I checked behind his kitchen counter. The tears I’d struggled to keep at bay came hard and fast. The Ugly Cry in all its horrible glory. But there was no one here. No one but us and the envelope clutched in my hand.

With my back against his living room wall, I slid down. My butt hit the hard floor. I sobbed. I tugged at my dress, fighting to cover my knees. I felt so naked.

He crouched in front of me, his face twisted in distress. Like he cared. Like my tears were gutting him. “Ainsley, I need you to tell me what’s happened.” He reached for me, but drew his arm back when I glared. “Talk to me. I can’t help unless I know what’s wrong.”

Unable to form the vile words on my tongue, I tossed the envelope at him.

He seized it, fumbling to get the photographs out. His eyes widened instantly, his broad chest rising and falling as fast as mine. He mouthed what the fuck as he dropped them on the floor and shifted them around, as though sorting through puzzle pieces. They were, in a sense. Each represented a jagged piece of my soul.

“Where did you get these?”

The bite in his tone had me shrinking. What right did he have to be mad? “They were left at my front door. Do you know these women?”

“Fucking Tessa.” Ignoring my question, he smacked the hardwood with the heel of his palm. “Fuck!” I jolted, horrified as he jammed his hand into the wood repeatedly. He crushed a couple photos in his fist, nostrils flaring as his tantrum ebbed.

“Do you know these women?” An odd calm claimed me as I repeated my question. My voice was even. The tears had ceased.

Sinking to his knees, he sighed. “Yes, I know them, but I can explain.”

Like he’d explained about Caroline’s text. “I have photographic evidence.”

The anguish in his pleading eyes was almost believable. “This”—he picked up the one from last year with his hands on the brunette’s face—“is Summer. We met on the D.C. Habitat build. This was the day she found out her husband was cheating on her. We were friends. Nothing more. Tessa had a private eye trailing me at one point, but I thought it was later.”

He touched the image of his back facing the camera. The one with his large body leaning over Summer as if in a kiss. “I guess this is why she thinks I cheated,” he murmured, slumping lower. Then his vehemence returned. “I kissed Summer’s cheek, I think, trying to comfort her. But it was never more. Never. You can call her, ask her. I swear to God, Ainsley—I never lied to you.”

I sat, numb, unable to reply or cry or yell.

Frantic now, he pointed at the shot of him dancing with the thin blond. A beauty with large eyes. “I took dance lessons. To prepare for the waltz. This is Irina. She turned her den into a small studio and does private lessons. I’ll give you her number, too. Call them. Ask them.”

His dark eyes were feral, desperate, and I nearly said, okay, yes, I believe you. I wanted to trust him so badly. The same way Sloane wanted to assume Thomas was true. Like I’d believed every work meeting Brandon had ever invented. These women could easily corroborate a lie. Talking to them would mean nothing.

I couldn’t see past the pain. Or answer him.

“Christ.” He shot to his feet, pacing like a caged beast. “This is just Tessa playing her evil games. Don’t let her ruin us. Don’t let her destroy what we have.”

“It’s too much. The text. This…” I pressed my hand to my chest, willing the sharp pain to subside.

Owen speared his fingers through his hair, the tendons in his neck taut. “I didn’t cheat on Tessa. I didn’t cheat on you. I’ve never betrayed a woman in my life. It must have been horrible seeing those photos. I get it. But after all we’ve shared, what I thought we had”—he faced me and deflated—“how could you doubt me?”

I wrapped my arms around my middle, drowning in despair. His anguish felt thick enough to taste, so unbelievably real, and my anger morphed into confusion. If he was telling the truth, and I’d assumed the worst in him—my baggage messing with my head—then maybe I wasn’t ready for a relationship. Maybe I never would be.

But the photos were damning, too, neither prospect painting a pretty picture.

Swiping at my tears, I pushed to stand, stumbling as I sought balance. “I don’t know what to believe.”

“Believe me. Believe in us.”

“It’s so hard.”