Chapter 23
Dexter
My knuckles ache like hell.
It’s a good ache, born from exertion, sweat, and the deafening impact of the punching bag.
After the day I’ve had, it’s the type of hurt I need. A way to forget about the check, the deal, and playing dirty.
Most folks see pain as something to cope with and minimize. I decided early on I wouldn’t do that. I chose to use it as a coping mechanism instead.
What choice do I have?
About as much as I did the minute I walked into that bakery and realized Juniper Winkley’s iconic grandmother was standing there.
Yes, I’ve done my homework.
I’ve dredged up the articles about the amazing Jo Winkley, how she took an unremarkable bakery and turned it into a temple of all things cavity inducing. It’s an impressive story.
I’m not such a stone–hearted bastard that I’m immune to admiring her rave success, especially at a time when women entrepreneurs had every obstacle stacked against them.
If the sugar addicts in this city still worship the elder Winkley, then that goes a hundredfold for her own granddaughter, who’s clearly trying to fill grandma’s very big shoes.
Juniper Winkley won’t forgive me easily for the shit I pulled, that’s for sure. If she hadn’t played so damn hard to get, maybe I’d regret it.
I circle the punching bag, my chest heaving and sweat pouring down the back of my neck in rivulets.
I’ve had the same bag since I came back to Kansas City. It’s showing its age, along with about a million impacts.
-The frosty light in my gym highlights the scarred material, the way it’s suffered over the years for my sanity.
So maybe I have a soft spot for this old thing. Mainly because when I punch it, it hits right back.
The pain snaps up my arms as I keep going with bone–jarring force, pushing my body to the limit, straining until my muscles scream.
Again.
Harder.
Fucking faster.
My arms are numb mush when the intercom buzzes and I stagger back to catch my breath.
Stopping to wipe my face with a towel, I glare at the screen. Who the fuck could that be? It’s past nine.
Patton and Archer always call or text to say they’re dropping by first.
No one else typically comes except my cleaner, and that’s never at night.
I’m used to my solitude and I like it that way.
But the damn thing buzzes again and I swear loudly as I cross the room to answer it. “Yeah? Who is it?”
“Can you open your gate?” a woman’s voice says, oddly cheerful. “What for?” I frown, suspicious as hell.
By now, everyone’s heard about the scams where some schemer comes to the door asking for help. They always show up with three beastly guys on standby, ready to split your skull open and steal everything you’ve got the minute they’re through the door.
“Delivery for Mr. Dexter Rory,” she says. Does it sound a little like she’s trying not to laugh or is it just my imagination? “I’m sorry it’s so late. I have paperwork from a Mr. Haute’s office. High priority.”
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Love Betrayed: A Journey of Separate Path
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Chapter 23
Shit, shit.
I should’ve known Forrest Haute would find a few more ways to be a massive pain in the ass.
“I’ll be right up,” I mutter.
Groaning, I punch the button to remotely open the gate as I climb the stairs to the ground floor.
Paperwork. At this damn hour.
The man should really tell his people that some things can wait for morning, no matter how urgent. I’m practically snarling as I see a small figure standing behind the front door, the privacy glass currently set to frosted.
“If this is from Mr. Haute personally,” I start as I throw the door open, “you should tell him he can wait until-
I freeze.
This isn’t one of Haute’s lackeys, not unless I’ve tripped into a parallel universe.
It’s her.
All cinnamon–red hair and evil green eyes and slightly flushed cheeks. She tilts her head and looks me up and down, assessing my every movement.
Slowly. Like she has all the time in the world. Goddammit.
And here I am, sweating like a horse and dressed like a gym rat. “Expecting someone else?” she asks as she steps past me into the foyer,
without an invitation. “Sorry to intrude–but not really. I just thought I should check out our home, sugar.”
A breeze blows in with her like Satan himself laughing. I slam the door with enough force to rattle the house.
“What the hell are you doing here, Miss Winkley?”
“Oh?” She quirks an eyebrow at me. “You mean you don’t like unexpected visits? That’s a shame.” Teeth, meet tongue.
-She’s got me there.
I want to rip into her, machine gun reasons why this is inappropriate, rude, and just fucking weird.
Only, it’s not when I’m the asshole who went there first.
I targeted her family as a means to an end.
“I’m sure you’re upset about earlier, and for good reason. To be fair, I never invaded your home and private space. I wouldn’t dare,” I say gruffly. “The Sugar Bowl is public and open to anyone.”
“Not when it’s closed,” she snaps, turning those green eyes on me like jade knives. She walks around, checking out the dark Madagascar flooring, the open–plan kitchen housing high–end smart appliances, the large Japandi style lounge with the mounted TV on the wall, and a fireplace set in immaculately handcrafted woodwork. “Jeez, dude. Can you save some real estate for the rest of us?”
My lip curls.
“Miss Winkley, I’m warning you. I don’t need this tonight.”
“Oh, yeah? That’s a shame.” Her voice is hard. “I kinda know the feeling. It’s such a drag when you’re ambushed after a long day, isn’t it?”
Damn her to hell and back.
When I decided to be an idiot, I knew she’d be pissed, but coming to my house is some next–level fuckery.
“I left you a number. Call it,” I growl, following her through the kitchen as she walks through my place like it’s an art gallery.
My plate’s still there from dinner, half a large enchilada sitting on the counter, waiting to go in the fridge.
“Oh, but darling, I thought we were engaged? Isn’t it all the rage now to play house the minute there’s a ring involved?” She sends me a long look over her shoulder, eyes hooded. “Besides, fair’s fair.”
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Chapter 23
“Fine,” I snarl, leaning on the kitchen island. “Fucking fine, you win. You want to come here and see where I live? Have at it, sweetheart. Help yourself to a drink and stay a while.”
Her mouth hardens like she’s sucking citrus. For the faintest second, my mind goes other places, wondering what she could really do with those lips.
But she just strides toward the stairs.
“Where’s the basement? I’d better make sure there aren’t any dead bodies down there, and you can bet I’ll be rummaging through all your closets–God, I bet they’re enormous–just to check for skeletons.”
“I know you don’t trust me-”
She pins me down with another glare. “Don’t trust you? After all this, you expect me to just settle and take your word for anything?” She finds the stairs leading down and flicks on the light. There’s so much repressed anger in her movements I’m surprised she doesn’t combust into a pile of ash.
“Nothing but a couple guest rooms, a reading area, and my home gym,” I explain. “If you’ve never seen a gym before, knock yourself out.”
Her eyes flash hellfire.
Shit, I didn’t mean it like that.
I open my mouth to apologize, but she shoots first.
“Mr. Rory, let’s get one thing straight. You’ve already insulted my intelligence. That’s bad enough, but I can deal.” She strides forward, her teeth tucked into a sharp smile. “But listen, if you think I’ll just stand here while you insult anything else-”
“I didn’t mean it like you think, Winkley. There’s nothing wrong with your looks–nothing at all. I slipped.”
“Uh–huh,” she says tightly. “You do that a lot, don’t you? You could try some speech therapy.”
“Woman, I told you I fucked up. I don’t need this shit.” “And I do not need any sarcasm from you, Big Fish.” I’m fucking speechless. Again.
How is she so good at turning my tongue into a useless sponge?
“Can we get on with this interruption?” I fold my arms, matching her gaze with mine. She glances down my chest again, at the worst of the sweat, then looks at the equipment.
“You were working out?”
“When you showed up? Yeah. Evening routine.”
“I’m not surprised.” She wrinkles her nose as I follow her downstairs. It doesn’t take her long to find the exercise room. “This whole place smells like money and–ew, man–sweat.”
“I didn’t invite you down here.” Or to my house at all. “If you have a problem with the smell, leave.”
“Actually, no. I have a problem with you.” She shoves the note I sent her–and the check–straight into my chest. The shock of it makes me stumble back
a step.
“How dare you,” she mutters. Oh, fuck.
My eyebrows go up.
“Now you’re pissed when I offer you money?”
“Yes, No. Maybe. Ugh! You know what, screw this.” She runs both hands through her hair and storms back upstairs.
If she needs space, I get it.
There’s something almost fragile about her now. Like this experience simultaneously fired her up and knocked the wind from her lungs.
When I follow a minute later, I find her waiting in the hall, slack against the wall like this leggy sagging doll.
“Miss Winkley? Are you okay?”
“Not at all.” She lets out a pained laugh. “God, you just don’t get it, do you? I’m pissed because you gave me something you know I can’t refuse.”
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Chapter 24
Chapter 24
