Bitter Sweet Heart (Lies, Hearts & Truths #2)(45)

That sounds like a shot if I ever heard one.

“Ex-wife, Gabriel,” Clover reminds him, lips pursed, arms crossed.

“Not until the papers are signed, my love. And we need to schedule a dinner to talk about that.” He gives me a conspiratorial smile. “Wish me luck getting her to agree to give me another chance.”

“Professor Sweet seems pretty adamant about the ex part, so I guess you’re gonna need all the luck you can get, huh?” He has to be the one sending her the baskets.

“Seems that way. It was nice to meet you—Maverick, was it?”

“That’s right.”

“Is that a nickname or your given name?”

“Given.”

“Interesting. Well, Maverick, I appreciate you helping out Clover, but now that I’m in town, that probably won’t be necessary.”

“Right. Okay.” I’ve got no less than a million burning questions, none of which I can ask. Like, since when did he move to town? “It was nice to meet you, Gabe. I’m sure I’ll see you around.” I turn to Clover. “See you on campus, Professor.”

“Of course. Thank you for popping by.”

“No problem. Anytime.”

I walk backwards a few steps before I turn and head down the street, but at the end of the block, I go right instead of heading for the park and circle back toward my house. I don’t mind a little friendly competition, but a husband who’s trying to win her back is a whole different level.

And it makes me realize exactly where I am when it comes to Clover.

This isn’t a game I’m playing.





I walk back through the front door of my house to the smell of freshly brewed coffee. This could be a good or a bad thing. Good, because it means I’m not responsible for making it; bad, because I have no idea who’s in the kitchen.

If it’s Kody and Lavender doing their morning dance—Lavender wearing a smirk and Kody blushing like a twelve-year-old with his first boner—I’m probably going to punch someone. And that someone would be Kody.

Which wouldn’t be fair, because it’s not his fault I’m in a mood and can’t deal with happy couples.

Not to mention that I’m over here pining away like an asshole for my professor who’s still married—to a guy who has a career and a life and isn’t still in college. In a handful of months, I’ll be in a better position, but there’s a good chance I’ll also be in a different state. Or possibly out of the country, depending on how ready they think I am.

Needless to say, my headspace isn’t good.

There’s no way to get back up to my bedroom without going through the kitchen, which seems to be a design flaw in this house. So I’m relieved when I find my cousin BJ sitting at the kitchen table, sipping a cup of coffee. He has one of Lavender’s mugs, and it reads You’re Awesome, Keep that Shit Up. Except it’s a pretty, floral design, so you don’t register what it actually says until you’re close.

BJ glances up from the newspaper sitting in front of him and makes a circle motion around his face.

I stare at him a moment, waiting for him to say something in follow up. “Morning?” I offer when he doesn’t.

“That it is.” His eyes flick to the clock and back to me. “That was an exceptionally short run, and you’re not really sweating.”

“How do you know how long I’ve been gone?”

“I heard you when you left, less than half an hour ago.” He leans back in his chair, crossing one impossibly long leg over the other. He’s a year younger than me, but his full-sleeve tattoo, man bun, and beard make him look a lot older. “And now you’re back and looking all . . . angry. What’s the deal?”

“There is no deal.”

“If you say so.” He makes a hmm sound and sips his coffee.

I give him my back and go in search of my favorite coffee mug. It’s not in the cupboard, though, which means it’s in the dishwasher. I check that, too, but it hasn’t been run yet, so I go back to the cupboard and pick my second-favorite mug. It used to be my mom’s, but I stole it. It reads Mrs. Waters, but the letters are made of penises. She doesn’t know I have it, and I always keep it in the back of the cupboard, so they don’t find it when they come visit.

I pour myself a cup of coffee, add enough sugar to cut the bitter and some cream to turn it tan, and set it on the table. Then I go back and grab two bowls, the gallon of milk that’s half-empty, and three different boxes of cereal. I don’t bother with the Lucky Charms since Lavender’s hands have been in every single freaking box. She picks out all the fucking marshmallows. It drives me up the damn wall, especially since there are several boxes of cereal marshmallows sitting on the shelf right next to them.

I slide a bowl in front of BJ and keep the slightly bigger one for myself. Most of the time I make myself a real breakfast—eggs, bacon, whole grain toast, that kind of thing. But not today. Still, I start with the healthier cereal option. This morning I’m going with Frosted Mini-Wheats as course number one. I dump half the box into my bowl and pour milk over it, letting it sit for a minute before I dig in. Mini-Wheats are a particular favorite because they do such a good job of soaking up the milk.

“How are you handling things?” BJ asks conversationally, bypassing healthy options in lieu of Cinnamon Toast Crunch.