Filthy Vows (Filthy Vows #1)(45)

“In Vegas, you vomited in the ice bucket of the limo,” he reminded me.

“I did?” I frowned at him, and the faint memory of clutching the ice bucket did sharpen into focus. “No, I didn’t. You have me confused with one of those escorts. I was sober and classy the entire time.”

He smirked at me, and I wondered if he was thinking about watching me through the window.

“Almost the entire time,” I amended. “Definitely no vomiting occurred.”

He chewed on another chunk of watermelon and let my lie slide. “So, Nicole’s gay.”

“Very.” I shrugged. “But you never know. Maybe she’d cross the street for you.”

“Nah.” He tore off a piece of paper towel and used it to wipe the watermelon juice off his fingers. “I watched an interview she did with 30-for-30 and she didn’t do anything for me anyway. I prefer brunettes.” He grinned at me, and I couldn’t help but return the gesture. He’d always been a flirt, and this easy back and forth returned us to familiar ground.

“Here.” He pushed the watermelon container toward me. “I’m going to go take a shower and clean up so my future ex-wife can throw a bunch of bullshit on me.” He pointed at me. “Drink lots of water.”

I rolled my eyes in response. “Don’t leave your wet towel on the floor.”

“Come on.” He scoffed, spreading his hands as he walked. “Who do you think you’re talking to?”

“Uh-huh.” I pulled the container closer to me and selected a bigger piece. “Go tell someone who will believe you.”

I heard him laugh as he walked down the hall and let out a slow breath of relief, glad that things were back to normal between us. Picking up my glass, I stared into the clear contents. God, I had thrown up in that limo. How had I forgotten that? I tilted back my head and finished off the glass, shaking the ice until a piece landed into my mouth.

There was the sound of the front door and I turned, watching as Wayland’s nose wedged through the opening. He barreled through, my husband in tow.





20





Two days later, I was mid-huff up the highest part of our street when Easton pulled Wayland’s leash over his wrist and tossed out the grenade.

“You never responded to my email.”

The email was now a solid week old, which I’d hoped had been long enough to fall off our radar.

They were just fantasies. We can forget they exist.

Yeah, we could. Or we could explore them further.

“It didn’t require a response,” I pointed out.

“Yeah, but it probably should have.” We hit the top part of the hill and moved to the shoulder to let a white SUV past. “Have you thought about it anymore?”

“Thought about what?” Which part? Who?

“Any of it.” We paused to let Wayland take a long and very intense examination of an untamed clump of grass. “Have you thought about Aaron at all?”

“He lives with us. It’s hard not to think about someone when you’re tripping over them.” I was evading and he knew it. The next step would be a confrontation, one paired with his serious voice and some eye contact.

“Elle.” He moved in front of me and blocked my path, his gaze searing a hole in my eyes. “I’m trying to make you happy.”

I pulled at the two plastic grocery bags I’d tucked into the front of my shorts and nodded at Wayland. “Your son is pooping.” I moved toward the Great Dane and E blocked me.

“Elle.”

“Easton.”

“Talk to me.”

“Okay. I don’t want to do anything with Aaron.”

“Why?”

I blew out a frustrated breath. “Because it’ll make things really really awkward.”

“I thought you guys talked and were back to normal.”

I frowned at him. “Where did you get that?”

He suddenly became aware of the giant pile that Wayland had created. Passing me the leash, he took the bags and doubled them up. “It just seems like you’re good again.”

“Bullshit.” I followed him, tugging on Wayland’s leash to keep him out of the street, and pulverized a daisy head in my distracted journey. “Did you talk to him?”

“I talk to him all the time. He mentioned you spoke. Nothing to freak out about.”

“I don’t like you guys talking about me. Especially not with all of…” My blood chilled. “You didn’t tell him about the other night, right? The role-play thingy we did?”

“No.” Easton squatted beside the pile and carefully worked it into the bag, somehow staying spotless through the process. “But—”

I waited.

He brushed the back of his forearm across his forehead, then jerked the bag handles up and tied them in a note.

“But what?”

“He felt like shit about the whole voyeurism thing, so I told him not to worry about it. I told him you liked it.” The final sentence was softer than the first, tossed over his shoulder as if it was superstitious salt, and then run from—his long legs clipping toward the trash can at the end of the driveway.

I stood in place, my hands crossed over my chest, and waited for him to return, doing an emergency sweep of the street for anything big and brutal enough to kill him with. Unless I was going to rip a mailbox out of the ground bare-handed, I was out of luck. When he came back, his gaze studiously locked on Wayland, I spoke. “You told him I liked it? Are you out of your fucking mind?”