Maybe Someday (Maybe, #1)(50)

I’m trying to keep my jaw off the floor. I’m trying to keep my anger subdued. I’m trying to keep myself from reaching across this table and punching him square between his accusing eyes, but I’ve learned the hard way that punching isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

I allow myself several moments to calm down before I respond. I glance at Ridge, who is still eyeing me. He knows by the look on my face that Hunter just crossed the line. Ridge’s hands are gripping the screen of his laptop, prepared to shove it aside if I need him.

I don’t need him. I’ve got this.

I square up with Hunter, pulling my gaze off Ridge and focusing on the eyes I so desperately want to rip out of Hunter’s head.

“Ridge has an amazing girlfriend who doesn’t deserve to be cheated on, and luckily for her, he’s the type of guy who realizes her worth. With that said, you’re wrong about the fact that I’m sleeping with him, because I’m not. We both know how unfair it would be to his girlfriend, so we don’t act on our attraction. You should take note that simply because a girl makes your dick hard, that doesn’t mean you have to go shove it inside her!”

I push myself away from the table at the same time as Ridge sets his laptop aside and stands.

“Go, Hunter. Just go,” I say, unable to look at him for another second. The simple fact that he thought he had Ridge pegged as being anything like him pisses me off, and he’d be smart to leave.

He stands up and walks straight to the door. He opens it and leaves without even looking back. I’m not sure if his exit was so simple because he finally understands that I’m not willing to take him back or if it’s because Ridge looked as if he was about to kick his ass.

I have a good feeling I won’t be hearing from Hunter anymore.

I’m still staring at the door when my phone sounds off. I take it out of my pocket and turn to Ridge. He’s holding his phone, looking at me with concern.

Ridge: Why was he here?

Me: He wanted to talk.

Ridge: Did you know he was coming over?

I look up at Ridge after reading his text, and for the first time, I notice his jaw is tense and he doesn’t look very happy. I’d almost label his reaction as slightly jealous, but I don’t want to admit that.

Me: No.

Ridge: Why did you let him in?

Me: I wanted to hear him apologize.

Ridge: Did he?

Me: Yes.

Ridge: Don’t let him in here again.

Me: I wasn’t planning on it. BTW, you’re kind of being a jerk right now.

He glances up at me and shrugs.

Ridge: It’s my apartment, and I don’t want him here. Don’t let him in again.

I don’t like his attitude right now, and to be honest, the fact that he just referred to this as his apartment doesn’t sit right with me. It feels like a low blow to remind me that I’m at his mercy. I don’t bother responding. In fact, I toss the phone onto the couch so he can’t text me, and I head toward my room.

When I reach my bedroom door, my emotions catch up with me. I’m not sure if it’s seeing Hunter again and having all of those hurtful feelings resurface or if it’s the fact that Ridge is being an *. Whatever it is, the tears begin to well in my eyes, and I hate that I’m letting either of them get to me in the first place.

Ridge grabs my shoulder and turns me around to face him, but I keep my eyes trained on the wall behind him. I don’t even want to look him in the eye. He puts my phone back in my hand, wanting me to read whatever he just texted, but I still don’t want to. I throw the phone toward the couch again, but he intercepts it, then tries to force it back into my hand. I take it this time, but I press the power button down until the phone shuts off, and then I toss it onto the couch again. I look him in the eye now, and his expression is angry. He takes two steps toward the coffee table, grabs a pen out of the drawer, and walks back to me. He takes my hand, but I pull it from him, still not wanting to know what he has to say to me. I’ve had enough apologies for tonight. I try to turn away from him, but he grabs my arm and presses it against the door, holding it forcefully while he writes on it. When he’s finished writing, I pull my arm away and watch as he tosses his pen onto the couch, then walks back to his bedroom. I look down at my arm.

Let him in next time if he’s really what you want.

My barrier completely breaks. Reading his angry words depletes me of whatever strength I had left to hold back my tears. I rush through my bedroom door and straight into the bathroom. I turn on the faucet and squirt soap into my hands, then begin scrubbing his words off my arm while I cry. I don’t even look up when the door to his bedroom opens, but I see him out of my peripheral vision as he closes the door behind him and slowly walks toward me. I’m still scrubbing the ink off my arm and sniffling back the tears when he reaches across me for the soap.

He dispenses some onto the palm of his hand, then wraps his fingers around my wrist. The tenderness in his touch lashes out and scars my heart. He runs the soap up my wrist where the words begin and lathers my skin as I drop my other hand away and grip the edge of the sink, allowing him to wash his words away.

He’s apologizing.

He massages his thumbs into the words, rubbing them away with the water.

I’m still staring down at my arm, but I can feel his gaze directly on me. I’m aware of the exaggerated breaths I have to take in now that he’s next to me, so I attempt to slow them down until there are no longer traces of ink on my skin.