Unfinished Ex (Calloway Brothers, #2)(36)

His lips scrunch together and move from left to right. “Hmm. Maybe we should call a meteorologist and find out when that might be.”

“I did predict a twenty percent chance of storms.”

“Way to beat the odds,” he says sarcastically.

“I didn’t blow the forecast, you know. The atmosphere is extremely complex. Even supercomputer models that run logarithmic equations can’t accurately resolve atmospheric dynamics.

It’s not a CYA percentage. Twenty percent means the atmosphere is generally stable, but there’s just enough moisture or heat to squeeze out a shower in a limited area. That limited area is here.”

He examines his fingernails, pretending to be bored. “Are we done with the science lesson?

Maybe you forgot, but I’m the teacher here.”

Thunder crackles behind me, shaking the house and scaring Heisman. He runs toward the living room.

Jaxon rolls his eyes and opens the door further. “Your father would have my head on a goddamn platter if he knew I let you walk home in this. You can stay until it passes.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “Inside?”

“No, Nicky, in the doghouse out back. Of course inside. Don’t drip all over the hardwood.”

I crane my head around the corner and peek into the living room. “You put in hardwood floors?”

“Always said I wanted to.” He gestures to the kitchen. “Wait in there. I’ll get you a towel.”

Entering the house that used to be mine is surreal. And overwhelmingly emotional. Aside from the hardwood in the living room, nothing much has changed. I peek down the hallway at the ‘picture wall’—well, except that. It’s completely bare. Not even nails remain on the wall that was once lined with pictures of us: our wedding, our graduation, our engagement, our home purchase. Our everything. And it dawns on me that Jaxon may not have a single photo of his past that doesn’t include me.

It’s not lost on me, however, that not a solitary picture of Calista is anywhere in sight.

“I said stay in the kitchen,” he says, handing me a towel.

I glance at my feet, which are technically on the kitchen floor, but I don’t argue the point. Then I sit at the table that I once had coffee at every morning. The table Jaxon and I made love on after I got offered my first internship at a small station in the city.

He stares at it, too. Then turns his back on me. “Coffee?”

“That would be nice. Thanks.”

My heart races. My mind is all over the place. I’m sitting in a house I once owned, staring at a man who was once mine, touching a table that we once christened. It’s torture to the extreme.

This is a very bad idea.

So why, then, am I’m not making any attempt to leave?





Chapter Fifteen



Jaxon




Another clap of thunder echoes. The lights flicker. Nicky’s hand covers her mouth in amusement.

“Oh my gosh, I forgot how we used to lose power every time it stormed.”

Then her face goes white. Because, apparently, she just remembered what we used to do during the blackouts. As if fate is playing a twisted joke on me, the lights go out.

“Well, shit,” I say, feeling my way to the cabinet that contains the flashlights.

“I got them,” she says. “You still keep them in the one by the fridge?”

To the very bottom of my soul, I wish I had moved them. Why does her knowing everything about this house sit with me like a wad of undigested gum in my gut?

We bump into each other. Her hand lingers on my arm. I don’t like it there. Or I do. Fuck, my head is all over the place. I pull away. “Sit. We can’t have Calloway Creek’s newest celebrity stubbing a toe, now can we?” I say bitterly.

“Very funny.”

Three rumbles of thunder drum in quick succession.

“This night just keeps getting better,” I say.

“I can have my dad pick me up.”

I reach the cabinet and turn on a flashlight. “Nobody should be driving in this.”

“It’s a half mile. I think he can handle it.”

“I said don’t worry about it, Nicole. Jesus, can you for two seconds quit being the one who has to control everything?”

“Me?”

I don’t have to shine the light on her to know her jaw is hanging open. I can hear that it is. “Yes, you.”

“I don’t have to control everything.”

I laugh and lean against the counter. “Seriously? Let’s see. Who picked the college we went to?

The dorm we lived in? Which one of us decided the date we got married and where we went on the honeymoon? Even this house—”

“Stop right there. That’s not fair. You picked the house.”

“Yeah, but you made us tour ten more before we made an offer.”

“Because that’s just good sense. And for your information, I picked NYU because I knew you wanted to go there. I picked February eighth because it was after football season. And I picked Gatlinburg because I knew how much you love the mountains, and I didn’t want us going further in debt. Every decision was made with you in mind.”

I search my thoughts for a comeback, an argument. There’s only one I land on. “Every decision?