Hold On (The 'Burg #6)(54)

But the way things were with them, she was also partially wrong.

She needed time. He needed time. Cher wasn’t stupid. She paid attention. She knew she took it too far this morning. He knew before he even walked out her door that she wished she could take it back.

But he was pushing, and he was pushing at a time when any sane, logical woman who knew his history with his ex-wife would have the smarts to push back.

Cher was pushing back for more than just that, but there was also that.

He needed to cool it. He needed to give her some space. He needed her to know that he was moving on, and his decision to explore moving on with her, which meant with her and her boy, was a risk worth it for her to take.

Staring at the parking lot, Garrett made a decision.

He’d give her a week.

He took a drag, inhaled, let it go, and decided it was time to cut back in order to prepare to stop altogether. Ethan did not hide he dug having Garrett around that morning like he never hid he dug having Garrett or any of the men around.

It was over three decades ago, but he didn’t forget what it was like to be a kid that age, drinking up all that was around you, storing it inside to let evaporate the shit you didn’t need so the man you wanted to be could flood out when the time was right.

He didn’t need to give Ethan the idea anything was cool that was not.

So the smokes had to go.

He was bending to stub it out when he saw headlights in the parking lot. With mild curiosity, he looked that way and saw a car driving through the lot to get to the other side of his building where the tenants and their guests parked their cars.

But he knew that silver Land Rover.

She could not be serious.

Christ, he thought this bullshit was over.

“Fuck,” he hissed, scowling at the Rover while straightening.

He walked inside, slid the door closed, and secured it. He then moved to the kitchen bar and tossed his phone on it, not wanting to do that but instead wanting to call Cher, talk out their shit, and not go to sleep on it the way things were. Or, at the very least, text her something to let her off the hook thinking he was still pissed at her.

That wasn’t giving her time, so he didn’t do that.

Instead, he did what he absolutely did not want to do.

When the knock came at his door, he walked to it, looked out the peephole, and felt his jaw set.

He slid off the chain, turned the bolt, and opened the door.

He moved firmly into it and looked down at his ex-wife.

She was shorter than Cher by several inches. She had lots of red, wavy hair whereas Cher’s blonde brushed just past her shoulders. She had green eyes that flashed with fire or humor, not Cher’s dark brown that, even when she didn’t know it and wouldn’t want it, shone with warmth.

And right then, Mia Merrick was in the mood to play games.

“Go home, Mia,” he ordered.

She looked up at him, eyes hooded, but he could read them. He’d had years of that. The woman couldn’t hide anything from him.

She was angry.

And she was something else too.

“Haven’t heard from you in a while, Merry,” she said softly.

“Sorry. My bad,” he replied. “Congratulations, babe. Wish you all the best,” he told her with far less emotion than he’d spoken to Cher that morning, which meant his voice was a black void it was a wonder the bitch didn’t disappear into.

Unfortunately, she didn’t.

He watched a slow grin lift her lips.

She thought she’d read him.

She might have heard about him and Cher, it was doubtful she hadn’t, but even if she did, she didn’t know she’d lost the ability to read him six days ago.

She thought his words hid jealousy.

She leaned closer to him.

He swung back but did it studying her.

Pretty. So f*cking pretty. A little minx. He’d thought she was his little minx. Got off on that. Bitch was wicked.

And he’d been wrong.

He couldn’t totally read her because he was the * who didn’t read for the five years they were apart that her wicked games were poisonous.

“Mia, go home,” he repeated.

“You want me to go?” she asked, leaning further into him, pressing her tits into his chest.

He instantly pulled back.

Her eyes narrowed and she shot out a hand to cup his crotch.

She barely got her hand on him before he moved his between them. Wrapping his fingers around her wrist, he yanked it away, listening to her surprised cry when he used precisely the strength he intended, making the hold he had on her bite just enough to make a point.

“What the f*ck’s the matter with you?” he asked.

“Merry,” she whispered, twisting her hand in his hold to try to get away, uncertainty in her features now.

He jerked her forward and she gave another surprised cry as he bent to get in her face.

“Listen to me,” he growled. “You do not ever come here again. You sell that house. You pack your bags. You get your ass to Bloomington. And you forget I exist.”

She looked into his eyes, the uncertainty gone, the training he’d given her that she owned his dick and could lead him around by it shining from them now. “You don’t mean that.”

“You have another man’s ring on your finger,” he reminded her.