Wife Number Seven (The Compound, #1)(22)

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. I visited this town often enough to know when I was being mocked.

“Can we help you?” she asked.

“Porter Hammond, please.” I crossed my arms in front of my chest, a stance I wasn’t used to. I’d never been encouraged to be strong. Not once, not ever. But somehow I had it in me and I was ready to fight.

“Whatever you say,” she said, laughing. “Porter, it’s for you.”

He groaned from the other room, and I could hear a rustling sound. When he rounded the corner and came into view, our eyes locked and his expression softened.

“Hey,” he said, narrowing his eyes, taking in my aggressive stance. “Never thought I’d see you again.”

“That’s not what my cousin said,” I snapped back.

“Who is that?” the girl asked. She hooked her hands on her hips, dividing her glare between Porter and me.

“A friend.” Porter glared right back at her. “Don’t worry about it.”

She turned and narrowed her eyes at me, her upper lip curling as she spoke. “Seriously, who the hell is she?”

“She’s no one, all right?” When the girl still didn’t budge, he rolled his eyes. “Just go home. We’re done here.”

For a second or two, she glanced back at Porter with pain in her eyes, her lips pressed in a straight line.

“Whatever.” She shook her head, grabbed her purse, and brushed past me hard, knocking me into the wall.

“Hey, watch it,” Porter yelled at her.

“Again . . . whatever, *,” she yelled as she clomped down the staircase.

Porter closed his eyes and shook his head, then turned his attention back to me.

“Who’s your cousin?” he asked with a smirk. He knew exactly who I was talking about, which made me even angrier at him.

“Tiffany. She works at the clinic. Why did you bother her?”

“Bother her?” He enunciated each syllable, condescension hanging in his gravelly voice. “Um, she works there, Brinley. She was doing her job.”

“Telling you when I’ll be at the clinic is not her job.”

“All right, so what?”

“So, I—she— Now she’s not talking to me, and it’s all your fault.” My foot hit the tile as I stomped with anger.

Porter chuckled. He actually chuckled at me.

Never had anyone ever infuriated me this much—not Leandra, Aspen, or even Lehi. Porter Hammond was making me so angry I thought I might cry, or hit something, or both.

“Something to drink?” he asked, walking into the kitchen and pulling open his refrigerator, its door covered in magnets and smeared food.

Gross.

His casual attitude fueled my anger even more, and I said through gritted teeth, “No, thank you.”

He shook his head, laughing again under his breath. “Even when you’re pissed, you’re still polite. How nice.”

He placed two bottles of water on the counter, then opened one and took a large sip, gesturing for me to take the other.

“I already said no.”

“Fine, whatever,” he said, grabbing the other bottle. “Wanna sit?”

I froze, not knowing what to do. Porter invited me into his apartment, and I hadn’t expected that. I thought I would release my anger while standing in his doorway and return home, but once I heard those words, I couldn’t decline. I was drawn to him and didn’t want to say no.

I glanced around, looking for other people in the apartment.

Porter noticed my discomfort and said, “It’s just us. Amy’s not coming back.” He walked over and sat on a couch covered in blankets.

“Amy?”

“The uh—the girl you met a few minutes ago.”

“Is she your wife?”

He exploded in laughter, tilting his head back as his hands dug into his knees. When his eyes met mine again, he took in my furious expression and became more serious.

“It’s not like that out here, Brin. People don’t just get married, ya know? You date, you sleep around, you meet people. I’m only twenty-six. I have plenty of time for that bullshit.”

The idea of Porter laying with Amy or any other woman made my skin itch. Although I was certain he was far from a virgin, I didn’t want to think about it. I didn’t want to know.

“Please don’t call me that,” I said, sitting opposite him in a chair that smelled like dirty laundry.

“What, Brin?”

I nodded.

“Oh, sorry. Brinley just seems . . . young for you.” He snickered, taking another swig of his water.

We sat in silence for several seconds. I smoothed the cotton of my pastel green dress, trying to ignore my leg as it bobbed up and down under my dress, something I always did when my nerves took over.

“So, Brinley, what brings you here? I mean, to what do I owe the honor of your presence?” He leaned his arms on his thighs, linking his hands together at his fingertips.

“I j-just saw Tiffany,” I stammered, “and I . . . I—”

“You’re cute when you stutter.”

I hadn’t stuttered since I was a young child. Anxiety rose in my chest. I had to go. I had to leave, to escape the confines of his apartment before a panic attack consumed me and I was unable to function. I rose to my feet and rushed toward the door.