Burn For You

21

“Fine,” I growled into my bowl of delicious pasta. Then, because my d**k was throbbing and she was leaving when I wanted her to stay and I f*****g hate feeling confused and I’m s**t with good-byes, I snapped, “Rayford will give you the check for your fee on your way out.”

Even with a solid slab of marble separating us, I felt Bianca’s anger flare at the sharp, dismissive tone I’d used. I glanced up to find her staring at me with fire burning in those beautiful, dark eyes.

“It’s always a pleasure, Mr. Boudreaux,” she said with quiet sarcasm.

And we’re back to Mr. Boudreaux. f**k.

She exchanged good-byes with Charlie and then turned and walked out.

I swear I tried not to stare at her ass as she went, but even Achilles had a weakness.

TEN

BIANCA

The first thing I did after Rayford dropped me off at the restaurant was hustle over to the bank to deposit Jackson’s check into my mama’s account. We’d scheduled her initial round of chemo for a few days away, and I didn’t want to take any chances that Jackson, in one of his inexplicable beastie moods, would put a stop payment on the check.

With that done, I felt better.

Until I ran smack into my ex in the bank’s parking lot. Literally into him.

The noise I made when I collided with his chest was something so unladylike my mama would’ve pitched a hissy fit if she’d heard it. It was part grunt, part groan, and part something that sounded like it shot out of my butthole on a hot burst of air, excuse my French. Hands flailing, I dropped my pocketbook on the ground and stumbled back in surprise.

“Whoa!” A pair of strong hands gripped my upper arms to steady me. “Easy, girl. I know I’m handsome as sin, but there’s no need to throw yourself at me.”

I looked up—and there he was. The Devil himself. Beautiful as a sculpture and just as soulless.

“Don’t flatter yourself.” I shrugged off Trace’s hands. “I just wasn’t watching where I was going.”

Looking me up and down, Trace smiled.

Let me put that in perspective.

Trace looks like Denzel Washington, Dwayne Johnson, Jason Momoa, and a hot Tahitian swimsuit model had a wild orgy and nine months later he popped out, with equal parts of all their perfect genes. When he smiles at you, it feels like the clouds suddenly opened up on a rainy day and a sunbeam illuminated your head in a brilliant, heavenly glow.

You feel special. You feel like a special little snowflake twinkling in the sun, until you realize he smiles that way at every single woman he comes into contact with, and then you just feel like a dope.

He said, “Where you going in such a hurry, bumble bee?”

Hearing him call me by my old nickname made me grind my back teeth together. “Away from you,” I said, and picked up my purse. When I straightened and moved to go around him, Trace stepped in my way.

“Wait,” he said, suddenly serious. “I want to talk to you.”

“No.” I tried to move past him again, but he didn’t let me.

“Bianca, please,” he said in a low, pleading tone I’d never heard. “I really want to talk to you.”

I looked him right in his eyes. In his gorgeous, caramel-flecked-with-gold eyes that used to be able to coerce me into anything. Not anymore.

I said, “I know you’re not really clear on this, Trace, so let me break it down for you. When a woman says no, she doesn’t mean yes. She doesn’t mean maybe. She doesn’t mean please try to talk me out of it because I really don’t mean it, but I just want you to work a little harder. She means no. N. O. Now get out of my way.”

“But you never gave me a chance to explain—”

“Explain! ” Astonished by his nerve, I laughed. “Explain what? That you tripped and fell and your p***s accidentally landed inside my best friend? And the checkout girl at Halley’s Market? And the waitress at Dooley’s? And whoever the bimbo was who kept texting you for a booty call at two a.m.? That’s a lot of tripping, Romeo. You need to see a doctor for your balance problem.”

At least he had the sense to look ashamed of himself. “I know I was an i***t, but I swear I’ve changed.”

My brows lifted. “Really? Got a brain transplant, did you?”

Very solemnly, Trace said. “No. I found God.”

After a beat of shocked silence, I threw my head back and laughed. “Well good for you! Hallelujah! Now get your slutty butt out of my face before I lose my temper and send you off to meet Him!”

I had to give him credit. The old Trace would’ve been pissed about that remark. Probably would’ve made a rude comment about my butt, which he used to tell me could be “fixed” by a visit to a lipo doctor. But this Trace—whoever he was—only looked sad.

“It’s been two years, Bianca. I swear, I’m a different man. Please, I just want to talk to you.”

I folded my arms across my chest. “I get it. This is like a thirteen-step program, right? You have to apologize to me or else you won’t get past the pearly gates?”

He winced. “I think you mean twelve step. And no, that’s not it. I just . . . You cut me off and never took any of my calls again—”

“I’d rather talk to a bill collector,” I interrupted angrily. “At least I know it’d be an honest conversation.”