A Beautiful Distraction(37)

Rafe laughed. “Love you, Till.”

“Love you too, Rafael.”

Opening the door, Luca held out his hand to help her in. “And I’m telling all you stubborn men, I have a feeling it’s a girl.”

Marco joined Luca and Rafe next to the car and they all laughed.

“For you, baby, I hope it is a little girl,” Luca said, leaning in and kissing her once on the lips. “The world could use another version of you.”

“Kiss-ass,” Marco jabbed, shoving Luca aside so he could lean in and hug Tilly good-bye as well.

Rafe and Marco watched as they pulled away until the red of their taillights disappeared. “Come on, I’m sure Dad’s got some of that watered-down beer that tastes like piss,” Marco said, walking up the front steps.

Rafe’s phone vibrated in his pocket. Stepping into the house and shutting the door behind him, he reached in and pulled it out. He didn’t recognize the number. The first thought that skirted through his mind was that it might be Fallon. Then the second thought questioned why in the fuck he got excited with the possibility that it could be her.

Probably because the idea of touching that soft body of hers and making her moan into his shoulder again kept replaying in his mind . . .

He pressed the phone to his ear as he walked into the kitchen, where Marco was grabbing a few beers from the fridge. “Hello?”

There was a pause.

His brows furrowed as he sat down at the small round kitchen table. “Hello?” he repeated.

“Rafe?”

The familiar voice rattled in his bones and set his heart in a rhythm that was threatening the strength of his ribs. He felt the table beneath his fingers but was unaware of the intensity of his grip until he lowered his eyes and saw that his knuckles had gone white.

“Rafe,” her soft voice repeated through the phone. “It’s Bridgette.”

Agonizing fire detonated in his chest. More than a year. That’s how long it had been since he’d heard her voice, but he’d never fucking forget it. “I know who this is,” he spat.

Marco’s posture stooped as he rounded the table and focused his concerned eyes on Rafe. He placed a beer down in front of him, then took the opposite seat.

Sliding the ashtray his dad kept on the table next to the window in front of him, Rafe lifted a cigarette between his lips. Reaching in his pocket for his lighter, he asked, “What do you want?” The cigarette dangled from his mouth as he spoke.

“I heard you were back in the States. I thought we could talk.”

He laughed, his anger bubbling into a menacing sound that rolled from his mouth in a cloud of smoke. “Don’t you have a husband you could do that with?”

“Rafe . . .”

“No, Bridgette. You don’t want to talk. You want to fuck with me. You want to slice me open and wedge yourself back in just so you can fuckin’ wring me inside out all over again.”

“Rafe, I’m sorry you’re hurt. I want to see you, plea—”

“Good-bye, Bridgette,” he interrupted, pulling the phone away from his ear. He couldn’t listen to her bullshit. It would be the same load of shit she’d given him time and time again. He’d always crawled back, but not anymore.

“No, Rafe—wait, I’m . . .” he heard her say through the phone seconds before he threw it across the fucking room, taking a nice chunk out of the wall before it landed with a CRACK as it hit the linoleum floor.

She wanted to see him. Of course she fucking did. She wanted to tighten the noose around his neck before she kicked the stool out from under him. Again.

He’d met Bridgette back when he was stationed at Fort Benning in Georgia, long before he moved to Fort Carson. She’d walked into the gym as he was finishing up the last few laps of his run. Rafe usually ran outside on the trails on post, but it was smoldering hot that day—even with the thunderstorm that had crept in. Long story short, they met, she bashfully flirted, and he had her in his bed a few hours later.

Biggest mistake of his fucking life.

She was married.

He was fully aware of how stupid he was. It was wrong. Fucking around with another man’s woman was not something he did. That was a line he didn’t cross. In his family, women were put on a pedestal. Marriage was sacred; it was forever. And you didn’t screw with that.

In his defense, though, he hadn’t known she was married when he first met her. She didn’t lie and tell him she was single, but she didn’t volunteer the information that she had a husband either. The signs were there. Spending all the time at his place, going on dates to her “favorite” restaurants that were out of town. Most of their time spent together had been in his bed, and he couldn’t see straight when she was naked beneath him. She was so damn shy—innocent, almost. Her eyes wielded erogenous powers and she took no prisoners when she let those big browns loose. She was evasive, tricky. And he turned a blind eye, ignored what was in front of him. That was his first mistake right there.