And I was going to let him.
In fact, I kind of wished he would hurry up already.
Just as his lips descended upon mine, the doorbell rang. I jerked back like I got my hand caught in the forbidden cookie jar. His shoulders slumped and he sighed. “Don’t go anywhere,” he told me, and then he muttered the entire way to the door about bad timing.
It was kind of endearing.
He pulled open the door and I swear all the heat in the room was instantly sucked out to be replaced by an arctic wind.
“I’m busy,” Holt said in a cold tone that I never heard from him before and moved to shut the door on whomever was outside.
“Ha-ha, very funny.” A feminine voice came from the other side. “We both know you aren’t busy,” she said, pushing past him and stepping into the house.
Of course she was stunning. She had ultra-blond hair cut in a shoulder-skimming sleek bob, with not an ounce of frizz in sight. Her make-up was applied impeccably over skin that appeared to never see the harsh southern sun. She was tall and willowy, her movements graceful, and she was wearing short white tennis shorts and a hot-pink fitted polo with a pair of strappy sandals.
Compared to her, I looked like a troll. A short, frizzy troll full of bruises and bandages.
Her gaze landed on me instantly. I stood. “Hi—” I started, but she narrowed her eyes.
“Who the hell are you?”
Oh, I knew her kind. The kind of girl that thought she was queen bee of everything. Even if you were intimidated, you couldn’t show it because once someone like her smelled fear, it would all be over.
I lifted my chin. “Who the hell are you?” I countered.
Holt grinned and gave me a wink from over her shoulder. Then in a no-nonsense tone, he said, “This isn’t a good time, Taylor.”
Taylor was busy taking in an eyeful of my attire—or lack thereof. Her eyes met mine and a spiteful glint came into them. She sauntered across the carpet to stand in front of me, peering down her nose at me (I wasn’t about to lift my head and look up to her), and she offered a perfectly manicured hand. “I’m Taylor. Holt’s wife.”
Shock rippled through my entire body, and it was all I could do to not let my mouth drop open. I looked at Holt, who looked like he swallowed an entire bag of lemons, and said, “You’re married?”
He opened his mouth to reply when my attention was drawn away. “Go put on some clothes. I don’t fancy seeing you dressed in my husband’s shirt.”
Oh. My. God.
I was going to die of shame.
I rushed out of the room, toward the bedroom where I hurried to find my jeans and shirt. It hurt to pull on the clothes, but I barely noticed. My mind was too busy swimming with thoughts.
How could I be so stupid? What kind of guy brings home other women and lets them sleep in their clothes when they have a wife? I was going to let him kiss me!
This was exactly why I never bothered to get close to people. This was exactly why I preferred taking care of myself.
Once my clothes were on, I rushed from the room—not even paying attention to the raised voices—grabbed my pathetic plastic sack, and then ran out onto the porch.
The door didn’t even close behind me before Holt was calling for me to stop.
I did, but only because he was my ride.
“I need my car,” I told him, not bothering to turn around.
I felt him behind me. His closeness had my body tingling, and I pushed it away, trying to ignore the feeling. He stepped around me, stopping so close my toes almost touched his.
“She’s not my wife,” he said, his voice for my ears only.
“So she’s delusional?”
“No, she’s just a bitch.”
That had my head snapping up to see him. He grinned ruefully and shrugged.
I didn’t say anything. I just waited for whatever else he wanted to say so we could go.
He sighed. “She’s my ex-wife. Emphasis on the ex.”
“You were married to that?” I asked skeptically.
“Unfortunately. We were high school sweethearts. She grew out of being a sweetheart.”
I snorted.
“How long ago did you get divorced?”
He hesitated, which made me think I probably wasn’t going to like his answer. “It was final six months ago.”
That explained the new house and lack of furnishings.
“But we’ve been separated for over a year,” he quickly added.
“What’s she doing here?” I asked, looking back to the porch where she was watching us.
“She likes to show up from time to time and make me miserable.”