Perfect Together by Kristen Ashley

I nodded to her and looked to Reed and stated, “She slept at his side.”

He winced and whispered, “Sweetheart.”

“He didn’t cheat on me. We were over. But do you get me?” I asked Reed.

He didn’t answer me.

He looked at his wife and his voice was rough when he declared, “If you ever think of leaving me, I’m chaining you to my side.”

Her face got soft, and she touched his chest.

Bernice scooted her stool very close to mine on one side, and Noel did the same on his so I was sandwiched between them.

I reached for a date, but before putting it into my mouth, I said, “We’re not the sort of people who give up on a friend. Maybe Bea’s hurting and all of this has been a cry for help we’ve been avoiding because we didn’t want to confront it. We’ll talk to her. And then what will be, will be.”

“I’m a yea with that,” Kara said.

“Me too,” Bernice said.

“The estrogen barrier is back up on that one,” Reed said.

“Word, my brother,” Noel said.

I popped the date in my mouth and chewed.

I was sure it was delicious.

I didn’t taste a thing.





CHAPTER 8





Now?





Remy





The next night at 5:55, Remy pulled into the driveway of his own house (or he still thought of it that way) not feeling like he had the many other times he’d done it over the last three years.

That being lowkey rage that he’d have to walk up to and hit the doorbell on the door to a home he’d paid the mortgage on for fifteen years.

It was something else that was uglier and harder to take.

He felt miserable.

Not about what was to come.

With that, he had a game plan. Yesterday, he’d instigated it and today he would bring it forward.

No, that miserable feeling was about the fact it was all on him that he had to walk up to that damned door and ring the bell because what was beyond—especially one particular thing that was by far the most important—wasn’t his anymore.

The catering van was at the curb, and he’d come hungry because Lucie had been Wyn’s (more aptly, Noel’s) favorite caterer for four years, so he knew what was in store.

And he ignored the wrench in his gut when he rang the doorbell, including the familiarity of the feel of it, something he’d been able to ignore by covering it with anger about whatever he’d concocted to come get up in Wyn’s shit about.

He still had the key (she’d never asked for it back, he’d never offered). After he’d walked out three years ago, he’d also never used it, even if he’d invented ways to be extremely pissed off at her and had come over to share that.

He loved every being in that home (save Lucie, but he loved her food).

He was still glad it was Wyn who answered the door.

She did it differently, not the way she’d done it since he’d left.

This time, she appeared flustered.

He’d get why when she said to her feet, “For something like this, Remy, please, don’t ring the bell. Just come in.”

Which meant maybe she wasn’t big on him ringing the bell on the door to his own home either.

“Hey, and thanks,” he murmured, moving in.

Her eyes skittered through his and she said, “The kids are in the kitchen.”

He didn’t go into the kitchen. He waited while she closed the door.

Then he told her the truth, but he did it having a purpose.

“You look good.”

Her gaze finally came to his face. “Well…uh,” she tucked hair behind her ear, and Jesus.

Jesus.

He forgot how fucking cute she was when she was uncertain of her footing with a man she was attracted to.

She was the single worst flirt he’d ever encountered.

It was the most effective flirting he’d ever experienced.

“Thanks,” she finished.

“I brought over Dom. Were you intending not to let your underage son drink it at his own truth and bravery celebration?” he teased.

She scrunched her face (fuck, he forgot how much he liked that too) and pushed out, “Don’t be an ass.”

He smiled at her.

She then swanned into the kitchen, and he watched her ass as she did it.

He really wanted to believe her outfit of white, wide-legged, ribbed knit pants with a matching top that had short sleeves and buttoned to a vee-neck (both the pants and the top hugging areas of her body he’d spent years worshiping) was for him. But he knew the last time she’d worn true knockabout clothes was the day they’d painted Sabre’s nursery together in their first house.

Even when the kids were little, she turned herself out, and it was not lost on him the job he left her to at home when he went to work was tough, carried incredible responsibility, as well as a huge workload.

That, he’d figure out later, was never for him.

It was the way she was. It was who she was. And before the term “self-care” became the lingo, it was what she carved time out of her day, every day, to do for herself.

Except for a rough patch that lasted about eight months when Yves was newborn and the other two were under five, Remy was making his name, so he was also working longer hours and things got hectic for her, that had never changed.