CHAPTER TWENTY
Gizmo
Y ou’re an asshole.
A Grade A, certifiable asshole, Giz.
I close my eyes and rest my forehead against the pantry door. I don’t need a fucking therapist to point out what I did.
Pushed to see a reaction.
Pushed to see if she’d leave.
Pushed to see if she’d stay.
Pushed... because that’s all I know how to fucking do when my guard is up.
Did I have every right to have the pictures taken? Hell, yes. It’s my house. It’s my backyard. It’s my fucking privacy.
But not telling her? The waiting to see how she’d react when she found out? The purposeful slip of letting her know I booked that photographer? The absolute dickish reaction just now?
Yeah, that was all asshole shit that I did to test Hendrix.
To see what she’s made of even though it’s probably too late given she’s already married to me.
To see if she’d stay when the going gets rough. Fuck .
I scrub a hand over my face. It’s too goddamn early in this venture to test someone. To push them. To see how hard they’ll push back.
But why? Why do this with a woman I’m not supposed to care about or worry what she thinks? Isn’t that why I chose her in the first place?
The gorgeous wallflower from the coffee shop with bills to pay isn’t supposed to cause any trouble and yet... I kind of want her to.
Fucked up, I know.
Even more fucked up... I like her . Or what I know of her so far. And I want to know her more.
“Fuck,” I mutter.
I head to the fridge to grab a beer.
And then I go to my studio to do the only thing that’s ever quieted the noise in my head.
I go beat the shit out of my drums.