Chapter 17 Adrienne
Adrienne
Ikick the door shut with my heel and toss my clutch onto the counter so hard it skids and nearly takes out a candle. Fitting. Everything else tonight went up in flames. Why not add wax and fire to the list?
The echo of the slam still rings through the house. I yank off my earrings one by one, dropping them into the little dish by the sink. Then the shoes. The stupid strappy things that I wore because I knew how they elongated my legs. They hit the tile with a slap.
“Congratulations, Adrienne,” I mutter under my breath. “You win the award for Most Self-Sabotaging Woman in Colorado.”
I walk out to the kitchen and grab the first bottle of wine I see, a bold red from our new Slade Wines division. Bold… exactly what I pretended to be at that bar tonight. The cork pops, a sharp little exhale, and I pour a generous holiday-style pour.
I curl up on the couch, knees tucked under me, wine in hand, trying not to replay the look on his face when I threw those words at him. The hurt. The confusion. The way he opened his mouth like he was about to apologize, and I sliced the moment clean in half just to be a bitch.
Because that’s what I do. I push before I can be pushed. I walk away before someone else gets the chance. I take a long swallow, wincing at the bite. “Toxic,” I say out loud, testing the word in the quiet. “Maybe we’re actually toxic.”
The word lands heavily, but a second later, it gets worse. Maybe it’s me.
It’s not the first time that thought has crawled its way through my head. Scotty even said it, called me out for hiding behind this wall of ambition and fear, for chasing everything except the one thing I actually want because it’s safer that way.
I let out a dry laugh, shaking my head. “Well, congratulations, you stubborn idiot. You proved him right.”
I sink deeper into the couch cushions, the buzz of alcohol barely softening the ache under my ribs.
I keep thinking about the way he looked at me tonight, like he was trying so damn hard not to explode, not to make it worse.
And I made sure he did anyway. Because if he gets angry, then I don’t have to deal with the fact that I hurt him first.
And then, like clockwork, the jealousy monster in my head rears up. Amy. I close my eyes. “God, please tell me he didn’t go home with her.”
The thought twists something ugly in my gut. I scroll through my phone on reflex, desperate for something, anything to ground me, when a second later, like the gods had heard my prayers, Brooklyn texts.
Brooklyn: He left alone. Don’t spiral. Just breathe. He pushes her off him as soon as you leave.
The words stop me cold. My throat tightens, and another message follows.
Brooklyn: I love you, but this back-and-forth with Scotty? It’s not cute anymore. It’s turning toxic. Figure it out or walk away, babe.
I stare at the screen until it blurs. She’s right. Of course, she’s right.
We’ve been dancing around each other for years. And for what? To keep from admitting that maybe we’ve been using the game to hide the truth. That I want him. That I’ve always wanted him. And maybe I’ve been too scared of what that means.
I set the phone down, staring at the dark window reflection of a woman who looks a little too polished to be this broken. “Harvard Law, Slade Industries, Chief Legal Counsel,” I mumble bitterly. “And still terrified of my own fucking feelings.”
The clock ticks toward midnight. The house is quiet enough that I have nothing to distract me from my thoughts, and for once, I let it be. No noise. No deflection. Just the truth simmering in the dark.
I don’t want to give him up. Not yet. Not when I haven’t even given us a fair shot.
Tomorrow, I’m showing up at that garage.
I don’t care if he told me not to. I don’t care if he hides behind those walls of his or pretends like he doesn’t want this as badly as I do.
He’s not throwing us away that easily. We’re finishing that damn car, and we’re finishing whatever the hell this is between us.
I finish the last sip of wine, set the glass down, and whisper into the quiet. “Tomorrow, Bescher, you don’t get to run. Not this time.”
I see his truck before I even pull into the lot. Of course, he’s here, just like I knew he’d be. I park beside it, slam my door shut, and march toward the garage bay like a woman on a mission, which, to be clear, I am.
The doors are locked. I pound on the metal until it rattles, the echo sharp enough to make a few pigeons scatter from the power lines. Nothing. I call his name once, twice, then pull out my phone and try him three times in a row, straight to voicemail.
“Unbelievable,” I mutter, hitting the door again with the side of my fist. “You want to ignore me, fine, but you’re still going to hear me.”
Finally, a rough voice echoes from inside, muffled and miserable. “Jesus, hold on!” There’s a shuffle, then a long, grating squeal as the lock turns. The door cracks open, and sunlight spills over him. He’s Barefoot. Shirt rumpled and half unbuttoned. Eyes squinting hard against the morning sun.
“Well, good morning, sunshine,” I say, biting back a laugh.
He grunts and rubs a hand down his face. “You’re loud as hell for someone who wasn’t invited.”
“You look like you lost a fight with a six-pack.” He blinks at me, unimpressed, so I shove the coffee in his hand. “Drink that before you pass out standing up.”
He takes it wordlessly, downs half in one go, and winces. “Hot.”
“Yeah, it’s coffee.”
He glares over the lid but keeps drinking.
My gaze sweeps over the bay behind him. Empty beer cans litter the floor in lazy clusters. A half-eaten bag of chips sits on the workbench.
“Wow,” I say, stepping past him into the chaos. “Romantic evening?”
He groans, dragging a hand through his hair. “If you came to judge me, get in line. I already did it three times before you showed up.”
“Oh, I’m not judging,” I say, surveying the damage. “I’m evaluating. There’s a difference.”
He gestures vaguely toward the Mustang. “Slept there.”
I blink. “You slept in the car?”
He nods, and I lose it. A laugh bursts out before I can stop it. “You’re kidding.” He just scowls, which only makes me laugh harder. “God, I wish I’d seen that. What did you do, curl up across the seats like a drunken raccoon?”
His eyes narrow. “You done?”
“Not even close.” I cross my arms, fighting the smile tugging at my lips. “You’re ridiculous, Scotty. And hungover. And before you try to talk your way out of this, no, you don’t get a free pass because you had a rough night.”
“I’m not in the mood for a lecture, Adrienne.” His voice is low, rough, maybe even pleading, but I’m too wound up to let him off that easy.
“Good thing I don’t care what mood you’re in,” I snap back. “You’re getting one. Because after last night? You earned it.”
He stares at me for a long second, then sighs, finishing the rest of his coffee in two swallows. “Fine,” he mutters finally. “But let me take a piss first.”
I tilt my head, my smile sweet as poison. “By all means. Wouldn’t want you to be uncomfortable while I tell you what an idiot you’ve been.”
He shakes his head, muttering something and trudges toward the back hallway, bare feet slapping against the concrete.
I fold my arms, tapping my heel against the floor as I look around the mess. For a second, I imagine him here last night, all alone, drunk, stubborn as shit. My smile fades. “Yeah,” I whisper to myself, “we’re gonna fix that too.”
The bathroom door creaks open a few minutes later, and before I can even open my mouth, Scotty steps out barefoot still, jeans slung low on his hips, hair wet from where he splashed his face… and now shirtless.
Of course he is.
I try to keep my expression neutral, but my eyes have zero discipline.
His chest is tanned from a summer of working outside, muscles carved tight from years of that same work, a faint trail of hair leading down past the waistband of his jeans.
There’s a grease smudge on his shoulder blade, and somehow it only makes him hotter.
“Are you serious right now?” I say, aiming for scolding but coming out somewhere between breathless and horny as hell. “You couldn’t put on a shirt before my lecture?”
He grabs a clean rag from the workbench and wipes his hands, smirking faintly. “Didn’t think it’d last long.”
“What, my lecture or your shirt?”
He shrugs, a lazy roll of muscle that should be illegal before ten a.m. “Both.”
I point at him with one manicured finger. “You think this is funny?”
“I think,” he says slowly, closing the distance between us until I can feel the heat radiating off him, “you’ve got a lot to say to a man who’s half-dead from cheap beer and regret, and you’re heaving a helluva time focusing.”
“Oh, don’t you worry. I can multitask.” My voice tightens, but I hold my ground. “You were a jerk last night. And before you start in with your whole quiet-and-brooding routine, you don’t get to blow up, sulk, and then just disappear. You don’t get to make me feel like I’m crazy for caring.”
Something flickers across his face, guilt, maybe, or the beginnings of an apology, but it disappears behind that familiar guarded calm. “You done?” he asks quietly.
“Not even close,” I shoot back. “You were right, okay? About a lot of things. I’ve been scared. I’ve been—” I stop myself, jaw beginning to quiver, but I bite back the emotion. “—using work as an excuse not to deal with my own shit. But that doesn’t make what you said okay.”
He exhales slowly, eyes tracing my face like he’s cataloguing every word. Then, without a single warning, he reaches his arms overhead, stretching.
I go utterly still.
The motion is deliberate. Taunting. Every inch of him flexes, catching the light in ways that should come with a parental advisory label. He knows exactly what he’s doing.
“Really?” I manage, glaring even as my pulse stumbles. “You’re going to go into a stretch routine while I’m trying to have a serious conversation?”