Blame it on the Champagne (Blame it on the Alcohol #1) - Fiona Cole Page 0,112

to shove as far away as I could or fighting off this need to go to him every second of the day.

“Did you message him back?”

“No.” Nico’s message came right before I fell asleep, and it had followed me into my dreams, reminding me of each precious moment of our honeymoon. The fear that they’d all been set up and fake held me back from going to him. “What would I say?”

“That you miss him?”

I scoffed. “What? Are you actually wanting me to talk to him?”

“Listen, I may not want a relationship for myself, but I can see you’re hurting, and I hate it.”

“I hate it too, but it doesn’t change what he did.”

“Do you know why he did it? Have you talked to him?”

“No,” I answered, pouting because I knew I was being a coward.

“You know I will make that man’s balls into my own personal earrings for you, but Verana, maybe you should at least talk to him.”

“Maybe he should have tried,” I snapped.

“He’s a man. He will forever be waiting for you to tell him what to do, standing around with his dick in his hand until then, looking like a damn fool.”

I choked on my bite of ice cream, laughing at her description, but quickly sobered. “It’s too late. I’ve already filed.”

“So? Call him and tell him you want to talk first? Marry him again if you want to. Or just be together. Marriage is such a noose anyway. Just because you love someone doesn’t mean you have to get all dolled up and get the government involved.”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, thankfully, I do.”

I dropped my head back to the couch with a groan, not convinced.

Both of us jumped, letting out the girliest shrieks when a hard knock shook the front door.

Another loud knock made Raelynn jump up, facing the door like a prized fighter. “What the hell are you doing?” I whispered.

“I don’t know. They sound pretty serious about getting through the door, and this place isn’t big enough to hide for long, so I figure I’ll at least look intimidating.”

I blinked slowly, my eyebrows lifting with doubt as I looked her up and down in her red stilettos, ripped jeans, and cropped sweater.

“Oh, shut up,” she scolded quietly. “It’s better than sitting there. What are you going to do? Throw your spoon at them?”

“Maybe.”

Another pounding knock.

“Maybe it’s Nova again,” I suggested hopefully.

Raelynn gave serious side-eye and crept closer to the door. Just as she was about to look out the peephole, a deep voice replaced the knocking.

“Verana, I know you’re in there.”

Our heads whipped to each other, and I knew my eyes were just as wide as hers.

“What the fuck?” she mouthed, hands out for support.

I just shook my head. To what? I didn’t know.

To not knowing what to do.

To not wanting to let him in.

To not wanting to turn him away.

To shake loose the rambling orchestra of chaotic thoughts fighting for dominance in my head.

“Please.” He sounded like the Beast from Beauty and the Beast. Barely restrained anger and unused to the word—but trying because he cared.

No. Nicholas Knightly Rush didn’t care about anyone but himself. It’d been a week and not a word beyond a request to talk until I finally made a decision.

“I’m letting him in,” she mouthed, looking like a bull ready for a fight.

I looked frantically around, maybe hoping for a hole to open up in the floor I could dive away into, never facing him again.

My chest curled in on itself, squeezing too tight. My muscles seized in a battle to stand and face him or bolt the other way. Was there a fire escape here?

But before I could make my decision, the door was open, and my husband’s dark, commanding presence, that had caught my eye from across a crowded restaurant and even from behind a mask, swallowed the room whole—sucking every bit of oxygen into himself.

I jerked to my feet and had to clench my hands at my sides to hide their trembling.

He scanned the room until he landed on me, his eyes darkening like the blackest obsidian. His scruff had grown to a full beard, but still, his lips were too full to be hidden, and I was able to watch the way they curled up like a feral growl.

In my best imaginations, he begged and pleaded, told me he loved me, and he’d made a mistake. When I forced myself to face reality, I imagined indifference and maybe—maybe—a hint of regret. But never had I