Charity Case - The Complete Series - Piper Rayne Page 0,126

plans.

I drop the phone, my hands rising in the air like I’m asking for Jesus Christ to save me. This guy never changes. Picking up the phone off my coffee table, my thumbs press hard on my screen.

Me: Of course you do. Name it hotshot.

A knock hits my door and I look around like there’s someone else who will share my bewildered expression.

Oh no.

That son of a bitch.

I stomp to the door, rising on my tiptoes to look through the peephole. Already hearing me, he lifts a box of donuts, a gallon of chocolate milk, and a bag of McDonald’s.

“Breakfast,” he says casually as if I should expect my ex-husband at my door when I never gave him my address.

“Why are you here?”

“You agreed to breakfast.”

“Dean.” I shake my head, my body wanting to disobey my brain’s strict instructions.

“Come on Chels. You’re awake, I’m awake, let’s talk face-to-face.”

“I told you tomorrow at eight.”

I hear a noise, so I glance out the peephole again, and all I can see are his long legs. His feet tucked into a pair of slider sandals. Same Dean.

“What are you doing?”

“Just getting comfy. The floor could have more cushion, but I’ll manage. I wouldn’t object to a pillow though.”

I fall back down to the heels of my feet. My hand on the doorknob, my teeth biting my lip.

“Do you really think I should let you in?”

He chuckles. “In my opinion, yes, but I get your hesitation. I’ll be here at eight.”

I slide down the opposite side of the door and I’d swear the smell of him permeates through the small sliver of space at the bottom. Like he’s freshly showered.

“Dean?”

“Yeah.” His voice is nearer than I expected, as though he’s right next to me.

“Is this all a coincidence?”

“What?” There’s shuffling on the other side of the door.

“You being the tax attorney for RISE?”

Silence grows between us and as if that wasn’t already my answer, he eventually talks.

“Chels,” he sighs.

“I take that as a no.”

“Just listen.”

“Why?” My voice is curt. How could he purposely seek me out just to hurt me all over again?

“Just relax.”

“Explain, Dean,” I bark out.

“Stop talking and I will.”

I thump the back of my head lightly against the door. “You sure are taking your sweet time.”

“You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.”

There’s silence between us again and it takes me a minute to gather my thoughts after that declaration.

“If I was, you wouldn’t have done what you did,” I say.

“I was a dick.” His playful tone has disappeared.

“Yeah, you were.”

“Let me apologize face-to-face.” His large hand lands on the door and it jiggles against the lock.

“I’m not sure I can handle that,” I say honestly.

He chuckles. “Just some donuts and a conversation. That’s all I want.”

I pull my knees up to my chest, my mind a jumbled mess. Like a word search puzzle and I’m struggling to find the right words on a sheet full of letters.

“Fifteen minutes,” I finally say.

There’s movement on the other side and I expect he’s on his feet.

“Do I get brownie points if I’m under?”

I inhale the deepest breath I have since the moment I stared at him on our wedded bed five years prior. My shaking hands slide the lock and I open the door to a smiling Dean.

Bad idea.

Such a fucking bad idea, Chels.

You’d expect someone begging for forgiveness to walk into my apartment, dragging his feet and with his head down. Not Dean. His back is straight, and a smile plays on his lips.

“Nice place.” His eyes scour my apartment.

“You mean your search didn’t come with pictures?” I shut the door and flick the lock. I live in a safe apartment complex, but I don’t want any drunken guys or girls getting confused about where they live.

“Just an address.”

“And a phone number.”

His smirk grows wider and he shrugs. “Yeah, and a phone number.”

“Great to know that anyone can find out anything about me.”

“If only we could figure out how to report feelings and moods with an internet search. We’d be filthy rich.” He smiles, signaling to the couch.

I nod.

His large frame sits, placing the donuts, milk, and McDonald’s on the coffee table in front of him. He doesn’t lean back into the sofa but sits on the edge, his hands clasped together between his muscular thighs hidden under a pair of gray sweatpants. I’d forgotten how good he looks when he’s dressed comfortably like this.

“Do you want me to fall to my knees?” he asks.

“If you’re going to continue making jokes, you