Love Her or Lose Her (Hot & Hammered #2) - Tessa Bailey Page 0,8
in his chest abated. If anything, it grew worse.
The sound of his breathing rasped in his ears as he picked up the heavy tool again, raised it over his head, and destroyed another section of the wall. In his mind, he could see Rosie packing her suitcase on their marriage bed. Her words that had split him wide open, sure as he was splitting open the wall.
I don’t love you anymore.
His next assault on the wall absorbed the humiliating sound that left his mouth. Men didn’t lose their heads like this. Or break down in front of other people. They were supposed to be rocks. Constants in the lives of those around them, never wavering. But he couldn’t stop lifting the sledgehammer and driving it full force into the wall.
Finally, he had to quit thanks to his screaming muscles and the two sets of hands that ripped the tool away. Dominic tried to get it back, but the whiskey he’d ingested the night before chose that moment to rise up and set his throat on fire. He barely made it outside before throwing up his breakfast in the grass behind the house.
Dominic’s legs wanted to give out. He needed to sit down. But he’d already shown too much of his hand with everyone watching. No, he’d stand, thank you very much. He’d given in to the pain enough for today. Hell, enough for a year.
As the rush of sound in his ears started to fade, Dominic heard himself laboring to breathe. Heard the passing traffic in the distance, the shift of the yellowing lawn around him. He wasn’t alone.
“You’re welcome,” Dominic said, keeping his back turned to Stephen and Travis. “Saved you some work.”
“Well, hold off next time, man. We like breaking shit, too,” Travis returned. A few moments ticked by. “Look, I was, uh . . . trying to make light of the situation earlier. Knowing you, I thought you’d appreciate me forgoing the one-armed, back-slapping man hug and an off-key rendition of ‘Kumbaya.’”
Dominic cleared his throat. “Yeah, I’d rather die.”
“But it has recently come to our attention . . .” Stephen said drily, “that you might actually need to talk.”
“Nope.”
“You sure?” Dominic glanced over at Travis, who toggled his eyebrows. “I’m willing to break my fiancé-fiancée confidentiality just this once.” A shadow crossed his face. “When Georgie broke up with me, I would have sawed off my fucking leg to find out what she ate for dinner. Or what she wore to bed—”
“We get it,” Stephen said, exasperated.
Travis held up both hands. “All I’m saying is . . . I have the goods.”
Dominic ground his jaw together to keep from asking for information. Was Rosie upset? Did she give a shit at all? Was she still wearing those goddamn high heels that gave her blisters and made her hobble around the house at night? How many times had he hidden them in the back of her closet, hoping she’d put on the flat slipper-looking shoes instead?
Was she eating dinner at a normal hour?
Her boss at the department store used to let Rosie work straight through her legally required break, until Dominic had sent an email to the owner of the department store, not so subtly suggesting they review their employees’ right to meal breaks.
The urge to pump Travis for the smallest, most trivial thing was so intense, Dominic had to bite down on his tongue. He was used to laying concrete over his impulses, but this was a test he couldn’t pass. The woman he was supposed to care for forever was gone, she didn’t love him anymore, and she’d felt something when another man showed interest. It might have been sheer feminine enjoyment, but he hated it with every fiber of his being. What if next time, the man asked her out on a date? Would she say yes even though they were still married?
No.
No, Rosie would never do that.
The fact that she might want to say yes, however, was enough to strangle him.
“Is she, um . . .” Dominic crossed his arms in a jerky movement. “She never warms her car up in the wintertime. She just gets in and drives. Someone has to wake up early and do it or it’ll ruin the transmission and she . . .” He shrugged. “She loves that stupid car, so . . .”
Stephen stroked a hand down his beard, even though he didn’t have a beard. “My wife makes me do this, too. Get the heater running.”