“What? No way. I want details. I need to know when you found out he was married, who he married. Why hasn’t he tried to contact you for five years? I want answers, dammit!”
“Matt? What is this?” I asked, holding what appeared to be a wedding ring between my index finger and my thumb. But that was impossible. Matt couldn’t be married. I looked at the ring then his face.
He tensed, a muscle ticked in his lower jaw, and his eyes hardened. “Where did you find that?”
I took a step towards him. “In the bathroom. Is it yours?”
One nod of his head, that’s all he gave me.
“You’re married?”
“Does any of it really matter, Paige? He’s married. Maybe now I can finally move on.” I close my eyes and take a deep breath, wishing that was as easy as it sounded. “Come over later for dinner, and I’ll give you all the details.”
Without giving her a chance to respond, I hang up.
The Spanish-style building houses two units, mine, and the one to my right. That one’s been vacant for months, and if the monster truck now parked down below is any indication, it has just been rented to a meat-head, another asshole to add to society—just what I need. I hope he’s not expecting a welcome to the neighborhood apple pie. The fact that he’s male instantly makes me hate him, and I sneer as I look down one more time at the huge black truck.
The past twelve hours have changed my entire attitude about life. I deal with assholes on a daily basis. Cheating spouses, men crying poor so they don’t have to pay child support, women crying the victim when I know they probably haven’t put out for their husband in years. It’s my job to settle them down, to deliver the best deal possible for the party who’s hired me, whether I think they deserve it or not. But I’ve always sold myself short. I settle when I know I deserve so much more. Well, not anymore. From here forward I’m going to be like the contestants from American Ninja Warrior—badass, unstoppable, and you better not mess with me because I’m not taking anyone’s shit.
Bursting through my apartment door, I begin to shed last night’s clothes, balling them up and dumping the entire ensemble in the garbage. I slide into a pair of running shorts, tank, and tennis shoes deciding I need to sweat out all the disgusting coursing through my veins. Feeling slightly worked, this is going to be painful, but I can’t sit home and wallow in self-pity the rest of the day either. I’ve wasted enough of my life on Matt Bryson.
A loud crash echoes through the wall from next door, and I bare my teeth as I race down the stairs and onto the sidewalk. Silencing the rest of the world with my ear buds, I press play on my iPod, and Bastille’s “Flaws” blasts in my ears. Thankful for the distraction, I begin to run.
My pace starts out normal, my feet pound the pavement, and the smell of the ocean gets more pronounced the closer I get. Santa Barbara, one of the most beautiful seaside towns in existence, is just waking up. Most people spend their lives hoping to retire in a city exactly like this. I’ve spent my entire life trying to get out of it.
No one can deny the beauty of this city. The sun is always shining, surfers are on constant display, palm trees line the streets, and it’s like a perfect and peaceful paradise. It’s always been my home, but when all you see are memories you wish you could forget, and the thought of how your life should be plagues your mind every day, the beauty begins to fade. Fate just had to step in and change all of my meticulously thought out plans.
Matt had proposed right before he took off to conquer the world. Promising to return, promising this wasn’t goodbye, but a chance for him to prove to me and everyone else that he’d be the best husband ever. But his calls were infrequent, his visits non-existent.
If my dad hadn’t become so sick, I would have left, as well. But leaving my father to fend for himself was not an option. Too caught up in the craziness that was my life, it took me years to get over the shock of Matt’s absence. Only recently moving forward, but now . . . crap, now I’m right back where I was five years ago.
Running harder, faster, trying to outrun the memory of his touch, I’m taken completely off guard when my foot suddenly catches on something and I fall.
My hands slam down in front of me, my face hitting the pavement, and my body completely hugging the concrete. My ear buds fly loose and fall to the ground with Hozier’s “Take Me to Church” blasting around me.
I’m disoriented and have no idea how I went from an upright position to splayed out on the sidewalk. The loud music adds to my confusion, and I realize the plug has dislodged from my iPod. I quickly turn it off and inwardly groan at how crappy this weekend ended up.
Lifting my head, I look around in total embarrassment.
As I gaze directly in front of me, my eyes land on a pair of legs—masculine legs, strong, tan and inches from my face. I slowly drift my eyes up those legs, past the knees and to the bottom of a pair of black nylon running shorts. A white T-shirt hangs out of the back of his shorts, and my eyes continue their upward appraisal, landing on a dark happy trail . . . six pack . . . eight pack. My mouth falls open at the count . . . a glistening sheen of sweat covers his broad chest . . . a slight smattering of hair, a throat, and an Adam’s apple—scruff, there is scruff.
I have to stop. If I look any higher, I’ll get a kink in my neck.
Placing my hands on the ground, the rough feel of the sidewalk digging into my palms, I push back onto my knees. The sun is shining behind this person’s head making it hard to see his face. He looks like he has a halo of sunrays that stretch out and around behind him. I blink, wondering if I just died in my fall and this is heaven, because this man sure looks like he was sent here to save me.
He kneels down in front of me, pulling his own ear buds out of each ear. “Are you okay?”
Getting a better look at the celestial creature, I notice something familiar about his dark eyes and pink, full lips.
“I think so. Not sure what happened.” Unconsciously, my lips begin to curl at the ends. This guy is a total stud, and I’m having a hard time taking my eyes off him, forgetting for a moment I’m boycotting the male race.
He helps me to my feet, his large strong hands tucking under my elbows as he lifts me. His fingers stay on my arms a beat longer than necessary, a playful grin gracing his full lips. “You tripped on that tree root. Happens all the time.”
Stop with the sexy grin!
I turn to look at the very large tree root protruding from the ground causing the sidewalk to look lopsided. “Really?”
He laughs. “I have no idea, but I thought it would make you feel better.”
I scowl, because A—he’s a man and has a penis, which I’m disgusted with right now, and B—he’s trying to be nice, and I’m not in the mood for nice.
His eyes widen at my expression, and he takes a step back.
Now on level footing, I get a good look at his face, and my stomach tingles. Butterflies flap their damn wings all over the place. His strong jaw and dark brown eyes make him almost fictional, someone you hear about, see on television but doesn’t really exist. Those full lips tilted in a lopsided grin make him adorably boyish, and his dark brown hair, short but slightly messy on top, combined with his olive skin, makes him temptingly sexy.
His chest is glistening with sweat, and he has a towel wrapped around his shoulders and an iPod Velcro-ed to his arm. A slight breeze picks up, and the scent of a man surrounds me. Not a gross sweaty man, but a masculine scent that settles deep in my gut and sends a warm feeling swimming through my veins.
He lifts his hand to my cheek. “You scratched your face.”
I step away from his touch and reach a hand to where he just pointed. “I did?” I ask, my fingers brushing against his for a split second. Now that he’s mentioned it, my skin begins to sting a little.