“I should probably go. Your wife . . .”
I cock my head to the side, waiting for her to finish that sentence. When she doesn’t, I say, “Scarlett might not like you being here, but since she’s currently living with Grant Holland, she doesn’t have much room to talk.”
Shay grimaces and looks away.
“You already knew.”
She shrugs. “I try not to pay attention to celebrity gossip. I don’t believe most of what they say.”
And rightly so. I’ve had some un-fucking-believable shit written about me since entering the league. But the recent round of media attention regarding Scarlett is at least partially true. Partially because there’s all sorts of speculation about our recent separation, and most of it involves me being cold, unfaithful, an ass, or all of the above. Nobody’s come close to the truth—that I married her because she was pregnant with my daughter and we were never really in love. Or that it gets lonely being married to someone who doesn’t love you—a feeling I’m as familiar with as Scarlett is.
“We’re separated.” I shrug as if it’s nothing. As if I didn’t spend years sacrificing everything to try to give my daughter the family I wanted for her, only to see it fall apart anyway.
“I’m sorry, Easton.” She swallows. “How’s your daughter? Abigail, right?”
I nod. “She’s amazing. Talks up a storm, sings all the time. But she’s going through this fussy phase where she never wants to eat, and I think she’s losing weight.” I shake my head. Abi has a doctor’s appointment on Tuesday. “I’m sure everything’s okay. She’s stubborn, and when she doesn’t want to eat, she doesn’t want to eat, but the protective father in me needs a doctor to tell me that.”
“That makes sense.” She shifts from one foot to the other. “I bet you’re an amazing dad.”
“I try. Most of it I’ve just had to figure out as I go.”
“As a girl who was raised by an amazing dad, I have to say it’s everything.” More tears spill down her cheeks, and I’m being torn apart.
I don’t know when I cupped her face in my hand, but I watch my thumb clear away a streak of tears. She came to me. “I’m glad you’re here.” My chest feels too tight. Fuck, I’ve missed her so much. “I’m so sorry about how I handled the pregnancy. I was trying to help Scarlett stay sober and generally freaking out about becoming a father. And—”
She presses a thumb to my lips. “Not tonight, okay? I don’t want to talk about that tonight.”
Right. She has enough to process.
I nod, but she doesn’t move her thumb. Instead, she presses down until the tip is in my mouth, almost between my teeth. I touch it with my tongue, and her eyes darken. I want more than this tiny taste, more than I can have. I don’t know how long we stand like that—her thumb between my teeth, her face in my hands, our bodies so close that I can smell her lemon-and-lavender soap.
I’m not sure I take a single breath until she steps back and my hands drop helplessly to my sides. She drags her bottom lip between her teeth and holds my gaze as she unbuttons her shirt and lets it drop from her shoulders, and my situation with the oxygen shortage doesn’t improve a bit.
My mouth goes dry at the sight of her smooth ivory skin, her breasts cupped in the simple white cotton of her bra. I follow her hands, watching as they unbutton her jeans and push them down her hips.
I’ve fucked up so many times where Shay is concerned, and tonight she came to me upset, grieving. Maybe the right thing to do is to tell her to keep her clothes on. Maybe letting her strip makes my sins cross over into unforgiveable. But I’m willing to accept every label, every hit to my character and blow to my ego if it means I get to touch her.
She steps out of her jeans, and I can’t take my eyes off her. I love that her bra is simple, nearly virginal, love that her panties aren’t a match but a bright pink. They’re cut to sit high on her hips and barely cover her ass. I love how easy it is—how uncalculated. She didn’t put on her sexiest panty set and come here to seduce me. She’s just wearing whatever she’s wearing. But who am I kidding? She could be wearing fucking pantaloons and a chastity belt under her clothes, and I’m sure I’d still be hard as a rock watching her strip for me.
I can’t help but notice the changes, though. I memorized her with eyes, hands, and mouth in Paris, and I know every inch of her. She’s lost weight. Too much. I want to ask if she’s okay, if she’s been sick—Carter hasn’t said anything, but damn, she’s so frail—but I don’t. She’s always been so self-conscious about her appearance, and I don’t want her thinking she’s not beautiful when she takes my breath at any size.