“I’m not the enemy.” Jake walks around the truck and grabs his wallet from the bag behind the seat. He retrieves some cash from it.

I shake my head. “I don’t want your money.”

He tries to shove it toward me. “You’re not going to get very far without it.”

I stare at it. “Please,” I whisper.

“Please what?” He exhales a sharp breath.

I look up, feeling on the verge of either laughing hysterically or crying. “Please get in the truck, Avery,” I say, settling on a simple, defeated shrug. “That’s it. One tiny word.” Turning, I toss his phone on the driver’s seat and grab my clothes from the bag I unzipped a few minutes ago. After slipping on a sundress, I worm my way out of my impossibly tight and wet sports bra and bottoms, then I slip on my panties.

Before I can turn back toward him, his hands slide around my waist, hugging my back to his chest as his lips brush along my ear. “Please forgive me.”

Blinking back the pain, I drag in a shaky breath. “Francine … I remind you of her. That’s why you hate me.”

“You’re not her.”

I turn in his arms, leaning back to get a clear look at his face. “No. I’m not. But do you really believe that, or do you have to talk yourself into seeing past the part of me that is like her?”

His gaze falls to the small space between us.

Sometimes silence feels like the coward’s truth.

“It’s fine, Jake. You fucked me good today. Hope that helped you work out some of your issues. I know I figured some shit out today. My days of trusting men are over. At least my fancy bags and expensive shoes make me look good. Men are so much worse than anything materialistic. You say the right things for the wrong reasons. You lie to get what you want. You make me look bad. You make me feel bad. There’s nothing wrong with my taste in fashion. It’s my taste in men that’s fucked-up.” I push his hands off my waist and climb into the truck.

Swarley rests his snout on the console like he’s trying to show me some sympathy. How ironic that my K9 nemesis has become my source of comfort. I run my hand over his head, and he sighs.

I don’t care that Jake’s still standing at my open door. There’s no way I’m looking at him. After a few moments, he shuts the door.

Anthony and I were together so much longer than I’ve known Jake. We discussed marriage. He said he loved me. Yet, this hurts more than the chocolate incident because I allowed Jake to see me emotionally stripped. It’s embarrassing. It’s degrading. It’s just … fucking painful.