Gaslighting at its finest, I guess.

Miss Mable: Just be safe. I’ll check in more.

Me: Thanks.

“Yo!” Quinn opens the back door. “Are you coming or what? Pizza’s getting cold. I also found a shit ton of beer that needs drinking.”

“And some things never change,” I say under my breath as I clutch my cell and jog across the lawn and cement into the house. The AC is on blast, making my dick feel ten sizes too small.

“Where’s MB?”

“Still changing.” The animal’s walking around without a plate and chomping on pizza like he hasn’t eaten all day. “She wanted a sweatshirt.”

“Got it.” I shiver. “I’m going to grab one and hop in the shower really quick, then I’ll be down. Meet you guys in the theater room.”

“Yup.” Mouth full, he waves the pizza at me and walks in the opposite direction.

I take the stairs two at a time and nearly ram into MB on her way down.

I reach for her arm. She’s wearing one of my sweatshirts; it looks so damn good on her. “You’re a little clothes thief.”

She tucks her wet hair behind her ear. “Yours smell better than mine.”

I groan. “I beg to differ.”

She scrunches up her nose. “Wearing my thong is a bit far-fetched even for you, Ambrose.”

My grin stretches so wide my face hurts. “Damn, ruined that fun surprise.”

She pulls her arm back and rubs the spot I touched. I lean over and press a kiss on her right cheek. “Sorry, I couldn’t help it.”

Her answer is to flick my nipple. “Sorry, I couldn’t help it. A little cold?” She looks down.

“I know how to get warm.”

“Not this time.” Her eyes are sad.

I move toward her until she’s pressed against the railing of the stairs, and her breathing picks up. My lips brush her forehead, once, twice. I pull away, and I don’t look back.

When I’m in the bathroom, with the door closed, I stand there and stare at myself in the mirror and wonder where it all went wrong and how to make it right again.

Chapter Thirty-One

Mary-Belle

The hot Ambrose smell that washes over me almost whooshes into my senses as I step into the theater room. Quinn’s already dug in and finished one beer, opening up his second, and he looks probably the most relaxed I’ve seen him all day.

“You added pineapple to one, right?” I lean across the bar where Quinn’s standing with three boxes and the drinks.

He blinks, then blinks again. “Why, of course, I added it to the one with chopped-up anchovies, yummmmmm.”

“I like anchovies!”

“They have hair!”

I smack him on the shoulder. “They so do not! That’s just what they look like! It’s normal!”

“Nothing about a tiny fish on a pizza is normal, Mary-Belle, absolutely nothing. It’s not a delicacy, it’s a tragedy, like eating spam right out of the can with a spoon.”

I scrunch up my nose. “You cook spam.”