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it’s pounding so violently inside my chest. If he touches me any further, I won’t
be strong enough to resist Ren anymore. I’ll throw myself at him, beg him to
give me everything for just a little while. To give me for now until he can have
forever with her.
Her.
God, my blood boils, and a kick of anger surges through my veins. I hate her.
I’m wildly jealous of this woman, who I can only assume is entirely, completely
worthy of him. And I know, I trust that she is, because I trust Ren. He’s
measured and thoughtful. He has his head screwed on straight. He values the
right things.
She’s probably an understated beauty, because Ren’s too wholesome to need
a knockout—he only asks for beauty from within. She’s one of those rescueshelter
volunteers who bakes perfectly circular chocolate chip cookies and
makes friends with all the grandmas on the block. She wants three kids—two
boys and a girl—and she loves to scrapbook. She also reads those criminally
sex-free romances and is the least erotically adventurous woman on the planet—
Whoa, there, Francesca. Getting a little nasty, aren’t we?
Well, yes. My thoughts have turned uncharitable. That’s my jealousy talking.
That’s my covetous envy. A fierce possessiveness for someone I have no right
to. An unwarranted, unfair animosity toward a woman I should be happy for.
“I want to apologize, Frankie. About last night.”
I spin, tugged out of my thoughts. “What?”
Ren frowns up at me from his crouched position, petting Pazza. “I don’t
remember everything, because that headache was…unearthly painful, and I’d
taken one of the pills for it that Amy prescribed me, but I have a vague memory
of being very into hand holding.”
Heat rushes through me as I bite my lip. God, you’d think we’d made out,
the way thinking of it affects me. “You were.”
He grimaces. “It was unprofessional of me. I’m sorry.” His face transforms
to a wide smile as Pazza licks his face, perching her muddy paws on his knees.
“Pazza, down.” My voice is sharp, and she drops immediately, jogging over
to me.
Ren slowly stands with a look of wariness on his face. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. Just Pazza. Sh-she’ll ruin your slacks.” I point at the grass and
mud staining his knees.
He smiles and shrugs. “I don’t care, Frankie. I can do my laundry. I’m a
spot-treating wizard, actually.”
“Of course, you are.” I can’t get a stain out of my clothes to save my life.
Why do all these little things about him add up to something so perfectly