Page 76 of Ridin’ Dirty

“Lyla!”

I sat up quickly, frowning toward the bedroom door, which stood cracked open.

Pistol was home. This was supposed to be a good thing.

But he sounded angry.

“Lyla!”

That last one made me jump. I didn’t want to know what my name sounded like the fourth time he called it, so I threw the sheets back and quickly got out of bed. I didn’t even bother running my fingers through my hair as I hurried out into the main room in my bare feet.

“What? What is going on?”

I barely got the words out when I stopped short at the mouth of the hallway. Pistol was standing by the front door, a sheet of paper in one hand, a sweat towel in his other, and a scowl tugging at his brow. He was in a pair of gym shorts and tennis shoes, his naked chest glistening with a thin layer of sweat.

Did he go out on a run? Is that where he goes in the mornings?

In very different circumstances, his entire look might have turned me on.

Fuck, but he was sexy—even with two fading black eyes.

Except, given the way he was yelling for me, I understood he was pissed.

He was pissed at me.

Although, after my full body scan, I noticed I wasn’t the only one interested in a peek.

The fire I saw in his gaze when those dark green eyes met mine was ambiguous, to say the least. It dawned on me then how I’d gone to bed in my barely-there, cheeky sleep shorts—the ones with cherries printed on them—and a thin white tank. It was true I wore the combo on purpose, hoping to tempt my husband, but the vibes I was getting from him at present were confusing.

Before I could figure out which way he was leaning, two men walked through the open door. One of them was pulling on gloves. The other was pushing a dolly. Both of them were headed straight for the couch.

“Oh,” I breathed.

“Yeah. Oh,” muttered Pistol. “You want to tell me why I’m holdin’ a piece of paper that says I spent five thousand dollars on a new couch when I’ve got a perfectly good one sittin’ right there?”

He tilted his head toward the leather sofa, and I refrained from mentioning it wasn’t actually sitting there anymore—the movers already busy lifting it on its side in order to wheel it out of the house.

Furniture removal was an add-on service.

Technically, the new couch was only forty-six-hundred.

“Lyla!”

“Okay, would you stop calling my name like that?” I begged, needing a second to collect my thoughts.

I knew this day was coming. I couldn’t hide my purchases from him forever. But I wasn’t prepared for this. My body was still adjusting to the morning, not to mention the sight of Pistol shirtless after some sort of early physical excursion, and I suddenly had to pee.

He shook the paper at me and demanded, “Explain.”

For reasons I couldn’t quite articulate, the first thing I could think to say was, “Wait until you see it. You’ll understand when you see it.”

He raised both eyebrows at me, and I knew I was going to have to do better. Fortunately for me, the movers distracted him as they shuffled toward the door. Pistol was forced to step out of their path so they had room to navigate through the narrow opening.

Deciding this was my opportunity to stall, I murmured, “Be right back,” before hurrying to the bathroom.

Once inside, I didn’t rush.

After I emptied my bladder and washed my hands, I reached for my toothbrush and tried to think. The couch was only the beginning. Given the way he was responding to the delivery, I was sure he hadn’t looked at his credit card statement. Not that I blamed him. He was dealing with a lot.