Page 77 of Ridin’ Dirty

A twinge of guilt started to slither up my spine, but I shook it off before I spat out a mouthful of toothpaste. He wasn’t the only one dealing with a lot. He moved me into his house and expected me to settle. But after nearly a week, we hadn’t so much as had a conversation about how we were going to split the cost of groceries.

“Lyla, if you’re not out of there in thirty seconds, I will bust this door down,” he called from the hallway.

I glanced toward the door, not doubting him for a second, then continued rinsing out my mouth. When I was finished, I raked my fingers through my bedhead hair with a sigh.

Pistol pounded a fist against the door, making me gasp.

It hadn’t been thirty seconds, but it felt pretty obvious my time was up.

I opened the barrier between us just as one of the delivery guys announced, “All set here. You folks have a good day.”

Pistol turned toward the living room, trailing after them to shut the door. I followed close behind, wanting to get a look at the new couch.

It was brown suede, like dark chocolate, and it looked more delicious than it did in a photo. It was a quasi-sectional, with a bench cushion that could sit two or three and a chase lounge on the opposite end. It fit in the room perfectly. All that was missing were a few throw pillows, a cozy blanket, and the perfect rug with a couple end tables—all of which would show up at some point in the coming days.

“You used my credit card,” said Pistol, yanking me from my thoughts.

I shifted to face him, inevitably distracted by his half naked body. I felt it as my nipples began to pebble. Remembering the tank I wore was practically see through, I folded my arms across my chest and tried to focus.

Since he wasn’t wrong, I merely replied, “Yup.”

“I told you to unpack. You want to make yourself at home, fine. You want to turn my kitchen into a spread from Better Homes and Gardens, whatever—but this? Five grand spent without my knowin’? Not cool.”

My guilt came back, coupled with remorse, and I dropped my arms to my sides as I took a step toward him.

“You’re right. I should have told you.”

“Told me?” he spat with a scowl. “Babe—shouldn’t have fuckin’ done it.”

I reared my head back, struck by his statement. Anyone with taste could see what I chose was way better than what he had. But more than that, he had a nerve to tell me what I should and shouldn’t do.

“You want the honest truth?” I shot back. “Bought it when I was mad at you. You want to talk about things you shouldn’t fuckin’ do? Let’s talk about Cherry.”

“What about her?” he asked with a flippant shrug.

My eyebrows shot up my forehead.

“Wha—are you joking? At least when I screwed up, I did something that would benefit us both,” I argued, tossing a hand out toward the couch. “Why’d you fuck her?”

“I didn’t⁠—”

I fought the urge to stomp my foot, but I couldn’t prevent my eye roll. “Whatever!” I interjected. “Why’d you go looking for her at all?”

“I didn’t,” he spat, crumpling the shipping receipt he still held in his hand before tossing it onto the floor. “Fuckin’ hell—went to the clubhouse to get away from you. Didn’t go lookin’ for her. She was there. Simple as that.”

His words landed like slap across the face. I lost my balance a little, his honesty catching me off guard. “To get away from me,” I whispered, taking a stunned step back.

“I panicked. Is that what you want to hear?” he asked as he took a step toward me, forcing me to look up into his eyes.

It was a rhetorical question, but I felt my answer in the strength of my pulse. As he took another step toward me, I breathed him in—the musk of his sweat bringing out his earthy scent. There was something raw and uninhibited about his admission, and I wanted it. All of it.

The ugly truth.

This Wild Stallion.

Riley Wells.

My husband.