Every Sweet Regret: Orchid Valley, Book 2 Page 2

  “I’m not sure Random is the best place to be if those are your criteria.”

  “Is Random really the problem? Because I feel like I might have I love jerks tattooed to my forehead. Or maybe I screwed up somewhere, and that’s my profile pic.”

  “What pic are you using now?” She points at my phone. “Let me see.”

  I unlock it and open the app, sighing when I remember I have to go into Settings and then Profile to see my picture or profile details. This app is so rudimentary that its success might just prove above all else what incredible horndogs people are. “There,” I say when I get to it. I turn the phone so she can see the image of me in a yellow dress. I always liked this picture. Brinley took it when we were at the park last year. I’m leaning against a gnarled oak tree and grinning at the camera. I look happy.

  Abbi lets out a long, low whistle. “Girl, they’re totally clicking on you for your hot bod.”

  I’m not all that, but I’m experienced enough to know that a lot of guys have a weakness for my curves and think my red hair is a sign of my sexual proclivities. Then again, maybe that’s the problem. I put myself out there with my looks, and then I’m heartbroken when guys never see past them. I tried so hard to make things different with Bobby.

  I laugh. “I keep threatening to change my profile pic to a cartoon avatar. Maybe I’ll do it.”

  She snorts. “If I looked like that, I wouldn’t hide behind a cartoon.”

  I shrug, lock the screen on my phone, and slide it back into my purse. “I’d rather find a guy who wants me for my personality than one who wants me for my appearance.”

  “Must be a nice problem to have.” She sighs. “Not that I’d know.”

  I ball up my napkin and throw it at her. “You’re fucking gorgeous. Just because you can’t see that doesn’t mean it’s not true.”

  She shrugs and throws the napkin back at me. “No, you’re gorgeous. I’m . . .” She shakes her head.

  “What?”

  “Nope. Nothing. We’re not doing that.”

  “Doing what?”

  “That thing where I express my insecurities and you spend the rest of the night trying to reassure me, and then I just feel doubly awkward. Not in the mood.”

  “Abs,” I say.

  “Nope.” She points at me. “Back to you and your reasons for needing a cartoon avatar.”

  I feel like we should talk about her for once, but once Abbi shuts that down, it’s over, so I let it go. “I don’t know.” I shrug. “Maybe if guys actually talked to me for a bit rather than jumping right into ‘Can I fuck your titties?’ I’d find someone who wants to know what’s going on in my head.”

  She snorts. “Again, maybe try an app other than Random.”

  I sigh. After what Bobby put me through, I’m not ready for another relationship, but hookups are rarely worthwhile. I just need a reliable fuck buddy. Still, Abbi has a point.

  “Drinks, ladies!” Smithy slides two martinis onto the table, then the waitress behind him settles two plates between us. One’s piled with cheesy tater tots, and the other what must be a triple order of fried pickles. Smithy spoils us. “Enjoy.”

  “Thank you,” we chorus.

  Abbi and I go quiet as we fill our plates with salty, fried goodness. Abbi digs in, and I let my gaze drift back to Kace. Bless his broken heart. He’s trying to ignore Amy, but he keeps looking in her direction as she threads her fingers in her date’s hair and laughs at his jokes.

  Abbi follows my gaze. “I wish he wouldn’t torture himself.”

  I shake my head. “Dean says he’s over her, but I don’t think so.”

  Abbi scoffs. “He’s definitely not. He admitted to me just last weekend that he doesn’t want to start dating in case she decides to come home.”

  Those words are a punch in the solar plexus.

  Nodding, Abbi licks the sugared rim of her glass. “He wants what they had. I can’t blame him.”

  “He wants what he thinks they had,” I mutter.

  Abbi shrugs. “I know what you mean, but we all get like that about past relationships, don’t we?”

  I give a noncommittal hum. Frankly, Abbi doesn’t know what I mean, because she doesn’t know Amy’s secrets. I, however, know more than I’d like to.

  Abbi nudges my plate toward me. “Eat. Not only will it cheer you up, I’ll curse you tomorrow if I tear through all this by myself.”

  “Wouldn’t want to let you down.” I laugh and pop a nacho-cheese-coated tot into my mouth. As good as a greasy meal sounded, my heart’s just not in it tonight.

  “Are you coming tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Kace’s party?” she says. “Friends, beer, barbecue, and pool time?”

  I sigh, remembering. Kace is having a pool party at his new house, and my best friends will be there. “I’m at The Orchid until five, but I’ll come over after.” I hesitate, swirling a tater tot in cheese, but I have to ask. “Will Amy be there?”

  “I think so.” Abbi gives me a sympathetic smile. “They have a child together. Even if Kace doesn’t get the reunion he wants, she’s not going anywhere.”

  “He deserves someone good.”

  Abbi glances at Kace again and shakes her head. “Stella, baby, you know I love you, but you two are all wrong for each other.”

  I scoff. “That’s not what I meant. I know Kace and I are never happening. But he needs someone . . . someone good,” I repeat. Because that’s seriously what I want for him. “And don’t look at me like that. Kace might star in my go-to fantasies, but I know better than to think I’m the girl for him.”

  She frowns. “You really do just want him to be happy. That’s sweet.”

  I shrug. It doesn’t matter what I want. As long as he’s hung up on his ex, his soul mate could be standing right in front of him, and he’d never notice her—especially if she’s the redheaded wild child who’s been in love with him since seventh grade.

  Chapter Two

  Kace

  My wife is on a date. This is nothing new, but tonight she brought her date to Smithy’s bar, which means all I have to do is turn around, and I get to witness every flirtatious touch, every lust-filled stare. Obviously, I’m keeping my eyes on my beer, because who needs that kind of misery in their life?

  “Smell that?” Smithy asks, sniffing the air. He pulls the tap and pours a beer, bopping along to that special drumbeat only he can hear.

  “What?”

  “Smoke, man.”

  Frowning, I sniff the air then look around. I smell burgers, beer, and the light pine scent of Smithy’s mop bucket. He might be a goof, and a bit too fond of the ganja, but he keeps his place clean. “I don’t smell anything.”

  He sniffs again. “You sure you don’t smell smoke? Because Stella looks fire tonight.”

  I glance over my shoulder, playing it cool. As if I didn’t notice my best friend’s little sister the second she walked in. As if I haven’t been noticing her way too much for months now.

  Not checking out Stella takes physical effort, and the minute my gaze lands on her, relief washes over me. It’s the feeling of putting down a weight you’ve been holding for too long. The feeling of drawing in a breath when you break the surface of the water. It feels good to look at her, and I wish I could get away with doing it a whole lot more.

  Sometime during the past ten years, Stella became a bombshell. There’s no other word for it, and right now she reminds me of a centerfold more than the pest who’d follow Dean and me around all summer. She’s sass and smiles. Her curves make it really fucking hard not to stare under normal circumstances. In a skimpy red dress, she’s the focal point my gaze has returned to again and again since she arrived an hour ago. That’s the fastest way to get my mind off my ex-wife. I can hardly remember other women exist when Stella’s in front of me. She’s bad fucking news—as evidenced by her dickhead date—and I know this, at least rationally. She’s a mess, the all-drama, too-much-trouble party girl I’ve been pro
grammed to protect, and the polar opposite of what I’d want if I was interested in bringing another woman into my life. But my dick doesn’t care about reason, apparently.

  Bad for me or not, I do worry about her, especially when I see her with guys who treat women like they exist purely for their pleasure. But at least Abbi showed up and saved me from my instinctive need to hover over her table and stand guard when that douchebag left.

  Stella notices me staring and smirks. Busted.

  My phone buzzes in my back pocket, and I retrieve it to see she’s sent me a text.

  Stella: Would you stop checking me out? I’m THIRSTY, and it’s not nice to tease.

  Me: Need me to bring you another drink?

  Her laughter rings across the bar—bold, loud, sexy, and shameless, just like everything else about her. My gaze drifts her way again, and she shakes her head before her fingers fly across the screen and my phone dings again.

  Stella: Is that what you think THIRSTY means?

  Me: Honestly? I have no fucking idea.

  I’ve turned on my barstool to face her side of the room, and I don’t bother taking my eyes off her as she grins down at her phone and taps out a reply.

  “Smithy, what are Stella and Abbi drinking tonight?” I ask without taking my eyes off her.

  “The usual.”

  I turn and stare at him, because I have no idea what that is.

  He gives me a disappointed shake of his head. “Lemon drop martinis. You buying the next round?”

  “Sure. Why not?” Hope is with my mom tonight, and Amy gets her tomorrow, so it’s either hang at Smithy’s and buy some drinks or go home to an empty house. If buying drinks means I get to give Stella my attention a little longer, it’s a damn easy decision.

  My phone buzzes, and I practically feel the endorphins hitting my system when I see Stella’s name on the screen. This girl is addictive.

  Stella: Okay, old man. I’ll give you this nugget of wisdom for free. When a girl catches you gawking at her tits and tells you she’s THIRSTY, she means she’s hard up.

  I freeze and reread the text three times. Well, fuck me. This information won’t help me get my mind out of the gutter. I bite back a smile as I reply.

  Me: Hard up? Like, for money?

  I’m totally fucking with her now, but it’s worth it.

  Stella: Like for DICK, Kace. Oh my God. Do you need a tutor? Here’s another piece of knowledge that might come in handy . . . the eggplant emoji has nothing to do with a balanced diet.

  I grunt out a laugh and wait for Smithy to finish with the girls’ martinis. “I’ll take them,” I tell him as he pours the pale yellow drink into frosted glasses.

  “It’s not busy,” he says. “I can do it.”

  “Let me.” I take the drinks before he can object again. Honestly, I need to prove to Stella and to myself that I’m not going to get all weird now that I know she’s “thirsty.” That’s all this is about. Nothing else.

  Stella’s eyes go wide when I slide the cold martini glasses onto the table. “Seriously?”

  “Thanks, Kace,” Abbi says. “You’re the best.”

  “Right?” Stella says. “Is it any wonder I want to have his babies?”

  I grunt. “No one can claim you’re hard to please.”

  She looks at the ceiling and screws her mouth up in a thoughtful grimace. “I mean, I guess that depends on the context.”

  “Eww,” Abbi says. “Stop.”

  I bark out a laugh. “I walked right into that one.”

  Abbi mimes puking.

  “You’re too easy, Mr. Matthews,” Stella says. She lifts the martini to her lips and flicks her tongue across the sugared rim.

  I swallow. Hard. Don’t be a creep, Kace. “No more trouble from that asshole from earlier, I hope?”

  “Nah, he’s history.” She sips her martini, sighs, and mutters, “The dry spell continues.”

  Abbi scoffs. “She thinks she knows what a dry spell is. Meanwhile, I’m living in the Sahara over here.”

  I clear my throat and step back, grappling for a subject change. I do not want to talk sex with my baby sister. But fuck, maybe I should blame that red dress, because tonight I really want to talk about it with Stella. Well, maybe not talk . . .

  “Thanks for this,” Stella says, wiggling her glass.

  “You’re welcome. Wouldn’t want you to get thirsty.”

  Her eyes go wide and her lips part. For the first time in my life, I think I’ve thrown Stella Jacob off guard and not the other way around. I like it way more than I should, so I make myself head back to my seat. I feel her eyes on me every step of the way.

  My smile falls from my face when I see Amy leaning her elbows on the bar right by my beer. Fuck.

  “What was that about?” Amy asks, turning to me as I sit.

  Grabbing my beer, I punch down the feeling that I was doing something wrong by flirting with another woman in my wife’s presence. Not your wife. Your ex. “What?”

  “Is Stella playing her usual games? Trying to get your attention by any means necessary?”

  I sigh. “No games. She’s just hanging with Abbi.”

  “Then why are you being so defensive?”

  “I’m not.” But the words come out sharp, undercutting my claim. I hate how Amy talks about Stella. Maybe Stella deserves it after the stunts she pulled when she and Amy worked together, but I have no interest being in the middle. “Stop looking for drama, Ames.”

  Amy arches a brow and looks me over. “Jesus, you need to get laid.”

  Beer in the windpipe. I sputter and choke. From anyone else, these words might not faze me. But from the woman I planned to grow old with? The mother of my child? Yeah. There’s a damn reason Amy’s declaration sends me into a coughing fit.

  “What? I speak the truth,” she says, throwing up her hands. “How long’s it been?”

  “We’re not having this conversation,” I wheeze between coughs. I’d rather play hacky sack with my nuts than talk about my sex life with her. Especially since she’s the one on a date right now, and from the way she’s been hanging on to him, I’d bet they’re going home together.

  She tucks a platinum curl behind her ear in a futile attempt to get the new short layers out of her face. It’ll come loose before I can count to ten, like it does every time. She’s never had it this short in all the years I’ve known her, and I miss the way she used to wear it—just past her shoulders and naturally curly. I miss a lot of things. Including, yes, sex, though I’m not going to rewrite history and pretend I wasn’t missing that long before she moved out. “Come on, Kace. We’re friends, right?”

  “Friends who don’t talk about sex.”

  She frowns. “Are you okay?”

  It’s her new favorite question for me. Are you okay? For a long time, I wasn’t. She was the one who wanted the divorce. I was the one who thought we had something worth fighting for. It hasn’t been easy to bury my resentment, but I did. For my daughter and for Amy. I did the impossible for the two women I love most in this world. “I’m okay. I’m happy.”

  Her frown deepens as she studies me. “Have you tried dating yet?”

  The answer to that question is hell no, but considering she had her first date the night she moved out, I know how she’d feel about that, so I shrug. “I’m busy.” I take a long pull off my beer. I’m in a good mood and don’t want to ruin it.

  “Kace.” Her eyes widen in horror as she studies me. “I moved out a year ago. Please tell me you’ve screwed someone since then.”

  I cough. Again. She’s going to kill me before this conversation’s over. “Excuse me?”

  “Sex is healthy.” She nudges me with her elbow. “And your hand doesn’t count.”

  “I’m not looking to hook up.”

  “Why not? You’re kid-free every other weekend.”

  I roll my eyes. “Kind of busy.”

  She scoffs. “Yet here you sit at a bar on a Friday night. You could be on a date. You know, yo
u’re allowed to see people casually. Not everyone is looking for happily-ever-after. Some people just want to get off.” Her expression softens, and she clenches her eyes shut for a beat. “Just because our marriage lacked passion doesn’t mean—”

  “Don’t. Please? Just don’t.” Rather than meet her knowing gaze, I watch a couple of guys in Lamda Chi T-shirts pretend to play pool while they check out Stella for the hundredth time tonight. Fuckers had better keep to their side of the bar.

  “I just want you to be happy,” Amy says. “There are hundreds of women out there who’d die to be with you, but you’ll never know, because you won’t even go on a stupid date.”

  “I don’t need the complication in my life.”

  Amy reaches around me and grabs my phone out of my back pocket. She enters in my passcode—I should probably change that—and starts tapping on the screen. “Other divorced women complain about all the ass their exes are chasing, and here I am, your only hope of getting laid.”

  I wince. “That’s fucked up, Ames. Give it back.”

  She spins away before I can grab it from her hands. “What do you want your username to be?”

  “My username for what?”

  “Random.”

  “Random what? Wait—the hookup app? You can’t be serious.”

  “GoodHands69,” she says, winking.

  “Oh, yeah. That’s a great username,” I deadpan, “for a fifteen-year-old boy.”

  She ignores this, thumbs tapping on the screen. “Recently divorced. Looking for companionship, not love. Good with my hands.” She flashes me a wink.

  I’m gonna be sick. “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me right now.”

  Her blue eyes widen, pure innocence. “Am I lying?”