His face went hard. “We’ll talk about this on Saturday.”
So there was something to talk about.
And he wanted to wait until Saturday. Two whole days for him to retreat further from me?
“We’ll talk about it now.”
“Listen, Cher, I do not need another woman at my door wantin’ a chat with me when I do not want that shit.”
A low blow, pairing me with Mia to push me away.
I stared at him.
Then I pushed right in.
“Fuck,” he muttered.
I went to the back of his couch, threw my bag and keys in the seat, and turned to him, yanking my jacket off.
“Know this play too,” he stated. “Not in the mood to chat and not in the mood for a woman to fall on my dick, thinkin’ that says everything.”
That was an outrageously low blow.
Shit.
Okay, I needed to hold it together, not go batshit crazy and mouth off, saying something I’d regret.
I took in a deep breath and draped my jacket over the back of the couch to give myself time to do that.
Only then did I look at him.
“What triggered it?” I asked quietly.
He stared at me before he threw the door to, turned back to me, and crossed his arms on his chest.
But he didn’t speak.
“What’s fuckin’ with your head, Merry?” I pushed.
“Right now, you,” he returned.
“Did I do something before?”
He shook his head, murmuring, “Jesus, Cher.”
I kept at him.
“Ethan?”
He stopped shaking his head and just looked at me.
“Mom?” I continued.
He didn’t answer.
I took him in. Still in his nice button-up shirt, this one navy, perfect for his eyes, perfect for his coloring. Dark jeans that fit good. A fantastic belt. Nice but casual boots. That thick, dark hair that, even though I knew he was in his early forties, had not even a strand of silver in it. Set features in a strong, handsome face.
Five hours ago, all that was mine.
Now he was withholding it from me.
I wanted it back.
I closed my eyes, opened them and whispered, “You mean the world to me.”
His tall, lean body jerked only slightly, like he caught it and tried to check it before the movement gave him away.
But I saw it.
“For a week, I’ve been happy,” I told him.
“Cher—”
“I got a good mom. I got a good kid. I got good friends. It’s not like I’ve never been happy. But with you, havin’ you, I’ve been happy.”
His voice gentled as he said, “We’ll talk about this Saturday, Cherie.”
“There is no way in fuck, Garrett, that I’m givin’ you two full days to lock yourself away from me,” I replied. “Ethan’s asleep. He’s good. Tilly’s with him. And now I’m here, askin’ you to talk to me.”
“I’m fine,” he declared. “We’re fine. You’re makin’ a drama out of nothing.”
“And you’re standin’ there, lyin’ to me.”
Any gentle I’d gained took a hike.
“You know me, but you don’t know me enough to say shit like that to me.”
“Talk to me,” I repeated.
“You need to go home, babe.”
“What tripped it?” I asked.
“Cher, won’t say it again. You need to get your ass home.”
“What took you away from me tonight?”
“We’re not talkin’ about this.”
I threw out both arms, leaned toward him, and lost it.
“What took you away from me?” I shrieked.
I took an automatic step back and hit couch when he leaned my way, his face twisted in a way the feeling it expressed hurt me, he slammed his fists to his hips, and roared, “Flowers!”
I stood still, finding myself suddenly breathing so heavy, my chest was actually heaving.
Because I just witnessed Merry going from gentle to pissed to impatient to destroyed.
Staring at that look on his face, I had no fucking clue what to do.
And that look scared the living shit out of me.
“Flowers?” my mouth whispered for me.
Merry studied me. Then he moved jerkily, prowling toward the dining room table, lifting his hand and tearing it through his hair, moving like a caged animal, until he stopped and turned back to me.
“Fuck,” he snarled.
I didn’t move an inch except to follow him with my eyes.
“Flowers, baby?” I prompted.
“Fuck,” he repeated.
“Flowers, Merry.”
“Fuck,” he whispered.
“What do you need?” I asked quickly.
He looked to the side and I saw his jaw tight, his cheek ticking.
“Merry, what do you need?”
He looked back to me and announced, “I’m a cop.”
“I know that,” I told him carefully.
“You get that?” he shot back.
I thought I did, but the way he was speaking, I wasn’t sure. So I just nodded.
“You need to get that, Cher,” he stated roughly.
“I get that, Merry.”
“You don’t.”
“I do,” I promised, even though I wasn’t sure I did.
“We eat, we do it in front of the fucking TV.”
His abrupt subject changes were bizarre, and even if I was getting him (which I wasn’t sure I was), with the quickness of those changes, I wasn’t keeping up.
“Okay,” I said hesitantly.
“No fuckin’ flowers.”
“No flowers, Merry,” I agreed.