“Have some decorum, Antonio,” Gregory Rutherford murmurs. He glances at me, then at his wife, then back to me, before addressing Millie. “Lovely fire. Do you have some clothes Begonia could borrow?”
“Nope,” Millie replies. “I’m naked all the time in the bedroom too, so this is all I brought.”
Marshmallow harumphs.
“I’m okay,” I tell them. “I like the chilly air. It makes sleeping cozier when you finally get to bed.”
Everyone on the patio looks at me sideways.
And thank god, Hayes steps out of the house just then.
His hair still has all the evidence of me gripping it like my life depended on that orgasm he was working on giving me, and I don’t know if he’s walking stiffly because he’s uncomfortable in the jeans or because this entire situation is uncomfortable, or maybe it’s both, or neither.
Everyone’s attention swings back to him.
“Is the house ruined?”
“Did the rug survive?”
“Was it an electrical problem?”
“Is it totally gutted? Can I do a TikTok in there before you have it demolished?”
Keisha’s question comes with a grin that I take to mean she’s looking for a reaction.
“Don’t be uncouth,” Liliane says to her.
“Uncouth is my brand.”
“The house is fine, the bedroom salvageable, the rug ruined, the table questionable, and I never liked the latter two anyway.” Hayes takes my hand. “Say good night, Begonia.”
I lift my hand to wave and parrot a Good night, Begonia to Hayes’s family, because I’m that level of weird and awkward, when Marshmallow growls low in his throat.
A split second later, the “Imperial Death March” rings from Hayes’s butt.
He squeezes his eyes shut and sighs. “Your mother?” he guesses.
“That’s my phone?” I squeak. “Why is my phone in your—oh. You saved it from the fire. Thank you.”
Marshmallow growls harder and stalks Hayes’s ass.
“Marshmallow! Back. No.”
Hayes pulls out my phone, with its sparkly purple case, glances at me, and once again, Marshmallow does what he does best.
He steals the phone and darts off into the night.
“Marshmallow!”
“Dear god, what is wrong with that dog?” Giovanna says.
“He’s a well-trained support dog who saved our lives by pulling the fire alarm outside our bedroom,” Hayes answers. He whistles, and the “Imperial Death March” gets louder, like Marshmallow is actually returning to us.
“If it’s not your mother…” he says to me.
“Ex-husband,” I whisper.
He stares at me for a beat, the piece still humming along on my phone, before his lips quirk up in an unexpected smile that takes my breath away. “How appropriate.”
“I thought so. I’m still looking for the right ring tone for my mom.”
Marshmallow trots back onto the lit patio, phone clenched in his jaw, murder written in his eyes.
He and Chad met once or twice.
It didn’t go well for either of them.
“Give me the phone, Marshmallow,” I order.
He ignores me and approaches Hayes instead, growling low.
Hayes snaps his fingers and holds his hand out.
Marshmallow growls again.
The phone stops ringing, and I breathe a sigh of relief.
“Marshmallow, hand me the phone,” Hayes orders.
Marshmallow drops it at his feet.
“That is the coolest dog ever,” Keisha whispers.
“Broken therapy dog for a broken woman,” Liliane murmurs.
“Liliane, kindly see yourself out,” Hayes adds as the “Imperial Death March” starts playing again on my phone. “And tell your parents that our engagement is over, much as it has been since the sixth grade.”
Marshmallow growls.
I lunge for the phone.
And Hayes holds it out of my reach as he swipes to answer it.
“Oh my god,” I gasp.
“Begonia, don’t say a word,” my ex-husband’s nasal, annoying voice says over the speaker. “I made a mistake. I shouldn’t have bitched about your credit card bills, and I shouldn’t have told you that your clay art shit was ugly, and I shouldn’t have used you to warm my hands up late at night when you were sleeping. I can’t offer you a billion dollars, but you know he’s just playing with you. If you come back now, I can—”
“You can leave her the fuck alone is what you can do,” Hayes interrupts. “Lose this number. If Begonia wants to talk to you, she’ll be in touch.”