Grayson's Vow

"You already stole one woman from me. Figure you might as well steal another?"

We both stood up quickly as if we'd been caught doing something wrong. I stepped away from Shane. "Grayson, we were just—"

"Stay out of this, Kira," he said, his furious gaze focused on Shane.

"Jesus, Gray," Shane said incredulously. "We were just talking."

Grayson stepped forward to Shane, his jaw hard and tight. I sucked in a sharp breath, not knowing if I wanted to cry or start throwing things. "I'm well aware of how talking works," Grayson said, his voice raised, but his tone deadly cold, "and it doesn't involve arms and bodies. So tell me, is that it, Shane? One isn't enough? Looking to seduce Kira, too?"

"Seduce Kira? God, you really are an idiot when you're jealous. Do you think I would seduce your wife, you stupid fool?" he yelled.

Out of my peripheral vision, I saw Vanessa and Charlotte rushing toward us.

Grayson's jaw ticked at the word jealous, his eyes lowering to slits as he glared at his brother. "Jealous? You think I find you untrustworthy because I'm jealous? Not because you're a lying, betraying bastard? I'm not jealous." He moved a step closer. "Jesus. She's not even my real wife. We got married for money," he growled.

I sucked in a breath of air that felt like I was inhaling razor blades, my face flushing with heat. Silence suddenly rang out as three pairs of eyes focused on me. I looked around: Shane’s and Vanessa's expressions, shocked; Charlotte's expression, pained. Grayson was still glaring at Shane, but when he saw that they were all looking at me, he turned his gaze in my direction, his expression seeming to clear momentarily as he became aware of what he'd just said. "Kira—" he started to say, but I turned around and ran, away from the looks, away from the judgment, away from the shame and searing pain. Away.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Grayson

I was an idiot. A jealous idiot. Shane had been right. I'd walked up on him and Kira hugging and I'd lost my mind. I'd shut myself off completely since Shane and Vanessa had arrived, even ignoring Kira after I'd gone to her room and tried to claim her like a drunken fool. I could only blame myself if she went looking for comfort and companionship with Shane. Shane, who had always been the easygoing charmer. Shane, who had never disappointed anyone.

I don't want you. I don't want you at all.

No one wants you. No one ever has.

Of course she felt comfortable and safe with Shane—who didn't? Another spear of jealousy went shooting down my spine, and I gritted my teeth. I had never in my life fallen into a jealous rage over a woman, but the possessiveness I'd felt when I'd seen Kira and Shane embracing had thrown me over the edge. I'd watched them over the past week, seen the way they strolled around the property, talking, even laughing. Something that felt close to despair swelled in my chest. Jesus, I needed to get hold of myself. What was I jealous of anyway? She'd been willing to come to my bed—even if that was off the table now—what else did I want? Was I upset I'd sabotaged that for myself just like I seemed to sabotage everything good in my life? Or was it really just because Shane had stolen Vanessa from me? I hadn't let myself think too much about it since they'd been here—hadn't wanted to explore any of that. And so I'd simply shut down.

And then even worse, in some idiotic effort to prove I wasn't jealous—and perhaps to hurt Kira, too, I acknowledged that much—I'd exposed the truth of our marriage in a cruel, heartless way. The deep hurt and humiliation I'd seen in her eyes had sent guilt crashing over me. Another man in her life using her as the scapegoat. Fuck. And then she'd run. Now I was looking for her to try to make it right after I'd left Shane, Vanessa, and Charlotte gaping after me. What a fucking mess this was. What a fucking mess I was. I felt like everything I'd been holding back all week was swirling inside me, coming to a boiling head.

What in the actual hell had happened to me?

I'd met Kira Dallaire, that's what had happened to me.

I spotted her out in the south field, looking as if she was . . . collecting apricots off the ground. Was she holding them in the bottom of her shirt? For a second, I just stood and watched her as she hopped among the fruit, bending and collecting, bringing a piece of fruit to her nose now and again. What was the little witch up to anyway? Something pulled tight inside me—why did my aggravating wife have to fascinate me even as my guts were churning inside my body? I approached her slowly and by the time I got to the edge of where hundreds of overly ripe apricots littered the ground, she had ten or fifteen pieces of fruit weighing down her blousy shirt.

"Kira," I said as calmly as I could, "what are you doing?"

"Collecting fruit for Charlotte's jam—the jam you love so much, the jam that makes you happy. I've been meaning to do it all week, but what with organizing your office and planning a party so it might be easier for you to rejoin Napa society, entertaining your family, and trying to figure out how to sideswipe certain questions from Shane and Vanessa—which, come to think of it, I'd like to thank you for just blurting out the truth because that's one stressor off my plate. I can't tell you how relieved I am not to have to lie anymore—"

"Kira," I said, moving closer. "I'm sorry. That was poorly done on my part."

"Plus," she went on as if she hadn't heard me, "it's such a waste of food. There are people who don't have enough to eat—right here in Napa even. And here's all this fruit just littering the ground. It's unconscionable, really."