Page 64 of Sweet Redemption

He catches my wrist as I raise my hand to shove him again and pulls me closer.

“Because. You. Said. No.”

“Don’t you dare put this on me.” I yank my hand back, but Hendrix refuses to drop it. And in that second I’m stuck staring at him, it becomes harder to ignore the glassy heartbreak in his eyes. I’ve only seen him like this once before. “You’re serious . . . I don’t understand.” I sound like a broken fucking record. “You married her because I said no? Fine. But that still makes that beautiful little boy yours. Don’t you dare⁠—”

“Christ, Serena. Bodhi is mine. He always will be. In every way that matters. For every single day of the rest of my life—of his life—he’s mine.”

I watch for a tell. For a way to know he’s lying. But there is none. Because unless he’s become a father and an incredible master manipulator since we were together, Hendrix Sinclair is telling the truth.

“But biologically . . . fuck.” The corded muscles in his neck strain with tension as he looks quickly to the stars before bringing his watery gaze back to mine. “He’s not mine. I never slept with Britt.”

He drops my wrist and wraps one hand around my head, his fingers sliding through my hair. “Listen to that again, princess. Listen to me again and hear my words. I. Never. Slept. With. My. Wife.”

SERENA

The body keeps the score.

—Serena’s Daily Affirmation

The air outside has an unwelcome chill clinging to it the next morning. Cool enough that I curl both hands around my mug and tuck my feet beneath me, silently questioning why I chose to sit outside instead of in, until I’m reminded Liv and Logan slept here last night. And while I’m glad one of us is having mind-blowing sex, I kinda wish I didn’t have to hear it. Or that it was me.

Today’s tea is peach with a hint of ginger. It’s surprisingly good and courtesy of one of the Chase sisters, the family we’ve partnered with at Cherry Creek Vineyards. They’ve recently opened a tea shop on the property, and somehow, I’ve been volunteered as their newest guinea pig. I’ve always leaned more toward coffee than tea for my caffeine of choice. The stronger the better. But today, the tea is doing its job and warming what I’m starting to think is my ice-cold soul as I sit here, twirling my pen between my fingers and staring at the next blank page in my journal.

It’s been close to twenty minutes, and all I’ve managed to write so far, is today’s date.

Not sure Octavia would count that as an entry.

But this morning, it seems so much harder to recall an old memory when I’m stuck replaying last night’s argument over and over again from every possible angle.

It’s safe to say I still can’t wrap my head around it.

Any of it.

Not the things we said.

Or the things we didn’t.

Not the way he looked at me.

Or, my God, the way he touched me.

The way I let him.

And especially not the way he silently followed me to my house as I walked through the vineyards and waited for me to go inside before turning around.

And then there’s the text he sent sometime after I fell asleep.

Hendrix

This isn’t over, Serena.

The text I’ve read so many times I’m surprised my eyes haven’t fallen out of my head. The same one I haven’t responded to because seriously, would what the fuck be an appropriate response? Because I’m not sure I have any other kind.

I flip the phone facedown, then back up again, something that seems to be becoming a bad habit. But, in all honesty, I just can’t seem to stop staring at the words, even if they make my stomach churn worse than a day on a boat in the middle of a hurricane.

I would have given anything . . . hell, I would have given everything to hear those words three years ago.

But now . . Now, they don’t feel real.