“I was invited by your ex. Which makes me wonder…Why are you here?”

Tate decided it was time to finally deal with the problem that was Diana and stepped up beside Logan. He was careful not to touch him though, as to not add fuel to the current fire.

“That’s a good question, Diana. Why are you here?”

Her eyes finally came over to meet his, and the urge to grab her and strangle her with the string of pearls wrapped around her neck was very real.

She gave off a regal disposition with her hands on her hips and her chin tipped up, but instead of portraying the classy image she was hoping for, she looked like a grade-A snob.

As usual, she was dressed to perfection. Her brown hair was pulled back into a tight top-notch bun at the back of her head, and a cream pencil skirt with the black cowl-neck sweater all molded perfectly to her curvaceous figure.

“I’ve always been here on Sundays. Or did you conveniently forget that sometime this week along with the fact you’ve been straight your entire life?”

Tate glared at her, but out of the corner of his eye, he saw Logan turn toward him.

“She always comes to these things?” Tate was about to answer until Logan mumbled, “A heads-up would’ve been appreciated.”

“Tate’s never been great at remembering details,” Diana contributed, making his teeth clench, but Logan was more than happy to deal with her.

“I don’t remember asking you. And while we’re on the subject, he seems pretty clear about one important detail.”

Diana was too smart to ask what, and Logan didn’t bother waiting.

“He doesn’t want you here.”

Her shrewd eyes moved back and forth between them, but before she could open her mouth, Logan leaned in until their noses almost touched and spoke loud enough that Tate could make it out.

“Have to say, it takes balls to show up where you’re not wanted, so maybe it isn’t such a surprise that Tate likes me after all. Your pair’s almost as big as mine.”

Tate was sure that he’d misheard Logan until Diana turned her face and said, “You’re disgusting.”

To which Logan replied, as only he could, “You have no idea.”

Finally coming to his senses, Tate spoke up. “Diana?”

“What?” she snapped, taking a quick step back as if she just realized how close she and Logan were standing.

“You need to stop coming over here. We’re divorced.”

Diana crossed her arms almost in challenge. “Not yet, we’re not.”

He heard Logan chuckle beside him, but he couldn’t seem to find any humor in their current situation.

“I’m sorry,” Logan said innocently enough.  “But she actually said that as if she has a chance of getting back together with you.”

Diana outwardly fumed. “Do you ever shut up?”

“Now that is an interesting question. Would you like to answer her, or should I?”

Tate knew what Logan was thinking, and he had no doubt that the words would fall right out of his mouth, so instead of allowing that to happen, he decided to take over.

“This isn’t about Logan. This is about you. You shouldn’t still be coming to my family’s home. We’re separated. Divorcing. It’s uncomfortable enough in this house without you showing up, and honestly, it makes you look desperate.”

“It’s true. Looks really desperate,” Logan added, helpful as ever.

“Ha,” Diana laughed, and the sound was ugly as she ran her eyes over him. There’d been a time when Tate would’ve responded to that with something other than annoyance. “You think I look desperate? And how do you think you look? You’re with a man for God’s sake.”

Tate was beyond frustrated and he hadn’t even stepped foot inside his house.

Why am I standing on this porch having yet another argument with her?

“This is going nowhere. I’m not trying to be cruel—”

“I am, just so it’s noted,” Logan interrupted.

Tate frowned at him, but Logan had a point. It wasn’t as if she were even trying to be cordial.

“Are my mom and dad inside?”

A bitter sneer curled her lips. “Yes. Along with your sister and Sam. This, I can’t wait to see.”

Tate pushed past her and opened the door.

As he walked inside and Logan followed, he heard, “What’s killing you the most? The fact that you don’t have him or that I do?”

Tate didn’t wait around for Diana’s answer. Instead, he continued along the original wood floors and down the narrow hall until he came to the family room.

When he realized what he was about to do, he stopped so suddenly that Logan ran into him and they both ended up stepping into the archway.

Four pairs of eyes found them, and all Tate could think was, What a fucking entrance.

* * *

Logan stood beside Tate and had a revelation.

This must be how suspects feel in a police lineup.

He did a quick scan of the room and spotted yet another familiar face from last week’s stop in hell—Tate’s sister. She was looking at the both of them with an expression of total shock.

The man beside her, who Logan presumed was her husband, was in blue jeans and a flannel shirt, and he was looking at him as if he were an alien.

Yeah? Well, welcome to the fucking club. This isn’t exactly a normal Sunday for me either, pal.

That left the final two occupants of the room.

Tate’s father was seated over on a couch with his mother against the far wall. Once she spotted the two of them, the smile she had on her face twisted into a cruel, unforgiving line.

Mrs. Morrison stood and clasped her hands in front of herself.

Her short, brown hair was cut into a blunt bob and pushed back behind her ears. She was dressed for church. Her floral-print dress was very respectable, and she was exactly as Logan had imagined—unyielding.

As he continued to observe her, Logan noticed the way she completely ignored his existence and zeroed in on Tate as she straightened her shoulders until her back was rigid.

She was not happy that he’d brought the pervert to her house.

“William…” she started as he turned back to check on Tate.

Logan watched the way she approached her son as if he were a stranger. Then she stopped and turned her head his way to pin him with a look that spoke volumes.

The revulsion directed toward him was fierce, unlike anything Logan had ever encountered, and even though he’d sworn he wouldn’t care, he did.

“Mom,” Tate said, once again capturing her attention.

“I told you not to bring him here,” she spat out as her hands clenched by her sides.

Wow.

“His name is Logan.”

She didn’t even bother with a second glance as she answered in a tone so icy Logan was surprised it didn’t freeze Tate into a human Popsicle. “I don’t care what his name is.”

“Mom!” Tate shouted, clearly shocked by her rudeness.

“Tate, it’s okay,” he offered.

What did he care if she didn’t want to acknowledge his existence? It was nothing worse than his own father had done when he’d been alive.

“Don’t you call him that,” she told him, finally walking over to stand in front of him. “His name is William.”

Logan bit his tongue so hard he could have sworn he tasted blood.

He stood there, trying to remember that, as an adult, you were supposed to show respect to your elders, but did that apply when the elder was a cruel, ignorant—

“Stop being so rude,” Tate said for him.

Logan took a step back, not wanting to be close when the shit hit the fan. This woman was vibrating with rage, and it was all directed at him.

“How dare you talk to me like that.”

“Me? You’re the one acting as if I brought a murderer home,” Tate spat out, and Logan could see his hands had balled into fists by his side.

Her head swiveled toward her son as she announced, “You might as well have.”