Free French Pressed by Cleo Coyle

perfectly fine with me, since the trashionista’s new desire to nest with my ex got him the heck out of my hair for almost a month. So why was he back now ?
    “You can’t tell me you got tired of five-hundred-dollar Egyptian cotton sheets and a penthouse view!”
    Matt shrugged. “Breanne flew to Milan a few days ago for a trade show. I got lonely.”
    “You did not. I know when you’re lying, Matt. Your eyes go wide, like a begging puppy dog, and you forget how to blink.”
    “Okay, okay…” Matt held up the hand of his good arm. “The truth is…ever since Breanne left for Europe, her housekeeper has been hitting on me.”
    “What?!”
    “It was subtle at first, but tonight it got weird. And the housekeeper’s a live-in, so there’s no escaping it.”
    “Since when can’t you handle a woman making a pass at you?”
    “The housekeeper’s not a woman, Clare. His name’s Maurice.”
    “Of course!” I threw up my hands. “If it was a woman, it wouldn’t have been a problem. You simply would have slept with her until Breanne came back. Problem solved.”
    Matt’s face fell into an “I’m wounded” pout. “That’s just not true, Clare. And it’s not fair.”
    “The person it wouldn’t have been fair to is Breanne !”
    “Let’s drop it, okay?” he said and pointed to the half-spilled pitcher we used to filter our coffee-making water. “Are you going to help me with this or not?”
    “Not!”
    I wheeled and limped angrily out of the kitchen, one foot now shoeless, the other clomping loudly along, since I was unwilling to give up a second possible projectile.
    Matt followed, his tone more contrite. “I didn’t mean to butt in on you, but a decent hotel room in this town is four hundred a night. Breanne’s not coming back for a few more days, and in case you haven’t noticed, I’ve been footing the tuition bills for Joy’s culinary school. I don’t have much extra cash to throw around. Do you?”
    “What are you implying? That I should pay for your hotel room because you can’t tell Maurice the housekeeper to keep his hands to himself?”
    “There’s no lock on Breanne’s bedroom door. It was creeping me out. You have to believe me.”
    “I can’t believe I’m having this conversation!” I checked my watch. “And at nearly one in the morning!”
    Matt rubbed the back of his neck. “You mind giving me a massage? My muscles are really stiff.”
    “You really want the other shoe, don’t you?”
    “What did I do now ?”
    “God, Matt, you haven’t acted like this much of a jerk since we were married. What’s happened to you anyway? Did a month of having your every whim fulfilled regress you back to a spoiled childhood?”
    “My childhood was anything but spoiled, Clare, and why are you so bent out of shape? Because I walked in on your big good-bye scene with the flatfoot? Well, big deal! So what? He was leaving anyway!”
    “He was supposed to come back. Now he’s not.”
    “You’re better off. You can’t trust cops. Especially that one.”
    “Oh, is that right? And who am I supposed to trust? You?”
    “I’m not your problem. He is.”
    “The problem is you , Matt. He won’t come back with you here.”
    “Then he’s gay.”
    “Mike Quinn is not gay.”
    “Oh, yeah? Then why didn’t he just take you with him back to his place?”
    “Because he’s not going back to his place. He’s going back on duty!” I threw up my hands. “I can’t expect you to understand. And I shouldn’t have to explain myself, either. We’re divorced, Matt. We share a daughter and a business; and because of Madame’s bizarre sense of humor—not to mention her delusion that one day we’re going to reconcile—we both have a legal right to use this apartment. But we’re never again sharing the matrimonial bed, and I’d like to find someone who will.”
    “Oh? So now the flatfoot is more than a passing law enforcement fetish? He’s potential husband material? And this happened