Chapter 23
Twenty-Three
Harper
His breathing is even and slow, his body relaxed.
Same as I was until I woke up, the sun starting to shine into my bedroom…
And thought I was alone again, thought he left.
And—
I swipe at my eyes.
Pathetic.
Because it hurt, thinking he left again.
Meanwhile, he’s still in bed beside me.
His only crime is that he’s rolled away from me.
And I’m crying.
I want to solely blame my reaction on pregnancy hormones, but it’s not that simple. They’re not why thinking I was waking up alone again felt so devastating.
It’s Leo.
And me.
“Stupid,” I breathe.
Last night was stupid.
Inviting him to stay for dinner was stupid. Letting him hang out afterwards even more so. And kissing him?
Beyond idiotic.
He shifts, his masculine scent wafting up and filling the air, inundating my senses.
My womb clenches, moisture gathering between my thighs, the desire to roll over and wrap my fingers around his dick so intense I’m actually moving before I process the action, process the stupidity.
Clenching my hand into a fist, I force myself to stop, to breathe…then to carefully slip out of bed and pad to the bathroom.
I close the door, flick the lock, and lean back against it, exhaling heavily.
“What am I doing?” I ask my reflection.
She, unfortunately, doesn’t have an answer.
And the hussy between my legs, the one that’s pleasantly sore, that wants more, that is all but demanding I go back out there and fuck Leo’s brains out isn’t helping.
I need to be careful.
Smart.
I bend and splash some water on my face, the cool shock enough to settle the worst of the need.
Enough for me to focus.
I need space and time to think, and I need to prep for the dinner I’m catering tomorrow—all of which I can’t do here.
So, I shower quickly and dress even faster, tiptoeing through my bedroom and slipping into my closet to snag a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, socks and my comfy sneakers that mean my feet will ache a little less at the end of the day.
I run into a problem when it comes to my jeans, though.
As in, I can’t button them.
Panic starts to creep into the edges of my vision.
Because shit is getting real.
I take a breath then push down my jeans and step out of them, folding them and setting them aside, starting a pile that’s no doubt going to grow as time goes on.
Today my jeans. Tomorrow…
“Well, let’s hope it’s not my leggings,” I whisper, snagging a pair from the shelf and wrestling them on. They’re tight, but they’ll do the job for the next little while.
Though I suspect that maternity clothes are soon to be in my future.
Shoes and socks on, hoodie snagged from the hanger, I slip from my room, sparing a look to the bed and exhaling in relief when I see that Leo is still asleep.
I don’t think about the yearning that’s coiling through my middle, tempting me to toe off my shoes and crawl behind him.
I don’t think about the way he’d looked at me last night, touched me—
Like I was important.
Like I meant something.
Because…
Danger.
So, I just quietly get the hell out of there.
I’m dicing onions—and doing it wearing a mask because the aromatic still makes me want to puke when it’s raw but makes nearly every savory recipe of mine delicious when it’s cooked, especially with its other partner in crime for my morning sickness, garlic—when the bell in the front of the shop rings.
I set my knife down, wipe my hands on my towel, but before I take so much as a step toward the swinging door, it slams open, Leo striding in. “What the fuck?” he snaps.
I blink.
Then scowl, temper spiking. “First, don’t talk to me like that. Second”—I toss my towel onto the stainless-steel table—“what the fuck what?”
“You left.”
I blink again.
Then scowl again as I gesture around my kitchen. Is it a sarcastic gesture to go with my sarcastic statement? Yup. Sure is. “I had work.”
He narrows his eyes. “Yes, clearly.” A breath, as though he’s trying to gather his patience…which does nothing but piss me off further. “But you could have woken me up and told me you were leaving,” he adds icily.
Maybe I should steal a page out of his book and take a breath, find my patience.
But his words have me snapping back. “Like you did with me?”
Anger arcing across his face. “That’s not the point.”
“What is? You coming here?” I grit out. “Because I know how that ends too.”
“Seriously?”
“What?” I scowl, pick up my knife, and go back to my onion…mostly so I won’t stab him. “I do.”
He falls quiet, but the air is tense.
“Why are you wearing a mask?” he eventually asks.
“So I don’t yak into my client’s food while I chop this fucking onion.”
More quiet, but this round is paired with a frown. “I thought you said the morning sickness was better.”
“It is.” I reach for another onion and keep dicing.
In fact, I hadn’t needed the ginger candy this morning—though whether that’s because I was so focused on my escape I didn’t have time to be sick, or because I’m truly through the worst of it, I don’t know.
Onions still make me want to—
I gag.
Dammit.
Closing my eyes, I tilt my head back and breathe slow and steady.
“Here.”
I drop my chin down, see him holding out a candy.
Double dammit.
Why is he being sweet right now?
I need him to be an asshole.
“Thanks,” I mutter begrudgingly as I open the wrapper and pop the candy in my mouth. He’s quiet as I suck on it, as I wait for it to work its magic.
Only when I go back to chopping does he say, “I thought we were going to be friends.”
I still, but only for a moment. “Friends don’t do what we did last night.” What I wanted to do this morning. What I’m desperate to do even right now.
“You didn’t like it?” he asks quietly.
“You know I did.”
He sighs. “So why did you skip out this morning?”
I shake my head. “It’s not a good idea.”
“Why not?”
Now my annoyance flickers back to life. “Why don’t you tell me? You were the one with all the reasons this is a bad idea before.”
“That’s not fair,” he says. “I’m just saying…”
“You’re just saying,” I prompt when he doesn’t go on.
“Never mind,” he mutters. “I don’t want to fight with you.”
I bite back my reply—because I don’t want to fight with him either—and chop faster.
“Do you want to go to dinner tonight?”
“Why? So you can take me home for another round without having to worry about getting me pregnant again?”
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” I shrug. “You know you’ve thought it.”
“Actually no.” A flicker of hurt crosses his face. “I haven’t thought that, Harp.”
Guilt slices through me but I shove it down.
I know I’m being a bitch. I just…
“Look,” I say on a sigh. “We both know that last night was a mistake that can’t happen again.” Because I can’t let it happen, not if I want to keep my heart safe.
“Was it?”
“Yes,” I say then add when he opens his mouth, his eyes flashing with annoyance, “We can’t all be hockey players who live in fantasy land. Friends don’t fuck. Co-parents don’t either. And that’s all we’ll ever be.”
“Harp—”
“Fuck, Leo,” I snap, slamming down my knife. “I need to work. Which means you have to go.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.” I jerk my chin toward the door. “We scratched an itch but it didn’t mean anything. Now I have real work to do. So…” I wave my hands at him. “Shoo.”
There’s another flash of hurt dancing across his face.
But it disappears a second later.
Then he just shakes his head.
And leaves.
And I hate that I still can’t ignore the ache I feel as he walks away.