Chapter twenty-seven #2
My emotions are caught somewhere between desperation and anger.
When I decided to come to Emma’s bedroom tonight, my intention had been to crawl in beside her to enjoy the calmness she brings forward from within me.
These past weeks with her have been incredible; for the first time since losing Connie I feel whole.
The last thing I ever expected was to be having this conversation with her here and now.
The feisty, independent young lawyer that I have come to love has melted before my eyes.
As she laid her concerns on the line in front of me, the stark truth of how I have been treating her gawked back.
I’ve been using her as a crutch since our relationship moved from friends to lovers.
It’s unfair of me, and I need to be honest with her.
She needs all of me or none of me; this half-man I’m offering isn’t enough.
A man still struggling to map out a new life, very different from the one he planned just over a year ago.
“You still pay me,” she says, bringing my attention back to her.
I cock my head to one side, surveying her features.
Her expression is anxious; she’s reluctantly telling me her thoughts.
“It makes me feel…” Her words trail off, then wary eyes dart around the room, looking anywhere but directly at me.
“Makes you feel what?” I prompt, willing myself to listen intently in an attempt to understand exactly how she feels. I want to understand her needs and what she’s looking for from me.
“Dirty.” The statement hangs in the air between us. The derogatory term is a punch to my stomach. “It’s like you’re paying me for sex.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I argue as the fury rears its head once more at the assertion. The temptation to storm from the room is fierce, but I stand my ground. I need to listen. “That is not how I see you, Emma. You’re not a prostitute.”
“How do you see me?” she asks. “Where do you see what we have ending?”
“Ending? I have no intention of what we have ending. I wouldn’t have moved forward with our relationship if I didn’t see a future with you.”
I look at her, standing with the bed dividing us, the separation between us vast.
“And this isn’t a conversation we should have like this. Come downstairs. I’ll put the kettle on, and we can have a proper adult conversation. Preferably not in the proximity of a bat.”
She giggles at my unexpected quip, and my heart, which had sunk to my toes, lifts a fraction.
Even with the bedside lamp on, I can’t see her face fully with the shadows, but I know when I do, her expression will most likely be one I won’t like. “I’ll meet you downstairs.”
Without waiting for her to respond, I turn and leave the room.
***
Emma
Damon walks out of my bedroom, and I hear him descend the stairs.
My nerves heighten as I replay our conversation in my head.
Tonight, I’m getting the conversation I so desperately wanted after three months of being with him.
My questions will get answered and, in the end, I should know exactly where I stand.
Whether his hopes are in line with mine remains to be seen.
I walk over to the full-length mirror and run my fingers through my bed-knotted hair.
The pajamas are soft cotton, a simple pale pink tank top and shorts set.
Treacherous tears stain my cheeks, and I grab a wipe from the box on my dressing table to attempt to clear away the evidence of my pain.
After pulling on my matching robe and sliding nervous toes into fluffy slippers, I make my way downstairs to see Damon.
I find him in the living room, sitting on the sofa with two mugs of steaming tea on the coffee table.
He pats the cushion beside him for me to sit.
I lower myself onto the sofa, and he passes over my mug of tea, it is warm and comforting between my palms.
He turns to me as he holds his own drink.
Our bodies are insanely close but not touching. The small distance seems gigantic.
“So, Spitfire,” he says, firm but tender.
“You have concerns about our relationship. I need to know exactly what they are. Talk to me. You can always talk to me.”
My eyes remain fixed on my tea, my feet firmly planted on the wood floor.
I sit on the edge of the cushion, curled forward with my elbows on my knees.
Damon shuffles in my direction; our knees connect, and he places a warm, strong hand on my back.
“Speak to me. I can’t fix anything if I don’t know what you’re thinking.”
After taking a breath, I summon the courage to say what I need to, knowing I am risking it all by being honest.
“Do you think you will ever love me?” I ask quietly. “Because I’m in love with you.”
He audibly catches his breath, snapping up straight and placing his mug back on the table.
He stands then starts striding around the room.
I watch his large frame pace from wall to wall; every so often, he lifts a hand and runs it over his short dark hair.
“Damon, be honest. I know I will never replace Connie, but…”
“Why do you keep talking about replacing her?”
he spits, stopping and facing me. He walks toward where I sit then drops to his knees and takes my face between his palms.
“How I feel about you isn’t comparable. What we have is different but no less important. We are us. Our own version of us. You were never her replacement. We are new. This is a fresh start for both of us.”
“I know I’ll never hold as much of your heart,” I stutter.
He goes to speak, but I lift a finger and place it on his lips.
“But I hope there’s a little room for me in there.”
I drop my hand from his mouth to over his heart—the beat is strong and steady.
“That maybe you could come to love me in time.”
He chuckles under his breath then rests his forehead against mine. “Spitfire, are you really so blind that you can’t see it?”
“See what?”
“That I love you, now. I don’t need time to know I want you.”
“You do?”
“Of course I do. And if you don’t know that, I’ve been doing a terrible job of showing you just what you mean to me,” he says, standing and holding out his hand.
“I want to take you to bed.” I hesitate, but he gives me a reassuring smile.
“Not for sex, to wrap myself around you and hold you to me all damn night.”