CHAPTER TEN
Leanne
Damn if I don’t want him to tell me what he’s thinking. Not that I can figure out what I’m thinking either—or feeling, when it comes to him at least.
But what does he want?
Does he want me to terminate? That’s not happening.
Does he want a paternity test? I’ll give him hell for it, but if that’s what he needs, I’ll do it.
Does he want to be part of this? Want to pretend I never told him? Want… what?
He strides into my kitchen like he owns the place and sets a grocery bag on my counter.
Then he leans back against it, planting his hands on the marble while his dark brown eyes track over me.
They take in every detail—my chaotic blonde waves pulled up in a bun, the baggy T-shirt and leggings, my make-up free face.
I know I’m a mess. I threw up twice more after he hung up on me. It’s definitely been the worst day of morning sickness so far, and this interaction is taking up whatever’s left of the minimal energy I woke up with.
I give him a similar perusal, infinitely aware of how much space he takes up in my kitchen.
His brown hair is mussed and his groomed beard looks as soft as ever, stirring a vivid memory of how it brushed across my skin—something that feels wrong to think about now.
He’s even dressed the same as the last time I saw him: jeans, flannel, boots.
He crosses his arms over his chest, the barbed-wire tattoos on his muscled forearms flexing with the motion as he waits for me to speak.
Now that he’s here, I want to get the worst of this over with.
“You’re mad. I get it.” I walk past the kitchen to the other side of the island, forcing him to shift his stance.
I’m staring at the space between us, not prepared to make eye contact.
“Maybe you think I lied to you. Maybe you think I tricked you. I don’t know, but listen, I don’t expect anything from you. I don’t want anything from you.”
I look up in time to catch his flinch, like those last words hit him hard. I curse myself. That wasn’t how I meant for it to come out.
I open my mouth to backtrack, but he holds up a hand. “Leanne. Please stop.” He sounds pained, and I pull my lips between my teeth, feeling chastised.
He presses his hands flat onto the countertop, eyes locked on the bag there, like he can’t bear to look at me.
“I’m not mad. I don’t think you tried to trick me.
I don’t even think you lied. Yeah, I’m confused, but we can come back to that.
And we’ll definitely come back to the whole you not wanting anything from me thing, but first—” He stops, finally lifting his head and looking at me with so much tenderness it takes me aback.
“Can you please tell me if you’re okay? Because you look—”
And with one more glance down my body, my self-consciousness turns me into the worst version of myself.
“Like shit?” I scoff. “Yeah, I know. Thanks for pointing that out.”
He blows out a harsh breath. “For fuck’s sake, blondie. I didn’t say that.”
“For fuck’s sake,” I repeat his words. “Could you stop calling me blondie!” I shout, my heightened emotions bubbling over.
He runs both hands through his hair and turns his back on me, mumbling, “This is going fucking fantastic.”
“You’re the one who barged in here,” I snap. “We could’ve had this conversation over the phone.”
“Where I could listen to you heave your guts up and be unable to do anything about it? No fucking thanks. And if you would’ve let me finish my sentence, you’d know I was going to say you look like you’re really sick and I’m worried about you.
” His voice evens out but the irritation remains.
With me, himself, or the situation… I have no idea.
As if on cue, my stomach lurches again, and even though it has nothing left to evacuate, I rush for the trash can.
Gentle fingers reach around and pull back the pieces of my hair that have come loose from my bun as I dry heave. Those same fingers find the base of my skull and rub with gentle pressure up and down my neck.
My stomach finally calms and I press up to find my back against a firm chest. I don’t have it in me to fight my desire for warmth and comfort. It feels like a betrayal to all the walls I’ve built in the past seven and a half months, but I need this moment.
When his hands come to my hips to steady me, I melt into him, letting my head rest on his shoulder.
If I keep my eyes squeezed tight, I can pretend it’s not him providing the support.
That it’s not a man who, no matter what he might have said about liking me before, can’t possibly feel that way now.
If only I could feel nothing—turn it all off—but those six plastic sticks have heightened my every feeling and it’s like a kaleidoscope of emotions all swirling and mixing and changing without my ability to control it.
Happy. Sad. Scared. Confused. Nervous. Shocked. Elated. Terrified. Apprehensive. They move like colors, forming patterns I never would’ve thought possible.
I shudder against Bryce as a cry climbs up my throat. I hold it back as best I can, but a whimpered sound still escapes. He spins me and holds me against him, letting me cry against his shirt.
I hate myself more every minute.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not now. Not like this. Not with him. Not with anyone—as far as I believed.
Of all the people I shouldn’t let my guard down with, it’s this man.
The last time I did, we ended up in bed together.
And look how that turned out? For weeks I’ve told myself it was a fluke.
That the animosity between us was what made it so explosive.
That nothing positive could come from that kind of reaction to someone.
But something positive did come from it… At least, it did for me.
But even if that’s true, it doesn’t change who and what we are to each other. Which is nothing. He can’t want me, not after everything, and I don’t want him to.
I begin to push against his chest like I’m a caged animal who can’t get free, scrabbling against him in panic.
“Hey, hey!” He lets me go and I flee around the kitchen island, angrily swiping the tears off my face.
The hurt that flashes across his features cuts deep.
He’s not hiding his feelings from me, even if I’m doing my best to bottle mine up so I can hide them from him.
From everyone. “Do you want me to leave? I really thought talking about this in person would be better, but if you don’t want me here, I’ll go. ”
He takes two steps back, toward the door.
I should let him go. I should stay quiet and let him walk out. A moment of pain, of rejection, is better than what will happen if I let him linger only to have him leave me later.
I’m frozen, my arms wrapped around my torso in a sorry attempt to hold myself together. Like doing so will protect me from all the potential for hurt. He nods once and turns for the door, and that’s when my gaze lands on the grocery bag, noting what’s inside.
Ginger ale. Crackers. Peanut butter.
He stopped to get me supplies?
I’m worried about you. That’s what he said. I like you. He said that too. Did he really mean it? Does he still?
The door handle turns and, against my better judgement, I go after him.
“Wait!” I shout, then watch Bryce’s big, broad frame shudder to a stop in the threshold.
His head is bowed. He doesn’t turn around to look at me.
He just waits… Waits for me to say something more.
Waits for me to put myself out there, the same way he did by dropping everything and showing up.
The same way he did when he got me groceries.
“I’m sorry,” I croak, the words tasting like acid in my throat. “Please, don’t go. I want…” My voice catches and I swallow hard. “I want you to stay.”