Page 68 of Full Out Fiend

“That’s carrying your child,” I retort, but my words don’t hold any heat.

“Still your body.” He shrugs as he turns on his heel, grabs the rest of the dishes, and gets to work cleaning the kitchen. He’s clearly done fighting me.

Tense silence settles around us as we work together to load the dishwasher and wipe down the countertop. We move in perfect synchroneity, falling into a rhythm we’ve perfected over the last few weeks.

I’m barely holding back tears by the time we’re done. Frustration that he won’t duke this out with me wars with anger and disappointment reserved exclusively for myself.

I’m attracted to him. I love spending time with him. I might even be falling for him. But as eye-opening and life changing as life with Fielding has been over the last few months, one thing is indisputable: I am a horrible judge of character.

What if I’m getting this all wrong? What if he doesn’t really want me, but just loves the chase? Or what if everything he claims to be feeling is situational because of the baby? My heart won’t survive another round of breaking.

The reward would be so damn good. But the risk is still right there.

I push in my barstool and take a deep breath, intent on heading to my room and putting myself to bed. He catches my wrist before I can leave the kitchen, so I let him pull me into his orbit. As much as the undefined hurts, I can’t deny that the little pieces of him I let myself indulge in are incredible.

He wraps his arms around me, slowly, tentatively, like I’m something to be both cherished and feared.

Returning his embrace, I nuzzle into the soft cotton of his T-shirt, savoring the way he smells and feels and relishing in this moment, because right now, he’s mine.

His hand blazes a trail of tingles up my arm until his fingers find my chin. He tilts my head up and leans down so close I fear he might kiss me.

My deep inhalation stops him in his tracks. His mouth hovers a few inches above mine, his eyes searching, then sad.

He holds the position, just like I knew in my heart he would. He doesn’t push. He doesn’t take. But his expression speaks volumes: he doesn’t like holding back. He looks as desperate as I feel.

“You’re the boss here, angel. I haven’t pushed my luck or tried to force a conversation out of respect. You just got out of a years-long relationship. You called off your wedding. You already warned me you weren’t going to hop into anything new… so I’m biding my time until youareready to make that leap.

“It’s your call. When, where, how, on what terms. I’ll do whatever you say. I’ll be whatever you need. Just know—I’m already yours.”

He steps back and walks out of the room, leaving me lightheaded and more confused than ever as my heart and my mind wage war against each other in a savage battle of lust and survival.

Chapter 37

Fielding

Ipushintothehouse and exhale. It’s the biggest breath I’ve let myself take all day. I spent the night only half-invested in the goings-on around me at The Oak. The urge to be here—with her—is all-consuming. Never before has this house felt so much like home. It’s the only place I want to be.

Especially on a Friday night. After a long week of classes, all I want to do is sprawl out on the couch and watch her watch the ridiculous reality shows she loves. Once she gets home tomorrow, whether she likes it or not, we’re not going anywhere until Monday morning. She needs rest. And I need—fuck. I just need her.

I creep through my own house as quietly as possible. She really does need to sleep—she has back-to-back clients in the morning. I hate that she works every Saturday. Maybe tomorrow I’ll swing by Jersey Bagels and surprise her. I haven’t felt bold enough to just show up at the salon yet, but I think that would be okay now.

We’re settling into ourselves. Finding our rhythm. Or at least I thought we were. Things were clearly off tonight. But she’s tired and probably feeling the heft of the end of the week. I’ll try and get all my studying done while she’s at work so she can be my sole focus for the rest of the weekend.

I automatically glance at the space below her closed bedroom door as I make my way down the hall toward my room. There’s no hint of light—not even the barely there glow from her phone or Kindle. I assume she’s asleep. But I still feel compelled to check on her like I promised.

I silently push her door open partway and squint through the dark to where she lies in the middle of the bed. Instead of being fast asleep as I expected, she sits upright the second I turn to close the door.

Shit.

“Sorry—I didn’t mean to wake you. I just wanted to say good night.”

She’s silent as I hover at the threshold. Maybe she’s not really awake. I take a tentative step back into the hallway and reach for the knob.

But then she speaks.

“Fielding.”

I push the door open again so quickly it creaks on its hinges.