Page 57 of Forgotten Romance

“That smells so good,” he says, dropping down onto the stool closest to me. “I need all the bacon.”

“I know.” We might be terrible at communication, but I still know more about him than I ever want to know about another person. I move around the kitchen, frying up eggs, bacon, sausage, and mushrooms before getting us a stack of toast. Mack watches me the entire time.

I know bringing it up sooner than later is the smartest choice, but I don’t want to break this quiet peace.

Also, with how hungover he is, it’s probably better we get as much into his stomach as possible first.

I ignore that I’m nervous.

I ignore that I don’t want to hurt him while ignoring that if he’s not hurt, it’ll kill me.

Emotions are horribly complex.

We settle at the table, and he dives straight in while I sip my very, very strong coffee.

I wait until he’s downed at least a slice of toast and multiple rashers of bacon.

Then I say the worst words ever.

“We need to talk.”

Mack looks up, mouth hanging open and half full of food. It should be a real turnoff.

It isn’t.

“Uh-oh.”

I manage a light laugh to ease the sudden tension. “It’s nothing—” I was going to say “bad,” but that would be a rotten lie. “Nothing serious. I have some not-so-great news, and we also need to talk boundaries.”

“Boundaries?”

“Just … let’s get the crappy news out first.” My palms are clammy, and I’m nervous about how he’s going to take this. Best case? Disappointed but supportive. Unfortunately, past experience does not give me hope.

Mack sets down his cutlery, and before I can say anything, he speaks. “You’re leaving again, aren’t you?”

My heart breaks at his tone. I was an idiot for thinking that he might not care because while he might be making an effort with Luke, the betrayal in his voice is real. Deep.

I take a long breath and try to get through this. “Not right away.”

“When?”

“Second of January.”

Devastation fills his face before he quickly masks it. “Right.”

“Six weeks was still great though, wasn’t it?”

One side of his lips makes a valiant effort to tilt upward. “Time with you always is.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know. It’s not your fault.”

It sort of is though, not that I’ll say that out loud. I’m itching to take his hand and tell him that while I might need to leave, I’m working on it, trying to find my way back to him. I hold it all in and force an upbeat voice. “Sorry it will cut into your time with Luke.”

I think it’s about the only thing I could have said to break through his disappointment. “What do you mean?”

“I know. That you two are …” I’m trying to be good about this, but it’s fucking hard. “It’s okay. You deserve everything, and I couldn’t give that to you. Maybe he will.”

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