Page 84 of Mine

Astor stands, his naked body glorious. “Sabine, stop. Come here.”

I swat away his advance and begin pacing. “I still have so many questions, and you just want sex. Geez, Astor, you are so incapable of handling anything serious that involves actual communication.”

“Sabine, please.” He slips on his boxer shorts.

God, why does he have to be so damn sexy?

Stop, stop, stop.

“Who is Prishna?” I glare. “Who is she really?”

Astor stills.

“Aha.” I jab a finger into the air. “I knew it. I found a death certificate with her name on it hidden in her suitcase.”

“You’ve been doing a lot of snooping.”

“Of course I have. I’m bored out of my damn mind. Answer my question—and I also want to know all about your wife, your marriage, everything.”

He blows out a long breath. “This is going to require another drink, then.”

After grabbing a bottle from the bar cart, Astor refills his wineglass and tops off mine. Then he sinks back onto the loveseat and crosses one leg over his knee.

“I’ll start at the beginning. I met Valerie at an event in Las Vegas. I got drunk, fucked her in the back of my limo, and two months later, she called me up—she got my number from a business colleague—and told me she was pregnant. I didn’t even remember having sex with her.”

“Because you were so drunk?”

“Because it was so insignificant.”

“Ouch.”

“You know the most surprising part? I was elated—but not about Valerie. I was elated that I was going to have a child.”

“I don’t think that’s particularly surprising.”

“No? Why?”

“You care. A lot. Astor, you have a lot of passion pent up inside you. I can see it in your eyes, feel it in your touch. Which is why you’re so miserable. You’re an extremely emotional person but refuse to acknowledge it. Do you know what you need?”

“You. Again. Right now.”

“No. You need a journal to write down your feelings—you know, instead of decapitating baby dolls.”

His lip quirks.

“No one has to read it, and if you don’t know where to start, write it like a letter, to no one in particular, and just get it all out.”

“I’d rather cut out my own spleen.”

“I don’t doubt that, but please, just think about it. Start writing, and I’ll bet you’ll find yourself opening up.”

“I’ll think about it.”

I grin, settling next to him on the loveseat. “Thanks for indulging me, at least.”

He winks.

“Back to the subject. Have you always wanted children?” I ask.

---