Page 51 of Forced Knocked-Up Mate

These questions terrify me all over again. I take my cup to the sink and rinse it, glaring at my hands and clenching my fists against the rising anxiety inside me.

Why does this hurt so much?

“Ready?” Lucy asks, coming into the room behind me.

“Hmm?” I say. “Yeah. Just rinsing my cup.”

“Thank you,” she says, coming up behind me and running her hand up my back.

A shiver runs through me, and I don’t know if I want to grab her and kiss her or try to run away again. Lucy slips her arm around my waist and snuggles against my side. I can’t resist the draw of her scent or the comfort of her body. Before I know it, I’ve wrapped both my arms around her and snuggled her against my chest.

I bow my head and rest my cheek in her hair, immersing myself in her scent. The tension bleeds out of me as I tighten my arms around her, hearing her sigh with pleasure.

She looks up at me with a small but bright smile. “Last night was wonderful,” she says.

“Yes, it was,” I say softly.

“I know we should probably talk about stuff, but—”

“No, that’s okay,” I say quickly. “It was a good time. I don’t think we should overanalyze it.”

Some of the joy goes out of her expression, and I feel like the worst rat bastard that ever walked the earth.

Lucy takes a step back, running her hands down my arms until she’s holding both my hands. She gives my fingers a bit of a squeeze and sighs, finally letting go and stepping away.

I follow her up to the front of the house and out to the car. The sky is only just changing color, a gray-dawn twilight that makes the world look strange and spooky.

Even though Lucy doesn’t look upset, she doesn’t talk to me on the drive to the shop. The bad feeling begins to fade as I remember the reason I’m here, and the reason I can’t leave.

The spell. This is all because of the spell. None of this is real, and as soon as it’s broken, all these feelings will just go away.

Chapter 17 - Lucy

Last night was so wonderful.

Still, the silence in the car is tense. It almost feels like we came out of a night of arguing, not mind-blowing sex.

Peter stares out the window. I don’t know if he’s deliberately ignoring me or if this is just what he’s like. I can’t help feeling a bit disappointed and even hurt by the distance between us.

You went into last night without any expectations. Don’t blame Peter now. It was your idea, and he made no promises.

I search my mind for something to say, but the silence just gets deeper. I wanted to wake up in his arms, then make breakfast together before we came to town. Even though it’s completely unrealistic, there was a part of me that believed he would wake up a changed man.

Only in the movies, babe.

I park behind the shop, still struggling to find something to say. I desperately want to touch him, but I also feel like that could be the worst thing to do.

“Okay,” I say as we step into the kitchen. “Where would you like to start? I’ll pick up anywhere that you’re not confident.”

“I’ll start the bread,” he says. “I did pretty good with it last time.”

“You did,” I answer. “I’ll set up out front. Sarah is coming in mid-morning, so you shouldn’t have to serve.”

“That should work well for both of us,” he says with a cheeky smirk.

We share a moment of laughter, all the feelings inside me pile up behind my wall of control, threatening to knock it down and obliterate it. I want to rush over there and press my body against his, kiss him, and run my fingers through his unruly red hair.

But then Peter looks away, getting out bowls and pans, slapping them down on the table with unnecessary force. It’s maddening. I don’t know if he’s doing this on purpose to deflect me or if he genuinely isn’t feeling the same thing.

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