Page 23 of Shoot Your Shot

I want this house to feel the way it did before she left.

And I want our room to go back to being just that.

Ourroom.

But if I’m going to keep her—or at least give her the option to stay—she needs to know the truth. The truth being that I might not ever be able to give her a family. Not naturally anyway. And if she wants to leave after knowing that, I won’t try to stop her. But I’m not ready for that conversation yet. I’m not sure my heart can even handle it.

I need to let her know she can trust me again, and that’s going to take time. Time that I don’t really even have right now.

I hear the door creak open, and she walks out of the guest bedroom, rubbing her eyes.

I’ve always loved her this way—when she’s just waking up. She’s always grumpy when she first gets out of bed, but, fuck, she’s adorable with her hair in every direction and no makeup on.

“How are you feeling?” she says sleepily. She heads straight for the coffee machine that she picked out when we first moved in. “I’ll cook you something so that you can take your medication.”

“I feel good,” I answer, and it isn’t a lie. I feel decent, but I’m tired as hell.

The doctor told me that it would take weeks to get my strength back and to finally feel like me again, and I fucking hate feeling like I’m eighty years old.

As she begins making the coffee, she gives me a pointed look. “Kolt, it’s me. You can’t blow smoke up my ass. I know you too well.”

Just at the mention of putting anything up her ass, my cock twitches. It’s been so fucking long since I’ve buried myself inside of her pussy. And her ass? I miss that too. Hell, I’ve woken up jerking my dick with my seed spilling on my fingers. Since she’s been gone, I’ve fantasized about her more times than I could ever count.

“I’m fine,” I grumble before watching her ass sway around the kitchen as she takes out some eggs and vegetables from the refrigerator.

When she turns toward me, I can tell right away that she has something on her mind. Her eyebrows are pinched together, and she’s gnawing on her bottom lip like it’s her last meal.

“Why are your clothes in the guest bedroom?” she blurts out, and her cheeks instantly grow red. She exhales slowly, leaning over the counter to look across the kitchen at me as I stay perched at the table. “Last night, I was putting away some of my stuff that I’d gotten from your bedroom, and I saw all of your stuff in the guest room.” She swallows. “I just … don’t get it.”

For a moment, my gaze simply holds hers. I fucking hate feelings. I hate talking about them, and I certainly don’t like dealing with them too much either. But I can’t lie to this woman. She knows me better than anyone else in the entire world.

“Because I can’t stay in our bedroom, Paige—that’s why.” I sit back in my seat, dragging a hand down the back of my neck. “If you weren’t in there with me, I sure as hell didn’t want to sleep there. Not in our bed.”

Her face pales as she sucks in a breath, making a small squeaking noise from the force.

“Oh,” she whispers, her face sinking as she looks at the countertop in front of her before squeezing her eyes shut. “I wasn’t expecting you to say that.”

“Yeah, well,” I utter, “it’s the truth.”

The silence in the room is suffocating, and for a few minutes, she just stands there with her eyes closed. Finally, she drags in a deep breath and stands up straighter.

“Where did you sleep last night then?” she asks, her eyes glossy with tears.

More than anything, I wish I could get up, walk across the kitchen, and pull her to my chest. It’s a natural instinct when it comes to her. I might not be the compassionate, touchy-feely type with other people. But with Paige Hendrix? All I’ve ever wanted to do is make her smile.

“In the recliner,” I say, shrugging when her face falls. “It wasn’t too bad.”

I’m lying; it was fucking terrible. But even as bad as it was, it beat the hell out of being in the hospital, listening to the five thousand machines beeping all goddamn night.

“Kolt,” she whispers, her lip trembling, “you’re the one who is recovering from afreaking heart attack.”She widens her eyes. “I should have been the one to sleep in the recliner, not you.” She points at me. “Tonight, I’ll sleep on the couch. You can have your bed back.”

It’s ironic that we have an expensive-as-fuck bed in our bedroom with the softest sheets you can imagine, and yet we’re both avoiding the room like the plague.

“No.” I shake my head. “You’re still technically my wife. And my wife isn’t sleeping on a couch. Besides, we have three other empty rooms. I’ll have a bed delivered to one of them.”

She opens her pouty little mouth to argue, but she must know it’s a losing battle because she quickly snaps it shut and turns away from me. I watch her shoulders move gently as she inhales and exhales a few times before, finally, she takes out a frying pan and starts cracking the eggs.

For now, I’m going to sleep in the living room. But by the time I get better, maybe we’ll both be in our bed.

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