Page 160 of Modern Romance January 2025 1-4

Damn it, yes. But no. She was right, and she was wrong. He’d wanted to call her. He’d wanted to talk to her.

But to what end?

There was no point pretending they had some kind of future. The last thing he wanted to do was lead her on when there was this enormous barrier between them, maybe several. It was all so hopeless. So he hadn’t called. He’d waited for her to reach out to him, and when she had, he’d gone to her immediately.

But he also ached for her on a physical level, and that was so much easier to understand and to explain, so he nodded. ‘Yeah, I want to take you to bed. What do you want, Rosalind?’

She glared at him as if she truly hated him—and perhaps she did—but then she stamped her foot and nodded once. ‘I want that too,’ she said, but to show her annoyance, she pushed at his chest, once. ‘And I hate myself for it. If you only knew how much I hated myself.’

‘Why?’ he challenged; but he knew. She’d told him all he needed to understand her. ‘You’re not like the women your father screwed, and I’m not like him. I’m not leading you on—you’re not falling in love with me. You’re the one who said it—we call a spade a spade and we always have.’

‘Yes,’ she said, but her eyes filled with angry tears. ‘You make me so angry, but I want you.’

‘Yeah, well, we’re in the same boat. You make me angry, and I want you. What about it?’

And then she laughed, but it was rich with emotion and confusion, and he couldn’t help but step forward and drag her against him, kissing her until she wasn’t laughing, and she wasn’t crying, kissing her until they were both simply existing in this moment, this need, this fierce, desperate flame arcing between them, as it always did.

‘Damn you, Sebastian,’ she said, as he lifted her against his chest and carried her to the nearest soft space he could find, which just so happened to be the lounge. ‘Damn you to hell.’

He didn’t tell her that he’d been living there this whole long, cold week.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

FORAMOMENT, in that golden hour of dawn’s first breath, Rosie thought she was back on his island. The lighting, the feeling of waking up beside him, the satisfaction she felt deep in her soul, it was all so familiar. But then, she remembered. The last week. The negative pregnancy test. Their fight last night. And the smile that had breezed across her lips fell, as she woke up fully and looked across at Sebastian. Whether she’d moved in some way, or he’d just happened to wake up, his eyes were on her, and when they connected, they looked at one another and she felt a rush of something she couldn’t explain.

‘Good morning,’ he murmured, scanning her face, as though he too was uncertain how to proceed, or perhaps how she’d react.

Rosie sighed softly, because she wasn’t angry anymore. She was just...sad. There was something inside of her that made her want so much more than this, but she knew it was impossible. Was that the difference between herself and the women who’d had their hearts broken by her father? Was it just as Sebastian said? That they were honest with each other, and therefore nothing could go wrong?

‘Okay?’ he prompted, putting a hand on her shoulder tentatively, as if not sure that he should touch her.

She nodded slowly. ‘Yeah.’

He frowned, like he was thinking something but not expressing it. ‘Are you hungry?’

She was starving, but everything was so complicated and messy, and she didn’t know what to do next. On the one hand, sex was sex. But on the other, something was shifting inside of Rosie, the feeling that they’d crossed a line that had been hugely important to her. Sex on the island was one thing. It was different; removed. But being here, together, it was blurring all the lines and making her forget what they were, and what she wanted. Nothing made sense.

‘I’ll make breakfast,’ he said, and before she could argue, he was up and pulling on boxer shorts, walking out of the bedroom and damn it if Rosie didn’t let him. Damn it if she didn’t allow herself this one small indulgence of pretending that things between them were just this easy.

She flipped onto her back, eyes focused on the ceiling, her mind spinning and rolling.

Maybe she could put this down to the disappointment of her negative pregnancy test? Emotions were running high, so they’d slipped up and slept together. It didn’t mean anything except that she was in a vulnerable place.

But if that were the case, why wasn’t she scooting out of his place at the first opportunity and getting back to her real life? Why was she allowing herself the indulgence of playing make-believe with her husband?

She groaned softly as she got out of bed and dressed in her underwear and one of his shirts, scraping her hair into a loose ponytail as she left his room.

He was tipping scrambled eggs into the pan when she stepped into the kitchen, and two mugs of coffee were on the counter. Her heart skipped a beat.

It was just so normal.

So domestic.

In her heart of hearts, this, right here, was everything she’d ever wanted in life.

She’d wanted it so badly she’d never admitted that to herself, never let herself reach for it, nor hope for it, because the fear of not getting it had been almost paralysing.

And she still didn’t have it.

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