Page 57 of Fumbling for Perfection

“Drink this.” My hand shakes as I reach for it. “Christ, Riley.”

For hands as big and calloused as his, he holds my chin tenderly, tipping my face up while he holds the water to my lips.

“When was the last time you ate?”

I swallow the water. “Last night.”

“You barely touched your fettuccini.” He sets the glass on the coffee table and strides into my kitchen.

I’m touched he got me a glass of water. I’m surprised he remembered what I ate—or tried to eat—last night. And I’m shocked he’s in my kitchen making me something to eat now. A few minutes later, he returns with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on a paper plate.

“This is all I could find.”

“Thank you.”

I hadn’t stocked up on many groceries since Jackson and I were supposed to leave for Bermuda tomorrow. His insistence, as a honeymoon would be expected, and it was too hard to turn down a tropical vacation.

What I wouldn’t do to escape to Bermuda right now.

With Walker.

Walker, the father of my child. The man currently taking care of me. The man who my heart beats for.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

WALKER

Fucking hell. I’ve never seen Riley like this. Pale. Weak. Hopeless. She’s been living a life of lies the past few months, stringing me along, while also fighting the demons of the Bankes family and trying to keep Boston Strong afloat.

Whatever you’re thinking, she didn’t do anything wrong or out of malice.

Especially in her condition.

Jackson’s warning blazes its way into my head.

I was halfway back to Boston when I pulled over and texted him, ordering him to give me Riley’s address.

He responded in seconds with a follow up of the same warning he gave me outside the country club. The ninety-minute drive wasn’t long enough for me to figure out what I was going to say to her.

I planned on listening, letting her come clean about her betrayal and the pregnancy, if I decoded Jackson’s words correctly, but when she let me into her apartment without fucking checking to see who it was. That pissed me off.

The flash of boob told me she was naked under her robe, which I would have loved under any other condition. But that she let me in not knowing it wasmepissed me the fuck off. Was she expecting someone else?

All rational thoughts fled the moment I saw her naked flesh. When her sad eyes greeted mine, I wanted to pull her into my arms and kiss her senseless. It was when she spun it around and accused me of being secretive about my job that set me off.

Had I been evasive about my career? Fuck, yes. But not to hurt her. Being a professional football player in the NFL and signing an eight-million-dollar contract wasn’t relevant to our relationship.

Sexual. Friendly. Romantic. Whatever the fuck it was. It’s normal for a guy—or woman—in my position to want to keep their wealth a secret until trust is built with the partner. We were on the cusp of total truth. I’d planned on telling her everything Wednesday night after I made love to her in my hotel room, or back at her apartment. I wanted to share my excitement with her that night before shewent away with friends.

I watch Riley take two small bites of her sandwich before she sets it down next to her on the couch.

“Finish it.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“If that’s my child you’re carrying, you’re going to do what I say and eat the fucking sandwich.”

She jerks at my harsh words. This isn’t me. I don’t snap at women. I don’t swear at women. I’m not a possessive asshole, and I’m still not a hundred percent sure she's pregnant or if the baby is mine.

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