Page 25 of Hold You Close
He grasps the handle of the half-gallon, but he doesn’t pick it up. “She’s going to want you.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “And?”
“And . . .” He doesn’t look at me as he considers his words. “And I think you should come back to the house.”
God, he was so damn stubborn. Why couldn’t he just admit that he needed me as much as the kids did? Why couldn’t he be straight with me for once, and not give me that cocky asshole façade? Why couldn’t he see that all I wanted was a little fucking sincerity from him? I shake my head. “Not good enough.”
He glares at me. “Fuck you.” Then he swings the milk off the counter and storms out the back door, slamming it behind him.
Six
London
I must’ve lost my freaking mind.
That’s the only explanation I can come up with for what just happened. I might have some sort of disease that destroys common sense and logic. Nothing else makes sense as to why I kissed him like that, let him kiss me, and somehow expected something other than exactly what I got. I’m still standing alone in my kitchen trying to process everything that just happened when I hear three loud knuckle-raps on the glass.
I freeze, take a deep breath, and head to the door. It’s him, of course. “So you knock now?”
His jaw is tight. “Please come back to the house.”
“Why should I?”
Exhaling loudly, he tries again. “I need you. They need you.”
I need him to say it. It’s stupid and doesn’t change anything between us, but it has to be because I’m worth something more.
“Are you asking me for help because you need a babysitter while you’re out at the club?”
Please, say no. Please tell me it’s because you care, even just a little for me.
He shrugs. “Partly.”
I try to shut the door in his face but he stops it with the heel of his hand. Instead of Neanderthalling his way into the house, he just stands there.
“I can’t do this with you,” I admit. “I can’t. You want just one thing, and screw anyone else’s needs in the meantime.”
“You think I want this . . . that I’m enjoying myself having to ask you for help now?”
“I don’t know what you want, I don’t thinkyouknow what you want!”
He runs his hand over his face. “Well, excuse me! But I wasn’t the one pushing your restraint right there.” He points to the fridge. “That was all you, sweetheart. You’re just as guilty for what happened. I know you like me to be the bad guy, but fuck, London. You initiated it this time. So don’t play your ‘I’m so perfect and Ian is the devil’ shit on me.” His voice rises as he mimics me.
Asshole.
“Fuck off.”
He’s right, though. It was me this time. I wanted . . . no, I needed him. I needed to feel something—anything—to know that it was me he wanted and not some bullshit excuse about keeping me quiet. I need to know why I still feel something for him.
And if I’m honest, it’s the most alive I’ve felt in a long time. Ian is the gasoline and I’m the match—when we connect, we could start a forest fire.
“Right, fuck off,” Ian scoffs. “I kiss you and you slap me. You push me to do it again so you can what? Get answers to something that happened a million years ago?”
He doesn’t get it. I was doing just fine before he kissed me today. For decades, I’ve been able to go without a single touch from him and be just fine. Then the moment in the office happened and I’ve lost my ever-loving mind.
“You confused me with that kiss. I’m so tired of you using me, confusing me, and then brushing me off like I don’t matter!”
The air between us crackles. “I brush you off? Are you kidding me?”
