Page 35 of The Hearts We Fumble
“What would you like me to call it then, Wy?” His brow lifts, challenging me, daring me to fight him on this.
Something flashes across his face then—so quick I almost miss it. A flicker of something that almost looks like hurt. Maybe I’m wrong, though.
It wouldn’t be the first time I misread the signals he sent me, like trying to put together a puzzle where the pieces never quite fit.
I don’t answer. What is there to say anyway?
He takes another step forward.
I match him, stepping back until the back of my legs hit the couch.
I’m trapped. And he knows it.
The air between us tightens, coiled like a wire ready to snap as he moves in closer.
His voice drops lower, rougher. “Seeing you in his shirt, picturing you curled up in another man’s arms—what am I supposed to think, huh?” His eyes darken, his chest heaving with uneven breaths. “What would you like me to call it, then?”
The raw vulnerability behind his words hits like a sucker punch to the ribs.
I want to tell him to fuck off. I want to storm out of his house, across the yard, and slam my door shut behind me.
But I don’t.I can’t.
Instead, I force out the only truth that matters. “It’s not your business what I do with my life, Zane. You had no right to tell my brother. It wasn’t your place.”
His head shakes, a bitter laugh escaping his lips.
“Shut up,” he grits out between clenched teeth. “You don’t believe that for a second, so don’t stand here and try feeding me a load of bullshit.”
My mouth drops open, then snaps shut.
His smirk is slow and taunting, his voice lowering as he leans in, his breath warm against my ear.
“What’s that? Cat got your tongue, Wy?” His lips curve into a dangerous grin. “This might be a first.”
His words hit their mark, my pulse pounding in my throat.
But I don’t back down.
I tilt my chin, keeping my voice steady even as my insides unravel.
“Who I’m with and what I do is none of your fucking business, Zane.”
His fingers clamp around my chin, tilting my face up until we’re only inches apart. The warmth of his breath skates across my heated cheek, but it’s not the heat that has my pulse thundering in my ears—it’s the look in his eyes.
A storm. A war. A fight against himself.
His grip tightens just enough for me to feel the tension in his fingers, like he’s holding on to something just as much as he’s holding on to me.
I don’t move. Don’t speak.
I wait.
For whatever the hell is brewing inside him to spill out. For him to just say whatever is clogging his throat and finally end this goddamn game we keep playing.
“Say it,” I whisper, lifting my chin, forcing steel into my voice.
Whatever insult he’s chewing on, whatever gut-punch rejection he’s about to throw at me—I let him.
