Page 116 of The Situation
“You can! Just not at warp speed!”
He looks at me like I’m out of my mind.
I don’t know if I’m tired from the week, or if I’m stressed by being hounded by this question every day. I might just be pissed that I’m dealing with feeling out of control yet again.
“I’m not saying I won’t ever want to marry you, or that I don’t want to have your children, because I actually fucking do,” I say, my voice rising. “But I want to do it on my time. I’m sick and tired of having to make my life’s decisions on someone else’s clock. If I marry you someday, I don’t want to have any lingering trauma in the back of my mind that I carry into our union. I need to heal, Tate.”
His face falls.
“I told you this from the beginning,” I say. “I told you I wanted a one-night stand so this didn’t happen. I didn’t leave you my name or number—why?So this didn’t happen.”
“Well, it happened.”
“What about you telling me you’d be patient? Are you tired of waiting?” A swell of emotion lurches up my throat. I swallow it back as best as I can, but my voice is hoarse. “Did you finally decide that I’m more trouble than I’m worth?”
He doesn’t move as I climb off the bed because I won’t let him see me cry.
I’ll never let a man see me cry again.
I make quick work of getting dressed and am jogging down the steps when Tate comes out of his room.
“Aurora,” he says, from the landing.
I pause, stopping and looking up at him.
The pain in his eyes is the same I feel ripping through me. There’s no point in making it worse.
I tuck my chin, bolt to my car, and go home.
ChapterTwenty-Eight
Aurora
“Honey, I’m home!” I say as I enter the salon.
I thought it would be a funny way to announce myself, but it just stings my heart.Too soon.
“Out front,” Jamie yells. “Bring a can of disinfectant with you, please!”
“Sounds like I’m walking into something.” I rummage around in the storage closet. “Where are you keeping the cleaning stuff now? Wait! Found it!”
I snag the can and carry it with me to the front of the building.
“Here,” Jamie says, wiggling her fingers without looking at me. “Gimme.”
“What are we disinfecting?” I ask, peering down at the floor, and see … nothing. “What are you looking at?”
“Something moved right there. By the bottom of the chair.”
I look again, but all I see is tile. “There’s nothing there, Jamie.”
She holds the can like a weapon—arm extended, eye lined up with the bottom of the barrel—and fires away.
I cough, fanning my face, and step back. “Okay! I think you got it.”
She stops and peers down again. Unsatisfied, she blasts it for another five seconds for good measure.
“You told me you’ve been lonely, but you haven’t said anything about seeing things,” I say, hopping up in my old chair. “That might be a symptom of something.”
