Page 2 of Messy Strokes (Wrecked Roommates)

I shake off the thought, attempting to focus on the current screwed up situation sitting in the waiting room instead of the one I’ll be facing in a few weeks.

Lucky me.

But the real question to my current predicament is…

Who told him?

How did he find me?

My hands tremble as I wash them at the small row of sinks on the right-hand side of the heavy doors. Once they’re dried, the door buzzes and opens to reveal a very frustrated, very sexy Milo pacing the waiting area like a pissed-off bull.

I haven’t seen him since everything fell apart, and the sight is like a sucker punch to the gut.

I can’t do this.

“Where is she?” he growls as soon as he sees me.

I step over the threshold and raise my hands, praying it’ll placate him. “Milo––”

“I wanna see her.”

“Milo, she’s…” I look over my shoulder at the automatic doors of the NICU already locking behind me. “She was early. I can’t take her home yet.”

“I wanna see her,” he repeats, his tone brooking no argument. But there’s a desperation in his request peeking through the anger and frustration directed at me. A need to see her. His baby girl. His blood. My heart cracks as I rein in my hope for any kind of positive future we could’ve had in another life. But after everything we’ve been through, everything we’ve said and can’t take back, everything Ihaven’tsaid but should’ve…there’s no coming back from it all. I can’t let myself daydream about what could’ve been anymore. It’ll only lead to more heartbreak. More pain. And I refuse to wallow in self-pity any longer. I have a baby who needs me.

“Let me see her,” he demands.

I drop my chin to my chest, shame filling every single tiny crevice in my body. I kept her from him. And I still can’t look him in the eye without remembering how terrible––how selfish––I’ve been. But this isn’t easy. He has no idea what I’ve been through. To protect him. To protect her. To stay out of his life the way he ordered me to.

It isn’tfair.

None of this is.

“Come on,” I mutter, giving him my back and lifting my barcode-printed wristband to the scanner near the NICU doors.

A voice crackles through the speaker. “Hey, Ms. Walker. You both coming in?”

I give the camera located next to the barcode scanner a nod. “Yes. He’s with me. Thank you.”

Buzz.

The door unlocks and swings open. In silence, I step over the threshold, not bothering to see if Milo’s following, though the soft scuff of his black boots against the linoleum floor is enough evidence I’m not alone. He’s here. And it’s obvious he isn’t going anywhere.

Again, I wash my hands at the sink with a little yellow sponge and white scrubber, making sure my hands are germ-free for all the little babies in the unit while praying he doesn’t notice the way they’re still trembling.

I think I’m going to be sick.

Milo follows my lead, towering beside me as he squirts some foamy soap over his inked hands, scrubbing away for a solid two minutes before rinsing them in the water.

Memories of his hands on my body, skimming my bare skin, his voice murmuring in my ear, low and husky assault me. The heat from his chest brushing against mine as he’d push into me. Owning me. Claiming me. Branding me. Over and over again––

A loud rip makes me flinch as he reaches for the paper towel dispenser and rips a section away from the roll, dries his hands, and tosses it in the trash.

I can’t do this.

I fist my hands at my sides. The slight sting of pain from my fingernails biting into my palms grounds me as he stares at me. But he doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t need to. His gaze is full of a thick hatred, making me feel like I’m drowning, wrenching me back to the night he broke my heart. The night I promised myself I’d never see him again. Not only for my sake but for his.

“Where is she?” he growls.

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