Page 67 of Reclaimed

“But not a lot of clubs. Depending on which way he travels, XO’s could be his next spot.” The way she caresses her growingbelly twists a knife in my chest. “I need to think about this. I think maybe it’s time I put in my notice.”

“You’re going to give up dancing?”

Her eyes are heavy with guilt. “I don’t want to. I love dancing. It’s part of who I am as a person. But it’s not safe right now and I have more than just me to think about.”

“I don’t think you have to give up dancing. You’re just putting it on hold for a little while.”

Her brow creases. “What do you mean?”

“We can set up a pole at your house. Then you can do all the dancing you want.”

“I’m not going to put a pole in my living room, Powell.”

I scowl at her use of my last name. “Why the fuck not? Everyone who cares about you already knows you’re a dancer.”

“Right, and if I leave the curtains open, I can give the street a free show.”

I catch her chin between my thumb and index finger, holding her gaze steady on mine. “The only one who’s going to get a private show is me, starshine. Whether it’s free or not is up to you.”

“Hm.” She leans over and kisses the tip of my nose, shedding off the heavy atmosphere. I can’t help but smile at the unexpected move. “I think it’s cute when you’re possessive.”

I level her with a glare.

“Are you going to give me a tour?” She glances curiously around my living room.

“You want a tour?”

“I’ve never been here before, and as your fake girlfriend, I think I should at the very least, see your bedroom.”

The suggestive comment sends blood rushing to my cock. I swallow twice to unstick my tongue from the roof of my mouth. “Sure, I can give you the short tour. For starters, this is my office.”

Isla hops off my lap and does a slow spin. I take in the room with her. The sleek, dark hardwood floors and the sterile white walls. The framed picture hanging above my desk of a landscape painted by Cortney during her art phase a few years back. The small black alarm panel next to the front door that I had installed after the incident last spring. My leather couch and recliner are much less comfortable to sleep on than Isla’s furniture, but not by much. My shoulder still aches a little from all those nights I abused it on her couch.

The pain was worth every single night she had peace. I’d still be there if she hadn’t invited me to share her bed.

“I like it,” she announces, inspecting my desk and cradling her belly. “It’s clean and crisp, but has a little more flavor than your average bachelor pad.”

If by flavor she means an area rug and a throw blanket, then sure. I have flavor in my living room.

“Where to next?”

“The kitchen is through there.” I point at the obvious doorway straight ahead and follow her lead.

It’s a standard kitchen, decorated in white cabinetry and stainless steel appliances, including a dishwasher that I’ve only run once in the entire time I’ve lived here.

The other side of the kitchen opens to a hall with three bedrooms and a bathroom.

“Which one is yours?”

“The one on the end.”

She looks over her shoulder at me as she skips down the hall, her flowy, floral skirt swishing around her ankles. She peeks into the open doors of the mostly empty bedrooms before laying her hand on the brass knob to mine.

“If you have three bedrooms, why is your office in the living room?”

“Ah.” Stalling, I run my hand over my hair. “I had it in this empty room for a week but the space felt too isolating.” It didn’t matter if the door was shut or open, I already felt like a shut-in. The confining space grew my world until it felt like nothing more than a pinprick.

She nods as if she understands.

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