Page 85 of Doing It for Love

“What was that?” I laugh, coaxing his head up.

“I want to use our one-a-month.”

My eyebrows rise. “It hasn’t been a month.”

“True, but last time was in November,” he says matter-of-factly. “It’s December now.”

“Is that how this works?”

“Mmmhmm,” he mumbles before kissing my shoulder.

“I’m…I’m still mad at you,” I struggle to say as my body ignites against his. My hips press upward, my nails drag down the toned skin of his back, and my eyelids flutter as every nerve ending pulsates.

“I know,” he says through another kiss. “But I’m not sorry.”

Just like that, my completely revved-up body retreats into itself. If I could cross my legs, I would. The garage is closed; no one’s getting in without the code. The urge to push him off and bolt straight out the door makes my hands and knees twitch.

“Excuse me?”

He pushes himself up, hovering, but not touching. Perhaps he senses that his parts are in danger. “I’m not sorry for why I left.”

“You don’thaveto be sorry about that,” I bite out. “But you should be sorry for not talking to me.”

“I told you I was okay.”

“In what world is that enough to ease my mind? I thought you were calling off the wedding.”

“Why would you ever think that?” His voice rises. “After everything I’ve said to you, after the years we’ve been together, after our date—”

“You mean the date you tucked me in, didn’t come to bed, and then left without a word the next day? I was out of my mind. You didn’t answer your phone, you wouldn’t text me, and the only thing I get is something from Alec and Jace saying you’re spending the night at their places. How would you feel if I did that to you?”

“I was doing itforyou.”

I roll my eyes and cover my chest. He does not get to see boobs right now.

“Just say you’re sorry.”

“Fine. I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t sound it at all, and he starts kissing my cheeks and whispering things, but I can’t breathe. I feel too confined, too claustrophobic, and I don’t want him on me anymore. Not if he’s going to be a major asshole.

“Get up.”

“What?”

“I don’t want to anymore.”

I roll out from under him, and he sits up, reaching out to me. “No, wait, Liz. I…I was going to…I mean, I was going to give up.”

“What?” I mumble, searching for clothing.

“You can have the Bahamas. I’m done. Tossing in the towel. You’ve made your point. And Iamsorry.” He stands up and presses his forehead to mine while I grapple for a pillow so I can fall asleep on the couch watching fantasy guys who apologize in the third act and mean it. “I promise you, I’m sorry.”

His hand wraps around mine and he squeezes twice, and I love him, I do, but I’m so confused about our future, what we want for each other and what we want for ourselves, and the fact that he left without a word and that it feels like he’s only sorry because I don’t want to have sex. And what does that mean in the long run? I’m just scared and upset and tired, and I want a night to think.

So it takes me a long time to squeeze his hand back.

But I do.

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