Page 14 of His Curvy Obsession

Eric rises, walking to the closet door and opening it. He disappears inside and I hear the shuffling of hangers on the rack as he looks for his clothes.

“It’s obvious what I get from this,” he says from within the closet. “A wife and children. Believe it or not, Rebecca, Iwant those things. Most men do. It’s a very natural desire.”

He emerges from the closet with a bundle of clothing in his arms, tossing it on the bed beside me. Then he begins to strip off his sweatpants.

“Please,” I say, averting my eyes and shielding them with a hand. “Do you need me to leave the room, or something?”

“Like I said earlier,” Eric replies. “I think we’re beyond that at this point. I’ve seen everything of yours now. You’re free to look at me. It may help you make your decision about my proposal.”

I peel my hand away from my eyes and look at Eric, careful to keep my eyes above his waist. I’m checking for a sign of sarcasm in his expression, sure that hemustbe making a joke now.

He’s not.

But I can’t help it; I break out into full belly laughs now, nearly falling back on the bed. And then I wince when my head erupts again with pounding, searing pain between my temples.

“This is some hangover,” I groan, closing my eyes.

“You’re dehydrated,” he says. “I’ll make a call to my doctor. He can come by, do an IV vitamin drip.”

“A what?”

Eric pulls on his clothes—a pair of dark jeans and a white t-shirt that hugs the curves of his muscular chest and shoulders and looks like it would be soft to touch.

“IV vitamin drip,” he answers. “Replenishes your fluids, vitamins, and so on. It’s the fastest way to recover from a hangover.”

“Oh, hell no,” I groan. “No needles. I’ll stick with the coffee method of hangover recovery. Thanks though.”

“Your decision,” he says. “So Rebecca. I take it that your laughter just now means that you’re not interested in my proposal?”

I look at him.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m just…I want all of those things. I do. But with the right person. A person I love, and who loves me back. I don’t want some kind of…some kind of emotionless arrangement.”

I’m careful to say this rejection in a kind way, not wanting to hurt his feelings. When I look at Eric, I can’t read his expression. But that’s nothing new; I canneverread my boss’s expression. He keeps his emotions—if he has any emotions at all—locked away, deep inside, far away from me and others.

“Understood,” he says simply.

And just like that, he drops the idea just as suddenly as he brought it up in the first place.

He turns and walks to the door, opening it. Before he steps out, he looks back at me and I think he’s about to bring the proposal back up again, say something to try to convince me.

Weirdly, I kind of want him to. I’m on the edge of desperation, the bittersweet milestone of my thirtieth birthday still fresh in my mind, and Eric paints a very pretty picture on nearly every front…except that it’s a picture that doesn’t include love.

And I want love.Needlove. How do you marry a man who doesn’t love you? Have a child with a man who doesn’t love you?

No matter how badly I want to begin trying for a baby, to outpace my dysfunctional biological clock, I’m not sure I want it badly enough to go through with a plan like his.

But if he could offer me something,anything, to show me that I’m more to him than a vessel to fulfill his own dreams of fatherhood, then maybe I could consider it.

“There’s an espresso machine downstairs,” he says. “Orange juice in the refrigerator. Help yourself to anything you want. I’ve left my driver’s number on a note on the counter. Call him when you’re ready to leave, and he’ll take you wherever you need to go.”

“Okay,” I say faintly.

He looks at me for a few seconds longer and I think he might say something else. Instead, he gives me a curt nod and closes the door behind him.

7

Eric

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