Page 22 of Venus
I can’t do long term. It’s not in the cards for me and I’ve made peace with that. Carter is a nice guy, and I don’t want to play with his heart.
It’s so obviously big and aching for love.
Love that I can’t give him.
I slide out of bed carefully, trying not to wake him. My feet hit the cold floor as I shuffle into the kitchen, pulling his shirt down to cover my rear a bit more. It smells like him. Like cedar and soap and something warm underneath it all. I lift the fabric to bury my face in the collar for a second before shaking myself out of it.
Get a grip, V.
I don’t do this. I don’t feel things. Feelings are messy. They make me do irrational things, like plan your outfits for a man or get butterflies when I wake up next to him.
I brew a pot of coffee and try not to think about how he stayed. Not just physically, but emotionally, too. He didn’t even flinch when I told him there was a chance I might run. He planted his feet and practically promised he’d wait for me.
And I know those weren’t just empty words or a ploy to get in my pants. He meant it.
My phone vibrates on the counter with a text from my roommate and best friend.
Callie: So…did he bring the thick hose?
I roll my eyes and reply:
Me: He brought the whole engine.
Callie: Damn. I’m jealous. Think he’s got any friends?
I laugh to myself and put the phone face down before grabbing two mugs from the cabinet. Behind me, I hear footsteps and turn to see Carter walking in, shirtless,rubbing sleep from his eyes like the small-town Roman statue he is.
“I was gonna bring you coffee in bed,” I say.
He yawns. “And miss the chance to see you in my shirt? Not a chance.”
I wrinkle my nose when he takes a sip of it with no cream or sugar. He sets the mug down and leans on the counter, his gaze warm and unreadable. “So… was last night okay with you?”
“Yeah,” I say quickly. “It was good.”
He studies me for a moment. “I didn’t mean the sex…I meant me staying the night.”
I study him back. “I asked you to.”
He leaves that conversation there as if he’s afraid pressing further will bite him in the ass. He takes another sip of his nasty bean water, then gestures toward the fridge. “Mind if I make something?”
“Be my guest.”
He finds eggs, spinach, and a little leftover cheddar and starts cracking eggs like he’s done it here a hundred times. Watching him move around my kitchen like he belongs here… it’s domestic.
And dangerous. I shouldn’t be letting him get comfortable here.
I exhale. “I’m not good at this.”
“At cooking breakfast?”
“At…things.”
He chuckles, but doesn’t say anything back, inviting me to elaborate but not pushing the subject.
“I just don’t want to lead you on,” I add. “I don’t want you to get stuck waiting for something that’s never coming.”
He sets the spatula down and turns to face me fully. “You don’t owe me anything.”
