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I walk in, feeling him close behind. The slam of the door makes me jump. I start to storm upstairs, fully intending to sleep anywhere but in his bedroom, but he grabs my wrist, stopping me.
“Don’t ever go to Autumn first again,” he says. His thumb presses into my pulse like he knows how fast it’s racing.
“She’s my sister. I’ll talk to her about anything I want.” I wrench my arm from his. “And if that pisses you off, you’ll just have to live with it. You don’t own me.”
“You cried.”
“What?” My mouth drops open. “She told Parker that?”
“You went to her and you cried. You never even told me you were upset. You should have cried to me.”
Oh. My. God. “Is that what this is about?” I whisper.
“I’m your husband. If you’re upset, it’s my job to make things better. I can’t do that if you don’t talk to me.”
“Well, this has taken a turn I didn’t expect,” I mutter. God, I really thought he was angry because I kept him in the dark. This is so much… worse.
Because he’s killing me here.
“Don’t make a joke out of this. I’m serious.” His eyes lock on mine. “I hate the thought of you being upset.”
“I didn’t want to disturb you,” I tell him. “You were at work.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“And I needed to talk to somebody about you. Somebody who wasn’t you,” I admit, pulling my lip between my teeth.
He reaches up, cups my face, his palm gentle on my skin. “If you’re upset with me, I can take it. If you have questions, I can answer them. But I can’t do anything if you pretend everything is okay.”
I take a breath, remembering that photograph. And dammit, I’m not okay. If he wants my emotions, then he can have them all.
“There’s a picture of a woman in your dresser drawer. And it makes me uncomfortable because I don’t know who she is. I don’t know if you’re attached to somebody else while having sex with me. It makes me feel…” I let out a sigh. “Less, I guess.”
For a second he says nothing. His brows furrow, like he’s trying to understand.
“A woman?”
“Her picture was on your dresser until I moved into your room. It feels like you’re hiding something.” God, I hate feeling like this. Like I’m unworthy. Standing naked and exposed while he keeps himself fully clothed, protected.
“The photo is of Leona,” he tells me, and I blink because he’s actually opening up.
“Who’s Leona?” I whisper.
“The babysitter I had when I was a kid. She was more of a mom to me than my own mom ever was. And you don’t have to worry about her, because she’s dead.” His mouth tightens, like he doesn’t want to talk about this.
Oh my God. I feel like a prize idiot.
“I’m so sorry,” I tell him. “I’m sorry she’s gone.”
He nods but says nothing else. His hand is still on my face, his body pressing mine against the wall.
“I didn’t mean to upset you,” I whisper. “I just…”
His long lashes sweep down. “You didn’t. I upset you. I just wish you’d asked me before you jumped to conclusions.” His thumb grazes the corner of my eye, where a tear is starting to form. Then he pushes it between his lips, tasting my sadness.
“This is mine,” he tells me, his voice thick. “Your tears, they’re mine. Nobody gets them but me. You have a problem, you tell me. You shout at me. You scream if you need to. Hell, I’ll let you beat on my chest if you’re feeling physical.”
My mouth twitches. Beating on him sounds fun right now.
