Page 18 of Afterglow

“I didn’t mean to…” Her voice is a shred of a whisper, and the admission makes me jerk back involuntarily. She looks up, stunned by my reaction, and continues. “I mean, I was planning to call you—eventually—but I wasn’t ready. Not yet.”

She stalks past me, the tension growing thick with so many unspoken words, and I reach for her hand. She immediately pulls it out of reach.

“Dammit, blondie,” I bite out. “I just want—”

What? Want to make sure you’re okay? Want to understand what’s going on? Want to hold you? I want a lot of things right now and most of them don’t make sense, so I stand here, holding her gaze, wishing I had the right words.

“Just want what, Bryce?” she asks in a clipped tone. I can tell she’s trying to force the same venom into my name that she used when we first met, but she doesn’t have the energy for it now.

I sigh and shake my head.

“I picked up a few things for you,” I say instead of answering, and with a shrug, walk past her into her kitchen.

CHAPTER TEN

Leanne

Damn if I don’t want him to tell me what he’s thinking. Not that I can figure out what I’m thinking either—or feeling, when it comes to him at least.

But what does he want?

Does he want me to terminate? That’s not happening.

Does he want a paternity test? I’ll give him hell for it, but if that’s what he needs, I’ll do it.

Does he want to be part of this? Want to pretend I never told him? Want… what?

He strides into my kitchen like he owns the place and sets a grocery bag on my counter. Then he leans back against it, planting his hands on the marble while his dark brown eyes track over me. They take in every detail—my chaotic blonde waves pulled up in a bun, the baggy T-shirt and leggings, my make-up free face.

I know I’m a mess. I threw up twice more after he hung up on me. It’s definitely been the worst day of morning sickness so far, and this interaction is taking up whatever’s left of the minimal energy I woke up with.

I give him a similar perusal, infinitely aware of how much space he takes up in my kitchen. His brown hair is mussed and his groomed beard looks as soft as ever, stirring a vivid memory of how it brushed across my skin—something that feels wrong to think about now. He’s even dressed the same as the last time I saw him: jeans, flannel, boots.

He crosses his arms over his chest, the barbed-wire tattoos on his muscled forearms flexing with the motion as he waits for me to speak.

Now that he’s here, I want to get the worst of this over with. “You’re mad. I get it.” I walk past the kitchen to the other side of the island, forcing him to shift his stance. I’m staring at the space between us, not prepared to make eye contact. “Maybe you think I lied to you. Maybe you think I tricked you. I don’t know, but listen, I don’t expect anything from you. I don’t want anything from you.”

I look up in time to catch his flinch, like those last words hit him hard. I curse myself. That wasn’t how I meant for it to come out.

I open my mouth to backtrack, but he holds up a hand. “Leanne. Please stop.” He sounds pained, and I pull my lips between my teeth, feeling chastised.

He presses his hands flat onto the countertop, eyes locked on the bag there, like he can’t bear to look at me.

“I’m not mad. I don’t think you tried to trick me. I don’t even think you lied. Yeah, I’m confused, but we can come back to that. And we’ll definitely come back to the whole you not wanting anything from me thing, but first—” He stops, finally lifting his head and looking at me with so much tenderness it takes me aback. “Can you please tell me if you’re okay? Because you look—”

And with one more glance down my body, my self-consciousness turns me into the worst version of myself.

“Like shit?” I scoff. “Yeah, I know. Thanks for pointing that out.”

He blows out a harsh breath. “For fuck’s sake, blondie. I didn’t say that.”

“For fuck’s sake,” I repeat his words. “Could you stop calling me blondie!” I shout, my heightened emotions bubbling over.

He runs both hands through his hair and turns his back on me, mumbling, “This is going fucking fantastic.”

“You’re the one who barged in here,” I snap. “We could’ve had this conversation over the phone.”

“Where I could listen to you heave your guts up and be unable to do anything about it? No fucking thanks. And if you would’ve let me finish my sentence, you’d know I was going to say you look like you’re really sick and I’m worried about you.” His voice evens out but the irritation remains. With me, himself, or the situation… I have no idea.