Page 121 of Spurred On

“Yes!” He raked his hair; relief threaded his tone. “Exactly.”

“Well, enjoy yourself,” she said, and she turned on her heel. She was done. Done Done. Done.

Done hoping. Done fantasizing. Done expecting anything to ever work out the way she wanted it to.

“Wait!” he called after her.

She did not.

She heard him coming, running after her, but she kept going until he grabbed her arm and whipped her around. “Sidney, they mean nothing to me.”

“Of course not.”

“It’s you I love.”

She gaped at him. Her throat worked. “Wow.” All she could manage. She wasn’t sure what his game was, but she was not going to play.

“‘Wow’? Is that all you have to say?” There was a hint of disbelief and anger in his eyes. She chose to focus on that rather than the wraith of whispering agony in his tone.

But then, he deserved agony, didn’t he?

He’d certainly caused enough for her.

She sucked in a deep breath and forced herself to meet his eyes. “Look, I don’t mind a booty call now and again, and I’ve enjoyed our . . . playtime—”

“Playtime?” He reared back.

“But we both know we have no future together. We are not the marrying kind.”

His throat worked. “I am.”

She waved her hand in the general direction of the Skank Twins. “You are not. And that proves it.”

“That proves nothing.”

“Doesn’t it? There will always be other women with you.”

He set his jaw. “No. There won’t. That was nothing.”

“It didn’t look like nothing.”

“Sidney, listen to me—”

“No.” She knew she was probably overreacting, but she’d started down the slippery slope and just couldn’t seem to stop herself. Ten years of fear and anger and supposition rose up in her soul and blinded her.

She couldn’t bear it. She absolutely could not. She couldn’t dare give herself to a man like him. He would break her heart. He would. And he wouldn’t even have to try very hard.

“Sidney, I swear. You are the only woman for me.”

She snorted.

“I want you to be my wife.”

Oh, she could just imagine it. Waiting all night long for him to come home, wondering who he was screwing now. It was . . . it was too dismal to contemplate.

“Like I said, you’re not the marrying type.”

“I could be.”