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“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Drop the act, Con. Are you playing nice while I’m gone? You know I’ll be home soon, and I guess I’ll see for myself then.”
A part of me considers telling him the truth right now, over the phone, but it’s not the right course of action. Sure, it would assuage some of this guilt festering inside me, but I want him to know how serious my feelings for his sister are. I want to sit him down and look him in the eyes when I tell him the truth. A whispered confession over the phone is the coward’s way out, so I sigh, promise him I’m on my best behavior, and then remind him to send me her number.
Outside, the early autumn air isn’t as cool as I’d like. I can’t believe I’m wishing for winter, but a little breeze would be nice. I walk toward my home as I give Natalie a call. She doesn’t answer so I leave a voicemail, telling her my plans.
By the time I’m done with my meeting, she still hasn’t called or texted me back.
Back at the townhouse, the lights are off. She’s not home.
I check the time, nearly 8:30 PM. She should be here by now, and I’m annoyed that she hasn’t bothered to reply to me. It’s hard being so out of control in this situation. Natalie and I haven’t set parameters for our relationship. A part of me still feels like she could flit away at any time, out of my reach. She’s so independent and I like that, but a part of me wouldn’t mind if she needed me a little more, wanted my help, asked for my affection. She drives me insane. Even now, knowing she’s pregnant with my child, it’s almost like I still barely have a grasp on her.
I grill some chicken and vegetables while I wait for her. I turn on the TV and open my laptop, trying to get more work done on the couch, but the clock strikes 9:15 and I grab my phone, tempted to call her again. I don’t.
I’ve never been this kind of guy before, this overbearing controlling boyfriend. A groan escapes from deep in my chest, and I toss my phone on the cushion beside me then drop my head back on the couch.
At that moment, the front door opens. I sit up as my heart lurches in my chest.
Natalie walks in wearing running shorts and a tank top. Her hair is slick with sweat. Her cheeks are flushed. She toes off her shoes and sets her AirPods on the entry table before strolling in and offering me a small smile.
“Hey. I got your voicemail. How did the meeting go at your place?” she asks as she walks to the freezer to grab an ice pack for her knee. No overwhelming joy at seeing me. No apologies for not calling me back.
It’s insane, this feeling in my chest. A touch, a hug, a kiss—am I completely insane for wanting her this much?
“Connor?” she prompts lightly.
I set my computer on the coffee table and stand, putting my ego aside and relying on what I know. Natalie wants me, but she holds herself back. Even now, she has a million things swirling in her head, no doubt, so I’ll make this easy for her.
I walk over to where she stands in front of the freezer, ice pack in hand, and push the door shut.
“Hey—” She frowns, indignant.
I take her waist in my hands and push her back to the counter, gently lifting her up so she can sit on the edge.
“When I call, you should answer,” I say, leaning in to kiss her mouth.
My hands skim down to her thighs and I push them apart, giving me better access to her body as I step toward the counter.
“I would have, but I got sidetracked and then went on a run—”
“At night.”
“With Lindsey.”
“Still, not very safe.”
Her hands hit my chest. “Spare me the lecture.”
Her impertinence is cute. I kiss her again, longer this time, and her fingers dig into my chest.
“I think we should talk about today. Don’t you? Make a plan?” she says when she pulls away and breaks the kiss.
Oh, now she wants to talk. Now she wants a five-year plan.
I smile and reach for her running shorts. “Later.”
We continue everything we started last night, right there on the kitchen counter.
By the end, she swears (while out of breath) to never ignore one of my calls again.Chapter Twenty-TwoNatalieIt’s been a week and some change since I first found out I was pregnant. A week of Connor and me dancing around each other. Sleeping in the same bed, tangled in the sheets, making love and chiding each other about staying up too late. We’ve talked about things. Briefly. If I have to work later than him, Connor usually has dinner waiting for me, still hot from the oven. It always consists of a healthy balance of protein and carbs and fats and it’s always delicious. Yesterday, I came home to find him cooking in lounge pants, sans shirt, and it’s like HELLO MY HORMONES ARE GOING INSANE. Please spare me!
