Page 67 of Everything But Mine

He isn’t tense or embarrassed. If anything, he is calm, certain. He moves his hands over the curve of my belly, thumbs resting low, as if committing the feel of it to memory. Then he presses his mouth there, just below my navel—one long, deliberate kiss.

When he lifts his gaze, the longing in his eyes takes my breath away.

“I am not kissing you now,” he says. “When we do—if we do—it will be because we want it. Not because we are proving something to people who don’t matter.”

He presses his palm against my belly once more before he stands, arms sliding around my waist again. My head finds his chest. His eyes never leave mine, his heart racing under my cheek.

Mine is too.

“Eric,” I ask quietly, “do you want to kiss me?”

His mouth curves faintly against my forehead. “Do you want an honest answer?”

I don’t. Admitting the want is more overwhelming than a kiss. Between his question and my silence an understanding passes between us anyway.

Because the kiss he did give me feels like devotion. To our baby. To us. And I don’t feel rejected; I feel chosen.

Diego’s voice cuts through the moment. “Okay, amigos, it’s that sweet time of night. Keith and Cece are ready to cut the cake! Come on over to cheer them on! Otherwise, take a seat at your tables.”

I try to pull my hand from Eric’s, but he keeps it—not tight, just sure. Because he knows that now that the moment has passed, rejection is creeping up again, and he won’t let me sit alone in it. Maybe it is not rejection at all. He said, “When we do, if we do, it will be because we want it.” I want that, even with this sourness clinging to my mouth, stubborn and unspoken. Again.

He keeps his hand wrapped around mine on top of the table, warm and steady. I try to focus on that. On the grounding feel of his fingers curled over mine, the gentle pressure that says he’s sitting in wanting with me.

“Babe!” Cece calls as she rushes over, cake plates in hand, already tugging my arm.

I glance at Eric, and he nods, holding on until the last second before I walk away with his warmth still on my skin.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

ERIC

Iwatch Amanda retreat with Cece, her eyes on mine until she can’t keep me in her line of sight. The lack of her touch threatens to make me spiral with the thought that I just fucked up with her. So long trying to cinch myself out of this fucking best friend label, and I go and say no. I don’t want a spotlight, rushed kiss, though.

I lean back in my chair. Breathe. The heat of her palm in mine lingers, and I’m savoring it… until I feel him. Daray steps into my periphery, a dash of nauseating yellow, like a blade being drawn. He’s going for sharp lines and practiced confidence, but that ridiculous striped, gray suit and shirt make him look sick with some form of liver disease. With a fire under his ass and without pretense of civility, he meets with gaze with defiance—already mid-argument.

I straighten up, and look around in search of Diego, Val, Matteo, or anybody. Not for backup, but a crowd will keep fists away. And with that fucking face, I’m not sure a punch or two are off the table this second.

“You’ve got some fucking nerve,” he says before he even stops moving. His hand is on my chair, trying to cage me in. “I didn’t think you had it in you.”

“Let’s not do this here.”

“No, let’s.” He steps in closer, the scent of cologne sharp and overdone. He’s vibrating under his skin, shaking with the effort of not cracking. It’s not grief or regret. It’s an ego injury. He thinks Amanda was his toy, and I played with it while it was his turn.

And it hits the part of me that’s tired of playing cool and collected. The part that wants to swing. That wants to take all the months of just letting him get ahead and shove it at him. Just once. Right in the center of his smug fucking face.

I don’t.

“I thought you were just sniffing around my girlfriend like a kicked fucking dog. But you fucked her. Knocked her up.”

I fist my hands inside my pocket, grabbing at the fabric. “Dude, you realize you were fucking someone else, right?”

Daray leans in so close his breath fogs on my cheek as his words land. “Play house all you want. Have her shoot out a kid or two.” He grins. “We both know how this ends.”

Something inside me tilts. I breathe through my nose, then answer. “Yeah. We do.”

I move, wrapping an arm around him, tight, sudden, pulling him in like we’re old friends. Let everyone in the room think this is a hug. Let him know it’s not.

“You set this up, Daray,” I murmur near his ear. “You toasted to it. Said, in far too many words, that you were grateful Amanda and I fucked around.” I keep my voice low, just for him. “That it led you to Cassie. Remember that?” He stiffens. Good. “We’re grateful too.” I lean down on his ear. “One thing led to another.” I let the implication sit, let him cling to the story he already wrote. That the baby could be mine. “That baby means nothing to you. A game, maybe. But to me?” My voice becomes hoarse. “It’s everything.”