Page 48 of Fall Over You

She looks up at me through her lashes. “So, two and a half carats instead of three?”

EIGHTEEN

BECCA

Tyler rolls his eyes and starts to walk away when I ask for two and a half carats instead of three.

“You are getting me a ring, right?” I ask. “And soon. I need money to pay my vendors next week.”

“Yes, I’ll get you a damn ring,” he sighs.

I resist the urge to grab his wrist, instead trying to stop him with my words. “Better get all your attitude out now. In two days, you’re going to have to act like you love me and pucker up for everybody to see.”

He freezes before turning on his heel and walking back my way. “I’ll act like it. I can make it convincing.”

“Yeah?” I rise and close the space between us, pace by pace. I tip my chin up. “Prove it.”

Tyler’s eyes flit down to my lips and back to my eyes, over and over like he’s considering whether or not he can stomach this. Shaky exhales stream from his nose and his lips start to quiver.

He’s not going to do it. I shake my head. “Chickenshit.”

I turn to put some much-needed distance between us when his hand snakes across my lower back, hips slamming into each other as he binds us together again. Tyler glares down at me, the muscle in his jaw jumping as he grinds his teeth. “You’re her best friend,” he grits out.

“Was,” I correct him.

“You made her the way she is,” he adds, and his hand trembles on my back.

I draw myself up taller. “Is this why you’re so pissy with me half the time? How long are you going to tell yourself that lie? I’m not going to stand here and let you blame all your problems on me when I’m trying to help your sorry ass.”

“Well, I don’t need your charity.”

My jaw shifts forward and back. I could get a good upper cut in at this angle. Though punching him might feel good, it won’t help my situation.

“Like it or not, Tyler, I need you, and you need me. But what I really need, more than anything, is for you to figure out how to deal with your shit before everyone in this town catches on that you can’t stand me.”

His brow creases and he looks like he feels bad. His gaze dips between us before he gnaws his lip. “I’m sorry.”

I’m generally known for being tough as nails, made of iron or rubber or something that keeps bad shit from sticking to me. But all the times Tyler turned me down come floating back up when he says those two little words. It’s accompanied by his thumb stroking my lower back where he still holds me, his palm dampening my shirt there.

I feel pathetic for what I’m about to say. I hate myself for it before it even leaves my lips.

“If you’re sorry, then kiss me.”

Tyler’s demeanor softens more, and I realize he’s not sorry. He feels sorry for me.

I don’t do pity. Not for me. I’ve spent my life doing anything I can to not be pitiful, and I’m not letting Tyler Davis make me feel pitiful in my own house.

I wrench out of his grasp. “Chickenshit.”

My heart pangs. There’s that tiny, buried deep part of me that wishes this marriage would be romantic too. He tolerated me when we were growing up, but we had those few moments where it almost felt like there was something more there. I wasn’t blind to the fact that my brother’s best friend was cute, but I’ve never been able to pinpoint what made me call him when I got into a sticky situation. His quiet steadiness? His gentle strength?

On that one night, he got me out of a bind and calmed me down the best way he knew how at that time. It was a Herculean effort to seem like I wasn’t affected, like that was just another episode of The Chronicles of Wild Becca, but I’d been genuinely scared.

And I felt truly taken care of when Tyler swooped in, swinging a baseball bat and demanding to know where I was.

I was too proud to admit any of it beyond a breathless “thanks” once we were a few minutes down the road away from them, Tyler continually checking the rear view on his LeBaron to make sure no one was following us.

If any other man had pulled off on a back road with just me in the car, I’d have had my pigsticker ready to take ‘em down. But I felt safe with Tyler.