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“Not very Prince Charming of you.” I smack his hard ass, but with his coat on, I don’t get in a good whack.
Cruising down the hall, he smacks my ass because my coat sucks and is currently riding up my back. “It’s not the title I’m going for.”
“What title are you after then?”
Slipping into the bedroom, he stands bedside, gets a good grab of my ass in, and then gently lays me down on the mattress. “Boyfriend.” My heart swoons, and I fall back. But when he sits next to me with his hand on my stomach, he replies, “What do you say? Do I fit the bill?”
I reach out to the side and take his hand, and he comes without me having to ask, hovering over me with our eyes staring into each other’s. I love that we have a silent language the other knows how to read. I take a breath, not because I need courage but because he always steals it, and say, “I love you.”
21
Tuesday
“I love you, too,” Loch says as if the words have been on the tip of his tongue all night.
Looping my arms around his neck, I lift to kiss him, then fall back on the pillow again. “Well, look at us being all in love. Who would’ve guessed?”
“Not me,” he deadpans.
I laugh, but then I second-guess his tone and the delivery of that response. It rolled off almost as easily as the “I love you” did, so I ask, “What do you mean by ‘not me’?” He shifts, but I hold tighter so he can’t escape. “Why not you?”
He pauses, his eyes searching mine, then he looks away. Confused by the change in his mood, I cup his face, silently begging him to look at me. When he doesn’t, I start to feel sick in my stomach. “Talk to me, Loch.”
I’m finally given his gaze when he says, “Now is not the time.”
The moment my arms slack, he breaks free, not just moving off me but getting off the bed completely. I watch him walk to the window, that pit in my stomach feeling hollower. The blinds remain open when he stops to stare at the city like I often do. I do it to admire the grandness of it all, or I’m trying to make sense of the world. I wonder which one he’s doing.
When he rubs one of his shoulders and bends his neck to relieve his obvious tension, I sit up and rest my back against the headboard.
“You know,” I say, the distance between us feeling its greatest since he came into my life. “Nothing good ever starts by putting off a conversation.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
Crossing my legs in front of me, I hunch over my fidgeting hands. “You’re sorry for what, Loch? I’m confused about what’s happening. We’ve had an amazing night. We just shared some of the deepest feelings you can have for another person. So now I’m wondering what’s changed?”
When he turns, I can see the bad news coming like a train down the tracks. “It’s no big deal.”
“Then tell me.” When he doesn’t make an effort, I spring out of bed and start for the door.
I barely get two steps into the hall when he says, “You weren’t very polite.”
Stopping in my tracks, I walk back but stay in the doorway and cock my head to the side. “What do you mean by that?”
“You wanted to know why I said I wouldn’t have guessed we’d be together. I’m telling you.” He rests against the windowsill and tempers his expression by shifting it into neutral, making it impossible to decipher what he’s thinking. Where’s the man who’s been so open, whose walls are down when it’s the two of us? Where’s the man I just proclaimed my love to? He says, “You weren’t having a good day.”
Every bone in my body goes on defense. Throwing my arms over my chest, I cross them. We’re plagued by the silence growing between us. I start tapping my foot, trying to process my irrational anger and what he’s really saying. And because it’s better than the silence that’s exacerbating my worries of fighting with him. This is new for us. It could ruin everything, but I still need to know the truth. “Are you talking about when we met at the coffee shop?”
“Yes.”
“I wasn’t having a good day, or I was being rude? Because you’ve said both.”
He shrugs. “Probably both.”
“Both?” I’m struggling to wrap my head around the accusation. Or is it fact? “You thought I was rude?”
“I think you were someone who wanted things in a very specific way—”
“There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“I agree. Clearly, you’ve met me.” He pushes off the sill and comes to me. I hate that I move out of his reach, but I’m not sure what to think. Or worse, what he thinks about me. “I didn’t tell you to upset you. It just came out—”
