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Somehow Sylvie had burrowed her way into the very heart I had been careful to keep hardened. Knowing she craved me as much as I craved her made it only worse. I hated myself for pretending she wanted me the way I wanted her—all consuming. Desperate and hungry for more.
If Sylvie were anyone else, I probably would have laid my feelings bare already, but she had plans to leave, escape this town, and never look back. It was a dream I couldn’t imagine stealing from her. I had never been given a choice, and I wouldn’t take that from her.
But one thing I knew for certain, when she and our kid left, Sylvie would be taking the last remnants of my soul with her.
TWENTY
SYLVIE
I slept like the dead.
You would think that getting caught by a man while calling out his name and then finishing while he stroked himself behind the bedroom door would have you lying awake contemplating your life’s decisions for hours, butnope. After I had cleaned myself up, I snuggled back into Duke’s bed and had the best night of sleep I’d had in months.
If the harsh light streaming through the window was any indication, I’d even slept in too.
Don’t stop.
The memory of Duke’s strained, gravelly voice as we both touched ourselves rattled through me. I grabbed a pillow and pressed it into my face as I screamed and kicked my feet. Just thinking about it had my blood pumping and my body gearing up for round two.
Oh my god. How was I ever going to face him?
Was I supposed to walk right up to him and extend my hand and come up with something to say?Oh. Why yes, hello. Good morning, sir. You did in fact catch me masturbating and crying out your name when I thought I was home alone. And insteadof being mortified, you joined in and came right alongside me. Have a good day.
I swung my legs off the bed and stood, then walked to the window. I peeked out from the curtain and, if I leaned far enough to the right, could just barely make out the corner of the barn. A large door to the barn was open, and I sat back on my heels with a sigh.
Does that man ever not work?
Relieved I would have at least a few minutes to gather myself, I scrubbed both hands over my face.
An image of last night flashed through my mind. How tight and desperate Duke’s voice was. How the hard edge of his whisper was what had sent me hurtling over the edge.
I took my time getting ready for the day, even dabbing on a little bit of makeup now that my underlying color wasn’t a permanent shade of pukey green.
At seventeen weeks, I was no longer in regular pants. But I couldn’t deny it—the stretchy waistband of maternity pants was pretty damn comfortable. A flowy top still hid my bump, but lately I’d given up on hiding. Now that it was more than just a burrito baby, I thought the bump looked pretty cute on my frame.
Maybe this is what the internet meant by the second-trimester glow.
I tiptoed down the creaky stairs. In fact, it was those stairs that helped me notice Duke had come home last night. I’d heard his heavy footfalls on the old wood, and when I saw his shadow stop at my door and didn’t leave, I knew he was there.
I could have stopped or been quiet, but I didn’t. Icouldn’t.
The farmhouse kitchen was quiet, and I smiled as soon as I saw the coffee mug and tea along with a note from Duke. It had become an unspoken morning ritual that I looked forward to every day.
I turned on the stove, and while the teakettle heated up, I opened the fridge to peek at the leftovers Duke had brought me. Four Styrofoam to-go containers were stacked to the height of the fridge shelf. Inside was a plethora of roasted turkey, mashed potatoes and gravy, sweet potatoes, green beans, andtwodifferent kinds of stuffing. In the last container I hit the jackpot: pie.
So. Much. Pie.
Deciding pie for breakfast wasn’t all that different from stuffing my face with Huck’s pastries, I grabbed a fork and took a huge bite of cold apple pie directly from the container.
I was not proud.
“Mmm,” I hummed in delight. Sometimes cold leftover pie straight from the fridge was almost as good as an orgasm.
Almost.
The kettle whistled, and I poured the hot water into theSullivan Farmsmug and began to steep the tea. I took one last sneaky bite of pie before holding the warm cup between my hands.
From the window I could see the late-November weather was having an identity crisis. The grass glittered with frost as the harsh morning sun slanted across the lawn. Last week’s snow had already thawed, but I was no fool.
