“You already have a name picked out,” I murmur, tugging the zipper down, the temperature in the room climbing with every inch of exposed, perfect skin.
Glancing back at me with amusement, she says, “Don’t worry, I haven’t named the boy yet.”
“Two kids,” I murmur, suddenly wanting to rip off my clothes and jump in an ice cold shower.
“I’ve never seen you scared before,” she says, laughing at me. “It’s kind of fun.” Then, grasping the damaged hands I didn’t think she’d even noticed, she says, “You probably did this without flinching, but I mention procreation and you look at me like I’m the clown from It.”
Then she drops my hands and peels the dress from her arms, tugging it off until she’s only wearing a bra and panties. Right there, in front of me.
I turn to give her privacy, but that brief glimpse of her perfect, barely-covered body is now emblazoned in my mind. My eyes dart to the door, wondering if I should leave, but she’s talking again, and I don’t want to be rude.
“I should read some more tonight,” she says casually, like it’s normal to be undressing in front of me. “We haven’t read in a few nights. I miss it.”
“What do you want to read?” I ask, since at least this is something I’m comfortable with.
“Jane Eyre. I know how much you love Rochester,” she teases.
“And listening to you butcher French,” I add.
“Nope, I’m making you read those lines,” she states, as my ears register the sound of fabric falling around her. “You can turn around now.”
I do, and she’s grabbing her literature book and climbing across the bed. The nightshirt she’s wearing doesn’t adequately cover her ass as she climbs across the bed, but I’ve already seen a split second of much more, so I don’t even feel as bad as I might’ve.
My head is swimming with all the new information, but as Elise cracks open her book, searching toward the back for the story she wants to read me, the crushing weight begins to dissipate. I don’t have to deal with all of it now. All I have to do right now is strip off this damn suit, climb into bed, and listen to Elise read me some Brontë.
Chapter Eight
I can’t sleep.
I toss and turn all night long. At one point I do fall asleep, but only long enough for my eyes to burn like hell when they open again and it’s still dark.
Something is lodged in my brain, gnawing away at me. I can’t stop thinking about it, and I don’t want to think about it. Thinking about it makes it real, and it can’t be real. I can’t accept the ramifications if it is.
It’s just before four when I give up on sleeping. I climb out of bed, dead tired, and drag my ass to the shower. I go back to the bedroom to get dressed and watch Elise for a minute, so peacefully curled up in bed. Our bed.
I shouldn’t have set us up in Chicago. I could’ve found work somewhere else. As much as Mia grates on me sometimes, I’m no better; I can’t handle being in such close proximity to Mateo without getting sucked into the path of his destruction, either.
I let myself into his house and put in the alarm code. I’m partially glad he gave me my key back, but I hate it nearly as much, because sometimes I don’t want his trust. It’s too heavy.
Much the same as years earlier, I make the trek in the middle of the night to his bedroom. He’ll probably be getting up soon to hit the gym anyway, but when I ease open his bedroom door and slip inside, he’s still asleep. Meg is snuggled up against him with her back to me, an arm thrown over his chest. Not like last time, not like Beth.
She wants him. She loves him. She’s devoted to him.
And he’s goddamned Mateo.
I walk to his side of the bed noiselessly, but he must sense a disturbance, because his eyes open.
“It’s me,” I say, so he doesn’t pull a gun on me.
Sighing heavily, he turns and looks at me. “You’ve gotta stop watching me sleep, Adrian. It’s fucking creepy.”
“Are you fucking Mia?”
His features turn to stone and he spares a quick glance over at Meg, still asleep. With a decidedly less easygoing glare, he tells me, “No.”
“Are you lying?”
“I have no reason to,” he states.
I glance at Meg. “I can think of a couple.”
“Those are reasons not to do it, not reasons to lie about it,” he states, passing a hand over his face. “What the fuck is this, Adrian?”
“You can’t keep doing this to Vince.”
“For the last time, I am not doing anything to Vince. I gave him a house. I gave them space, freedom away from me. I didn’t have to—if I wanted to keep Mia for myself, I wouldn’t have.”