Because of how he makes me feel.
Like now.
Because I might rip his clothes off in the cold if he’s not careful.
I need to unlock my door. Pronto.
I bend down, gather up my sneakers and phone off the front door mat. It’s lucky it was there, or I would have smashed my screen. “Did you really drive all this way out here to ask me that?” Why does he care? “And where is your truck?”
“Parked it up the street.”
“What? Why?” I roll my eyes in annoyance. I wouldn’t have run away from him; I would most likely do the opposite of that. But I shouldn’t. “Are you spying on me, creeping around to see who I was out on a date with?”
“Maybe,” he mutters.
Definitely.
“Are you jealous?”
“No.” His answer is indignant.
“You are.” I love his possessiveness and want him to demand that I don’t go with another man. I wouldn’t when all I can think about is him.
“I’m not, I don’t care.”
“So, why are you here?”
Silence rolls into more of the same.
I can’t take the tension that’s growing faster than a bamboo shoot and finally kill his curiosity. “If you must know it’s Waffle Wednesday Date Night, the night of the week I take my niece, Bonnie, to Maple.” Spending time with family is so precious, I may have missed most of her baby years but I’m desperately trying to make up for it and it’s the one night of the week she gets to stay up late; for a nine-year-old, nine o’clock is late, but it’s fun and she loves it. “But I did that last night. Tonight, I met Joy and Ellis instead because the game finished so late.” Far too late for Bonnie and I haven’t seen my friends for weeks. Plus waffles two nights in a row was much needed. I've been working my ass off. My phone is permanently attached to my hand or my ear.
Shoulders deflating, as if they’re on a hydraulic lift keeping them upright, he instantly drops them from his ears.
“Go home, Wade.”
“I’m not leaving.” He steps forward slowly, setting off what feels like a million butterflies dancing in my heart.
“You should go.”Before I do something really stupid, like kiss him, and then it will be the beginning of the end.
I feel it—his annoyance, body quivering with irritation. But there’s an undercurrent of something else flowing between us… desire, uncertainty… I can’t read the room.
“I hate you,” he grits out through his teeth, surprising me and the mood shifts, my arousal replaced with disappointment.
“Hate me?”Well, that stings.
“I hate how you make me feel.”
Oh.
Another small step toward me, blood begins rushing in my ears, and I edge back, only to find I have nowhere to go, because my door is still locked, and while part of me should run, the other part of me wants to stay and see what happens next, because if I stay here, I know he’ll have my clothes off in minutes and I want that, been wanting it for what feels like forever.
“I hate that I will never be good enough for you.”
“That’s not true,” I say softly.
He ignores me. “I hate how much I want to change to be a better man.” He stalks forward. “For you.”
If we jump into this together, I’m going to get burned. He’s going to obliterate me and ruin me for any other man. I just know it. And as messed up as that is, maybe I want that. Want him.
