by Elise Faber
So not the most romantic of statements.
But also the same question she’d been asking herself.
The answer to which had her cursing internally.
“No,” she breathed.
His eyes slid to half-mast, and though she detected the disappointment there, the same that she was feeling (why, seriously, didn’t she have an emergency condom? Also, why didn’t he have one?) He didn’t say anything, just trailed his knuckles down her throat, halting at the neckline of the sweatshirt.
Then he took her hand and tugged her over to the couch, a plate laden with pizza plunked into her lap a moment later.
He was beside her in the next, pizza on his plate.
But neither of them ate.
Fingers on her throat again, another shiver wracking her frame. “Stop looking at me like that,” he rasped.
Her lips parted, a shuddering breath escaping. “I can’t help it.”
His plate hit the table.
His hands slid into her hair. His lips came down—
Fred launched himself onto the couch . . . and snatched a slice of pizza off her plate.
She was so in Ben’s thrall that it took her a moment to realize what Fred had done. Gasping, she jumped to her feet, Ben somehow managing to snag her plate before she dumped it on the ground.
“Fred!” she snapped, taking a step after her pooch, but the little asshole had already eaten the slice.
Stef couldn’t believe he’d done that.
She’d already fed him, and she’d broken him of the counter-surfing for food habit when he was a puppy, and he’d never been much of a food-snatcher, least of all right off her lap.
And the turd didn’t even have the common courtesy to look guilty.
He just licked his lips.
“I—I—”
Ben started laughing, setting her plate on the table, before crossing the room to crouch in front of Fred.
Everything inside her went tense for one moment.
She didn’t know this man, and if he did something to Fred . . .
He reached a hand out to her dog, stroked his fingers over fluffy, golden ears. “That was naughty,” Ben murmured in a voice that made her want to be naughty herself. “Pizza will make you sick.”
Fred had stilled, staring up at him.
“You can’t do that again, got it?” Ben ordered, firmer now. “No stealing food. No pizza.”
Fred whined and sank down onto his belly.
Apparently satisfied, Ben stood up, crossed back to the table, put another slice onto her plate, then came to her and tugged her down next to him on the couch. “Now then,” he said. “No more looking at me. Just eat.”
She opened her mouth.
“Eat,” he ordered.
She took the plate he shoved at her but didn’t pick up her pizza. Instead, she grabbed the remote, shoved it at him, then snagged her cell.
“Stef.” Another order.
Well, good thing she knew how to give orders herself . . . or at least with Ben she found that she could.
“You find something to watch,” she told him. “And I’m using Instacart to order”—heh—“us some condoms.”
His gaze shot to hers.
A grin, wicked and so different from what he’d given to her before. Different in a good way, in the best way.
She folded his fingers over the remote. “Put something on.”
Another hot look, but then he turned on the TV, she got busy on the app, and by the time their delivery showed up, the pizza was gone, a nerdy Sci-Fi horror flick was watched, and . . . then Ben put something else on.
And it was glorious.
Chapter Twenty
Ben
She was asleep next to him, her breathing slow and steady.
Lips reddened from his kisses, her lipstick long since rubbed off. Beautiful and cute and sweet and . . . funny.
That had surprised him as she’d watched the movie, droll commentary interjecting their viewing. She’d been quiet in the theater, and when he’d asked her why, she’d only said that she could talk over previews but never over the sacredness of a movie in a theater.
Either way—both ways—he liked her.
A lot.
He liked her body just as much, her personality to equal measure. Hell, he’d burst out laughing when she’d looked up from her phone as he’d paused his scrolling through the selections on the streaming platform, bent to look over her shoulder, and pointed to the screen, lips curving in a self-deprecating smile, joking, “Magnum. Definitely get magnum.”
“Boys and their penises,” she’d teased, rolling her eyes, and running with the joke.
Because he wasn’t magnum, not that he gave a shit, and when the condoms had arrived, they weren’t either. But he just liked making her smile, even if the joke was at his expense.
Plus, he’d still made good use of the condoms, no matter the size.
After chuckling his ass off when she’d smirked and said, “Big hands. Big . . . Sci-Fi nerd.”
Laughter, so much of it over the last two days, and he knew that his decision to pursue this was the right one.
She was the right one.
He smoothed her hair off her face, smiling as she nuzzled closer, her arms tightening around him. Even sweet in her sleep.
Ben let his eyes slide close, pondered his next move, determined to negotiate the weeks and months and hopefully years ahead with Stef like a business deal and not like he’d normally handle a relationship with a woman.
He wasn’t going to be tentative.
He was playing to win.
He’d just drifted off to sleep when Stef jerked up in his arms.
“Sweetheart!”
“What?” he asked, sitting up next to her. “What’s the matter?”
“Sweetheart,” she said again, spinning in his arms to stare up at him. “We forgot about Sweetheart, and she’s probably hungry and has to go to the bathroom.” Guilt slid across her face. “She’s probably terrified and—”
“Baby,” he said, cupping her jaw, feeling a piece of his heart break off, drift through the air, and float to her. It was hers. And probably not just that one part of it. “She’s fine.”
Stef’s hand clamped over his. “You haven’t been back—”
“My assistant came and picked her up this morning.” He smiled gently. “She’s fine. I need to get her tomorrow”—his eyes flicked to the clock on the nightstand—“or later today, actually. But they’re getting along fine. Claire even said that she hasn’t tried to bite anyone.”
Stef relaxed. “Your assistant is watching your dog?”
A nod as he coaxed her down to the mattress. “Well, technically, she’ll be my newest VP on Monday—tomorrow, that is. The important thing is that she’s fine, Sweetheart is fine, and you can go back to sleep.”
A few blinks, her sleep-hazed and half-panicked mind processing his words.
“Your VP has your dog?”
He nodded, biting back a grin as he smoothed back her hair again.
“Okay,” she murmured, nuzzling close, and it wasn’t three more heartbeats before she was out again.
So fucking cute.
She was less cute in the morning.
Mostly because they were in an argument.
Okay, who was he kidding? She was fucking adorable, dwarfed in his shirt, her arms crossed over her breasts, as one bare foot stomped on the floor.
Fred whined, his food in his dish.
“I’m not bringing Sweetheart here,” he said, for what must have been the fifth time since he’d told Stef he needed to retrieve Sweetheart soon.
“You are.” There that foot went again.
“Sweetheart isn’t good with other dogs.”
“You said she wasn’t good with people,” she pointed out. “But she was good with me, and Fred is the therapy dog at doggy day care. If a pup is having a bad day, they put it with Fred, and he gets them through the nerves.”
“Sweetheart does
n’t have nerves.”
Her nostrils flared. Her lips pressed flat. “Ben,” she said. “I’d like to spend more time with you. That would be easier if our dogs got along. It’s not like you can ask . . .” Her eyes slid to the side then back to his as she remembered Claire’s name. “Claire to dog sit all the time.”
“It’s not—” He broke off when a flash of pain slid through her eyes, and he was struggling to process it when she spoke again.
“I’ll go change.” A smile that was not normal, even based on the limited time he’d known her. “Let you get your shirt, so you can get out of here.”
If the smile wasn’t normal, then her tone was . . . peculiar.
Off.
Shut down.
And then she was gone, spinning and striding down the hall. The door to the bedroom clicked closed.
He looked at Fred. “What was that?”
The pooch just lay down by his food dish, head resting on his paws.
Ben didn’t have time to process the tone and smile any further because the bedroom door opened, and Stef came out in a pair of black leggings and a loose sweatshirt. Her eyes met his, and that smile made another appearance.
Silently, she handed him his shirt.
But she was obvious about not letting her fingers brush his, and as soon as she passed it to him, she turned away and went to the sink, starting to wash the dishes from the simple breakfast she’d made them.
A bagel.
Enough cream cheese to clog his arteries.
Delicious with a bit of spice, and he’d eaten the entire thing, along with two cups of coffee.
None of that, however, explained the change in Stef.
Still, he knew there weren’t that many dishes, so instead of storming over and demanding that she talk to him, he did what he might do if someone was trying to negotiate him out of a deal.
He waited.
Silently.
And eventually, she ran out of things to clean. Though, he had to give her credit; once the dishes ran out, she moved to wiping down the counter, the table, the sink, even the fridge, and inside its glass shelves.
She closed the fridge, turned around, and froze.
As though having expected him to be out the door.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
Another flash in her eyes before they flicked over his shoulder. “I’ll help you get your stuff together so you can go. Do you need a ride?”
“My car’s here,” he said, taking a step to the right to block her path when she would have slid by him.
“Okay, good. I’ll just get your keys.”
Wrong. Wrong.
This was so wrong.
He snagged her arm before she could disappear down that hall. “What is it?”
She tugged her arm free.
Fuck that. He scooped her up in his arms, carried her to the couch, and sat down with her in his lap.
“What are you doing?” she asked, squirming in his hold.
“What are you doing?” he retorted, tightening it. “Why are you freezing me out? Are you that mad about the dogs?”
“No, of course not,” she said, and her tone told him that was the truth.
But there was something else he’d missed, something he was going to get to the bottom of. So, while he wouldn’t hold a business rival on his lap, he would hold them accountable, at least until he understood the motivations that went into the process.
And that was the part he was severely missing.
The motivation for Stef shutting down.
Not the dogs. Not the argument. She seemed to be having as much fun bickering as he had . . . until he’d said . . . what?
He couldn’t pinpoint it.
She’d stopped squirming, going still on his lap, and Ben scrambled to tease out the answer to what he’d done.
He was no closer to the answer when she gave him a clue.
“Just go,” she whispered.
And he remembered her talking about her friends, the light and happiness . . . and the way she’d said, “How much I’m going to miss them when it’s over.”
Over.
When it’s over.
Not if it would end someday, but as though her friendships ending with them was a forgone conclusion.
And she’d come to the conclusion that he wanted things to be over.
Which couldn’t be further from the truth.
But they’d known each other for no time at all. How could he possibly convince her that he wanted to see where this went?
That he wanted her, hopefully forever.
“Stef,” he said. “I want to get to know you better, too.”
“Right.” A nod, her eyes meeting his just for a moment, but then they darted away again, drifted back down to her hands.
“You going anywhere today?”
Silence.
Then her lips pressed flat.
“Stef?”
“No,” she whispered.
“I’ll go take care of Sweetheart, drop her at my place, but I’m coming back.”
“Right,” she whispered again.
And he knew in that moment that words wouldn’t mean much to her.
That was okay. He would just have to show it to her.
Carefully, he set her on the couch, patted Fred on his head, and gathered his things.
“I’ll see you soon,” he said, and kissed her forehead.
Another of those wrecked smiles, one that almost had him staying, but he knew that wouldn’t show her anything, wouldn’t prove anything. She needed to understand that he was going to come back. “Okay.”
He’d show her that.
Because not once did he think she wouldn’t be worth fighting for.
Chapter Twenty-One
Stef
He left, the door clicking closed behind him.
Why had she ruined the loveliness, the good time they’d been having?
She’d pushed, and he’d left.
Oh, she knew that he’d promised to come back, but he wouldn’t. She’d seen that look on his face, and it was familiar. It was something she’d seen over and over again. Plus, who would return to a woman who argued with him about something at hour . . . what? Thirty-six or so? Two dates in and already making demands. Waking him up in the middle of the night with her anxiety. Making him the only breakfast she could—both because she sucked at cooking and because all she’d had to offer were bagels and her cinnamon cream cheese and coffee. If she’d had time to shop, she could have made him muffins, but . . .
She sighed.
Add in a dog tagging along on dates, anxiety nightmares, picking a fight before nine in the morning.
The ideal woman she was.
“Okay, Yoda,” she muttered, forcing herself to get up and lock the door, her heart squeezing when she saw that he’d turned the bolt on the knob, so it was already locked.
Dammit.
She should have hung on a little longer.
But all she could think was that it was better now than when she was even more involved.
When it would hurt more.
So maybe she did know why she’d taken the first opportunity to push him away, to pull back and protect herself. For all her talk of clinging to him, to absorbing as much of him as she possibly could, in the end, she’d chosen self-preservation.
Close down.
Protect whatever shred of herself that was left.
Probably the smartest thing she’d ever done, even if she hated the idea of never seeing Ben again.
Losing Chance had broken something in her. Her parents trying to cope with his suicide, his mental illness, and distancing themselves from her had broken something else. And then Jeremy. Who she’d thought was a fucking savior, that white knight on the horse sweeping in to save her.
She didn’t have it in her.
She’d wanted to be brave and soak in every moment.
But when Ben had gotten that familiar look on his face, she’d known she couldn’t.
She’d had her fun, and it was done.
Fuck, that hurt.
But she only had herself to blame.
“Enough,” she whispered, going to the fridge and getting on her meal prep for the week. She could slow cook chicken—plunk some olive oil, salt, and pepper into the Crock-Pot, throw in the chicken, and forget about it for eight hours.
Then shred it, throw it into some bagged salad, and be done with it.
Not a gourmet cook, but she could make a few edible things, and luckily, she didn’t mind eating the same thing day in and out.
She went through the motions of meal prepping for the week, of cleaning her house and giving Fred a bath—well, Fred got cleaned up first and was turned out into the back yard to run off his after-bath zoomies, and then she cleaned the house, including the trail of wet pawprints and hair that stretched from the bathroom to the slider.
What she didn’t do was allow her mind to wander back to Ben.
Which meant she thought about him every minute.
And as the hours went by, the small tendril of hope she’d been holding on to, even knowing it was stupid as hell, faded.
“It’s okay,” she whispered.
She’d forget about Ben and move on, and all would be good.
“Right,” she muttered, not believing herself, not even for a moment.
But she’d be okay, eventually.
Sighing, knowing it was the truth, she walked to the slider, intending to let Fred back in. It was getting late, and she needed to make dinner, get ready for work the next day, to figure out some way to not be sad.
Because she wasn’t really ready for Heidi to see that she was pining for a man she couldn’t have—
A knock at the front door pulled her from the slider.
She didn’t even get halfway to it when she saw Ben’s face appear in the sidelight, big brown eyes on hers.