Marriage of Inconvenience(Knitting in the City Book #7)(146)

“Where are you going?”

I said nothing. I wouldn’t say a single word. It was always the same, when I was this angry with a person, I couldn’t speak and, honestly, my blind and soundless rage frightened me.

I felt him, the heat of him, hovering. I saw him, his arm, wrist, and hand. The wedding ring was on his third finger. I closed my eyes.

“Talk to me,” he said.

We stood like that for a long time and I felt his struggle, I could hear his ragged breaths. I couldn’t do a single thing about it. It was too late. I was too hurt. My brain had disengaged, retreated, and blanked.

I waited.

In this state, I could wait for hours and never be aware of the time passing.

Eventually, his hand slipped away. Dan took a step back.

I opened the door.

I left.





Chapter Twenty-Seven





The Nuremberg Code: A set of research ethics principles for human experimentation set as a result of the subsequent Nuremberg trials (war crimes) at the end of the Second World War.





—NIH.gov





**Dan**





Shell-shocked. That’s what I was.

She’ll calm down, she’ll get over it, she’ll calm down, she’ll get over it . . .

Those were the thoughts on repeat in my head, because she had to. She had to get over it. She had to see reason at some point.

Right?

. . . Right?

Right.

I stared at the cement wall beyond my windshield, sitting in my rental car and wondering how and when I’d arrived at this pathetic, sorry-ass moment.

She loves you.

She didn’t, though.

Not really.

She might, someday, but not yet. It was too soon. I’d given her one fucking orgasm—and it wasn’t even a good orgasm—and now she had all kinds of ideas. She was confused. Confused. People don’t—they didn’t—fall in love this fast. It didn’t happen. It wasn’t possible.

She’ll calm down, she’ll get over it, she’ll calm down, she’ll get over it . . .

I kept seeing her at the exact moment she’d told me she loved me for the first time. Those liquid eyes, drawing me in, wanting me to believe in fairy tales.

I wasn’t talking about after I’d gone down on her, I was talking about when I was eating her out and she’d said it, her gaze locked on mine, her cheeks flushed. The words had spilled out of her and had taken me by surprise, but I shrugged it off. People say all kinds of shit when they’re about to orgasm, made all kinds of promises. Sex made people nuts.

Her I love you had been a figure of speech, that’s it.

Or at least, that’s what I’d told myself until she’d said it again. And again. And again. Like it was a pitchfork and she was chasing me with it.

Except, it wasn’t a pitchfork.

It was a gift.

And what had I done?

Fuck a fucking fuck of fucking ducks.

I bent forward, my forehead coming to the steering wheel. I couldn’t breathe. My eyes hurt. My throat was clogged, tight, dry, the worst.

I mean, I could breathe. But also, I couldn’t. It felt like I couldn’t. It wasn’t the shitty feeling in my chest this time, it was something else.

Maybe Ebola. Maybe cancer. Maybe I was dying. I needed to go see a doctor.

She’ll calm down, she’ll get over it, she’ll calm down, she’ll get over it . . . she has to.

She has to.

My cell rang and I jumped—no lie—a half foot in the air, hitting my head on the visor of the rental car.

“Fuck!” I growled, reaching for the phone in the console without checking the caller ID and bringing it to my ear, “What?”

A pause, then, “Dan?”

I closed my eyes, letting the back of my head fall to the headrest behind me. “Janie.”

“And Quinn,” he chimed in.

“Oh, hey.” I shook my head, trying to shake off my thoughts and the dread, so much dread, making my chest feel like it was full of burning coals. “What’s up?”

“Kat said to call you.”

“She did?” That had me perking up. “When? When did she say to call me?”

“She texted a few hours ago, around four.” I heard a baby in the background, making a fuss all the sudden, and then Janie answer with a soft, cooing sound.

That was before I’d met her for a dinner we hadn’t eaten, before I’d tasted the sweetness of her body, before she’d told me that she loved me and I’d . . . what have I done?

“I’m going to interpret.” This came from Quinn.

“Interpret what?” I was confused, my brain a mess. “The baby?”

“No, jackass. I’m going to interpret for Janie. She’s got her hands full, feeding Desmond. Or trying to feed Desmond.” He added this last part under his breath.