“Are you telling me you’ve thought about marrying me?” she asked as she moved her hips back and forward.
“No, I haven’t.” It was the truth and she deserved that. Her smile faltered, just a fraction. “But you’re the only woman I’ve ever cared about in this way.”
She stopped rocking and tried to move, but I grabbed the tops of her thighs and held her in place. “Talk to me. Is marriage what you’re looking for?”
“Not for the sake of it,” she said, her gaze fixed to my chest.
“I don’t understand. Do you want a family, the children, the chaos—all the responsibility? Is that what you see for yourself?”
“For myself and the man I love.” She looked at me from under her eyelashes. Was she saying she loved me?
“No, Grace.” I released her thighs and moved her off me and sat up. “I’m not a man you should love.” I pushed my hands through my hair. Didn’t she understand? That wasn’t what this was between us.
“What do you mean, you’re not a man I can love?” she asked from behind me. The bed moved as she shifted and I felt the warmth of her hands on my shoulders. I stood to avoid her touch.
I couldn’t do this. I didn’t know what I’d been thinking getting involved with a woman—allowing myself to care about someone, for someone to care about me. I’d known it could only end in disaster.
“Surely I get to choose who I love?” Her voice was harder than before, her tone more challenging.
I couldn’t look at her. Instead I pulled out my overnight bag and began to pack. I needed to leave. Get back to my apartment—be on my own. “I’m just saying you can’t chose me. And if you do . . .”
“What? You’re going to leave me? Because I love you?”
The hints were gone. She’d said it. “Don’t say that. You can’t love me. And I can never love you.”
Something hit me on the head—a shoe maybe. “You’re an asshole, Sam Shaw.” Her voice cracked on my last name. “You’ve spent the last few months being the best man I’ve ever known after my father.” It took all my strength not to look at her as she began to sob. I wanted to make her feel better, to pull her into my arms and tell her that everything was going to be okay, but it wasn’t. I stayed silent.
“What am I supposed to do? Just ignore how wonderful you are—how special you make me feel? I love you. And if you don’t love me then we’ll go our separate ways, but you can’t tell me not to love you.”
The more she used that word—love—the weaker I became. I hated that I liked hearing it so much. She slammed the bathroom door and I could hear her sobbing on the other side. Our separate ways. Her words woke something in me. I wasn’t sure I could give her up.
I dropped the jeans I was holding and sank onto the chair at the end of the bed, clutching my head. As much as I didn’t want it to be true, the fact that Grace loved me hadn’t caused my world to come tumbling down—not yet. But it would eventually, right?#p#分页标题#e#
Her sobs echoed around the bathroom. I hated hearing her crying. More, I hated I had caused her tears.
Shit. What was I going to do? I owed her the truth. I had to tell her how I felt.
I stood and headed to the bathroom, gently knocking on the door. “Grace,” I called, “I’m sorry.” Should I open the door? We’d never argued before, not like this. “Can I come in?” She didn’t answer, which wasn’t a no. I turned the knob, sagging in relief that she hadn’t locked me out. Not physically, anyway, though that might have been better for both of us.
Grace sat on the edge of the bath, her head bowed. I hated seeing her sad. I wasn’t used to it. I loved basking in her confidence and smiles, loved the way she’d wickedly flick her hips or cock her head to one side in a challenge. “Grace, I’m not trying to fuck you over here.”
She stayed completely still.
I sat next to her, pressing my thigh to hers. Even though it had only been seconds without feeling her, it was still too long. “I’m sorry. This is just—”
“Too much. I knew it.” She got up abruptly and I grabbed her wrist.
“Let me finish. I know I’ve upset you, but you have to let me explain. Coming here . . . it’s brought up a lot of stuff for me.”
Her body went limp and she stood expectantly in front of me.
“Stuff about my parents. Things I never even think about because the memories cut like thousands of tiny blades.”
“What kind of things?” she asked, her voice neutral, as if she were keeping herself limber and ready to run in whatever direction would protect her best.