Page 142 of The Temporary Fiancée
By the time I wake up from my nap, though, I’m pretty sure I don’t have a concussion. The bruises on my arm and shoulder are a little uncomfortable, but thanks to the pain meds Reed keeps bringing me, they don’t hurt too much. For the most part, I feel okay.
Which means that I can devote my energy to figuring out what the hell is going on with my overeager fake fiancé. He’s practically pacing up and down the apartment, like he’s full of energy, but he never gets too far from me. He seems agitated, too, like a guard dog at the ready.
Halfway through the evening, I finally lose my patience.
“I’m going into the kitchen. Can I get you anything? More water, or?—”
And all at once, I just can’t take it anymore. I need to know what his deal is.
“Stop! Just—stop it, for one second!”
He blinks at me, taken aback, and finally stops moving around. It’s the first time I’ve seen him stand still all day.
I take a deep breath. “Seriously. I’ve told you at least half a dozen times that you don’t need to be waiting on me like this. What the hell is going on with you?”
There’s something in his eyes that I’ve never seen before, though I can’t quite place what it is. “I told you,” he says. “I want to take care of you.”
I chuckle almost involuntarily and gesture at my surroundings from where I’m sitting on the couch. There are three plates piled on the coffee table from the food he’s brought me. Beside them, there are two full glasses of water, a steaming cup of tea, and two different ice packs.
“You’re doing a decent job of that, I’d say,” I tell him. “You can relax, already.”
He shakes his head. “That’s… not what I meant.”
“It’s not?”
“No.” He hesitates for a moment, shifting his weight. There’s an uncertain expression on his face that’s so unlike him that for a moment, I’m concerned.
Then he says, “I want to take care of you… forever.”
The room spins, and for an instant, I’m worried that I do have a concussion, after all. There’s no way he just said what I think I heard.
When he keeps talking, though, I know it’s real.
“I want to take care of all parts of you,” he says softly. “Your heart. Your body. Your soul. I want this to be real.”
I open and close my mouth silently, trying to orient myself, then manage to stammer, “Wh-what are you saying?”
“Lately, every time I hear something that reminds me of our situation—reminds me that this is temporary, that our engagement is gonna end soon—it… it pisses me off,” he admits.
“Why?”
“Isn’t it obvious? Because I don’t want it to end.” He steps closer to me, his expression fervent. “And neither do you, do you?”
I swallow hard. “Reed?—”
“The night that you were drunk, when we were in the kitchen… you cried. You mentioned that there was an end date to all of this, and it seemed to weigh on you.”
My memories of that night are hazy, but as he describes that conversation, it comes rushing back to me. I remember being in tears, trying to kiss him, and shame floods me. God, I was a mess.
“Right,” I say awkwardly. “I… I’m sorry about that. I didn’t mean to?—”
“But you were upset. I don’t want you to have to hold things back.”
“Everyone has to hold things back sometimes.”
He takes a quiet breath, then says, “I don’t want there to be an end date. I don’t want this to be fake anymore.”
“You… you don’t?”
