Page 22 of Afterglow

See, we can talk. We can be normal with each other. This is good. We can figure this out.

“True, but…”

“No buts—”

“But—”

“No, Leanne. Neither of us was being responsible that night. I can’t fault you for not wanting to get into the details of your fertility in the heat of the moment. I could have pressed for more, but honestly, all I wanted was to be inside you.”

With those words out in the open, the tension in the room moves from being stress-fueled to something akin to crackling desire. With her in my arms, pressed against my chest, I remember all too well the way we fit together, and regardless of how inappropriate it is to be thinking about that right now… I am.

“Bryce,” Leanne says, and I feel her breath against the underside of my chin, puffing out against my beard. “I need you to let go of me.”

Shit. I’ve pushed her too hard, too far, too fast, just like in the kitchen. She didn’t want me touching her and, yet again, I took her into my arms without thinking of what she might need. I instantly release her, terrified of what I’ll see in her eyes.

Instead of the same panic or coldness though, I see nothing… because she’s barreling down the hallway toward what I assume is the bathroom a moment later.

Goddammit.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Leanne

After being sick in Bryce’s presence for the second time—unless we count the time on the phone, which would make it the third time—I’m about ready to call the doctor and demand an appointment. Instead, I walk into the living room to find him on the phone asking someone questions in a clipped tone.

“Why can’t she be seen until ten weeks if she’s this violently sick?” He catches my eye from where he’s pacing in front of the fireplace, one hand raking through his hair while he holds the phone in the other.

I lift an eyebrow in question and he mouths, The doctor, as if his calling one on my behalf is normal, and then continues his line of interrogation.

Does he have an OBGYN on speed dial or something?

“Bryce, I called a doctor…” I interject between his questions. “They said this is normal.”

“It can’t be,” he says gruffly. “How many times have you been sick today?” he asks, then speaks into the phone. “No, I’m talking to Leanne.”

“Bryce, stop. It’s fine.” I want to be more adamant about this, but honestly, I feel so shitty that I can’t garner the energy.

“How many times?” he urges, and I roll my eyes. That’s as much outward exasperation as I can muster.

“I don’t know, seven or eight,” I say with a shrug before leaning down to press my forehead on the cool countertop.

“Jesus,” he says, then into the phone: “Did you hear that? She’s been sick seven or eight times just this morning. I’ve witnessed three of those.” I guess we are counting the time on the phone then.

There’s a fierce protectiveness in the way he speaks, and as much as I know I shouldn’t like it—I should be angry he’s decided to step in and act like a caveman—I actually appreciate it. It’s a kindness. He’s truly worried, like he said.

“She wants to talk to you.”

I look up from the counter to see him extending the phone in my direction. She?

“Bryce, I told you, the doctor said I’ll be fine.”

“Will you just take the damn phone, blondie?” He pushes it toward me, and I press away from the island with a resigned sigh.

“Hello?” I rough out when I grab the phone. It’s not this woman’s fault—whoever she is—that Bryce called her, but I’m irritated now.

“Hi, Leanne?” The woman’s voice is soothing, and in response, my shoulders inch away from my ears. “I’m Dr. Davenport. I’m an OBGYN here in Bozeman. I understand you’ve got a doctor already, which is great, but would you answer a few questions for me so I can get that big oaf off your back?” She laughs lightly and it puts me even more at ease. She must know Bryce personally if she’s calling him a big oaf, and he’s smiling under his scruffy beard like he heard her too and doesn’t mind.

“Sure. I’m sorry he called you.” I shoot the man in question a glare. He shrugs and crosses his arms over his chest, nonplussed. “I promise, I’m alright.”