Page 30

“Faye,” my name cracks from his throat.

“Oh God,” cracks from mine.

His eyes roam my face, never dropping below. “I’ll close my eyes.”

I nod. “Th-thank you.”

His eyes close. His hands release me, and I drop for my towel, quickly refastening it around me. I don’t dare a look at him as I scurry for my room, closing myself behind my door.

I realize then that I’m shaking, trembling.

I glance down at where I grip the towel to see the sparkle of the ring Tate slid on my finger glittering in the light from the bulb at my ceiling.

My head drops back to the door as I stare up at the ceiling.

“This is ridiculous,” I mutter aloud. The man put a ring on my finger and I’m freaking out at the prospect of him seeing me naked.

He’s playing the role of the father of my child—no, he’s committed to that role. He’s going to see me, eventually.

I need to get over myself.

But…Holt….

“Shit!” I scrub my hands into my face, wishing I could scrub the love I still hold for the man from the crevices of my heart where he’s nested like ink I can’t scrub away.

Pushing off the door, I don an oversized t-shirt and shorts. Then, with my big girl panties firmly in place, I open my door to face the man who will one day be my husband.

We don’t talk about the incident, but it’s there between us like an elephant in the room.

There are a lot of those.

Tate made grilled cheese with sliced olives—another of my favorites—while I sulked in my room. He ate three—sans olives—in the time I ate one. Then he scooped us both a bowl of ice cream. Strawberry for him, vanilla for me.

We ate it on the couch.

Now, I glare at the bowl and then my thighs.

I grumble, “You’re the reason I’m getting fat.”

Tate’s eyes swing to me, brows arching high. “You are not fat.”

“I’m getting fat.” I give my thigh a small slap. It jiggles and I sort of want to cry. I let a hysterical laugh loose instead. “Did you see that? It jiggled! And my bones hurt.” I swing my feet out, spreading my toes. “Even my feet are fat. And they hurt!”

Tate laughs at my pout, so I turn the glare I set on my swollen feet to him.

“This is not a laughing matter.”

“Christ,” he chuckles. Then he bends forward, reaching for my foot and snatching it from the table. He tugs until my body twists, my feet in his lap. Then the pad of his thumb slides along the bridge in just a way that my head falls back and a moan spills from the deep of me.

His thumb halts, for only a second, before he continues.

“This is heaven,” I moan.

“It’s pretty close.” Tate’s voice is thick, guttural.

I lift my head to look at him and the room instantly feels ten degrees hotter.

He’s looking at me.