MATT FIRED HIS opening salvo over their evening meal of spaghetti with ricotta, prosciutto and arugula pesto—“You look tired.”
And okay, that statement wasn’t going to set any woman’s heart aflutter, but it was harder than he’d anticipated to think of something scintillating to say after five days of cold shoulder.
Romy didn’t even look up from twirling a piece of spaghetti around her fork. “That’s because I am.”
Matt waited for her to finish eating that forkful, and tried again. “Tiredness is common when you’re pregnant.”
She paused, another forkful halfway to her mouth.
He gave her a weak smile. “I...er...read up on the symptoms, that month in San Francisco. Just...just in case.”
The fork continued its journey in silence.
He cleared his throat. “So? Do you think you’re...you know...tired?”
Aaand she laid down her fork. “I have no idea if I’m pregnant. If you’re impatient for an answer because you’re ready to call it quits and go home, however, I can grab a no out of the air for you. Or you could just go!”
“I’m not leaving, Romy,” he said, which of course was exactly the point he’d been intending to work up to, but before he could elaborate she tossed her napkin on the table and stomped off to her bedroom.
Okay, that hadn’t gone exactly as he’d planned. But he had a Plan E.
He cleared the table, stacked the dishwasher, sat at the dining table with his laptop, pretending to work in case she came out but in reality checking what was on TV because he knew Romy would be out eventually to watch it with him—she’d been making a point of not running away from him as though it were a badge of honor to suffer his company.
Sure enough, twenty minutes later she emerged in sweatpants and a loose T-shirt that screamed I am in the friend zone but which nevertheless set him on fire.
Out of the corner of his eye he watched her hesitate at the couch, then take up her usual position on the extreme right end, pick up the remote, turn on the TV and start changing channels at a rate of knots.
He took a couple of deep-but-silent breaths, adjusting his dick for the millionth time to try to give it a little extra room in his jeans, then he grabbed a beer for himself and a glass of water for Romy and made his way over to the couch. He deposited the drinks on the coffee table and took his allocated place on the extreme left.
Immediately, his penis eased out of the position he’d forced it into, making him squirm.
Romy looked at him, frowning. “What is it?”
“Just a twinge. In my...hip,” he said, and grabbed the nearest cushion to thrust over his lap with a telepathic order to his dick to behave because he was not going to rush his fences!
“I’ve got some Deep Heat in the bathroom if you need something for it.”
He almost burst out laughing at that. Deep Heat on his cock? That’d serve the bastard right. “No, I’ll be...fine,” he said, and he let himself look at her, really look at her, in a way he hadn’t allowed himself for five days.
Every cell in his body seemed to vibrate with the need to touch her immediately. The idea of never touching her again was unendurable. And he didn’t want to build an argument rationally—he just wanted her. Fast-tracked.
Okay, he was going to rush a fucking fence.
He threw his lap-covering cushion over the back of the couch. “Romy?”
She turned to him, her hand tightening on the remote. “Yes?”
“Stick a fork in me—I’m done.”