“That’s sad,” Sin remarks.
“I am not at all surprised to hear that,” Rafe volunteers.
“Malt beverages,” Sin reiterates, with disdain.
I shrug, looking at my glass. “I was 18, give me a break. What were you drinking at 18?”
“Jack Daniels, Jim Beam, beer if that’s what was around. Not malt beverages.”
Rafe’s voice cuts in, not conversational, not even interested in making fun of my chick beer story. “Take a drink, Laurel.”
I suppose I could. If I’m not going through with the pregnancy anyway, it hardly matters.
Only in this moment, feeling as reluctant as I am to do so, I admit to myself that maybe I was waiting for his response before firmly deciding. If I had already firmly decided, I could have used the money Carly gave me for that instead of a plane ticket that brought me here. Logically I know that solution to this tiny—yet enormous—problem is the most sensible, but I have an idiotic romantic streak, I guess. Even though I knew Easter was only a hook-up, there’s a small part of me that couldn’t quite help hanging onto that tenderness.
It’s hard spending a few days with someone like Rafe and then trying to reenter the world of exceedingly average men. Sure, I guess a small part of me hoped that seeing me would rekindle some of his tenderness. Maybe even a ridiculous corner of me thought maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t be horrified by the news. I’m much too young for this, but Rafe isn’t. I don’t even know his exact age, but I’d put him around 30. He’s old enough to procreate, and I already know what he looks like cradling a baby against his incredible chest. Even without being prepared, that kind of inspiration could sway me.
Only there’s nothing like warmth in his eyes now. My romantic vision of him cradling our baby against that perfect chest flickers like a mirage in the desert, and I have a feeling it’s about to disappear altogether.
My unwillingness to take a drink has become a thing now. Rafe issued a command. Not that I’m his to command, but that he did it verifies he finds it odd that I won’t. Maybe he can guess why.
“I don’t want a drink,” I murmur, giving up the pretense and putting the glass down on the coffee table.
“Why?”
“I’m not thirsty.”
Rafe takes a long sip of his own drink, then puts the glass down and strides toward me. I squirm and consider standing, but before I can commit to it, he’s already standing in front of me. My heart drops into my gut. I know it’s time, so I clear my throat.
“Could we, um… could we maybe have a little privacy?”
His tone lacks the warmth I crave. Right now I feel like a soldier who is disappointing him rather than a woman he has shared intimacies with. “Quit stalling, Laurel.”
“I’m not stalling,” I mutter, looking down at my leopard print ballet flats.
His voice shifts, more patient than a moment ago. “Are you in some kind of trouble?”
That’s one way of putting it. I swallow, casting a longing look at the alcohol. Ironically right now is when I can’t have it, when I need a long gulp of liquid courage more than ever.
“You don’t want Carly to know,” he continues, even though I haven’t spoken.
Even though I’m still nervous as hell, that he seems to be piecing it together and he’s still calm reassures me enough to manage a nod. My gaze drifts up to him. Thankfully, I don’t see anger on his handsome face, more like sympathy. I breathe a small sigh of relief. I should have known the man who snuggled me in front of all his family over Easter wouldn’t leave me high and dry in a bad situation. He’s a grown man, not a teenager.
“I wasn’t sure what to do.” My gaze darts to his again.
Rafe nods. “So you came to me for help, not a booty call.”
My cheeks flush with embarrassment. “I did try to tell you that, but then Sin got here.”
Rafe looks almost relieved as he takes a seat beside me. “Yes, I remember that now. I got distracted. It’s been a long, strange day. I’m not completely on top of my game. I’m sorry; I should have picked up on that.”
I shrug, feeling a million times lighter. This is going so much better than I was prepared for. “I’m just relieved you’re not mad.”
Reaching for my hand and rubbing the back of it with his thumb, he says, “Of course I’m not mad. You aren’t mine; I expected you might try out new lovers after our weekend together.”
Every drop of blood in my veins freezes and my heart nearly stops. The awful implication of his words hits me in the gut with the force of a physical blow.
I withdraw my hand and frown at him. “What?”