“See? What did I tell you?” she breathes into my mouth, shifting her sexy body against my erection. “Not fit for public.”
That sexual guilt she likes to inflict prods my gut with need, but I don’t let her distract me. I take her chin in my hand and hold her steady. “Why won’t you sleep beside me?” Her smile drops like an anvil and she tries to push me off, but I cage her in, our bodies flush. “Don’t give me that bullshit about keeping the mystery alive, either.”
“You probably snore,” she blurts. “And…I’m not a cuddler.”
“That’s all you’ve got? I probably snore and you aren’t a cuddle enthusiast?
Sparks shoot from her eyes. “That’s right.”
“Knowing when you need space is a hobby of mine. I’ll know when you want to stretch out on your own side of the bed, Addison.” I nod once. “I’m demanding you try.”
She gasps. “Demanding?”
“You heard me. And you’re fucking beautiful all day, but especially in the morning.”
“I—” Her mouth opens and shuts. “Wait. What?”
I tunnel my fingers through her hair, definitely messing up her ponytail, but I can’t keep my hands off her. “And if I snore, I’ll find a position where I don’t.”
“How do you not know if you snore?” She hiccups. “Didn’t N…N-Naomi…tell you?”
Everything goes very still. Except for my pulse, which is going a thousand miles an hour. What the hell? A few days ago, she had no problem saying my ex-fiancée’s name—smiled while she did it—and now she looks equal parts devastated and defiant. And then I remember the day I showed up with the movers. How she went pale when they opened the door to the master bedroom.
I’m an idiot. I am a giant, unworthy, lumbering, idiot man.
“You won’t sleep in the same room as me because it was supposed be her room?”
“Both of your room. And…no.” She scoffs. “I don’t care. She picked out every piece of furniture in this house, Elijah. I wouldn’t be able to go into any of the rooms, if I was…if that bothered me.”
She’s lying. She can’t even look me in the eye. Holy shit. “I wasn’t thinking. I’m a man and one piece of furniture looks the same as any other to me.”
Affection—or perhaps feminine sympathy over my very male plight—collides with her panic. But she shoos it away. “I said that wasn’t it.”
This time, when she shoves me away, I go. One step. Even though I don’t want to. I want to pick her up and beg and kiss her. Addison grabs on to her freedom without hesitation and stalks away, however, putting the island between us. Her chin is set and stubborn, but she’s twisting the front of her T-shirt. When I walked in here, she was her usual confident self and now she’s a cornered animal. All because I’m calling a bluff that should not have gotten this far.
My head drops forward. “Oh, sugar.”
“Stop it.” She points at me. “Stop that.”
I turn on a heel and leave the room, because if I have to look at her upset anymore, I’m going to require a straightjacket. It has been a while since I got the tour of this place and I barely remember which door leads to the backyard, but I pick a direction and I commit, dammit. I commit. Turns out, I choose right, probably because the Good Lord knew I needed a break. The glass door leads out onto a brick patio, which I haven’t seen since the original tour. But I don’t take the time to do more than acknowledge the wrought-iron furniture and freshly trimmed hedges. I’ve got my eye on the shed and there’s hell buzzing in my veins.
“What are you doing?” Addison’s catches up to me as I throw open the shed door and search the darkness for what I need. “Elijah, answer me.”
There. Every house has one. Leaning up against the corner of the shed is an axe. Being careful to keep it away from my girlfriend—because that’s damn well what she is—I throw it over my shoulder and march back toward the house.
“You better not be doing what I think you’re doing.” She jogs alongside me, giving me her best stern voice, which she usually reserves for me leaving the seat up or adding too much garlic to the marinara sauce. “Don’t you dare bring that axe upstairs.”
I turn the corner at the end of the back hallway and climb the stairs, ignoring the gasps of outrage following me. And the stomping, too. There’s definitely some stomping.
“Don’t you dare bring that axe into that bedroom, Elijah Montgomery Du Pont.” She kind of squeals my last name and I can’t hold back a chuckle. “That bed probably cost five figures. You can’t destroy it. You can’t. Put down the axe or I’ll…”
I pause at the entrance to the bedroom. “You’ll what?”