“Okay.” He leans in and presses a kiss to my forehead. “Then we’ll go home.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
PENNY
“What do you think?” Eli says, holding his arms out as he shows off his apartment.
While we were in Banff, he had movers pack up my place and move me into his apartment.
Normally, such a grand gesture of not having to move would be applauded, but as I stare at his apartment, where my décor and personal items have been expertly placed and used as decorations to make his apartment mine as well, all I feel is irritation.
Intense irritation.
An irritation so consuming that I can actually taste it on my tongue.
Why would he do this?
I’m not his girlfriend.
I thought that we were having a good time, you know? Enjoying each other.
He doesn’t love me.
He’s the baby’s dad.
“It’s . . . uh . . . it’s done,” I say as I walk around the apartment. I run my fingers over the back of his long gray couch draped with one of my throw blankets. Behind the couch is the console table from my apartment, decorated with some of my favorite books and picture frames. It seamlessly goes together, which irritates me even more. The curtains in his apartment have been switched out to ones that are similar to mine, and the art above the mantelpiece is colorful, pulling the many hues from my apartment together.
“It’s done?” He chuckles, not sensing my mood. “Babe, it’s more than done. It’s us.”
Us.
Well, that doesn’t seem like an appropriate word since I’m not even considered his girlfriend in his mind. But we’re an us. Isn’t that swell?
“And look, the kitchen is a perfect combination of your things and my things, and of course, I had them use your dining room table because frankly, I liked it better.”
Yup. It is better. And the wood grain softens the room surprisingly, making it feel less modern and more homey.
The bowl of lemons on the table, and the rug under it that’s mine, pulls it all together.
Who has a bowl of lemons anyway? Are those fake?
They can’t be real.
What a waste.
When I pick one up, it’s light and plastic-like in my hand. Huh, fake. He must have a good designer to find such a lifelike fruit.
“And come with me,” he says, taking my hand and walking me toward the hallway. My eyes land on the fireplace, the space in front of it where this started. The French silk pie, the flirting, the way he looked in his suit, the need to be with this man.
If only I knew it would end up like this, me walking around with this belly full of baby, attempting to enjoy a surprise that my non-boyfriend created for me. And uncomfortably at that.
In what felt like seconds, I went from feeling sexy and amazing to uncomfortable in my own skin, where everything seems to irritate me.
Everything.
He walks me past a few doors and into his bedroom—well, I guess our bedroom. A bedroom for two people not in love but living together and sharing a baby together, a bedroom where there will be sex because, even though just looking at him makes me want to roundhouse kick his crotch off, I still want my mouth on his cock.
The hospital actually kept me for a total of three days. Eli stayed by my side the whole time, and every kind gesture, every kiss, every hold of my hand, made me so angry.
Very angry.
Irrationally angry.
Because it’s confusing. I feel like he’s playing with my heart, and I don’t know how to handle it. And the more upset I get, the more I want to cry. The more I want to cry, the more he wants to hold me and be affectionate. It’s a vicious circle, and for the life of me, even though I know he doesn’t love me, I keep holding his hand, I keep snuggling into him. Because, despite him not loving me, I still very much love him and I can’t stop my heart from seeking him out.
That’s why I’m here, in his apartment, not running away.
He opens the door and smiles as he walks me in. The center of the room is his enormous bed, but with matching bedding as I had in my apartment. The nightstands have been switched out to reflect mine, and the rug on the carpet is new, but again, it ties everything together. The art on the wall above the bed is from my bedroom, and on the nightstands—each of them—is a sonogram picture framed. It’s a sweet gesture that once again irritates me.
What if I wanted a different picture there?
What if I don’t want our baby staring at us when he’s plowing into me from behind?
What if I didn’t want that freaking swirly art above the bed, but rather a mirror, so I could see myself while I deal with the irritating fact that I still want this man inside me, all the time? Even though . . .