“I wish you wanted more for yourself.”
She barks out a quiet laugh, and I realize the words are cheap. They make what happened feel cheap.
I reach out and run a palm over her silky, mussed hair. “I’m sorry, that came out wrong.”
She looks back up at me now, sadness shimmering in her eyes. “I want plenty for myself, Beau. I am single-mindedly making that more happen. It’s why I’m here. It’s you who believes he isn’t more of what I want.” Her hand covers mine. “You are more. But I’ve become accustomed to wanting more and not getting it. I don’t let myself need more. That’s a luxury I can’t afford. I just keep moving toward my end goal. But you’d be a fool to think that means I don’t want things for myself.”
Her fingers pat against mine, and she pushes up to standing, turning to walk away like I did to her earlier. I thought I was doing what was best for her.
For me.
I felt cocky and amped up, ready to tease and play games. But now, my feet hurt, and with every step she takes away from me, so does my chest.
“Bailey,” I croak her name in the quiet room, and she stops but doesn’t turn. “Stay.”
It feels like the world stands still for a moment. Like I just poured myself out there and am waiting to be judged. It’s a strange sensation, waiting for another person to choose when I’ve always prided myself on being a person of action. A rational decision-maker.
This isn’t rational, though. I’m operating on instinct, which is something I’ve done before, just not with a woman. Usually, I prepare for women in my life the same way I prepare for anything else. I let myself imagine all the outcomes—the worst outcomes—and then I decide if it’s worth the risk.
I’ve done this exercise with Bailey in my head.
And I think that’s what holds me back.
I won’t let myself think of the worst-case scenario. It hurts too much.
After one moment turns into several, she slowly rises up on her toes and rotates, like she’s trying not to startle me. “Stay?”
I say nothing. I feel laid bare enough right now, hunched over on the edge of my bed, asking her to stay while my feet continue to burn.
“Like, you want to go swimming?”
I swallow and shake my head.
“Stay here? In your bed?”
I nod, biting at the inside of my cheek and kicking myself for coming off all Old Beau before. I acted confident and commanding when this is what I feel like inside. Panicked, and sore, and lonely.
I must be giving Bailey whiplash. It’s not fair to need her like this. It wasn’t the deal we made. But I care less about that deal all the time and more about keeping her close.
“If this is you offering some sort of pity sex, I don’t want it.”
I scoff and hang my head. This girl.
“I’m serious, Beau.” She walks toward me. “If I’m going to lose my virginity, it’s going to be hot. Not sad.”
I bark out a dry laugh and swap to staring up at the ceiling as she approaches. “Dear God, send help. I’m so far out of my depth with my fiancée.”
She points at the ceiling as though adding to my fake prayer. “Same for me, big fella. Send help. I’m engaged to the most confusing man in the world.”
Then she moves past me and crawls onto the bed.
“You’re going to stay?” I turn to ask.
She tugs back the covers and wriggles in with a grumbled, “I can’t believe our military thought you were cut out for special ops. Get in. I’m tired.” Her hand pats the mattress matter-of-factly, and she flops back on the pillows like she owns the place.
I thought she might be awkward, but I should have known better. Bailey might get uncomfortable around other people.
But not me.
“Why do I get the mouthy version of you and everyone else gets the agreeable version?” I ask as I stand up, flick the bedside light on, and head to my ensuite bathroom. Once I grab the body lotion, hoping it will help the sensation in my feet, I head back to the bed.
Bailey shrugs, wild dark mane tumbling around her shoulders, a web of creases on her cheek from where she was clearly passed out against a crinkled pillow. “I’ve thought about that. I think it’s because I know you won’t hurt me.”
I suck in a hissing breath like I’ve just been sucker punched.
“What are you doing?” she asks, carrying on with her stream of consciousness as I take a seat beside her on the bed.
“Rubbing some lotion on my feet.”