Jensen doesn’t like my explanation. It’s like he thinks he can control everything, including my body on a cellular level.
“You’re sure that’s all it is?” He brushes my hair back from my face and usually, I’d lean into his touch, but this morning, it annoys me. I push his hand back, grinding my teeth.
“I said so, didn’t I?”
He hesitates at my tone. Even I internally flinch at it and try to calm myself. Jensen’s not the enemy. He’s just worried.
“It’s just this seems more than tired, Mia,” he says carefully.
What the fuck?Does he think I don’t know my own body? Why’s he’s being such a pushy asshole? I’ve barely said two words since I sat down, and he’s already on my case.
Anger flares hot and raw inside me. I glare at him. “Since you seem to know everything,” I drawl, “please, do tell me what’s wrong with me then.”
The sarcasm dripping from my words has Jensen’s brows pulling together. Diane makes a soft gasp under her breath, but quickly covers it. Of course she does. Our housekeeper has been with us for years, so she knows I’m rarely moody or mean.
So now I feel like a bitch.
And that makes me want to cry because I’m not that person. And I know Jensen isn’t trying to hurt me or upset me. That makes it even worse. I swallow around the lump in my throat and the tears burning my eyes.
What the hell is wrong with me?
But Jensen doesn’t snap back. He never does. He just… studies me, like he can crack open my head and see what’s going on in there.
His hand skims over my shoulder, and I’m not sure if he’s grounding me or himself.
“Sweetheart, I don’t pretend to know everything,” he says carefully, like I’m a bomb in danger of exploding. “I can just tell when my wife isn’t feeling herself.”
Great. Now I really want to cry.
Why does he have to be so sweet?
Diane’s doing her best to pretend she’s invisible, but she’s wiped that part of the counter three times already and keeps casting sidelong glances at me like she’s not sure whether to scold me or hug me.
Calm down, Mia. Take a breath. Remember that your husband loves you and it’s not his fault you’re tired.
I let out a shaky breath and tear my fingers through my hair, finding my composure. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m just tired and grouchy. Last night was a lot and I guess I’m just feeling the comedown. I shouldn’t have snapped at you.”
That doesn’t come close to describing how I’m feeling. It’s like I’m hungover, only I didn’t drink a drop of alcohol last night.
I grab his hand, squeezing it. I’m checking he still loves me, even though that’s irrational. My husband’s not going to fall out of love with me because I woke up in a mood this morning.
He doesn’t pull away, just strokes his thumb over my hand, which makes me feel even worse for going off at him.
“You’ve also barely eaten,” he says finally.
I haven’t. There’s a slow tide sloshing in my stomach, which has nuked my appetite. “I’ll grab something later when I’m actually awake and feeling more human,” I assure him.
He doesn’t like that answer. “Mia.” A hint of warning cracks through his voice.
My irritation flares again, but I force calm into myself. He’s just being Jensen. Let him do his thing.
“Honey, I’m not going to die because I skipped breakfast.” I’m joking, but he doesn’t laugh. He never does when it comes to me.
“You barely ate last night either.”
I didn’t. Everything smelled bad and my nerves were shot. I always get stressed hosting events. There’s so many movingparts. So many things to go wrong. And when I have one shot to impress investors, it’s a lot of responsibility to carry.
So I felt sick the entire night.
