He ran his fingers through my hair.
“Part of how Ariana could get away with all she pulled was that I was determined to put more effort into following through with a woman I thought was worth it.”
I groaned, because it was the worst already, and it still managed to get more depressing.
“It took me too long to realize I was looking at her like she was a project I could fix, and not seeing she was a pretty girl who grew up to be a pretty woman who’d been given everything she wanted since her first breath, mostly because she was pretty and for no other reason. And that meant she didn’t have to work for dick, and worse, she thought the world revolved around her.”
Oh boy.
I pulled my face out of his neck.
“I’m not a project either, Gabe,” I said carefully, but firmly.
“Yeah, cupcake, I can recognize the way that is now and make sure I don’t get caught in that trap. I don’t want a project. I don’t need to swing my dick by fuckin’ the pretty girl. I need a good, solid woman who works hard, loves hard and gives as good as she gets.” He pushed my hair over my shoulder and grinned. “Doesn’t hurt she’s fuckin’ gorgeous, though.”
There it was again.
“I’m not gorgeous,” I whispered.
“Baby, don’t fish,” he replied.
I was confused. “Fish for what?”
“Compliments.”
He thought…?
I pushed up a little. “I’m not fishing for compliments.”
“You can’t not know you’re gorgeous.”
“Uh, I can,” I retorted. I lifted a finger when he opened his mouth to say something. “And I’m not saying I’m unattractive. I’m just saying I’m not gorgeous.”
He stared at me.
Then he said, “Whatever.”
I studied him and…
Um…
Good Lord, he thought I was gorgeous.
That didn’t cause a heart squeeze.
It caused a spasm.
“You eat dinner?” he asked.
“Are we done talking about this?” I asked back.
“Yeah.”
“Gabe, the way you?—”
He rose up, twisted, and came back down with him mostly on top.
“I got that callout to a victim I’d had a relationship with, I had mandated therapy,” he said. “I took it and took the referral to have more of it. Am I over seeing Denise like that? No. Will I ever be over it? No. Have I been given the tools to deal with it? Yes. Where I am now is, I used to have that nightmare a lot, reliving walking up to that body, seeing her hair, knowing who it was before I even got close to her, but because I talked shit out with someone, it comes rare these days. Our brains process crap when we sleep. After I made the decision to take it there with you, it doesn’t surprise me I had it for the first time in, maybe, at least two years.”
