But I don’t know why telling Skye feels like a pressure has shifted within me. Watching her expression and not seeing pity or disgust makes me feel a little lighter somehow.
“My cousin, Millie, ended up in foster care for a brief stint when we were kids before getting placed with us,” she says quietly. “I can’t say I get it, but I understand it a little. And I’ve had my fair share of encounters with caseworkers.”
“Some of them shouldn’t have access to children,” I say.
She shakes her head. “No, they should not.” She shifts uncomfortably again, wincing.
“You want to trade places?” I ask, already rising. “The sofa might be more comfortable.”
Skye shakes her head and grimaces. “No, I should let you get some sleep.”
“I wasn’t sleeping anyway,” I reply, “and I don’t mind keeping you company if you can’t.”
She stops moving, gaze locking on mine. Something shifts in the depths of her blue eyes, something that steals my breath. Again, I can’t help but admire just how beautiful she is with the glowing firelight dancing across her skin and highlighting her gorgeous, soft features.
There are some things you just can’t help; like throwing yourself in the way of danger to help someone in need because you should, or keeping to your own self-made isolation because you just don’t know any better.
I’ve done both things. With Skye, neither feels right. I don’t think Ineedto put myself in the way of danger for her—despite our meeting disproving that. And there’s something about her that makes me not want to hide away anymore.
It doesn’t make sense. Especially because I shouldn’t feel safe around her. My earlier statements to the baby slam into me as a dark reminder of what I really am.
Broken. Unsafe. Unworthy.
Skye lifts her hand, and without thinking, I take it, helping her out of the armchair. She lets out a small grunt as she rises,but the movement brings us almost flush—or as close as we can get with her belly pressed against mine.
“Thank you,” she murmurs, her cheeks taking on another soft, rosy flush.
I swallow hard, unable to make any words form. But Skye rises onto her toes, bringing her free arm around the back of my neck. For some stupid reason, I let her guide my face to hers.
I should put a stop to this.
I should stopher.
Instead, I inhale sharply at the soft brush of her lips. The gentle touch is like the quick strike of a match on a dry autumn day. The second she pulls back feels like the moment it falls into dry grass and ignites everything in its path.
I thought I’d be able to escape this woman after the storm ended.
But this only proves I’m no better than the other assholes littering the mountain.
Because I want this woman to bemine.
SIX
SKYE
Night and day start to blur together as I finally make my way out of the bedroom and into the rest of the cabin. The pain in my lower pelvis from needing to pee has me beelining straight to the bathroom and ignoring the sofa—with the very large, very sullen mountain main lying atop it—altogether.
I shouldn’t have kissed him last night. Any possibility of sleep had escaped me the moment I did that, and in true pregnancy-related anxiety spiral, I spent the last several hours contemplatingwhyI had to do something so stupid.
Why did I go for the lips instead of the cheek? I could blame it on being dark, but…I shake my head as I wash my hands and dry them on the hand towel by the sink. Nope, I saw him clear as day.
It’s the loneliness, I decide as I leave the bathroom. I have great support: my best friend, my sister, my cousin, even my own OB slash boss. It’s not like I’m wanting foranythingwith them around.
Except for orgasms that aren’t self-inflicted. Those are scarce while nine months pregnant.
Then again, it wasn’t like I was having many of them before my ex left.
Those were pretty self-inflicted too…
