The defiance.
The anger.
Thedare.
That look?
That look saysprove to me I matter more to you than your job does.
And I don’t like it.
For the first time in weeks, I am absolutely not comfortable with Fletcher right now.
“You can have the whole closet,” he says, his voice doing a dark thing I’ve never heard before. “I have a spare bedroom for an office. Just—stay.”
My head is full of helium, and my pulse is rapidly picking up momentum, headed for lift-off.
This isn’tI love you.
This isn’t evenI could love you.
Nor is itwe can make a relationship work.
It’s exactly what Miller did.
Sacrifice your professional opportunities for me.
I try to shake myself out of it, to tell myself that there’s more going on here, that this isn’t what he’s asking, but that wounded part of me that apparentlyisn’tover what Miller did is howling in pain.
“You want me,” I say, my voice wavering despite my best efforts to control it, “to give up my dream residency, to cancel the commitments I’ve made, and stay here.”
No.
No.
This isn’t happening.
Not again.
Notone more manasking me to put my dreams on hold for promises ofa closet?
While glaring at me likeI’min the wrong for making plans before I met him? Like theonlysolution to our relationship is for me to give up the opportunity of a lifetime that’stemporary?
His jaw flexes while he unfurls himself from around me and pushes up on his elbows. “There’s nothing in London you can’t get here.”
“Except fora competitive residencythat I already essentially gave upfor a manonce before.” The words fly out of my mouth before I can stop them.
A sheet.
I need a sheet.
Better yet, I need my clothes.
Something ignites in his eyes. “I’m not your fucking ex.”
“And what are you? What isthis?”
His jaw flexes again behind all of that thick stubble that’s nearly a full beard now. “I don’t know. Whatisthis?”
