Then my panties.
And that’s when I feel it.
That telltale sensation.
I stop moving, frown down, and sigh.
"Of fucking course."
Because nothing says fairy tale romance like the sudden appearance of your monthly visitor during the best sex-and-soup week of your entire life.
I grab a wad of toilet paper and press it against myself, annoyed and already mentally counting how many tampons I have left in my toiletries bag.
The answer? Probably enough.
I blow out a breath and look up at the ceiling like it personally offended me.
Thanks, uterus. Perfect timing, really.
Very considerate.
FML.
CHAPTER 35
THATCHER
Fifteen minutes later, she comes back into the living room wearing black sweatpants and a tank top.
Comfortable. Soft. Real.
And all mine.
At least—I want her to be.
She walks barefoot across the wide-plank floors like she already belongs here, like she’s always belonged here, and the sight of her—flush from washing her face, or maybe that’s anticipation, soft hair curling around her shoulders, pink still blooming on her cheeks—hits me so hard in the chest I forget to breathe.
Goddamn, she’s beautiful.
I let my eyes rake over her like hands.
I wish they were my hands.
Because I want to touch her.
Not just to satisfy the hunger clawing at my insides, though that’s always there.
No, I want to ground her. Comfort her. Soothe whatever worry’s lingering behind those tired eyes of hers.
She doesn’t look relaxed, not exactly. She looks like she’s trying too hard to act like nothing’s wrong.
And I can’t have that.
I want nothing but honesty between us.
I glance away, pretending to fuss with the DVD shelf. I’ve got internet, sure—decent signal most days thanks to a booster up on the ridge—but storms can knock it out without warning, so I keep a stash of movies on hand.
Nothing fancy.
