I try to pull my hand from his, but Travis’ hold is firm. Not until we make it into my building and start for the stairs does he let my hand go. I suspect it’s only because there’s no way for two people to fit side by side on this narrow staircase.
Instead, he places his hand at the small of my back, as if holding me up.
When I glance behind me, I catch him examining the wooden banister, marble laminated stairs, and horrifically ugly tile patterned landing with a slight disdain on his too handsome face.
I never loved this building either, but seeing him look down on it makes me roll my eyes as I continue up the stairs.
We don’t exchange words as he follows me into my apartment, shutting the door behind him.
Again, Travis’ gaze sweeps the span of my comfortable, two-bedroom apartment. His gaze pauses on the foldable desk and chair that now sits empty ever since I had to turn my work laptop in.
His expression remains neutral but his eyes read unimpressed.
Silence greets us both, indicating my roommate is either out for the night or asleep.
“My roommate might be home,” I tell him quietly.
“Where’s your room?”
I gesture down the narrow hallway toward the closed door on the right-hand side. Travis takes my elbow, directing me toward the room.
“The doctor said you need to stay off your feet for a few days.”
Travis flicks on the light of my bedroom. Thankfully, I keep my space neat and make my bed every morning. I glance down at the opened notebook that sits on the nightstand beside my bed.
The moment I reach it, I flip it closed and stuff it away in the top drawer of the stand. This morning’s gratitude list doesn’t need to be on display right now.
“Sit.” Travis juts his head toward the bed.
I tell myself I’m obliging only because I’m following the doctor’s recommendations, not Travis’.
The moment my butt hits the mattress, Travis surprises me, lifting my legs onto his lap so that I’m forced to lie back againstthe metal headboard. He removes the ugly, three-inch heeled, black shoes I wear for my catering job and instantly starts massaging the insoles of my feet.
My breathing stutters, and I have to pinch my lips together to trap a moan.
Why is he torturing me like this?
“You shouldn’t have been on your feet all night,” he says, his voice rigid with pent-up anger or frustration or both.
My eyes pop open, strange since I don’t remember closing them.
“Travis—”
“How long have you known?”
His question startles me, and whatever I’d been about to say fades away.
“What?”
“About the pregnancy. How long have you known?”
He turns those seafoam eyes on me and words become difficult to push through my lips. The whole time his hands don’t stop massaging my feet.
“Almost four weeks,” I admit.
“And you’re eight weeks pregnant,” he says, not asks.
I clear my throat.
