Page 92 of Everything But Mine

“Soulmate.” I nod, licking my lips. “Yeah. That covers it.”

Tears blur my vision, and I finally feel like we understand each other. He feels second. I feel rejected.

Eric breathes out, his chest brushing my skin. “Okay.”

I take a step toward him, and when he doesn’t flinch, I wrap my arm behind his back and pull myself into him. He doesn’t hug me back, and that’s okay. What he said is enough that it doesn’t sting.

“You’re it for me, Amanda,” he whispers against the top of my head.

I nuzzle against his inked pec—this homage on his body to a future we both thought was lost because he didn’t think he deserved it.

If only he could see himself the way I do.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

ERIC

“All the bedrooms are massive in this one,” Amanda says over her shoulder, standing in the doorway of the third bedroom in a first-floor apartment two stops away from our side of campus. “I could have the baby next to me for a while.”

“Sure.” I lean against the living room wall, hands in pockets. “But he’ll eventually need his own room. That’s what the third bedroom’s for, right? For a nursery?”

“We could have a nursery in a two-bedroom.”

If we shared a bedroom. A bed.

Neither speaks the words, and yet they linger between us anyway. Her green eyes do, too, assessing my expression as she teases but doesn’t add. Her gaze is warm and sizzling. Suggestive. Or maybe it’s all in my head.

She struts away from me and presses her palm against the large bay windows in the living room. The Pink Line goes by, right on the other side of the alley east of the apartment, making the glass rattle against her hand. “How loud does that get at night?”

While Amanda still looks out the window, the property manager rolls his eyes at her question. He opens his mouth to speak, and I lean off the wall, clearing my throat. His gaze flicks to me before he answers. I do this more and more since I said, “When we kiss.” Step in to avoid battles she doesn’t need to waste energy on.

Amanda then examines the kitchen, standing in the middle of it, while holding her stomach, pushing it upward. I close the distance between us until our arms brush. “Are you alright?” I ask.

She nods, then rubs her hips. “He’s getting heavy.”

Amanda is not even in her third trimester. A trickle of anxiety rises up when she jumps twice trying to get the cabinet above the fridge open.

“Let me.” I stand behind her until my front brushes her back, bracketing her as I open both doors without any strain. “Satisfied?”

She huffs, but squeezes my forearm. As she turns, her gaze catches mine again, and everything slows down as I become hyperaware of the softness of her skin against my own. My forearms are above her pressed into mine against the top of the fridge while every ounce of air between us turns to delicious torture.

In the last two weeks since Val’s conference, Amanda has made it clear without words. If I want us to kiss, the move is mine. Everything I’ve ever wanted is so close I can taste it. My heart hammers, cold sweat gathers in my palms, and every time, I manage to get so very close to her… until I look away.

It’s not fear, although there’s a suffocating amount of that, too. There’s always something missing, and I want it to be… perfect. Right now, though, her vanilla body wash mixed with her perspiration in the heat; her curved stomach, fully touching my flat belly while she licks her lips when my eyes flick to her mouth. It feels pretty fucking perfect to me…

And then it’s the property manager’s turn to clear his throat, arms crossed over his chest. I narrow my eyes at him. Amanda pats my middle, but she doesn’t step away from me. She’s back to surveying the kitchen now.

“This one won’t do.”

“Why the hell not?” This is the fifth fucking apartment that won’t do today.

“There’s no outlet by the stove.” Her tone is flat, as if it’s my mistake for not noticing. “Where would the coffee machine go?”

I’ve never checked for outlets or lighting or closet space before.

“There’s one right there.” I point at the wall across from the stove. “We can get a kitchen island.”

Her eyes squint, considering it, then light up a little when she finds another problem. “Then where would we put the dining room table?”