Page 45 of Freefall

I pull a tea bag from the container and drop it into the mug. “Look, Nate. We just moved back, and it’s hard enough of a transition for an eight-year-old without adding in a father she never knew about.”

His eyes narrow. “Whose fault is that?”

I suck in a breath. “I’m not saying never. I’m just saying not right now.”

He walks away, only to turn right back around, shaking his head. “We wouldn’t have to tell her right away. I just want to meet her. You said I could.”

The way he says those last words cracks something in my chest. He’s right. I did say he could meet her properly, but that was when he was quite literally breathing down my neck. Any semblance of clear thought was impossible.

When I don’t respond, he brings his clenched fist to his mouth and bites down on it before muttering, “God, what I would do to you right now if you were mine.”

A shiver runs through me. Why does that one simple word feel like the weight of a thousand? Maybe because there was a time when it was true. When being his felt so inevitable that I never stopped to imagine a life where I wasn’t. Or maybe because some stupid part of me still wants to know what it would feel like to belong to him again.

My gaze drops to his mouth.

Bad idea.

Such a bad fucking idea.

But my body doesn’t seem interested in good ideas where Nate is concerned. Not when I can still feel the warmth of his hands when he pushed mine away from the container. Not when that word is echoing through my head on repeat.

Mine.

I want him to say it again.

Worse, I want him to mean it.

I bite down on my own fist to keep the words desperately trying to fall out.

Don’t say it.

Don’t say it.

I lower my hand to my side.

“So do it.”

Shit.

He laughs, but it’s an empty, frustrated sound more than anything. “Believe me. If I thought you could handle it, I would.”

“Handle it?” I scoff. Up until now, I’ve been annoyed, but now I’m straight-up angry. “Did you forget who showed you how to take control without feeling guilty, Nate?”

“Don’t—”

“Who submitted to you fully, completely for the first time?”

“Harper,” he warns. “Stop.”

“Or what? What are you going to do to me, Nate?” I taunt. “I’ve been so bad. You must be itching to do something about it.”

“Jesus Christ, Harper.”

Nate takes a step toward me, and I back up.

I know I should stop. I keep telling myself to stop. The storm in his eyes is raging, his jaw is so tight I’m worried he might grind his teeth to dust, and that vein in his neck? It’s thrumming in overtime.

“Don’t tell me what I can and cannot handle, Nathan. You have no idea.”