Page 53 of Tough Love

“What’s so funny?” he snaps. “Think it’s hilarious that I got my own after what I did to you, do you?” He slumps into the seat, sulking.

“No,” I scoff. “Oh, hell. I can’t … I can’t even.”

“What?” He smiles, my humour contagious despite how pissed he is at me right now.

“Steve was my—” A giggle escapes. “—goldfish.”

He sits stunned, eyes wide as his face falls. “What?”

“I got a goldfish,” I explain. “Some theory a counsellor had about giving me something to focus on other than my issues. It was doomed from the start though, a bad romance,” I tease. “Found him belly up a month later—no idea why.”

“A goldfish.”

I nod fervently.

He groans, collapsing over the arm of the sofa behind him. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“I wish. You’re kind of hot when you’re jealous.”

“Do you have any idea how long I spent trying to find out who that douche was so I could pay him a house call?”

“What?” I semi-snort. “You were going to go all possessive ex on him?”

“Totally.” He straightens; the flex of his muscles divine as he uses his core to pull his bodyweight up. “No way was I letting some guy take you away without making my view on it clear.”

I choose to ignore the rush of heat that peppers my neck at the thought of Evan staking his claim, and focus instead on whatdidhappen. “Why did you let it go then?”

He frowns a little, his gaze dropping to my lips. “I ran out of time.”

“How?”

“I had to be back up north by Monday because I was starting a new job. I asked everyone I saw that weekend who Steve was.” He chuckles, shaking his head in disbelief. “And when I had no answer by Sunday night, I ceded defeat. Figured if I couldn’t track down who this guy was, maybe it was fate’s way of telling me you were meant for him.”

“A goldfish was never going to satisfy my urges,” I tease in an effort to lighten the mood.

Evan stares out the window at the approaching night beyond, his jaw hard set and the vacancy in his eyes telling me he’s anywhere but in this room with me.

“I thought I lost you for good.” His voice weakens, the thoughts consuming him taking this man before to me to somewhere dark, somewhere he clearly doesn’t like to be.

“What is it?” I ask. “You look like you want to say something else.”

He turns, and then shunts himself closer so that my legs are jammed almost painfully against his. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I’m sorry I gave up on us, that I let you go. I’m sorry for what happened after.”

“It wasn’t your fault what he did,” I urge, reaching out and placing my hand to his cheek.

He nestles into my touch, his eyes drifting closed. “Not you, baby. What I did. I’m sorry about what I did after.”

My heart slows, the ice bringing my gears to a standstill as I remove my hand and place it back in my lap. “What did you do?”

He unleashes the power of those vivid blues on me, making me want to forgive him even though I know nothing about what he’s going to say next.

“It was the night Deacon was conceived,” he admits, his gaze darting between my eyes.

“Oh.” I pull back, confined against the edge of the sofa by his broad frame.

“Mimi.”

“That was … quick.” Mere hours is all it took to shift his focus off me to another girl, huh?