Plan B (Best Laid Plans #2)(33)

When I kick off my shoes Kyle reminds me of the dinner reservations. I groan and walk over to the fridge to see what's inside. "Can't we just stay here and eat dinner on the couch? I'm really tired and I want to put on stretchy pants and talk about your first fiancée."

Kyle swears under his breath.

"I assume she was your first," I add with my back to him while I investigate the contents of the fridge. There's no prepared meal today. We've got turkey, grapes, cheese, eggs, apples, lettuce, tomato and on and on. Damn, having a housewife is the best. "Do you have more than one ex-fiancée? I'm referring to Margo, in case I needed to be more specific."

"Was she there today? At the conference?"

When I turn around he's taking his tie off, with that little tug maneuver that gets me all hot and bothered. Guessing this means he's on board to cancel our dinner reservations, I close the refrigerator and head towards Kyle's bedroom. I've taken over one of his two walk-in closets with my suitcase and the limited items I brought with me for a week in Philly so I head there, slipping out of my dress and evaluating my options for comfort clothing. I think my refusal to buy new clothing in acceptance of the expansion of my waistline has finally caught up with me because my sleep shorts are getting a little tight.

"Yup. She crawled out from under her bridge long enough to show up. She works for you though; don't you keep tabs on her?"

"Not more than necessary, no." His closet is across from mine. He's followed me to the bedroom, stripping down in his closet while I stand in mine, and this is all so domestic I'm not sure what has happened to my life. I walk into Kyle's closet in my underwear and he stops unbuttoning his shirt to stare at me.

"Can I borrow these?" I ask, nabbing a pair of sweatpants from a shelf in his closet. I don't wait for a reply before sliding them on and cinching the drawstring before tying it off in a bow. They're hanging off of me and they're too long but it's such a relief to be wearing something that feels like I have room to breathe. And room for a burrito. "Sexy as fuck, am I right?" I say as I do a little twerk maneuver with my hips like I'm still in high school auditioning for cheer squad. I'm wearing a plain bra and oversized sweatpants. This is the least sexy I've ever been in my life.

"I think so," he says thickly, his eyes lingering on my exposed skin.

"Do you?" I place my hands on his chest, taking over where he stopped unbuttoning his shirt. If he finds this version of me sexy I might as well run with it. He's still a bit of a mystery to me, which is to be expected since we don't know each other that well. But he's been treating me like a virgin saving it for the wedding and I'm most definitely not. I'm not sure if his reluctance is because of the baby or because he feels trapped by himself and his code of honor, but I think maybe I need to just tell him I'd like him to defile me six ways to Sunday.

Instead, I catch a look at the engagement ring on my finger while I'm unbuttoning his shirt and remember I wanted to talk about that, so instead of getting him out of his shirt I blurt, "Was this Margo's ring?" because I really know how to spoil a mood and cock-block myself.

"No." He takes a step back and looks at me for a long moment. "Of course not."

"But you were engaged to her once? You gave her a ring, but not this ring?"

"Yes. We were engaged at one time, but that's not her ring. I couldn't tell you what happened to the ring I gave her because I never asked for it back." He finishes unbuttoning his shirt, tossing it into the hamper, and I'm distracted by the muscles on his back and also by how attractive the proper use of a hamper is.

"Did she insinuate that it was?" he asks, yanking a cotton T-shirt over his head.

"She did, actually. I was fairly certain she was lying but I wanted to ask."

"She was."

"Okay." I move back to my own closet, unsnapping and removing my bra as I walk before digging a T-shirt out of my suitcase to pull over my head. When I turn to face him again he's leaning against the frame of his closet door, staring at me.

"Yours is bigger, by the way."

"My tits? Thank you."

"Your ring," he says with a little shake of his head and a roll of his eyes.

"So what happened? With Margo? And if you say something like 'it's complicated' I'm likely to knee you in the balls."

His brows rise, in surprise I think.

"Oh, sorry," I mumble. "I forgot I'm both cranky and hungry until just now."

We move to the kitchen, Kyle telling me to sit at the island countertop while he makes me a sandwich, which is really nice of him but also I think he might want my knees tucked under the countertop.

"Do I say that a lot? That it's too complicated to explain?"

"You say it all the time."

He's silent for what feels like a really long time, layering turkey and lettuce on slices of bread. "I find it difficult to open up to people," is what he offers when he finally speaks. In reality it's probably been less than a minute, but a minute is a really long time when you're waiting for someone to make you a sandwich. It's like microwave time, it takes forever.

"Because you're rich and everyone wants something from you? Because you're an independent guy conflicted by your need to caretake for others? Because Margo is a cold gnome who broke your heart?"