The Game Plan (Game On, #3)(85)

I want to go to her, hold her close. But lately she flinches when I touch her. And it hurts too much for me to risk it right now. “Hey, Cherry.”

Fi blinks as if pulling out of a fog. “Hey. Were you working out?”

“No. Just sitting outside for a while.”

My naturally curious girl doesn’t ask why. Drew is right; I need to snap her out of this. Even if I have to haul her out over my shoulder.

“I was talking to Drew.”

She winces, her shoulders hunching in. “Let me guess, about me.”

“He wanted to see how you were doing. He cares about you, Fi.”

She shakes her head. “You know you’re f*cked up when you’d rather no one cared.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“But I do,” she snaps, her eyes hard and cold. “I’d be perfectly happy if I never got asked how I’m doing again.”

It’s my turn to wince. Because I ask her every day. I’m hovering, annoying her with my concern. Her expression tells me that’s exactly what she’s thinking.

My head begins to pound along with my heart. I run a tired hand over my brow, not knowing what the f*ck to say anymore.

Fi runs a finger along the grain in the marble countertop. “I was on the phone too. Talking to my mom.”

I’ve met Fi’s mom twice. Fi has her coloring, but Ivy has her features. I’m looking forward to meeting her as Fiona’s man, but I don’t think that’s what this conversation is about. Instinct has me bracing for impact.

Fi’s gaze flicks to mine. “She asked me to come to London.”

“London. Now?” The pounding in my heart gets harder, faster.

Fi shrugs, studies the marble. “I could go out there. Do things. Not be trapped.”

Trapped like she is here with me.

I run a hand through my beard and discover my fingers are trembling. “I can’t go with you right now, Fi.”

She doesn’t look up. “I know.”

I’ve been hit by three-hundred-pound men intent on mowing me down—that hurts less than those two flat words. She doesn’t want me to come.

Her voice is soft when she speaks, as if she’s trying to spare my feelings. “You once said we should take a step back until things blow over.”

“And you told me I was wrong.” Tell me I’m wrong again. Fight for us.

“Maybe you were right.”

My throat clogs, and I have to clear it. “You said you didn’t want to be apart.”

“I didn’t—don’t. But this…” She gestures to the windows and the world outside of it. “Is no way to live.”

“So stop hiding. Let’s go out there, and f*ck what anyone thinks.”

Her eyes flash, deep green and angry. “Easy for you to say.”

“It isn’t easy at all, Fi. This whole thing f*cking kills me.”

“Then help me,” she says, leaning toward me, her slim body tight and tense. “I can’t stand this, Ethan.”

I can’t look at her. Not without losing it.

“It’s not forever,” she says.

She’s right. It’s just a trip, not the end. But it feels like it. I have a sickening fear that the second she walks out my door, she’ll be lost to me.

I want to fight for her. Insist that she be with me. But I can’t be selfish. If I force her to stay, I’ll lose her anyway. Fi isn’t an object. She’s the woman I love. And if she needs her mother right now, that’s what she’ll get.

I swallow hard, and it feels like I’m drinking down chunks of glass. When I talk, my stomach turns over.

“Let me know when you want to go, and I’ll book you a flight.”





Chapter Forty-Two





Dex



I go to bed first and wait in the dark for Fi to finish up in the bathroom. I used to sleep sprawled out, dead center in my bed. No more. I have a side now—the left, which is closest to the door. I chose it because of some deep instinctual need to place myself between Fi and any possible harm that might come into the room.

Won’t matter much when she goes to London. I know I should suck it up. It’s just a trip. But it feels like failure. She’s going because I f*cked up.

I run a hand over the center of my chest. It’s constricted, not letting me breathe properly. I hear the sounds of running water stop and then Fi flicking off the bathroom light of as she comes into the room.

I stare up at the ceiling. I used to love watching her walk toward the bed, her hips swaying, a smile touching her lips. God, I loved that sight, loved seeing the heat in her eyes. Most nights, we couldn’t keep our hands off each other. It’s too hard looking at her these days, knowing she doesn’t want me to touch her anymore.

The covers lift, and I steel myself for that inevitable moment when she whispers “Goodnight” and curls in on herself.

But she doesn’t do that. She moves across the bed, toward me, the action so surprising that I turn her way to question it just as she snuggles up against me. I automatically wrap her in my arms, my body reacting before my brain can catch up. But then I feel her smooth, warm skin against mine and realize she’s naked.

Hell.

She hasn’t come to bed naked in what feels like forever. A tremor goes through me as my hand runs down the small of her back. I’ve missed this. Just holding her. I want to roll her over and push into her, but I keep still, afraid to break this spell that finally has her back in my arms. Her face burrows into my neck as her hands grip my shoulders.