Proving Paul's Promise(32)

I grab Friday’s arm on the way out the door. “What did he mean about me being okay with PDA earlier?” I whisper to her. I don’t know why I have that on my mind, but it stuck with me.

“He tried to explain it to me once,” she says. “I think it’s adorable when they get affectionate with one another, but not everyone feels that way. Even people who ‘tolerate,’”—she draws air quotes around the word tolerate—“their relationship are sometimes offended by their kissing and holding hands. So, they’re careful about who they do it around.”

“But they’re just two people in love,” I say. “What am I missing?”

She steps up onto her tiptoes and kisses my cheek. “You, Paul Reed, are one special guy. Do you know that?” She looks into my eyes.

“In this day and age, they still get judged?” I ask. I just find it hard to believe. What it takes to be a family hasn’t changed through the years, but what families look like sure has.

“All the time,” Friday says. “He was just being considerate of your feelings. Don’t worry about it.” She waves a breezy hand in the air and follows Garrett and Cody into the sunlight. She puts her sunglasses on, and I walk beside her.

“We have to get back to work,” Cody says. He kisses Friday on the forehead and shakes hands with me. Then Garrett does the same.

“Take care of our baby mama,” Garrett says.

I put my arm around her. “I plan to.” I want to start with a nap. With her in my bed. Under my covers. Preferably naked.





Friday

I’m pregnant. My knees are a little bit wobbly, but I’m not sure if that’s because Paul is staring at me or if it’s because I’m scared shitless of the thought of being knocked up. It’s not mine. It’s not mine. It’s not mine, I chant in my head.

“What’s wrong?” Paul asks. He tips my face up, and I grab his wrists to pull his hands down. He tangles his fingers with mine, instead, and pulls my hands behind my back, tugging me until my body is flush against his.

I wiggle my fingers in his grip. He’s not holding me tightly. He’s just loosely gripping my hands, probably to keep me from shoving him away. “Do many of your women find this sexy?”

“Many of my women?” His chuckle rumbles through me. “How many do you think I have?”

“I don’t have enough fingers, toes, or freckles to count that high.”

“Oh, it’s not that many.” He kisses the tip of my nose. “You have a lot of freckles.” He laughs again. But he’s avoiding my eyes all of a sudden.

“I’ve seen you with the hoochies that come into the shop,” I tell him. It bothered me then; it bothers me now. But I don’t want him to know how much. “You get around.”

“I got around. I don’t get around. Big difference.”

I force a little joviality into my voice. “So you’re telling me that you’re not going to sleep with anyone else ever again.”

“If you commit, I commit,” he says. “I told you, I don’t share. And I don’t expect you to share, either.”

I twist my fingers out of his, and he looks like a three-year-old who just lost his new toy when I step back from him. If I run, he’ll follow and it’ll look like I’m playing with him, when I really just need space. Then no one’s feelings get hurt.

“Come back here,” he says.

I force a laugh and run for the subway. He follows. I can barley hear his running shoes on the pavement, but I know he’s back there. His shadow is following me, almost overwhelming mine, much the way he takes me over.

“If you were a man, I’d stick my foot out and trip you,” he says to my back.

“If you were a man, you’d be able to catch me,” I toss over my shoulder.

He scowls and catches up with me in two long strides. “If I were a man?” he says, dropping his mouth to my ear to growl the words at me. “You doubt it?”

“Prove it, big guy,” I tell him.

He shakes his head. “Not yet.”

I stop walking and put my hands on my hips. “You’re going to let me pick on your manhood and not try to prove it?” I ask. Take the bait, Paul.

“If you were anywhere near my manhood, I wouldn’t have to prove it.” He grabs for a handle as we step onto the subway car, and he pulls me against him. I kind of like having him hold me like this. It’s intimate and new. And he seems to like it, too, if the evidence of his desire pressing against my hip is any indication.

I lower my hand to rub him through his jeans, but he intercepts my questing fingers.

“Don’t f*cking play with me,” he warns.

“Whoa,” I breathe out. “Where did that come from?”

“Sexual frustration,” he says. “Brings out the best in me.”

I play with a loose string on his sleeve. “So, what if I want to f*cking play with you?”

His arm drops from around my waist. “Then you’re talking to the wrong guy.”

I suddenly feel cold and alone. I cross my arms in front of me and try to glare at him. But it’s hard when I’m feeling this exposed.

“Don’t ever use sex as a way to control me,” he says quietly. Then his arm wraps around me again. This time, it’s me who pulls back. He scowls and follows me when I go to sit in an empty seat. He slides in beside me so I shove myself up against the window. He’s big, though, and he takes up all the seat on his side and some of mine. “Don’t run from me, either,” he says. “I’ll always chase. Until you tell me you don’t want me to.”