Home > Two for the Show (One for the Money #2)(6)

Two for the Show (One for the Money #2)(6)
Author: Skye Warren

“Finn. Listen to me.”

“Eva.” He steels himself. “What the fuck?”

 

 

4

 

 

FINN

 

 

I mean those words with every scrap of my soul. What the fuck. What the fuck.

Eva is not pregnant.

A suggestion presents itself. It’s not yours. She’s pregnant with another man’s baby. It’s fast, but it’s not impossible.

I know it’s not true. I know how carefully she tried to protect her broken heart. She doesn’t just jump into bed with anyone. It was a miracle she left her parents’ house with me at all. Every second Eva Morelli gave to me was a gift after how devastated she was about Lane.

And I threw it back in her face, like a complete bastard. I sent her home, where presumably she discovered…this.

I didn’t do this. I can’t have done this. We cannot have done this thing.

Getting a woman pregnant is one thing I swore I’d never do. Getting married? Having a family? Never. And not for my own sake, but theirs.

Well, I’m not avoidant like Eva. I don’t sweep things under the rug. I don’t hide the truth from myself. Not ever.

“Finn.” Her hand grips my elbow.

I saw the way her face changed when that baby cried. I saw how her fingertips brushed her belly, which is still flat.

No.

I tuck her hand into my elbow and propel her away from the dance floor. I’m gentle but firm. We’re going to talk about this. We’re going to get to the bottom of how exactly this happened.

“Finn, stop.” There’s a note of panic in her voice. She was trying to keep this from me. I was right. She was acting strange earlier. Being avoidant. Not because she’s angry with me…or not just because she’s angry. It’s because of the…

I can’t even think the word.

Not now. Not in front of all these people.

“Eva,” someone calls.

I don’t know who it is. One of her mother’s thousand friends or acquaintances. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except getting to a place where I can have a real conversation with Eva about the disaster that’s about to decimate our lives.

She waves, tugging at my arms. “An issue with the dessert table.” Eva gives them a little laugh, as if to say weddings, right? “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Whoever it is seems to believe her. No footsteps follow after us. A problem with the dessert table. Jesus. This is the end of the world, and she’s smoothly making up excuses about frosted cookies and macarons.

She’s covering for me because I’m steering her out of her like a maniac.

I know I am, but I can’t stop.

There are so many people here. They form a crowd, even in the large space. Impossible to see the paintings on the walls at the Met. We turn corner after corner until we’re in a relatively secluded gallery.

It’s not secluded enough. I can still hear the music from Daphne’s wedding. Still hear the chatter of voices. It’ll have to be enough.

A painting of a mother with her young daughter stares at us from the wall. They’re peaceful together. Happy. The mother is bent over her sewing, and her daughter leans in close.

I take her shoulders and line her up in front of it. “Eva.”

“What.”

“Eva.”

“Is there something you want to tell me?”

She lifts her chin, her eyes flashing. Eva doesn’t look the least bit fragile now. She’s all Morelli intimidation and scorn. “Absolutely not.”

I swear to fucking God, I’m at the end of my rope. The very end. Look. There it goes. But Eva’s being mulish. I can see it in the set of her beautiful, stubborn mouth.

“Eva.”

Nothing.

Words aren’t enough for all the fear and anger of this moment. It hums between us, along with our past. We have a past now, Eva and me. We got under each other’s skin.

God, I wanted her. From the moment I saw her in that room, I wanted her.

I want her now.

I miss her like hell, and this thing she’s not telling me? It doesn’t stop how much I ache for her.

I lean in for a kiss.

Eva turns her head away.

It’s a cold shock. I should have expected it.

Her throat tenses with every breath she takes. Being shut out like this hurts like knowing your own expiration date. My lungs momentarily stop working, but I need air to keep fighting with her. I’ll go down fighting.

“Come on, Morelli. You weren’t this shy on the dance floor.”

“I don’t want anything to do with you.” So simple. So precise. Everybody gives the Morelli brothers credit for being sharp as knives, but Eva’s slipped one between my ribs. I saw it coming. I didn’t stop it.

“So you’re pissed at me. That’s not a reason to lie.”

She turns to look at me, keeping her head against the wall. “It’s over, sweetheart.”

I know I put the weapon in her hands, but goddamn. I trap her chin on instinct. Eva glares at me, breathing hard. It’s not over. That’s the argument. “You don’t want to kiss me? I want to kiss you.”

Her mouth becomes a thin, angry line, but she doesn’t move. It’s not an invitation.

But it’s not a refusal.

I press my advantage and kiss her despite the fury in her eyes.

There, a voice says. There. She tastes soft and good and melts into me like I didn’t break up with her like an asshole. Like I didn’t cross every line we’d drawn in the sand.

Eva’s body moves into mine just like it did on the dance floor. She’s sweet and sensual and a queen, all at once. Her arms slide around my neck. Her hips press into mine. Her back meets the wall beside that painting of a mother with her child.

There’s no father in the painting.

I drown that thought in her kiss. Lose myself in it. I lick her and bite her with a thorough concentration, as if we have all the time in the world. The reception can end, for all I care. Museum staff can usher people out at the end of the night.

Eva makes a frustrated sound against my mouth. I recognize it. I’ve spent enough hours in her bed to know that it means she wants more.

I want more, too, and I’m going to have it. I came to this reception, I pulled her into this gallery, and I’m going to give her what we both want.

I let myself sink deeper into her mouth. Into the even pressure of her body against mine. The tiny rolls and bucks of her hips, even for a kiss.

Eva wants me to fuck her. She’s practically begging now, with every move she makes and every sound.

I nuzzle the side of her neck. Nip at the lobe of her ear. Make her shiver. This is simple cause and effect. This stretch of skin, here, makes her hips roll. This tug of her lip draws out a sound. It’s everything.

I kiss her harder, exploring her. Memorizing her. I won’t forget this. I don’t know how I could. It’s the taste of perfection. It’s the taste of heat and home.

It’s her.

I lean down close to her ear. “Eva.”

“I hate you.”

“I don’t hate you. I want you.”

One sharp breath, and she breaks down.

Her first sob is just the beginning. Eva keeps them quiet, so that they don’t bother anyone else, but they shake her entire body.

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