I will myself to stop, to cut myself short before I go too far.
I’m done entertaining the possibility that Bria could turn out to be a gold digger. It simply doesn’t make sense, and I refuse to let myself view it as a possibility when it’s anything but.
My woman would never do that.
“The children we’re going to have,” I go on with a feral tone in my voice. “The life we’re going to share. I can’t stop thinking about the babies I’m going to put in your belly, the house we’re going to live in, the memories we’re going to make.”
Everything in me roars to kiss her, to grab her and fuse our lips together so she can feel all the passion coursing through me, so she doesn’t have to take my word for it.
But then she takes a step back.
“Is this a trick?”
I almost roar. “A trick? A fucking trick? I would die before I tricked you before I hurt you. I thought I’d made that clear.”
“You really mean it?” she whispers.
Her mouth is hanging open, now, her eyes wide. Her expression is a landscape of confusion, conflicting wants and needs making her difficult to read.
I step closer, eliciting a cock-hardening little whimper. “I’ve never been more certain of anything in my entire life. I’ve never even felt close to this certain. Yes, I mean it.”
Bria’s phone goes off from her pocket. Her face drops in a frown. “That’s Maximillia. She’ll want me back. Do you think we can maybe talk about this later?”
Something heavy thuds into my chest, a near-physical sensation, smashing into me and twisting through me like a knife.
But do you feel the same? I want to ask.
I stop myself, unwilling to let so much plain emotion out into the open like that, unwilling to expose myself more than I already have.
Of course, she thinks I’m downright insane.
But at least she’s not leaping on my words like a gold digger. Not that I ever thought she’d do that.
“Maybe you could meet me after work?” she murmurs, her eyes flitting down as though she’s unwilling to meet my gaze.
“Sure,” I snarl, turning away. “Sounds good.”
I stalk across the lot, fists clenched, the word idiot bouncing around and around in my head.
I should’ve kept my damn mouth shut.
Chapter Eleven
Bria
“Okay, so something is clearly bothering you.” I look up from the sewing machine to find Maximillia standing over me, her thin lips pulled back in a cross between a sneer and a frown of pity. “And don’t tell me I’m wrong. I make it a point to be able to read my people, Bria, and you have been notably mopey today.”
I take an instinctive look around, making sure nobody else is eavesdropping on this conversation. But I’m in the corner of the warehouse, away from the other designers and interns.
I’ve been staring down at my work and trying to focus, but my mind keeps skipping back to what Braden said, the beauty and the impossibility of it. I wanted to scream right there that I felt the same, but something stopped me, my instincts taking over.
Before I knew it, I was leaving, walking away, with my heartbeat roaring in my ears and my head screaming idiot, idiot, go back there right now.
But now I’ve let my emotions affect my work performance and maybe Maximillia isn’t going to tolerate that. Maybe she’s going to kick me off the program… which she has every right to do, considering I’m just a dorky intern, nobody really.
“I’m sorry,” I say, finally finding my voice.
Her frown deepens and she shakes her head. “Don’t be sorry. Just explain what this problem is, this oh-so-serious problem that is interfering with the mood of my palace.”
Her palace is the costume warehouse, a term she often uses to describe it. Some of the other designers make fun of Maximillia’s crazy demeanor – never to her face, of course – but I love it. I find it refreshing.
She waves an ostentatious hand.
“This place requires everybody to be happy, motivated, but you’re sitting here like you’ve just found out vibrators have been outlawed.”
She lets out a violent high-pitched laugh, causing several heads to snap up and then back down to their work. My cheeks turn a deep crimson even as I will them to stop, will them not to give away my inner feelings so freaking easily. Even if Maximillia is always this flamboyant and outspoken, it still catches me off-guard sometimes.
“It’s nothing. I’m sorry—”
“It’s not nothing.” She lowers her tone as she pulls up a chair, sitting opposite me. When she goes on, she keeps her voice quiet, private. “It’s no secret I’ve taken a special interest in you, Bria. You see, I was raised in an orphanage, just like you. I had to claw and fight for everything, just like you. I see myself in you. And I know that, for people like us, emotions run deep. But sharing can help.”