Total pages in book: 54
Estimated words: 49814 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 249(@200wpm)___ 199(@250wpm)___ 166(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 49814 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 249(@200wpm)___ 199(@250wpm)___ 166(@300wpm)
He sighs heavily, brushing a strand of hair away from my face. "I'm not willing to lose you, Constance. I need you at work. I need you here." He squeezes my hip. "I want this. I want you."
"I want it too," I admit. "But…"
"But what?"
I'm in love with you, and I'm fucking terrified because I've never felt this way.
God, why is that so hard to say when he's basically telling me that he wants a future with me? That he wants my kids?
Because I'm terrified it'll all be ripped away, that's why. I'll give him my soul, and everything will break. I'll lose him, my job, my friends…everything. And I'll have to spend the rest of my life existing on memories of when he was mine.
I'm not ready to face that, not when he's not even willing to admit that I'm right. If this doesn't work out, he gets to continue life like normal. I'm the one who loses everything. He wants to be my boss and my future…but it doesn't work that way. It can't.
"But reality doesn't always care what we want," I say instead of telling him any of that. I can't make him love me. I won't beg him to give me his heart…but I'm not sure I'll ever be content with anything less.
He sighs again, pulling me into his arms. "We're reality, baby." His lips brush my shoulder. "You might not see it, but I do."
"I do see it," I admit on a whisper. "That's what scares me, Bastian. I could lose everything, including you."
He tips my head back, his lips soft against mine. "I'm not going anywhere, Constance."
I want to believe him. God, I want to believe him so fucking badly. But…for all his promises and assurances, he still hasn't told me how he feels about me. It's three little words, and he can't—or won't—say them.
And maybe that's my answer. He wants me…just not enough.
Chapter Eight
Bastian
"Get out of my fucking office," I growl, stopping in the doorway as soon as I see Trystan lounging on the sofa like an indolent king. I'm not in the mood for his shit today. I spent most of the night staring at the ceiling, worried as fuck that Constance is going to pull the plug on us.
After what she said, I can't help but worry about it. She's fucking scared.
How am I supposed to win her heart when she's literally terrified to give it to me? I hate that she was right last night, but goddammit, she was. There is a power imbalance between us, whether I want it there or not. I'm her boss. Her future here rests with me. Of course she thinks about that. It probably eats at her every minute of the fucking day.
Constance thrives on independence and making her own choices, on being in charge of her own fate. And in this situation…she isn't. I have all the power, whether I want it or not. If we don't work out, she loses her job, her friends, the place she's started to consider home.
There's no doubt in my mind that we're going to work out. I refuse to accept anything less. But I know how her mind works. I know she can't relax and stop worrying about the what-ifs so long as they exist. She isn't capable of just going with the flow and hoping it all works out. She simply wasn't wired that way, not when she grew up in an entirely different world than mine.
We always had the vineyard. We always had money. Constance didn't. Until her brother joined the military, they struggled. And then she struggled because he was in the military. We've talked about that some—about what it was like for her when he was overseas, and when he came home. She's spent most of her life worried about something—having enough food on the table or her brother making it home. This job is stability for her, it's peace. And she's anxious as hell because she's doing the one thing she shouldn't do by sleeping with me: risking it.
So…I have to eliminate the problem. It's the only way she'll stop worrying about it and allow herself to fall into this completely.
"Well, someone is in a bad mood today," Trystan says, far too cheerfully for seven in the morning. "Rough night?"
I just grunt in response, stomping toward my desk.
"Damn." He swings into a seated position, his boots dropping to the floor. "It was a rough night if you're not telling me to fuck off again. What happened?"
I open my mouth to tell him to mind his damn business and then snap it closed. Maybe I need to talk to someone about shit once in a while instead of trying to hold it all together myself. And maybe that's what they need from me too—not me telling them what to do all the goddamn time, but talking. Listening. Giving up a little bit of control.