Chelsea sits beside me on the couch, facing me, her legs tucked, her pretty feet curled under her. Yes—Chelsea has pretty feet, okay? I never knew feet could be pretty—until I saw hers.
“So . . . that talk I mentioned before? We should probably have that now, while we can.”
I take a sip of my drink and nod. “Yeah—I wasn’t at all hoping you’d forget about it or anything.”
Her face slides into a grin. “Funny.”
I look back at her, straight-faced. “I’m a funny guy.”
When she doesn’t say anything for a few moments, I ask, “What’s up?”
Because now I’m actually getting concerned. My stomach tightens as I brace for whatever’s worrying her—and before I even know what I’m up against, in my head I’m already planning all the ways I’ll take care of it. Because that’s what I do—and I’m good at it.
But what she tells me next blows my fucking mind.
Two words—ten thousand thoughts exploding in my head at once.
I’m a big guy, six-five, 225 pounds of muscle. Guys like me, our voices don’t squeak.
But at this moment, mine comes damn close.
“Like . . . for an appointment?”
Chelsea inhales deeply, then breathes out, “No.”