“What are you smiling about?”

  Shit, the man moved like smoke. She jerked and opened her eyes to find him crouched in front of her. He set a steaming mug of tea on the coffee table.

  “You’re not wearing an apron,” she murmured.

  With a frown, he palmed her forehead.

  “I’m not sick,” she managed with a low laugh and pushed his hand—the one that felt far too good on her skin—away from her.

  He didn’t budge. “Talk to me, Elle.”

  She blew out a breath. “I’m not ready to talk to you.” She picked up the remote on the coffee table and aimed it at the biggest TV she’d ever seen.

  It came on, the volume up high, the screen flashing through channels so fast it made her dizzy. “I think I just launched a lunar module, but I’m not sure.”

  He reached over and turned it off. “You’re exhausted. You need sleep but there’s no sense in trying to go to bed when you’re this pissed off. Let it all out, Elle. You’re . . . late?”

  “Only a single day. It’s nothing.”

  He didn’t take his eyes off her. “So you’ve been late before?”

  “No,” she admitted. Normally she was so regular she could be a calendar. “It’s probably stress.”

  His gaze held hers. “But maybe not.”

  “I’m on the pill,” she reminded him.

  “Not foolproof.”

  “It’s too early to worry,” she said, “it’s highly unlikely I’m . . .” She couldn’t even say the word.

  He put his hand over one of hers and linked their fingers. “Whatever happens, we’ll deal with it.”

  We. At that one single word, her throat went tight. Not a you. Or an I. They were a we. They couldn’t get along to save their lives, he was bossy and manipulating and controlling and alpha, and he drove her crazy.

  But that we . . . That we definitely staggered her.

  “You hear me past that stubborn, beautiful brain of yours, right?” He squeezed her fingers. “You’re not alone in this, Elle.”

  She couldn’t speak. She was completely undone.

  He gave her a minute. Or hell, maybe he needed a minute too. Finally she found her voice. “I’m not pregnant.”

  “You mean you don’t want to be pregnant.”

  Right. That.

  Chapter 18

  #ThereIsntAnEmojiForThis

  Archer watched Elle rise to her feet and pace his living room a few times, muttering to herself, something with a lot of pronouns like you and me and we. She was making no sense at all but he was smart enough to keep his mouth shut. Which was easy enough to do because he was completely thrown for a loop.

  She could be pregnant with his baby. He needed to sit down more than a little but instead he locked his legs into place and waited her out.

  Finally she turned to him. “What did you mean, we’ll deal with it? You don’t want children any more than I do.”

  “Things change.”

  She stared at him and then turned to continue her pacing. Then suddenly she stopped, standing in the middle of his living room, body language tense, blonde hair pulled back from her face, twisted in some fancy do that made her look like a goddess.

  One pissed-off goddess who he absolutely wouldn’t mind having his baby.

  “Are you actually telling me you’d want kids?” she asked in disbelief. “And be careful here, Archer, because you’ve very purposely perpetuated the image of impenetrable badass. You’re an island and you don’t need anyone, you never have. In fact, it’s taken you by my calculations eleven years to want . . .”

  “A relationship,” he supplied helpfully.

  “Yes,” she said. “That. Eleven years, Archer. So I’m not sure how I’m supposed to believe that you see yourself with a white picket fence, the same woman every night, and . . .” She appeared to struggle for what might be worse than a white picket fence and the same woman every night. “And a tricycle in the front yard!” she came up with triumphantly. “Because honestly, you just don’t fit the profile.”

  He realized he was going to have to give her something to get anything in return. “I agree,” he said. “I’ve led the life I’ve wanted and it’s been a selfish lifestyle, not leaving much room for a relationship.”

  “Convenient.”

  “Yes,” he agreed. “It has been. When I left the force, I did so with the knowledge that I’d be walking the line between right and legal. I also knew I’d be cutting myself off from a family who wouldn’t understand what I was doing, or why. I did it knowing I’d be alone because I couldn’t ask anyone else to get on board with it all, and I was good with that.”

  She stared at him. “But . . . ? Because I sense a big one.”

  “But,” he said, “although I would’ve sworn that everything in my life was just as I wanted it . . . something’s been missing.”

  She hadn’t blinked. Hell, he wasn’t sure she was breathing. “I’m not ready for this conversation. I’m still mad at you. If you want to discuss that, I’m totally game.”

  “Let’s do it,” he said.

  “You’ve been meddling in my life this whole time, keeping tabs on me like I was your responsibility.”

  “The college thing doesn’t count,” he said.

  She stilled and the room temperature dropped twenty degrees. “What?” she asked very quietly.

  Oh shit. “What?” he repeated, taking a step back, both mentally and physically. “You know what? It’s late. You’re tired. So am I. We’ll just circle back to this another time—”

  She picked up a pillow from the couch and chucked it at his head with deadly accuracy.

  His own fault. He’d been teaching her all year how to play darts in the pub and she was a quick learner.

  “You got me my job and into college?” she asked in an outside voice.

  Note to self: never speak first. “I wrote a letter of recommendation,” he said. “That’s all. I knew someone on the admission committee.”

  She stared at him for a full minute and then backed to the couch and sat. She blindly reached out for another pillow and he stepped toward her, intending to grab it and ward off another attack but she pressed it to her stomach and huddled into herself a little.

  Blowing out a breath, he sank next to her. “You weren’t given any breaks growing up. I hated that for you. Everything I did, I only wanted to help.”

  “Helping would have been calling me and asking if I wanted the assist,” she said. “Instead you’ve been acting like a puppet master, directing my life. I hate that, Archer.”

  He took the pillow from her and put his hands on her arms, turning her to face him. “I’m not a puppet master. I didn’t direct you in any way. I just . . .” He shook his head. “Gave you a helping hand when you needed one.”

  “But it wasn’t help I wanted from you. I wanted—”

  “What?” he asked when she broke off. “You wanted what from me?” Say it . . .

  But she only shook her head.

  He sighed. “Look, you didn’t need my help. But you had no one else. I just wanted to make sure you were safe. And protected.”

  “Because that’s what you do, right?” she asked. “You keep people safe and protected.”

  “Well, yeah,” he said, not sure they were having the same conversation.

  She shook her head. “See, that makes me a job to you. And that’s the one thing I never wanted to be, Archer.”

  He stepped into her path, pulling her in until they were toe-to-toe. “I need you to listen to me,” he said. “Can you do that?”

  “Depends on the level of bullshit you’re going to try and feed me.”

  A rough laugh escaped him and he dropped his forehead to hers, taking it as a very good sign when she didn’t try to knee him in the ’nads or gouge his eyes out. “No bullshit,” he said quietly, willing her to really hear him. Risking his life, he stepped even closer because the only thing he had going for him was their sheer physical chemistry. And yeah, he was enough of a dick to use that if he had to. Anything to make sure she heard what he had to say. He waited until she met his gaze, and even then he nearly drowned in the blue depths.

  “That night,” he told her, “there was just something about you. You came onto my radar and”—he shook his head—“you stayed there. I was worried about you staying safe.” And alive . . . “I don’t have a lot of nesting instincts, Elle, but you brought out the ones I had. I wanted to put you in a hot shower, wrap you up in a blanket, and feed you.” His smile was wry. “And then I wanted to make you sleep and watch over you while you did.”

  “You did all that,” she reminded him. “You took me to the urgent care and then brought me home with you like I was a half-drowned puppy. You fed me and put me to bed. Alone,” she added. “Even though I asked if you expected to be paid with sex.” She shook her head. “You laughed. I was serious and you laughed at me.”

  “Elle, you were bleeding, drenched from the rain, and wearing only shorts and a tank top and no shoes. Trust me, I wasn’t laughing. I was pissed off at the life you’d been forced to lead. You’d seen shit you should never have seen. You’d done shit you never should have had to do. I wanted to kick someone’s ass for that. Still do.”

  She stared at him and maybe it was his imagination but she looked a little less mad. “In the morning you fed me again,” she said. “Scrambled eggs, sausage, and toast.”

  “The only thing I knew how to cook,” he said with a small smile, remembering every minute of that night, how he’d watched over her through the long hours, unable to understand his need to make sure she was safe given that his entire world had imploded.

  “After breakfast . . .” She closed her eyes, clearly embarrassed by the memory. “I tried to kiss you and got turned down again.” She shook her head. “You gave me a sweatshirt. There was money in the pocket.”

  “I didn’t want you out there with nothing.”

  “I thought it was a test at first,” she admitted. “But it wasn’t.”

  “No,” he said, remembering how she’d tried to give him back the money.

  “You told me to follow my instincts and not let anyone distract me from them,” she said. “You told me that there was right and there was wrong and that there was also a gray area, and that was okay as long as I stayed as close to the right as I could get. And then I left and I never saw you again.”

  He nudged the mug of tea to her mouth and watched her sip.

  She took her time, taking a few more long swallows before she set the mug aside. “But you were around. Watching over me,” she said. “Weren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me why I didn’t realize that. Why you didn’t just let me know you were there at my back, watching my every move.”

  “I wasn’t watching your every move,” he said. “I never did that.”

  “Are you suggesting you’ve never invaded my privacy?”

  That question wasn’t nearly so easy to answer honestly. Neither was the question she was really getting at—why hadn’t he wanted her?

  She looked at him for a long moment. “Okay, let’s see if I’ve got all of this straight. You didn’t want to be with me, not even as friends, and yet you kept tabs on me, even going as far as to direct me into school and a job—”

  “The school of your choice,” he pointed out. “And a job you love.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “You didn’t want to be with me,” she repeated. “So instead you basically stalked me—”

  “Not stalked,” he said. “Kept safe and protected.”

  “But I didn’t need that from you. I needed—” She broke off and turned away. “Look,” she said, clearly striving for patience. “I get that you’ve been there for me, more than anyone else . . . ever. But the way you went about it . . .”

  “You were underage.”

  She turned back. “What?”

  Fuck it. “You were sixteen, Elle. I was twenty-two. We couldn’t. I couldn’t.” He drew a deep breath. “And then after you left, you worked hard and got your life together. Seeing me would’ve been a reminder of shit you didn’t want to remember. So I stayed away.”

  She stared at him, not looking particularly flattered that he’d tried to do the right thing. “I make my own decisions,” she finally said. “I don’t need anyone making them for me.”

  “I’m getting that, but as long as you’re still mad, I need to add one thing to your list of my infractions.”

  “Oh boy.”

  “I hired your sister as a temp,” he said. “Morgan’s doing some background checks and online searches until Mollie comes back to work.”

  Her mouth fell open. “So on top of ruining the only two dates I’ve had in ages and being a part of my life for the past decade without my knowledge, you’ve hired a known grifter who happens to be the sister I asked to leave me alone?”

  “Well technically you and I are on a date this very minute, and in spite of the break-in thing, it’s not going so bad, right?”

  She stared at him and then laughed.

  “And Morgan is . . . well, Morgan,” he said. “But she’s also your sister. Family. And family trumps everything else.”

  “Then why haven’t you reconciled with your dad?” she asked.

  “I’m working on that one.”

  She blew out a breath. “I’d like to say the same,” she admitted. “But I’m not sure Morgan and I can get there. I don’t have many good experiences with family. Or relationships, for that matter. The most important people in my life are my friends. And in spite of everything idiotic you’ve done, and there has been a lot of idiocy”—she hesitated—“you’re one of them.”

  Something new slid through him. It was warming and it felt . . . amazing. What didn’t feel as amazing was the fact that she’d just put him in the friend zone.

  Because that part sucked.

  Elle took a long time in Archer’s shower. At first she’d just stood there letting the hot water beat down on her shoulders, attempting to steam away her troubles, of which there were so many she couldn’t keep them straight.

  But then the scent of his soap, a visceral reminder of the man and how he made her feel, just about did her in. Rubbing the suds over her skin awakened every desire for him that she’d worked hard at tamping down. By the time she turned off the water, her body was on high alert, practically quivering with need and hunger.

  Stay strong, she ordered herself as she wrapped herself up in one of Archer’s towels.

  “You smell like me,” he murmured when she strode out of the bathroom.

  She ignored the way her body quivered at that.

  He handed her a folded T-shirt. “PJ’s,” he said.

  “Thanks.” She turned from him and drew the shirt over her head, letting it cover her body before carefully reaching under it to pull out the towel.

  From the careful way he sucked in a breath, she took it that she hadn’t been entirely successful but when she turned to glare at him, his expression was calm.

  She had no idea how he did it, how he kept that illusion up in the face of . . . well, anything. But she intended to pretend to do the same.

  Fake it until you make it, that was her motto.

  “Share my bed, Elle. It’s big and warm.”

  Said the Big Bad Wolf to Riding Hood. She shook her head. “I’ll take the couch,” she said.

  “Come on, just take half the bed. I can control myself if you can. Friends, right?”

  She stared at the huge bed with the invitingly thick bedding and swallowed hard because she knew firsthand that he could indeed control himself. What she didn’t know was if she could say the same.

  He laughed knowingly, the bastard, and she stomped off to the couch. He brought her a pillow and a blanket and then walked around the place turning off lights and checking the windows and doors while she lay still like a statue and pretended not to be straining there in the dark, strung tight and filled with tension.

  “You going to be okay?” he asked quietly.

  “Always.”

  He paused for a long beat like he had something else to say, but in the end he didn’t, he simply turned and disappeared into his bedroom.

  She fell asleep with shocking ease, but she didn’t stay that way. She was worried about who’d broken into her apartment. And still pissy about Archer directing her life for the past eleven years. And she was wondering about her sister . . . And then there was the elephant in the room. What if she was really pregnant, what then? Would she do better than her mom? God, she hoped so, but shuddered at the thought that she might not.

  Shaking her head, she forced herself to relax, but talking about her past had dug up stuff best forgotten. Dreams haunted her, stupid memories long buried. Like the time when she’d been somewhere around five years old and her mom had vanished. She and Morgan had been alone for three days before child services found them and took them to foster care. They’d remained there until their mom bailed herself out and claimed them. That had happened twice more before she and Morgan had learned to evade social services entirely, but, at turns hot and sweaty and then freezing cold, she still tossed and turned at the barrage of unwelcome memories.

  “Elle. Scoot over.”

  She jerked in surprise to find the outline of Archer’s tall, built body standing over her.

  “Shh,” he said gently and crouched down to her level. “Just me. Scoot.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re having bad dreams. I’ll beat them off for you.”

  “How?”

  “I’ll hold you tight and not let anything get you.”

  That sounded alarmingly perfect. “You’re not allowed to protect me anymore,” she said. “I already said so.”

  “How about just until dawn then, just this one last time,” he said quietly, stroking the damp hair from her forehead. “For me.”

  She huffed out a breath. “Well, if it’s for you . . .”

  “Come here, Elle.”

  Oh how she wanted to do just that. “Archer?” she whispered, heart in her throat.