“And that’s why you didn’t call me either, to tell me that you moved here?”

  “Yeah, part of it.”

  “What’s the other part?”

  I sigh and say, “We haven’t talked or seen each other in a year, Lincoln. It didn’t seem appropriate. Last time we spoke, it wasn’t the greatest get together and since I didn’t hear from you, I thought . . . well . . . that was it.”

  “The phone goes both ways, Indie.”

  “I know, but it wasn’t easy back then.”

  “Because of Anthony?”

  I look at my lap. “Yeah, because of Anthony. He, uh, wasn’t very keen on our friendship.”

  “So you let some fuckhead control you? I’ve been your best friend for years, Indie. Best fucking friend and because some guy I never heard about decides to pop into your life and tell you not to talk to me, you listened to him? Where’s the goddamn loyalty, Indie? I would never do that—”

  “I was pregnant with his baby.” Fuck. I really didn’t want to say that. I can’t look at Lincoln, but I know what he’d look like. Stunned. Perhaps angry. Confused.

  “Pregnant?” he whispers, now looking around the apartment for baby items I assume. “Where, uh . . . is the baby with him?”

  I shake my head, tears welling in my eyes. I look to the ceiling and take a deep breath. “Shortly after our dinner, Anthony and I got into a fight. He hated the relationship I had with you. He was incredibly jealous. He deleted you out of my phone and when I tried to grab the phone away, he pushed me.” A tear falls down my cheek and I quickly wipe it away. “I was off balance and crashed into the coffee table. It was a bad fall, I was bruised up and down my back and then a few days later, I had a miscarriage.”

  “Jesus,” he says, leaning forward now.

  “The doctor wasn’t sure if it was from the fall or not, but I had to have surgery to remove the fetus.” I suck in a harsh breath, and Lincoln quickly moves to the coffee table where he takes a seat in front of me and grabs my hand. His thumbs rub over my knuckles and he grips me tightly.

  “You’re breaking my goddamn heart, Indie. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Because . . . I was embarrassed. I was dealing with a lot of shame. Anthony proposed to me when I told him I was pregnant. It was his quick fix to everything. I said yes because it felt like the right thing to do. I quickly realized it wasn’t. He was controlling and for some reason, I let him control me. I was missing you, trying to forget you, and once I found out I was pregnant, I put in my resignation for the team. I lost everything at once and was clinging to the one thing that I was familiar with.” I wipe another tear. “Once Anthony and I broke up, I stayed in Texas for a while until I got the job with Brentwood.”

  “You could have told me,” he says.

  I shake my head. “No, I saw your face at that dinner . . . the disappointment.”

  “It wasn’t disappointment, Indie.”

  “Then what was it?” I ask. “Because you sure as hell shut down the minute Anthony stepped into the picture. You shut down quickly. I thought maybe, just maybe, you’d reach out again, but you never did and I knew. You’d finally moved on.”

  “Because I thought you were moving on. Hell, you did. You were engaged. What was I supposed to do? Try to fuck you while your fiancé watched?” he asks, his voice full of irritation.

  Removing my hand from his, I say, “No, you could have been a friend. Our relationship didn’t start with fucking. It was a friendship.” One I treasured. A lifeline at times.

  “I always wanted to fuck you, Indie,” he says and for a second, I don’t recognize the guy sitting in front of me. Anger billows off him in waves, his brow is pulled together, and when his hand pushes through his hair, his forearms fire off with tension.

  I can’t be near him, not like this. I stand and walk away as he calls out, “Indie, stop.”

  I go to my door and I hold it open. “I think you should leave.”

  Without a word, he stands, walks over to me, and shuts the door. He then leans against it arms crossed and says, “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Lincoln, that’s not your choice to make. This is my apartment, and I don’t want you here.”

  “Well that’s too damn bad. I’m not leaving, not when we’re like this.” He motions between us.

  “Like what?”

  “Angry at each other. Yelling. Clearly not in a good place.”

  “Saying that our relationship was all about fucking puts us in a horrible place,” I say pulling my robe closed tighter.

  “I didn’t mean that.” He pulls the back of his neck and pushes off the door. “I’m just irritated. Frustrated. Jesus Christ, Indie, you’re here in Chicago. We should be celebrating. We should be hanging out. We should be—”

  “Fucking?” I ask with a shake of my head.

  “No,” he says, walking toward me. He cups my chin with his fingers, forcing me to look at him. “We should be there for each other. And you’re not letting me be.”

  “Because you dropped out of my life, Lincoln.”

  “When has distance ever been a hinderance to what we have?”

  I step away and walk to my bedroom, tired and over this conversation. “When I needed you the most and you weren’t there.”

  I go to shut the door, but he’s too quick and slips into my bedroom. “How the fuck was I supposed to know you were going through a miscarriage? Last time I saw you, you were happy with your fiancé.”

  “Was I happy, Lincoln? Did I look happy to you? Think about it, did you truly think I was the same Indie that night or were you blinded by your disappointment or whatever it was to notice?”

  “You can’t be fucking serious. You’re mad at me because I couldn’t read you that night? Are you hearing yourself?”

  I sigh. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have assumed you’d be able to read me. Not after all the years of you knowing exactly when something was wrong with one glance.”

  “You’re not being fair. You have no idea what I was dealing with that night.”

  “What you were dealing with?” I ask, brows flying up. “Are you—”

  “I had plans,” he shouts. “I was so fucking excited to see you, Indie. To pick up where we left off. I had an entire weekend planned for us. And leading up to that dinner, our conversations, our playful texts. Jesus Christ, my hopes were so high that the minute I saw Anthony, it was like you’d picked up the knife from the table and stabbed me in the chest. Yeah, I shut down, but not because I was disappointed.” He pounds his chest with his fist. “I was fucking hurt. My girl was engaged. My girl, who didn’t believe in marriage. My girl, who I thought—” He blows out a frustrated breath and pulls on the back of his neck again while looking at the ground. “Well, it doesn’t matter what I thought. All that matters is that I was there for us, and you showed up with someone else. A heads-up would have been appreciated so I didn’t have to walk away with my tail tucked between my legs.”

  “So your pride was broken?” I say, trying to make sense of this. Of what he’s trying to tell me. After he FaceTimed me, naked, I started feeling differently toward him. Desperate for him, for more. Our conversations after that made me wonder what life could be like if there was more between us, if we broke the seal of fuck buddies and grew our relationship into something with so much more substance. The floodgate opened, and the jumbled feelings I’d suppressed for years crashed over me again. He came to me when my dad died. He drunk called me and told me he missed me with so much sincerity, I’d wondered.

  Could there have been more?

  There was never a scenario in my head where I actually thought Lincoln could want more prior to that night.

  But then, I said yes to dating Anthony, got pregnant, and had gotten lost in that shock as I continued to grieve the loss of my dad. Lincoln hadn’t known that his texts had held me together. I hadn’t told him that in my confused state, I’d said yes to marrying a man I barely knew. One who . . . treated me woefully. Hurt me.

  And that night in the restaurant, when I saw the unmistakable joy on Lincoln’s handsome face when he saw me, it had momentarily stripped the confusion from my mind. I was making a mistake marrying Anthony, but I was trapped.

  And Lincoln’s pride had been dented. “You gave up because of your pride,” I whispered

  “No, Indie. It wasn’t my pride that was broken. It was my fucking hear—” He stops and takes a deep breath. “You’re right. I should go.”

  He starts to walk away when I stop him, pulling on his arm. “Don’t leave.”

  His arm tenses and he says, “Indie, I’m holding on by a thread here.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  LINCOLN

  The minute her small, soft hand touches me, it’s like a match to a flame: my entire body ignites with heat and a war rages inside me. Emotions I’ve never allowed myself to feel take over. “Indie, I’m holding on by a thread here.”

  But instead of backing away, Indie grips me tighter and that’s all I need. I spin around and face her, both our breaths are heavy, our eyes flitting back and forth at each other, as the air grows thick around us.

  I count to five, slowly, waiting, but when she doesn’t move, when she doesn’t back down, I say, “I’m going to give you three seconds to let me walk away. I’m not here to fuck you, Indie. But I want you. I want this. I want you.”

  Keeping her eyes on me, she brings her hand to the knot of her robe, and I watch as she pulls on it. Her robe parts, revealing the middle of her body, and that’s my undoing.

  In a flash, my hand cups the back of her head and I crash my mouth down on hers, reclaiming her lips, lips that have always been mine—lips that I’ve never stopped craving.

  For a second, I release her and tear my shirt over my head, leaving my torso bare. Her hands immediately find my skin, and then she kisses me with hunger, her fingers driving into my hair, her heated body pressed against mine.

  I loop my arm around her waist and with our mouths still connected, I lay her on her bed. Her robe falls completely open and I hover above her, remembering every curve, every place I used to spend time kissing and licking. Every place I want to explore tonight, but right now, I need to be inside her.

  “Lose the robe,” I say while I pull my wallet from my back pocket and take out a condom. Clutched between my teeth, I hold the packet while I strip down the rest of the way. She removes the robe and while she watches me, I sheath myself, my cock already hard as stone, ready to bury itself so far deep into Indie. It’s anticipating her sweet warmth.

  She scoots back on the bed and slips under the bedding, and I join her as she parts her legs. I run the tip of my cock up her slit, sliding with ease. She bites her bottom lip and arches her back from the feel of my cock against her. Even though I want to be inside her, I spend a few moments rubbing, gliding, watching how she reacts. In the haze of the light I can see her cheeks redden, her chest rising and falling quicker, and then I hear the moans falling past her lips. It’s all there, everything I love when it comes to being with this woman, everything that makes her the best I’ve ever had.

  The only woman I’ll ever want.

  And that realization is what fuels me to bring my lips to hers, to part them with my tongue, and show her how much she means to me, how much I want her in my life despite everything we’ve been through.

  My tongue tangles with hers, her hands press into my shoulders, her pelvis seeks me out, and I can’t hold back any longer. I reach down, position my cock at her entrance, and I push inside. Immediately, I feel my eyes roll to the back of my head as her warmth squeezes around me.

  God, I’ve missed this feeling, being so connected with her.

  Nothing has ever felt this amazing.

  Nothing.

  “Fucking . . . perfect,” I mutter as I push into her and pull out. “So good, Indie. So fucking good.”

  She moans into my ear. Her warm breath sends chills down my legs as her hands move down my back to my ass where she grips my cheeks tightly and pulls when I thrust in, causing me to bottom out every time.

  “Shit,” I groan, feeling my orgasm already building, swirling, and circling, adding pressure to my lower torso.

  “Faster,” she says breathlessly. “I need more.”

  She sounds desperate, on edge.

  I pick up my pace, while my mouth pulls away from hers and falls to her breasts.

  “God, yes,” she cries out when I pluck one of her nipples with my teeth. “Again.”

  I repeat the sensation for her, over and over again, until her fingers dig so deep into my skin that I feel like she’s going to draw blood soon. It feels amazing, so goddamn amazing.

  I roll my hips against her, and my mouth goes everywhere. Her breasts, her collarbone, up her neck, across her jaw, over her mouth, tangling and dancing with her tongue.

  Her breaths grow deeper, her moans become louder, so my pace picks up.

  She bites down on my lip.

  I claw onto her.

  She matches my thrusts with her own.

  I roll her nipples between my fingers.

  She cries out my name.

  I mutter hers as my orgasm builds to a crescendo, pulling and tugging on my balls, getting ready, sitting there, just waiting for that final push.

  “Fuck, babe,” I mutter, so close that I can taste it.

  “Oh God,” she says, tensing around me, and then convulsing in my arms as she falls over into her orgasm. I fall right with her, my hips stilling, and my cock swelling inside her with a final blow.

  “Fuck,” I yell into her shoulder as everything in my groin tightens, dragging out her orgasm. “Jesus,” I say as we both slow our breathing and fall from a euphoric high.

  “Lincoln,” she says on a sigh, and then lets go of me, her body sated.

  I roll off her, take care of the condom, and then pull her into my chest. She comes easily, taking up the spot she’s so familiar with, tucked into my shoulder and nestled right where she belongs.

  I draw my fingers over her back, and it’s not long before she passes out. For the first time in years, I feel like I can breathe again. Indie Mayhem is in my arms. Finally. It’s finally our time.

  * * *

  The clanging of mugs wakes me up, followed by a muttered curse word. I sit up in Indie’s bed and look around, rubbing my left eye with my finger.

  Bed’s empty.

  Noise is coming from the kitchen.

  I reach to the floor where my discarded pants are, slip them on, and don’t even bother buttoning them up. Scratching my chest, I walk out into the living room and kitchen area, spotting Indie by the coffee maker, soaking up water with a towel.

  “Morning,” I say.

  She startles and then takes a deep breath. Looking up, she smiles and shyly says, “Good morning.”

  Unsure where her head is at, I cautiously walk over to the door of the kitchen and lean against the wall, hands stuffed in the front of my jeans pockets.

  “How are you?” I ask, feeling like it’s a stupid question but unsure what to say at this point.

  “Fine.” She finishes with the cleanup and then turns to face me. “Listen, about last night . . .”

  Fuck.

  FUCK!

  Regret. I see it, written all over her beautiful face. How the fuck is that possible? How can she not see that we’ve finally found our right time?

  “I didn’t mean to pressure you into doing anything with me. I got lost in the moment. I’m sorry,” she says, and I can feel my heart cracking, right in front of her.

  “You don’t need to apologize, Indie. Last night was—”

  “A mistake, I know.” She sighs and presses her hand to her forehead. “God, I just. I can’t seem to get my head on straight.” Her coffee machine beeps and she caps the travel mug with a lid. “I have to go. I need to get a workout in before I head into the office.” She walks up to me and places her hand on my chest. On her toes, she lifts up and kisses the side of my jaw. “Sorry about everything, Linc. Truly, I am.” She walks toward the front door and lifts a bag over her shoulder.

  “Indie—”

  She gives me a sad smile. “Could you lock the door on your way out?”

  Say something . . .

  ANYTHING.

  But I can’t form words over the deafening sound of my hammering heart.

  I want to tell her to stop—let’s talk about this. Figure it out, but the only thing playing in my head over and over again is the word “mistake.”

  How could she think what happened last night was a mistake?

  It was anything but a mistake.

  Hell, to me, it felt like the start of something new. As if, every moment in my life led to last night, where Indie finally became my girl. “I didn’t mean to pressure you into doing anything with me. I got lost in the moment. I’m sorry.”

  What the fuck do I do now?

  * * *

  “Care to talk?” Cory, my teammate and first baseman asks. He’s the resident dad in the clubhouse, the guy everyone seems to go to when they need the proverbial pat on the back.

  I lean back on the leather couch in the locker room and say, “Not really, but I don’t think you’re going to let me get away with that answer, are you?”

  He opens a bag of shelled seeds and says, “I’m feeling particularly annoying today, so probably not.”

  “Figured.” I sigh and tangle my hands together on my lap. “Remember my friend Indie I told you about?”

  “Yeah, the soccer player, right? You guys met in college?”

  “That’s her. Well, I just found out yesterday that she’s back in Chicago. Got a coaching job at Brentwood.”

  “Oh shit. Weren’t you guys an item?”

  “No, not really,” I say, hating the words that are about to come out of my mouth, because it feels like it cheapens what we have. “We were best friends . . . and exclusive fuck buddies.”

  “Romantic,” Cory says with a teasing tone.

  “Yeah, not really. We’ve always been off and on, almost like we were stringing each other along until last year, when she showed up to a dinner with a fiancé.”