I’d start cleaning in the morning.
I stuck my leftovers from Mimi’s in the fridge and went upstairs. I stripped, tossed my clothes in a pile, and threw myself across the bed on top of the blanket watching the ceiling fan slowly twirl overhead. It took great effort to ignore the fact that Elin was under the same roof and down the hall, only a few doors away.
I’d only gotten a glimpse of her before she sprayed me, but it didn’t matter. I had her memorized. As I rolled over, her curves played with my mind. The fullness of her ass, the swells of her breasts, and the curve of her lips. I pictured her looking up at me heavy-lidded, pupils dilated, her head thrown back in ecstasy as she straddled me moaning my name. Then, I pictured her raking her fingernails down my back as she writhed beneath me.
I rolled out of bed and headed to the shower. Standing under the ice cold spray, I braced myself with my forehead against the shower wall, and let the water roll down my body.
The shower did little to help.
Guilt weighed heavily on me as I tried again to get comfortable in bed. I knew I’d done the best thing for Elin by walking away two moths ago, but I also knew I’d caused her pain.
Staring at the ceiling was not helping to get my mind off the situation, so I pulled on shorts and headed downstairs to start cleaning.
I had a load of cleaning supplies in my truck—industrial trash bags, all-purpose household cleanser, a carpet scrubber—and with added elbow grease, spent the rest of the night cleaning and hauling out trash.
Every time I stopped for even just a minute, my thoughts landed right back on Elin. Upstairs. In the first bedroom. On the right. My addiction.
10
Elin
I spent the first half hour of the morning worshipping the porcelain god. How was it I could continue heaving when there was nothing in my stomach?
Once my insides stopped playing tilt-a-whirl, I washed my face, brushed my teeth, piled my hair into a messy bun, and went downstairs.
The first floor was unrecognizable. It was like I’d entered a different house—in an alternate universe. The dining room table was clear. The furniture was clutter and trash free. Pamela Anderson and Buxom Babes were gone. Every surface was spic and span. Even the carpet was clean and, apart from a couple faint stains, didn’t look too bad.
Had Dylan spend all night cleaning? He must have. It was either that or an army of little elves visited while we slept.
It smelled a heck of a lot better too, which was good because I didn’t think my stomach could handle eau de Limburger and locker room this morning.
Dylan was in the kitchen with his back to me.
Crap.
I was hoping he’d already be gone. I knew I’d have to have a serious sit down with him eventually, but I wanted a little more time to come to terms with things myself first, to formulate some appropriate boundaries.
Maybe I could just sneak back upstairs for a while. I had videos to film and I needed the kitchen for that, but I supposed I could do it later, or take a day or two off until we worked out a schedule that was mutually suitable.
I turned around to quietly creep back up the steps when Dylan swung around so fast I swear I heard a whirring sound.
I froze. Then looked over my shoulder.
His nose scrunched up and he sniffed the air. His eyes shot to my stomach, narrowed to slits and he sniffed again. Then his eyebrows arched in surprise.
Double crap.
I forgot about the shifter sense of smell. Laila could scent out chocolate from a block away.
This was not how I wanted to do this.
He opened his mouth to say something. Then he closed it again. Then opened it again to speak, but nothing came out. With stumbling steps, he marched across the room to stand in front of me. I flinched.
We stood for several seconds of strained silence. Dylan’s eyes yo-yoed from my face to my stomach while my mind searched for the appropriate words to say.
All the color had drained from his face.
Finally he opened his mouth again, but before he could say anything, another wave of nausea hit, and I ran to the bathroom, hunched over and clutching my stomach, for round two of porcelain devotion.
I stayed in the bathroom like cowardly chickenpoo for about fifteen extra minutes, until I could no longer make excuses to myself, then I emerged slowly, preparing—as well as one could prepare—for the firestorm that undoubtedly awaited.
Dylan wasn’t outside the bathroom door ready to tear into me like I feared, but just as I reached the bottom step, his command rang out from the direction of the kitchen.
“Sit.”
It wasn’t as though I was suddenly taking orders from him, but I was weak and shaky and a little nervous about being thrust into a conversation I was unprepared for. I perched on one of the dining room chairs and stared down at the scarred wood table with what I hoped looked like a cool mask of indifference.
Dylan slid a plate of dry toast and cup of tea in front of me.
“Eat.”
Another order. My stomach was too queasy to argue that he had no right to boss me around.
I picked up a piece of toast to busy my hands, and took a bite. The silence lingered. I chewed toast. It went on for so long, I finally glanced up. Our eyes met. His expression softened.
Don’t cry, Elin.
Do. Not. Cry.
He used his chin to gesture to my stomach. “Do I need to ask who the father is?
I cleared
