Make Me Yours (Bayshore Book 3) by Ember Leigh

Author:Ember Leigh [Leigh, Ember]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2020-05-18T23:00:00+00:00

Chapter 17

DOM

I should have known that shutting the door to London’s apartment would mean shutting the door on a chance with her.

A little voice whispered it to me that Saturday morning as I left, but I figured I was overreacting. She agreed to a second date at Zimbo’s, for God’s sake. That’s practically a notarized letter of deep personal interest.

But as the days wear on, the evidence piles up around me. She confirms it by ignoring all of my flirty postcoital texts and reaching out—via email, like a true professional—only for agenda-related matters. Avoiding everything that doesn’t directly connect to our formal end goal: me sharing my life with someone who isn’t her.

I shouldn’t be surprised. I signed up for this shit.

But what surprises me is how much the personal ghosting hurts.

I can’t get thoughts of her sun-drenched apartment out of my head. They haunt me every day at work. Through each new date I go on. I just want to be there. Back to the first bit of warmth I’ve felt since…fuck, I don’t even know when. My heart has been a barren wasteland for years, but London has shown me that the soil is still fertile enough to grow something.

The only question is: what seeds do I plant?

And what do I do when I want the gardener, but she refuses to tend my plot?

Life barrels on despite not having answers. Office hours, surgery, ER, sleep, gym, and dates. That’s all I’m doing anymore. Minus the dates, it’s all I’ve ever done. But the whirlwind isn’t half as satisfying as it once was.

I try to convince myself that this is just post-sex hysteria resulting from too long without getting some. So all week, when she emails me about date follow-ups, I ignore my own urges to remind her how many times she screamed my name last Friday night or to slip into our email a casual, “Fun fact: the memory of eating you out on your dining room table is making me hard right now,” which seems less like an email signature and more like something an online predator would say.

But once next Friday hits, I need to hear from her. We had a standing date to Zimbo’s, for god’s sake. I’m ready to redo our whole magical, sensual, hilarious evening. But if she won’t agree to that, then I need to at least see what she would be willing to do. Maybe we can work out a compromise—just see each other once a week for the rest of the contract, and then once we’re done…what? Nothing really makes sense, but I can’t stop myself. By the end of the workday, I’m dialing her number without even realizing it.

She picks up just when I think the phone is going to click over to voicemail. “Hello?” She sounds suspicious.

All my thoughts dissolve. I can’t remember what my reason for calling is. Other than I need to hear the sound of her voice almost more than I need air.

“Hey.” I search my desktop for something.

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