I'm Your Guy (shifters and partners, #21) by Hollis Shiloh

Author:Hollis Shiloh
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: wolf shifters, angst, friends to lovers, wolf shifters or werewolves, paranormal gay romance, mates and partners
Publisher: Spare Words Press
Published: 2018-10-30T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter eleven

Harris

I was given a few days off to get my act together. Fortunately, I was able to imply that it was a mixture of job stress and life stress, because of Amelia, not that I was a fundamentally broken human being. In truth, I didn't know what had caused my panic attack. I had been very stressed, but most of it wasn't about Amelia or the job.

She had left me. When I finally got up the nerve to read the note, I was already sure. Half her stuff was gone, and she hadn't come home.

I wondered if she'd left me for her boss, or maybe someone else, or if I was just a useless parody of a boyfriend. Maybe I'd rushed things, asking her to move in so soon. Maybe I was too desperate, and I'd scared her off.

Maybe I was too broken.

Maybe I was too gay, and women somehow guessed, even when I thought — when I'd convinced myself — that I wasn't. Was it the home décor? The preoccupation with Jimmy? The way I noticed cocks and thighs and strong arms, shoulders, and hands, even if I never said so? Was it some kind of women's intuition that let my girlfriends see through me to what I couldn't even admit to myself? Was I a broken, useless man because I couldn't keep a woman in my life?

Let's face it, if the anxiety hadn't been related to Amelia before, she was part of it now. Part of my whole mess. As devastating as it was, I was relieved that the worst was over now. I'd been expecting it for some time, even if I hadn't wanted to admit it to myself. Now, there was no need to feel guilty if I spent my evenings with Jimmy on home repair. No need to wonder why she was working late, or taking extra-long lunches with her boss.

No need to try again to fix it, to be a better boyfriend. No need to keep trying so damned hard. None of her hair in the sink — long hairs she didn't clean up herself — or lipstick on my coffee mugs, or her damned shoes taking up so much space, strewn where she kicked them off, sexy in the moment, an inconsiderate tripping hazard later. She'd picked up after herself like a six-year-old — haphazardly at best. She ate weird things in small amounts, and when I cooked us a meal, she'd waste half of it, picking at it instead of eating like a normal person.

Amelia, with her perfect calves and beautiful hair and knowing eyes, and her exquisite makeup. The softness of her belly and her firm, smooth arms. None of it was effortless; she worked hard to be so pretty. But somehow I'd liked her best when she wasn't trying at all. That half-awake, sleepy naturalness, the unguarded lack of makeup, the soft cuteness of her hands when she wasn't painting her nails, texting, or otherwise busy.

She'd been remote, and so had I.

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