Hey dumbass, you just pointed out she’d reached out and because of that, she was going to retreat. Of course, she picked the shield back up.
Good times that I was now having mental arguments with myself.
That was the surest sign of stability.
Snorting to myself, I picked up a plate, along with a handful of napkins, and turned to hand them to her, still focused on her face, still rather pointlessly trying to figure out what was going on in her brain. Though, maybe that wasn’t the stupidest thing I’d been doing of late, the least of which was bringing her greasy pizza when she was due on set in a few.
The biggest of which was faking a date in order to think that she might care enough that I was going out with another woman.
Her response to that had been lukewarm—I thought I’d detected a little disappointment in her texts, though they were texts and context was hard to fully grasp, but when I’d stepped back a little, hoping she would reach out, she hadn’t. And then the next week’s Pizza Night had been perfectly friendly.
Friendly.
If one could consider throwing up and then passing out, friendly.
Ugh. I was definitely beginning to hate that word.
I stifled a sigh, put the second-guessing about whether I was playing this situation right aside, and just focused on the moment. I was with Eden. That needed to be enough.
“When are you due to hair and makeup?” I asked, and I’d been so focused on her face, on my own inner monologue, and the stupid fucking pizza, that I hadn’t fully processed what she was wearing.
A fucking doozy it was.
Or maybe a two-by-four to the temple.
Because that dress.
I’d known it was red.
I’d known it was tight.
I hadn’t been able to fully predict the effect a garment could have on me. I should have known—it was kind of what I did for a living, capturing the best angle, the best light and shadows, the most visually satisfying expression of the individual being photographed.
But this wasn’t any of that.
It was Eden, which was a gut punch on any day.
But Eden in this dress.
Holy fucking shit, it was a miracle I had an ounce of sense left and managed to return my gaze to her face. I really, really enjoyed the mental survey I took on the way. Long legs, short skirt, flared hips, and breasts . . . good God, had her breasts always been that big?
Fuck. I was turning into a pervert.
Except, God, I wanted to get my mouth on them.
I needed—
She sat down next to me and took a bite of the pizza, talking around it. “I’ve got about twenty minutes. It won’t take long,” she said. “They’ll just touch up what I’ve got going here.”
“You look beautiful.”
Green eyes on mine. A shy smile on her lips. “Thanks.” Another few bites then she added, “Of course, that won’t help much. We’re shooting the rain scene. Which means this pretty dress”—she brushed a hand down her side—“is about to get doused with water.”
Pebbled nipples.
See-through fabric.
Okay, so the last one was probably unrealistic considering the color of said dress, but a man could hope, couldn’t he?
The first, though . . . yeah that was going to be in my fantasies for life.
My cock twitched, I cleared my throat, and fuck, but the image of water sluicing down her skin brought me right back to that day at her house, the kitchen table, the syrup and sugar, then washing it off afterward.
Maple-scented hair, silky skin—
So not helping my dick-twitching situation.
I needed to pull it together and—
“Do you still have that shoot this weekend?”
I nodded absently, picking up the pizza from my plate, mainly to shove something in my mouth so I wouldn’t say everything I was thinking. Which was basically, 'Get naked and I’ll bend you over this couch.'
That was not patient, nor friendly.
So I shoved a giant bite into my mouth and just nodded at her question.
“I thought you weren’t working for a few months.”
I shrugged, chewing for several long minutes before I was able to swallow the hunk of a piece I’d taken. “It’s been a couple months.”
“No, Damon,” she said. “It’s been one month.”
“Nope.” I shook my head. “It’s been seven weeks since I finished my last job and came home. So I’m technically on month two, which means it’s been a couple.”
She rolled her eyes. “That’s hardly logic.”
“It’s photographer logic,” I said, setting my plate down and leaning back. “Which means it’s solid gold.”
A snort. “Solid gold shit.” Wrinkling her nose, she set her plate down. I noticed she’d barely eaten anything.
“Are you okay?”
Lips pressed flat, she rubbed her stomach lightly. “Yeah, I think my dress is too tight for pizza consumption.”
“I hadn’t noticed.”
She grinned. “Stop trying to be charming. I’m imitating sausage at this point.”
“I said it once and I’ll say it again, you’re beautiful.”
“I’d be a lot more beautiful if I didn’t feel like I was going to upchuck.” She stood and stretched her back with a soft groan. “How am I supposed to look like I’m longingly searching for my long-lost love while depressingly walking through the rain, all while looking sexy?”
“I’m not sure even Meryl Streep could pull that off.”
Another wrinkle of her nose. “I don’t think a little nausea would slow down Meryl.”
“I—”
I stopped, my brain pinging with a warning. Last week, with the vomiting, tonight with the nausea. This tight dress. The breasts I could swear were bigger.
The fact that I’d used a condom during our night together.
But . . . had I used one in the kitchen?
I had to have. I’d never not used one. I always took extra precautions and—
“Was the dress always this tight?” I blurted.
Say yes, say yes—
“Um . . .” She frowned, eyes drifting to the side as she considered my question. “No? I guess it wasn’t quite this tight during fittings. I mean, it was definitely restrictive, it has this built-in corset thing that squeezes and lifts . . . well, anyway Pizza Night is catching up with me. I’ll just have to cut back.”
“Are you—” I broke off, not sure how to phrase it. “I—”
Shit.
I shouldn’t do this now. If she wasn’t worried about possibly being pregnant because my dumb ass hadn’t used a condom that morning, then the best time to give her that bit of information wasn’t right before she had to go and film the most pivotal scene in the movie.
“Damon?”
She’d been pacing back and forth, bare feet padding almost silently across the floor. Now, she’d stopped and looked at me.
Because I was being really fucking weird.
Really weird.
Shit. I needed to not panic. I needed to not panic her. Not when I didn’t know for sure and when she was working.
I forced a smile, popped to my feet. “Sorry, I’m . . . uh . . . I just had the best idea for the shoot. I’m going to take off, so I have time to try it before the sun fully sets. I’ll leave the pizza—”