Page 50 of This Broken Heart

But I do get a creeping feeling of shame. Like we’ve made a terrible mistake.

33.

Erin

Josh slips through the kitchen without a word. He steps into his boots and shrugs his heavy, canvas coat on before stepping outside.

He checks the cattle every morning. But lately, he eats breakfast first.

That’s my second hint that he’s having some regrets.

The first was the way he looked at me while we raced to get dressed.

You don’t have to be a genius to know what regret looks like.

I get it.

It hurts.

But I get it.

This is what I was afraid of—messing up a good thing.

Being in his arms was a good thing, too. But if I can’t have both, then I at least need a paycheck.

For the first time in weeks, I start to wonder if I should think about finding another job.

Both kids are eating pancakes at the table when Josh comes back in. I listen to him methodically pull off his boots. He always washes his hands when he comes back in. When the water turns off, I count the seconds until the floorboards creak under his feet. He always moves so damn quietly.

“Coffee?” I don’t bother to turn around.

“Yes, please.”

Filling a mug, I hand it to him, finding him leaning against the counter. He has one hand braced the edge of the countertop, the other accepts his coffee. Our fingers brush and I do my best not to think about what those fingers are capable of.

The kids are watching PBS on their iPad. They’re not listening to us, but he pitches his voice low, anyway. “We should talk.”

“Uh oh.” I smile weakly.

“I’m serious.”

I frown. “Yes. I gathered that.”

He tips his head towards the living room, and I follow him. The room is almost blindingly bright with morning sunlight. Our tree sits in a pool of crisp, white sunlight.

He rubs the back of his neck. “About last night.”

“You mean this morning?”

He gives me a tight smile. I find myself wondering what happened to the tender guy who held me in his arms.

His gaze is pinned on mine. “I want you to know how much I respect you.”

“Oh lord, Josh. Spare me.”

“Let me finish.”

“Not necessary.” I glance back at the kitchen. “I know what rejection sounds like. I was treated to one quite recently, if you’ll recall.”