I faked a smile. “That we can’t be together just to make Colin happy.”

“We can’t?” he repeated, brows slanting as if displeased or confused by what I’d said. I’d swear I heard a question mark in his tone, too.

I played with the hem of my shirt, deciding eye contact was a bad idea. “I’d never want you to feel obligated to be with me because you’re his father. You can be in his life without being in mine.” I did my best to keep my voice steady when I added, “I think it’s safe to say we’re both still attracted to each other, and sure, we shared a moment or two just now . . . but that shouldn’t be confused with more. The last thing I want is for Colin to get hurt. You’re right.”

He backed up as if I’d poured burning hot water on him. Yeah, well, I hurt myself with those words, too. Because the main what-if I’d spent seventeen years thinking about was, What if he found us one day and wanted us both and we all lived as a family happily ever after?

He dragged his palm down his face before giving me his profile.

Why’d it feel like I offended him? Wasn’t this his idea? Not to give Colin the wrong idea about us?

“We’re both overwhelmed by everything that’s happened and what we talked about, and it’s only natural to get mixed up.” I was making this so much worse. Someone stop me. “We can’t be together because of some type of⁠—”

“If you say obligation one more time, so help me,” he cut me off, but at least he was finally communicating again. “Is that how you feel?” He scrutinized me. “Are you worried you need to be with me because of that?”

He really hated that word. “Listen.” I lifted my arm, palm open. “Colin has you in his life now, and you have him in yours. That’s all that matters.” I backpedaled the heck out of answering him, too embarrassed to admit I’d spent seventeen years wanting a lifetime of forever with a man I’d only known for three hours.

“Sure,” he said in a low, dark voice before turning his back and doing what I’d promised him I wouldn’t, walking away from me.

18. Constantine

Chapter 18

Constantine

I’d been worried she’d run and take our son after learning I’d committed murder—well, murders—yet there I was, the one retreating.

I shut myself inside my bedroom, grabbed my phone, and then went into the bathroom for another layer of protection from the woman confusing the hell out of me. I’d never felt this way before or been vulnerable, as she’d correctly called it. What was she doing to me?