“Mandy.” She didn’t stir, so he took a step toward her and spoke louder. “Mandy.”

She rolled over. Damien cursed, rubbing his temples. He dropped to his knees next to her bed and shook her shoulder a little. Her flesh was hot, with a sheen of perspiration, which he knew was normal for this stage of pregnancy. Night sweats, the book called them.

“Mandy.” Feeling desperate and ridiculous, he shook her again and kissed her lightly.

With a jerk, she came awake, her eyes wide and unfocused. “Wha…”

“It’s me, Damien.”

“Damien? What’s the matter?” Mandy tried to sit up, but he held her shoulders gently.

“Shh. It’s okay, nothing’s the matter. I just needed to see you.”

He had needed to see her, to touch her, to remind himself what could never be. To stare her straight in the eye and tell her that love was pain and he didn’t want any more of that ever.

Yet it was so hard to remember any of that when she blinked up at him and all he wanted to do was kiss her, hold her, love her.

Chapter 21

Mandy fell back against her pillow, thinking she was having a really vivid dream, that annoying pregnancy side effect that had been plaguing her nearly from conception. But Damien looked real enough, even if she couldn’t see his face clearly in the shadows. And if she were dreaming he would be naked. “I thought you were in Chicago. And what time is it?”

She was struggling to figure out why he was in her bedroom in the middle of the night. Not that she was complaining, mind you. But it struck her as a little odd, to say the least. She was hoping it was odd in a good way, as though he’d had an epiphany that he reciprocated her feelings.

“I was in Chicago, but I just got back. It’s two in the morning. After you called this afternoon when I was getting the tattoo, I finished up my business and took the first flight back.” He brushed her hair back off her forehead.

Sitting up, Mandy grimaced. Her hair was sweaty. Nice and sexy. Not that Damien seemed interested in sexy when she studied him in the dim lighting. He looked as if his dog had died. Which meant anything he might say was probably not going to involve his own vow of love and wish to remain by her side through better or worse, richer or poorer, having another man’s child, whatever.

“We need to talk.”

Swallowing, she felt sadness rush over her. Those words were the kiss of death for relationships. We need to talk meant one of two things. You’re clinging to me and I’m not ready, so I need some space—aka We’re breaking up. Or This just isn’t working anymore—aka We’re breaking up.