So I had no hang-ups in life or in our bed.

I could reach for him anytime I wanted and know that he would reach back. Or so I’d thought.

Sex between us had always been good. It wasn’t the best I’d ever had but it was good. Tom seemed happy. Or I’d thought so anyway. I was more adventurous than he was so it could have been better, but it was good. It was good enough.

Lately it became nonexistent.

For the last two years I’d been working my ass off at the inn because my manager left, and I hadn’t replaced him yet. In what I felt was part retaliation, Tom had started working long hours.

We barely spoke, let alone had sex.

Studying his familiar face, a face almost as familiar as my own, that horrible longing had clawed at me. My hand had slid further down his stomach as I’d moved into him, pushing the duvet off him as I’d pushed my fears aside. He’d mumbled and shifted in his sleep as I’d slid over him until I straddled him. Eyes following my fingertips as they trailed lightly over his skin, I’d let the ten years between us build my courage. His body had changed as had mine. He’d been athletically wiry when we’d first met. Now there was softness to his chest and torso when there hadn’t been before. But I didn’t care. That softness was a part of him growing older with me.

There were the scars on his lower belly from his appendectomy four years ago. I’d rushed him to the hospital for that. A little one at the top ridge of his belly button, another little one near his left lower pelvis, and a bigger vertical one under his belly button. They were faded now, but I could still trace them with my fingers and remember how worried I’d been about him as I waited for him to get out of surgery.

Tom had shifted under my weight and I’d felt him grow semi-hard beneath me. Tingles of anticipation had flared to life between my legs and I’d leaned over to pepper kisses over his belly. Just as my boobs no longer sat as perky as they did ten years ago, Tom’s stomach wasn’t flat and rock-hard anymore. It didn’t matter to me, like I hoped my no longer twenty-four-year-old boobs didn’t matter to him.

Huh.

What a joke, I thought.

But two nights ago I’d believed that he didn’t care about that stuff. So I’d pushed my confusion and fear further away, and my lips had trailed up his body to his neck as my fingernails had dragged gently down his stomach.

He’d groaned and shifted again.

“Tom,” I’d whispered in his ear before nibbling on his lobe. He’d tasted clean and fresh all over from his shower.

“Mm, Bails?” he’d groaned and I’d lifted my head to watch as his eyes flickered open. He’d stared at me with sleepy confusion. I’d known when he’d stopped feeling disoriented because his eyes had narrowed and his whole body had tensed under me.

An ugly feeling had tightened in my stomach.

“What are you doing?” he’d grumbled.

I’d smiled through my fear. “What do you think I’m doing?”

He’d rubbed his eyes and lifted his head off the pillow to stare at the alarm clock. “Shit, Bailey, I have to get up in four hours.” He’d clamped his hands on my hips and shoved me off him.

I’d fallen on my side, staring at him in shock.

“Go back to sleep.” He’d turned on his side, giving me his back.

Hot tears had flooded my eyes.

He had done what I’d feared.

I’d reached for him and he hadn’t reached back.

Worse . . . he’d pushed me away.

Anger had flooded me. “Fuck you!” I’d thrown myself out of bed.

“Bailey,” he’d groaned.

I hadn’t looked at him. Like a hurricane I’d blown through the bedroom, hauling clean underwear out of the dresser, grabbing my jeans off my chair, rummaging through my closet for a clean shirt.

“Bails, I’m sorry, okay. I’m just tired. Come back to bed.”

I’d heard his voice getting closer but I was already downstairs and out of the house.

My hands had shaken as I’d reached for my car door.

But Tom was faster than I thought because it had been slammed shut again and he was there standing next to me, half-naked in his boxers and bare feet. Under the light of the street lamps I’d seen remorse in his dark eyes.

“I’m sorry, babe.” His hands had gripped my biceps tight. “What I did was shitty. I was half-asleep. I’m a grumpy asshole.”

I’d fought the urge to cry. Tom had never made me cry and I wasn’t about to start letting him make me cry now. “You are an asshole.”

“I’m an asshole,” he’d repeated. “Now will you come back to bed?”

“You can’t just say you’re an asshole and think that makes it okay.”

“I know,” he’d whispered. “But I don’t want to argue about it out here in the middle of the night where we might wake up your neighbors.”

I’d wanted to scream, “Fuck the neighbors!” Instead I’d nodded reluctantly and followed him inside.

He’d tried to lead me by the hand but I hadn’t wanted him to touch me.

Even back in bed, when he’d spooned me and rested his chin on my shoulder, I’d stared at my wall, listening to his breathing change, feeling his body relax before his snoring kicked in.

Anger had filled me, mingling with fear.

Not just because Tom had pushed me away . . . but because . . . of how it had made me feel.