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My face is hot; I’m sure it’s red.
He looks good. Really good. He’s wearing a winter coat. Gloves. His hair is a little longer, in his eyes a little. He’s clean shaven. In jeans and boots.
But the eyes are different.
Maybe because he’s not looking at me the way he usually does.
“I… yes. I… have something for you. I have it with me.” I fumble through my leather bag on the floor and find what I’m looking for, though I’m not sure here out in public is the place I want to be doing this.
His expression goes hard. Or I should say harder.
He takes a step back before I even have it out of the bag fully. He glares at it with an expression so insidious I’m surprised it doesn’t burst into flames in my hand.
He turns around and walks out without looking back.
I look at the envelope in my hand and realize what he thinks it is. And of course he doesn’t want it if he thinks it’s divorce papers. Steeles aren’t allowed to divorce. No, he’s not allowed to divorce me but there are no rules against him having a woman in his condo with her stilettos off, are there?
Sour-faced, I stuff the envelope back into my bag, put the lid on my soup, sop up a few droplets of mess with my napkin, gather my things, and put my coat on.
I jolt awake in the pitch dark. I touch my phone screen on my bedside table. It’s three o’clock in the morning.
A shadow moves in front of me, and I gasp and lunge for my phone.
I touch 9, 1, and am about to hit 1 again when light floods the space and temporarily blinds me.
It’s Derek.
My heart trips over itself.
“You scared me,” I breathe.
His mouth is tight. His eyes are cold. And not pointed at my face. He’s looking past me.
“I saw you come out of the bakery down the street from Downtown. Who did you have lunch with that day?”
I frown. “The other day? Carlos. He works for me. I lease an office space in your father’s office building above Downtown.”
Carson organized that for me.
Derek’s expression doesn’t change.
I ask, “Who was in your apartment with you yesterday? Someone you’re putting a Christmas tree up with?” My voice wobbles, betraying my emotions about this fact, damn it.
His eyes narrow, but still point at the wall. “I’m not staying in the apartment. That was Paulina. The chef. She’s renting it while her house is being renovated.”
“Oh. Where are you staying?” I ask shakily.
“I’ve been at the homestead.”
“Oh,” I say.
“You’re not getting a divorce,” he informs.
“Did I miss the part where I asked for one?” I ask.
“Chuck’s log says you were in a lawyer’s office last week for two hours,” he accuses.
“Chuck’s log?”
