Page 94 of Perfect Satisfaction

—Moore You Want

I feel the bed depress as Sula slips between the sheets.

I watched Emily Freeman’s fashion show stream live on the off chance of catching a glimpse of her.

She was more captivating than any woman there. Her long legs gleamed with whatever she rubbed them down with before leaving the penthouse. In sky-high heels, they looked like they’d wrap around my back twice.

Maybe three times.

Christ, just like in my dreams.

But unlike everyone else who observed the show, Sula never smiled. If it wasn’t for the occasional poke from Carys or Angela, I’m not certain she would have reacted at all.

What happened to the woman I fell in love with?

Not an ounce of vivacity from her unless it pertains to her work. Occasionally, I’ve glimpsed it but the rest of the time? She’s locked up.

Shut down.

My little bear is lost in hibernation.

I’ve gone through so many memories of Sula, I can’t remember a moment when even a bad day wasn’t filled with some sort of exuberance. She turned my world upside down because she invaded all the dark places and filled them with light.

That’s why her leaving left me so devastated. She was the new star I was meant to follow—my personal stella nova. Recently, Liza chastised me for not going after my wife with guns blazing. After coming to her own epiphany, she said insightfully, “No woman wants what she thinks another has had.”

I hear Sula’s breath catch in a sob, and all my protective instincts immediately kick in. I reach for her and draw her back against me. “What happened at the show? Who hurt you?”

Turn to me now, Sula. End this.

But she wrenches away, rolling to her side of the bed. She’s fearful of trusting me. I know it’s fear. Because I feel the same way but one of us has to take the chance.

I stretch my arm over the massive expanse of the bed. The second my hand touches the smoothness of her stomach, she rolls in my direction—burrowing herself against me.

Giving me this piece of herself.

And for the next few hours, I’m whole again.

CHAPTERFORTY-SEVEN

A wise person once told me knowledge is better than money. Remember that. Use it.

I have.

With that, I’ll share some personal knowledge about me. I can’t cook. If microwaves and refrigerators were to stop working tomorrow due to some crazy electrical failure, I’d starve.

It’s summertime. Cut the cord. Drag your children away from their electronic devices, people. Save the power.

Plus, I need to eat.

—Moore You Want

The next morning, there is no sign of Arekwhen I head with Angie over to Carys’s for brunch. After meeting him, her son Ben climbs in my lap for snuggles. I’m perfectly content to let the little heartbreaker do so for as long as he wants before he gets tired of the inactivity and goes off in search of his father at the end of the pre-war co-op.

“Anytime you want a babysitter, call me. That is one man I’d take on in a second,” I volunteer.

Carys hands me a mug of coffee, amused. “You say that but wait until you have to get him naked.”

“Modesty? JB had that problem when we were kids. Used to whine like the dickens.”