Page 79

Twenty-Three

Alex’s stomach churned as her eyes circled back to her Sherlock clock. Fifteen minutes and Mark would be here, home together for the first time since he dragged her to the Birmingham comic expo—forty-seven days ago. She reached towards her bedside table to grab the final touch to her outfit—

The lock clicked. He’s early.

A quiver rose from her chest and wouldn’t stop vibrating. Please, no sweating. Maybe the sleeveless dress would have been better?

“Lex?”

Too late to change.

“Coming.”

She marched from their bedroom, her heart racing three times as fast as her feet.

Mark…hair disheveled, two weeks of stubble darkening his pale face, closing the door behind him. He set his backpack on the floor, a carry-on baggage tag curled around one of its straps. Straightening up, he shrugged off his wool coat, propelling a familiar scent into the air. Not too strong, not too faint…perfect, the scent of home.

Alex couldn’t slow her breathing. He looked hot.

Mark removed his Ray-Bans. His eyes, weary and serious, met Alex’s.

The giddiness that had flushed her cheeks while getting ready dissolved within seconds. She stopped short, running her hand over her neck—no necklace. She hadn’t had a chance to put it on.

The keychain in his hand clinked against his sunglasses.

Alex swallowed, but the lump in her throat wouldn’t budge. “Hi.” Her voice barely rose above a whisper.

“Hi.” Mark mirrored Alex’s posture, stiff and still, but his eyes darted to her lips.

She felt that flick of his eyes deep in her stomach. What she wouldn’t give to kiss him and turn back the clock twelve days to New Year’s Eve…to stay in and skip that party. Tucking her hair behind an ear, she smiled and turned away. Stay on script! “Want a beer or something?”

“No, I’m good…thanks.” Mark placed his keys and sunglasses on the black chair by the door and yanked off his boots.

“I’m gonna grab some water.” She walked to the kitchen, wondering if he was following her ass in her grey dress. A glance over her shoulder—yep, but once caught, his gaze swept across the few furnishings they owned and landed on the shelving unit to his right. Chairs, area rugs, and end tables might be in short supply in their flat, but they didn’t want for happy memories collected in picture frames. Clusters of photographs congregated on the shelves, each one celebrating a cherished moment: birthdays with friends, her comic con coups, and their whirlwind Venice vacation—Mark’s surprise anniversary gift last year of a three-day stay over New Year’s in the City of Bridges.

He was staring at one photo in particular, the two of them huddled up for warmth under a blanket in a wobbly gondola on the Grand Canal. Her heart beat in her throat as she turned back to the sink and filled two glasses. That shot captured the heady bliss of their first anniversary. On that swaying boat, they had made a vow: every year, the first of January would be unforgettable. They had more than fulfilled that promise this year.

She turned around and walked back to the sofa, two water glasses in her hands. Mark sat down, legs wide apart, and shoulders hunched. He put his phone on the table beside the still unopened courier box. Midafternoon sunlight slipped through the west-facing balcony windows, settling on Mark’s argyle socks and a vase holding a burst of red snapdragons. The flat felt spotless and orderly, warm and welcoming.

“My flowers came, then.”

“They’re gorgeous. Thank you.” She placed a glass in front of Mark and perched on the edge of the sofa to his right, knees together, back straight. Her left foot jittered, betraying her practiced cool.

“You look lovely. Did you have a meeting today?”

Butterflies fluttered in her stomach. “Thanks. Uh, no, not today.” She forced a half-smile.

They sat in silence for a minute.

“Lex, there’s so much—”

“Mark, I need you—” Their words collided, spoken at the same time.

“Sorry.” Mark ran a tentative hand through his hair. Dampness shadowed the material underneath his right armpit. “You go first.”

She sipped her water and shakily relinquished it to the coffee table. “This all feels surreal…” She cleared her throat.

Mark stared at the water settling in her glass.