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I look up.

She's standing at the edge of the hallway, barefoot, with her hair loose around her shoulders. She’s wearing little cotton shorts that barely reach mid-thigh and a ribbed tank top that clings to every curve.

My gaze drifts to the hard peaks pressing through the thin cotton of her top, and my body immediately makes a series of deeply unhelpful executive decisions.

My cock stirs.

My mouth waters.

And all my blood rushes south like it’s late for an appointment.

Christ.

"I do," I say, forcing my eyes to settle on her face. "It’s very good."

She walks to the counter and leans against it.

"I had help," she says.

"Help?"

"Charles came over."

My brows lift. "Charles cooked in my kitchen?"

"Charles cooked in my kitchen." She grins wickedly. "In an apron. Over his three-piece suit."

She’s cute when she’s being cute.

She unfolds her arms and drops her hands to the counter's edge behind her. The shift pulls the tank top tight across her chest, and I can see the shape of her full, round breasts and those stiff peaks pressing into the fabric.

I want to put my mouth on them, both of them. I want to suck one nipple through the fabric and feel her arch against me the way she did at the shooting range.

I want to hear the sounds she makes right against my ear. Moans, whimpers, and the word please as she writhes beneath me.

I clear my throat to stop myself from groaning.

"And to what do I owe such special attention?" I ask.

The playfulness on her face softens.

"It’s to say thank you for the phone," she says.

"It’s a necessity, not a gift."

"It's a phone with my father's number in it." She gives me a soft smile, her plush lips gleaming. "And my father's number goes to a private addiction clinic in the country where he's been receiving treatment since the night you took me."

I hold her gaze, but remain silent. She's softer tonight. Her armor is gone, and beneath it she’s warm, open, and earnest. The girl next door. The sunshine that lives inside her name. She's looking at me like I'm the opposite of the man who ruined her life, and deep inside I acknowledge I’ve wanted that for far longer than I care to admit. To not be the villain in her story.

"You put him there," she says. "You admitted him the same night you brought me here. And you've been visiting him."

"His recovery is in my interest. A relapsed debtor is a liability."

"Is that why you pull up a chair and sit with him?" Her voice is soft. "Is that why you reassured him his daughter was safe?"

I don't answer. Instead, I walk to the bar and pour myself a drink. I’ve never felt as weak toward my wife as I do right now. Her questions are pulling me apart, unraveling the tapestry I’m trying desperately to keep together. And they are questions I don’t have answers for.

"He sounded good, Dante."