Page 93

And maybe that’s the problem. Physically, she looks the same in so many ways, and while I’ve dated a whole lot, and from a wide pool of looks, it turns out I do have a preferred type.

Short, dark, and curvy is my yum-o kryptonite.

Wonder if I’m hers.

The women I’ve dated have all been low maintenance and undemanding, maybe because I once fell in love with a girl who took up all my waking thoughts. Turns out that girl is now a woman whose inner workings appear to have changed a lot. She’s resilient and kind and thoughtful, though her life has been chaos. She’s still kind of funny, even when she doesn’t mean to be, and when she looks at me . . .

Problem number two: None of this matters, because we’re impossible.

“Clara,” I begin carefully, like I want to defuse this thing, when want and should are two very different states of mind.

“I need to get dressed.” She scoops up her dress and, this time, points in the right direction. “In here.”

The closet door clicks shut behind her, and I exhale a whoosh of breath so hard, it fogs the mirror. It’s fine, I tell myself. I can handle this. I’m a fucking adult, not the kid I was with a raging hard-on for her. I glance down accusingly. Not quite a hard-on, at any rate.

It doesn’t mean anything.

My reflection doesn’t seem to believe me either.

“Wow.” My eyes feast on the sight of her. “Clara, just . . . wow.”

“Do I look okay?”

“Knockout,” I reply as I put down my glass. It’s not Dutch courage and more like our earlier interaction has driven me to drink. “You’re stunning.”

Her dress is black, no surprise there, but it subtly shimmers. A one-shouldered Grecian thing, cut to follow those heavenly curves before falling to her feet.

She crosses the room with a relieved smile. Her hair is up off her neck, and she twirls a finger through one of the artfully arranged curls as though to make it behave. “You look pretty spiffy yourself.”

Oh, man. Even better, the dress is split at the front. It doesn’t flash a lot of leg, but the skin it does reveal makes me want to stare. To slip my fingers between the fabric, sliding it higher to experience the secret softness of her inner thighs. Maybe follow that touch with my tongue. “Spiffy?”

“It was a compliment.”

“They look painful.” I sound almost parched as I stare at her high, high heels.

Fuck my life. Fuck-me heels.

“I’m hoping I’ll get the hang of walking in them soon,” she says, glancing down at them. “It’s been a while.”

She said that in my bed the day after we got hitched. “It has been a while.” Her eyes were so dark and her mouth red and kiss plump. Pretty sure I went blind for the moment thinking of all the ways I could right that wrong for her. I give a little cough. “Looks like you’re doing okay.” Looks like you’re doing it for me, as I ignore the telltale tug at the front of my pants. And it’s not just my cock that’s confused.

I’m gonna do it. Why the fuck not? It doesn’t have to mean anything other than making this story look right.

Clara places her clutch on the dining table, opening her palm to her grandmother’s earrings. She slips them on, one, two.

“I have something for you.” As she looks up, I slide my hand into my pocket. “Don’t get all weird on me, but I got you a replacement ring.”

“Replace—why?”

“Because that piece of shit isn’t fooling anyone.” I pull out the box as Clara looks on, bemused.

“I was just going to leave it off.” She does a little Beyoncé hand move, her fingers bare. “Say I’d forgotten it or something.”

“Some husband I must be if I can’t inspire my woman to keep on her wedding ring. Here.” I open my hand to reveal a small black velvet box balanced in my palm.

She eyes it like a damn bomb. “It wouldn’t be right.”

“It’s only a ring. For the narrative.”