My throat prickles with the word yes. “No.”
He moves so fast that I blink when he’s right in front of me. “Is that so? Then explain to me why those pretty green eyes are blown, Emmy.”
I tilt my head up at him, ready for a comeback, but I have nothing, not when I see the desire on his face, the lascivious way his gaze drinks me in as if he’s a man starved in the desert.
I press my hands on his chest, sliding them up until I curl my arms around his neck.
“What are you doing?”
“Kissing my husband good night.” My lips lightly brush over his. It was barely even a kiss, yet I watch with bated breath as I pull back, and he brushes his fingers over his lips, as if savoring the taste of my kiss.
Part of me wants to fall into his arms, but I can’t.
It happened once, but . . .
“Go to bed, wife,” he says with hungry eyes.
I feel his eyes on me the entire way down the hall. I shut the door and lean against it, shuddering. Jesus. What am I going to do about Graham and these feelings? Wait for them to pass? Ignore this fantastical connection we seem to have?
Ugh. Whipping off my clothes, I step in the shower and let the hot water wash everything away. All of it. Graham, his family, Kian. I slip on the lingerie Jane sent and consider calling her and being pissy about my lack of clothes, but I figure Londyn is asleep.
I curl up in the bed and fall asleep, my dreams turning dark as Graham is on the football field underneath a pile of players.
The next morning I’m awake by six as I try to remember where I am. The beach. I get excited when I find a fluffy white robe in the back of the closet. I slip it on and tiptoe out into the den.
He’s not on the couch. In fact, it looks as if he hasn’t been here at all.
I’m making coffee when I find the manila envelope with a note on top of it on the counter.
Emmy,
I left after you went to bed. I’m certain no PI followed us so no one will know. Enjoy the beach. In the envelope are keys to the apartment and cash for whatever pops up. I’ll be in Atlanta, then I’m going to Seattle to handle some personal things. I’ll text you soon.
G
My heart thumps erratically, and I tense up, a chill running down my spine as I drop the note. Pressing my hand to my chest, I gasp in a deep breath and exhale slowly out of parted lips. Inhale, exhale. Gradually, it steadies itself, and I’m unsure if the episode was simply due to the fact that Graham left me or something else.
Just enjoy the day. Bask in the sun. Fine, I can do that. Alone.
On Sunday, the car picks me up at noon. By three, I’m standing in front of the Wickham apartments, wearing the dress I got married in. Brody meets me and introduces me to the doormen and desk workers. Once on the elevator, he keeps darting his eyes at me.
He points out his smaller apartment, then shows me to Graham’s. We walk inside, and I blink at the seventies throwback. In the den is the penis statue, about four feet tall and lime green.
“It’s worth a few grand,” Brody tells me. “Graham says I can have it, but it’s bolted to the floor. Looks like you’re stuck with it.”
“I won’t be here long,” I murmur. “Just until your inheritance comes in. Do you ever wonder if all this was worth it?”
Brody’s face grows serious. “Marriage was never my idea. Mostly because I don’t want to see my brother hurt.”
I say nothing.
“Guess the honeymoon wasn’t so hot?”
“He left.”
Brody nods sagely. “And if you think hard enough, you’d know why.”
I swallow, looking away.
“Come this way, and I’ll show you your bedroom.”
We pass Graham’s bedroom, and I peek in. It’s huge and done in shades of white and navy. There’s a balcony outside his room that connects to the one in the den. Brody tells me there are views to Central Park.
Across the hall is my room, the next-biggest bedroom. The white metal bed frame looks new, with a plush white duvet and velvet pillows in cream. I take in the white wicker dresser, a fancy armoire, and a big mirror propped against the wall. What makes my breath catch is a sketch of the bookstore, framed on the wall. I marvel at the detail, a smile coming from me when I notice that the woman in front of the store looks like me.
I glance at Brody, who’s fluffing a pillow. “Who did this? When?”
“Oh, that. I put it up yesterday. The artist is Francesca Avery. She’s super talented and happens to be married to a former player on the team, Tuck. Graham’s friend Jasper put him in touch with her. Sketching buildings is one of her specialties.”