Page 48 of Souls and Sorrows
“Emile isn’t a stranger,” I say, moving to the island bar. I’m not sure why I think that will help my case.
“Ah. A former paramour then. Good to know.” Grunting, he lifts the cutting board and holds it above a stainless steel stock pot, dumping the vegetable in.
Still without looking at me.
Heat scalds my face, creeping slowly down my neck, even though I know I haven’t done anything wrong. I swallow, silently willing him to turn or make some sort of sarcastic remark—something to let me know that his anger is fleeting.
Even if he yelled or lashed out physically, it would be better than silence.
“It’s not like that,” I try again, resting my palm on the white marble countertop. “I mean, itwas, but… not today. Not anymore. I haven’t even seen him in a few years, so it was just two friends… catching up.” The words spill from my mouth like vomit, singeing the inside of my mouth on their way out.
My hands tremble the longer the silence from him stretches, anxiety clogging my airways.
He nods, starting to chop raw carrots.
Discomfort makes its way to the forefront of my mind, and I grit my teeth against the onslaught. Static sparks in my chest, filling the cavity with broken sound and images, and I slide around the island.
Crossing the room, I lean a hip against the counter on the other side of the stove, watching him. “You can’t seriously be mad.”
“I’m not,” he says, so simply and coolly, like he isn’t practically vibrating with rage. His hands are steady as he adds the carrots to the pot and then turns around to wash his hands in the sink. “Icouldbe—and would be well within my rights—but I’m not. If you say nothing was going on, then I believe you.”
“Why?”
“You haven’t given me a reason not to.”
But the voice in the back of my mind tells me he’s just saying that. Probably so he can bring it up later, when I’m not suspecting his anger, and take it out on me then.
I feel like I might vomit. “It wasn’t… look, he might’ve been interested, and he invited me to a wrap party with other dancers tonight, but I said no, and I wasn’t planning on—”
Cash shuts off the faucet with more force than necessary and then whirls on me, closing the distance between us in two quick steps. He cages me in against the counter, planting his hands on either side of my hips, and closes his eyes as he inhales.
“Are youtryingto make me angry?”
My eyes widen. “What? No, I’m just explaining—”
“I’m not mad about the other man, but I’m also not interested in hearing about the details of your time with him.”
I drop my gaze to his lips, feeling my chest pinch. “But if you aren’t mad, then—”
One hand comes up, sliding over my mouth the same way he did at our wedding. My pulse turns erratic, and I taste it in my throat.
“Why do you care if I am?”
Tilting my chin up, I lift a shoulder, trying to convey with my eyes that I don’t.
Not logically.
But my gut isn’t ruled by logic, and my soul still carries the weight of being an emotional punching bag my whole life.
“Is it because you’d care if the situation was reversed? If you’d caught me giving all my smiles and attention to some girl I had history with, especially after I blew you off all day?”
My jaw clenches, and his gaze hardens as I inch forward, pressing myself into him. He can claim otherwise all he wants, but there’s no denying that he feelssomethingabout Emile and me.
Lifting my hand, I wrap my fingers around his, dragging it slowly down. He allows me to free my mouth, his brown gaze seeming to warm as his pinkie crests my bottom lip.
“Why would you look elsewhere for something I’m so willing to give you?”
His Adam’s apple bobs. Instinctively, like an object caught in his orbit, I push up on my toes, inviting him in. To kiss me, taste me, take me—the way I’ve wished he would since that first night in the club, when we were just two strangers passing like ships in the night.