It’s exhausting, but I’m fantastic at putting on a show. My superpower is being able to talk to anyone, to lean in and make them feel like they’re the only person in the room worth giving my attention to. I can humor and empathize with even the sourest of grapes. In this case, that would be Edith, whose dour attitude, gray shift dress, and tight ponytail made me wonder if she’s ever had fun in her life. But she cracked a smile when I was asked to tell the story of how I built my macaron empire, almost as if she were proud of me for pulling it off.
Calais and Geneva were easy sells too, fashion being our common ground. And Thomas’s mother, Iris, practically held my hand all through dinner and made me more drinks whenever mine got low. Guess I know where Thomas gets it from now.
Andrew and Thomas’s dad were harder to bring over to my side. The latter came around after I offhandedly mentioned my company’s profit margin last year. But Andrew…I don’t know. There was something about him I didn’t care for. Plus, every time he looked at Thomas, I swore resentment thrummed through the air.
And then there was Figgy and the constant fight for my husband’s attention. I might have found her interjections into the conversation and the anecdotes about their long, storied friendship amusing if I didn’t know she was trying to steal my man.
My man.Oh God. That’s not—I shouldn’t be—thinking of Thomas that way; while technically correct, that shouldn’t be allowed to go through my head.
“It went really well,” I answer, forcing the thought away.“Your mother’s in love with me. Even Edith warmed up by the end.”
It might have had something to do with the ten thousand espresso martinis Iris shook up. Those would make anyone friendly. I’ve had just enough that I’m loose and a little lightheaded now, but not enough to be drunk. Considering what happened between Thomas and me the last time we were shit-faced, it’s probably a good thing.
“I did see Edith smiling.” Thomas finishes taking off his cuff links and places them carefully on top of the dresser. “Shocking, considering I didn’t think her face could do that.”
I playfully roll my eyes at him as I move toward my bags. “She’s notthatbad. Terrifying, yeah, but definitely a shrewd businesswoman.”
“Which is exactly why she’s on track to take over the family company. Dad’s planning to retire in the next few years, so she’s gearing up for it.”
Impressive, but from what I saw tonight, not unexpected. While Andrew mostly sat back and sulked, Edith wrangled four kids, took at least six business calls, and filled in all the blanks whenever her father faltered for an answer.
“Good for her,” I commend as I kneel down to gather my nighttime skin care products from my bag. “She seems like the perfect person for the job.”
Before I stand, I spare a glance over at Thomas, and I nearly drop the lotions and potions cradled in my arms at the sight that greets me. He’s unbuttoned his white dress shirt down to his stomach, pausing to untuck the rest of the material from his navy slacks before finishing the job—and giving me an unobstructed view of his defined abs and the top of his V-cut hips. And it’s…it’s quite the sight.
We haven’t discussed how rooming together is going towork, let alone sleeping in the same (thankfully giant) bed, but Thomas clearly doesn’t think that undressing in front of each other is off-limits. As I stumble to my feet, he shrugs out of his shirt and hangs it carefully in the wardrobe, leaving me staring at his rippling back muscles this time.
Okay, I have to say it: My husband is hot. Appallingly so, considering our promise that we’d keep our hands off each other in private. It wasn’t so difficult a task when I was fully sober and he was fully clothed, but now that we’re neither of those things, my belly is swirling with desire and I’mveryafraid I might break a rule tonight.
Shaking myself out of it, I mumble to Thomas that I’m headed to the bathroom to get ready for bed.
“Oh, I’ll come brush my teeth,” he says, following me into the white-tiled space.
He’s either an oblivious fool or is trying to taunt me with those beautiful muscles on display. But I don’t stop him as we approach the double sinks, with him taking the left and me on the right. He’s seen me hungover and half-dead, so I don’t mind taking my makeup off in front of him, but standing together in the quiet is more than I can take.
“Hey, what were you and Figgy talking about before dinner?” I ask as he searches for his toothbrush in his toiletry bag. “I mean, if you don’t mind me asking. It seemed kind of…heated.”
He heaves a sigh and ceases his searching for a moment, meeting my gaze through the mirror. “Well, I was totally wrong about her believing our marriage is real.”
My blood runs cold for a horrible moment. The whole reason he wanted to stay married was to get her off his back—if that hasn’t worked, what skin does he have left in the game? She’ll keep pushing if she doesn’t see me as a threat. Our entirereason for him to want to be with me has completely gone up in smoke.
ButIstill needhim. Loath as I am to admit it, my reputation is still on the line, and splitting up so soon would only send it spiraling farther down. We haven’t even been together for a full month yet; what will my future look like if he says he wants an annulment and we fuck off to separate corners of the world?
“Do you want to end this?” I blurt.
Thomas blinks at me in horror. “Absolutely not,” he says with a vehemence that has me drawing back.
“Damn, all right, just asking.”
“I’m sorry, I—” He cuts short and reaches out to touch my elbow, driving his apology home with a light squeeze. “Just because Figgy doesn’t believe us now doesn’t mean she won’t finally get the message and move on. I want us to stay together. I want to make this work.”
What strikes me first is that these are the exact words I wanted to hear from Étienne once upon a time. The words Ithoughthe would say upon realizing he’d made the worst mistake of his life and came crawling back to me.
I understand this context is completely different, and yet it’s still so affirming to hear—Thomas wants me, at least in this small way. He’s not pushing me aside. He’s not leaving me.
“Okay,” I say, because that’s all I can push past the growing lump in my throat.
It’s another long moment before he drops his hand, but he doesn’t immediately look away, searching my face for something. He must find what he wants when I force myself to smile. Only then does he return to looking for his toothbrush and I start in on step one of my skin care routine.
