‘I don’t know if he’s ready.’
‘Hah! Over thirty years old and you know even less about men than I did at twenty. He’s your husband, isn’t he? You’re a stunning woman, inside and out. He’s ready.’ She laid the ribbon to one side, flicked through her basket to find another colour.
‘So why hasn’t he… tried to take things further?’
‘Because he doesn’t know you’re ready.’
‘Idon’t know if I’m ready!’
Nita looked at me out of the corner of her eye, smirking. ‘Trust me, you’re beyond ready.’
‘So, what do I do? You know I’m hardly the type of woman to jump him when he gets home.’
‘It’s not rocket science! Even for Lady Uptight-and-Organised. A lovely meal, candles, soft music. Hunt through your wardrobe until you manage to find that one, long-forgotten item stuffed right at the back that’s a little bit sexy. Or else borrow a dress off that sister of yours – Orla. Look at him like you’ve been thinking about jumping him, even though he knows that you wouldn’t. He’ll get the message.’
* * *
I followed Nita’s advice to the letter. I knew my sisters would tell me the same thing. Cooper arrived home to find the lights dimmed, Spotify romantic country-music playlist warbling and his wife wearing a silky, silver halter-neck dress that skimmed my thighs and hung low enough on my modest cleavage to hopefully get his imagination stirring.
‘This looks nice.’ He glanced in appreciation at the table set for two, the steak waiting to go on the griddle. ‘Have I got time to get changed?’
‘That depends how you like your steak.’ I tried to give him a sexy smile. It might have worked, because he raised his eyebrows and smiled in return.
‘Medium rare.’
‘Four minutes.’ Or so Google had told me. The only steak I’d ever cooked was made of cauliflower.
He strolled to the door, then stopped and looked back at me. ‘Or you could wait a few minutes before starting to cook it? I feel like this isn’t a night to be throwing on a T-shirt and joggers.’
‘Okay. Great.’
It wasn’t great. I felt as though I was on the brink of a cardiac arrest. I only remembered to breathe once I heard Cooper turn the shower on.
Surely it wasn’t supposed to feel this hard? I mean, I knew real-life relationships were nothing like the films, that they were mostly made up of a whole lot of normal, everyday, potentially awkward and really not very romantic or sexy moments, not whirlwinds of all-consuming passion.
Still, though.
Once the thought had popped into my head it was difficult to wrangle it out again: if I had been dating Cooper, I might be thinking about cooling things off about now. It wasn’t that I didn’t like him. More that we’d gone so far, and then seemed to get stuck there.
I was shaping up to be a terrible wife.
Needless to say, I was not in the mood for boinking.
I ate and drank and managed to listen to Cooper’s stories and laugh a few times anyway. He also seemed a little tense, but that was hardly surprising given that, as Nita had predicted, he knew full well that this was my shaky attempt at foreplay.
We had made it all the way to the sofa, the coffee had been drunk and the candles nearly burnt down when I reached the point where I knew it was now or never. Or at least, now or have to endure this whole thing all over again on another night, only even more forced than this time.
I put my empty mug down, smoothed my hair behind my ears, and brazenly leant over and kissed him.
Again: nice enough.
As if by some sort of country miracle, the playlist moved onto the song we’d danced to the other night, and we smiled against each other’s lips. Cooper placed one hand on the back of my head, his fingers gently burrowing into my hair. The other one slid against my waist, and to my enormous relief my skin tingled in response. After a good few long, slow, sighing kisses, I braved placing one hand on his chest, my fingers brushing against his shirt button.
And then it happened again.
It was only for a couple of seconds, but Cooper went rigid. His breath froze in his throat.
As he unpaused, and carried on kissing me, I tried to decide whether or not to pull away. Was his reaction anticipation or panic? Or worse – horror. Was he nervous in a good way, or was my husband bracing himself at the thought of me touching him?
