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I’m prepared for her to make a comment about all the people I deem forgettable, but she’s quiet for a moment, then says, “No more Polly Pocket-related incidents. No more sightings of her grandmother either. I guess hearing from both me and Danny helped. For now.”
“That’s good,” I say, although I already knew that. I’ve asked Danny to keep me updated. If their mother pulls any other shit, we’re agreed we’ll talk to that private investigator couple Burke knows. There’ll be no dicking around with Ruthie’s and Izzy’s safety on the line.
I pull into the restaurant and park but make no move to get out.
“Huh, I’ve never been to this place,” she says, peering out of her window. “It looks fan-cy.”
I sigh, then straighten my perfectly straight tie. Is she suffering the way I am? It occurs to me that I’m never going to be able to make it through the night unless we set some boundaries. For years, Rule Number One made it possible for me to keep Ruthie at a distance. Maybe that strategy will work for me again tonight.
“Look,” I say, clearing my throat. “We should probably establish some ground rules before we go in.”
She turns in her seat, watching me with the bright eyes of a predator. “Are you going to want to touch my ass, Vain?”
I resist the urge to swallow but cannot resist the urge to lean closer. It’s cold, even in the car, but sweat is beading on my brow. My skin is crying out for her—a touch, a kiss, a—
“No, Ruthie,” I say dryly, my gaze catching on a curl that’s tumbled into her face. “I don’t want to grope your ass in front of my boss.” I give in to the temptation to tuck her hair behind her ear. Tugging in a ragged breath, I say, “But I may hold your hand.”
“Or kiss me?” she asks, an anticipation in her voice that isn’t helping with the sweat situation. She shuffles in her seat, her arm pressing against mine, and I lean in without intending to.
“Maybe,” I say, my voice husky to my own ears. “A husband would kiss his wife. Chastely.”
“What would a chaste kiss be like?” she asks, her eyes holding mine. “A depraved woman like me has no idea what chastity means. You might have to show me.”
“That won’t be easy,” I admit, swallowing.
“You pride yourself on your mansplaining ability. I’ll bet you can figure it out.”
It’s the only invitation I’m liable to get from her. I lean in and kiss her softly on the lips. My lips want to linger, to pillage, to take, but I leave it as a soft press. A tease. Maybe it’s also a question. The tie, I realize, was its own question. I’m feeling things I shouldn’t, how about you?
Her eyes flutter open, and her face stays where it is—inches from mine, so close I could count the freckles across the bridge of her nose. My heartrate accelerates, but then she pulls back, taking my ability to count with her.
“Let’s go,” she says.
But I don’t move, and neither does she. I take her hand and trace the fingers slowly, feeling the energy snapping between us, demanding we do something about it.
“I’ve been thinking about you,” I admit, because I can’t help it. Because that simple, stark truth is exerting itself.
Her eyes widen, but she doesn’t pull away. Her gaze holds mine in a challenge. “It hasn’t seemed like it.”
She doesn’t sound upset about it, necessarily, but suddenly I feel like a prick. I told myself I was giving her what she wanted, but I basically ran. In truth, I’ve done that with a lot of women. In the past, I’ve told myself it’s no big deal—set the expectation, and when you stick to it, you’re just being honest. No one could fault a guy for being honest. But it’s different with Ruthie. Ruthie is…Ruthie.
I’d wanted to do more, but if I’d let myself give in and call her, then last Friday would mean something. I don’t know how to let it mean something. My whole life has been about making goals and reaching them. My goal this year was to get this job I don’t want, then use it as a scaffolding to find a more satisfying position. In no way does pursuing my best friend’s sister for real fit into that plan.
But she’s not just my best friend’s sister anymore. She’s my wife.
I didn’t think it was going to mean anything. It shouldn’t—it’s a piece of paper, and paper can be ripped and burned and destroyed, but somehow it does.
“I know what it’s seemed like,” I say, then I lift her hand to my mouth and kiss the skin just beneath the ring. “But it’s true. I can’t stop thinking about you. It’s driving me mad. You’ve been on my mind constantly, every moment. Every day.”
She takes a quick breath, her eyes fixed on mine. Their scrutiny is felt in every inch of my body. “Is that why you wore the tie?”
“I’ve worn it every day since last Friday,” I admit. But I have some self-restraint left. I don’t tell her that I’ve also worn the pajamas she bought for Danny, because she chose them. It’s saying something that I’ve wanted to be in that ramshackle little apartment with her and Izz rather than in my own house.
“Shane.”
Our gazes hold, and there’s a moment—a pounding, mindfuck of a moment—when I almost turn on the car and put it in reverse. Because I don’t want to be here with her, putting on a show. I want to finish that tour she backed me into earlier so I can show her my bedroom. I want to have her on my bed, against my wall, in my shower, on my couch. I want to add memories of her all over the house, so that each surface will be full of them. So that being there will mean something.
She swallows, and my hand lifts of its own accord to trace the line of her neck—the places my mouth learned last week. Her mouth opens, closes, and then she says, “Let’s go inside.”
