Needing an excuse to cool down, I sit up and hop off the couch. I pull the bottle of whiskey from the mantel and refill the glass.
Hank lifts his chin, eyes me. “You put up my stocking.”
“C’mon, get out the bah humbugs.” I giggle, the whiskey taking effect.
“No bah humbugs.” He rumbles with a laugh. Then, more seriously, he adds, “Thanks. I’m glad you did.”
Flushing, I force a shrug. “I was confident you’d stay.”
His gaze maps me as I return to the couch, sitting up this time, hoping it’ll keep me from giving in to the urge to huff his aftershave scent.
“Do you still do crosswords as often as you used to?” I ask, pulling my legs beneath me.
His broad shoulders stiffen. Without looking at me, he says, low and intimate, “No. I’ve never finished a crossword completely on my own.”
“I haven’t done trivia since I left.” It comes out like a breathless confession.
This time, he turns, intense sapphire eyes locked on my face. “I can’t do karaoke without you.”
I swallow. I could go on. Confess all the things I’ve missed about being married to him. I miss waking up with him, miss the way he’d let me use his heat to warm my cold feet, miss the presence of the one person who just “got” me and loved me even when I was being grumpy and stubborn.
“Two clues left.” He clears his throat, drops his attention to the crossword. “A mess or fiasco.”
I sip my whiskey, considering the clue. “Shit show.” I giggle at the thought, then moan. “Just like my career.”
The leather couch gives a rubbery squeak as Hank peers back at me. “Somethin’ tells me shit show won’t be in theNew York Times.”
“Try trash fire.”
“That’s two words. It don’t count.” Rotating his lean body, he turns and slides his hand down between the leather seats. He grips my ass and pulls me toward him, only stopping when my knees hit his chest. As he inches forward, I open for him, giving him space to settle between my legs. He frowns at the pout onmy face, rubbing a thumb over my lower lip. “What’s this for, sugar?”
His sapphire eyes hold mine until, heart aching, I drop my gaze.
“Bell,” he says firmly, warm palms curling around my thighs. “Talk to me.”
I stare into the fire, wishing it’d burn the tears welling in my eyes. The pressure I’ve been ignoring returns, builds. My shoulders inch toward my ears and my heart lodges itself in my throat.
“I’m still working at the gallery as an assistant,” I admit, chancing a look at him. The whiskey’s making me honest. “I was a one-hit wonder. No one wants to buy my paintings. They suck, honestly.”
“They don’t suck.”
“You have to say that.”
“No, I don’t. We’re divorced, remember? I don’t owe you anything. I’m sayin’ that because it’s the truth.”
“Ever since…” I lick my lips, push on, my insides constricting with heartache. “Ever since I lost the baby, I can’t paint. And when I do, I hate it. Every canvas, every color I pick feels wrong.”
Pain creases his face, his voice a broken rasp. “I’m sorry, sugar.”
“My agent thought coming up here would inspire me, but…I feel as lost as I did in San Francisco.”
“Are you happy there?” he asks, a solemn grit to his voice I’ve never heard before.
I shrug a shoulder, tears burning hot behind my eyes. “For the last two years, I’ve felt like tinsel without its sparkle.”
He doesn’t say anything else. He doesn’t need to. Just his presence is enough.
My skin warms as his hands land on my cheeks. I let my eyes flutter shut, my head lolling in his firm grip.
