An hour spent naked, wet, and on her back should get her head straight.
Although, now that she’d thought about it in those terms, maybe not.
Still, she filled the gorgeous soaking tub with steaming water and poured her foaming bath salts. Then she stripped, wiggled her toes against the warm tiles underfoot—James had seriously undersold the benefits of a husband in construction—and grabbed two fresh towels and a washcloth from the quartz-topped vanity.
Was that…was that a heated towel rack off to the side? Really?
Shit, she was never leaving this bathroom again. And since James had offered her the master suite, explaining that he found it too big for a man alone and had been living in the guest room since he’d moved in, she supposed she didn’t reallyhaveto leave.
Marriage rocked.
A quick ponytail later, she slid beneath the bubbles with a sigh and positioned a rolled-up towel under her neck. After wetting the washcloth, she draped it over her eyes and waited for clarity.
And waited. And waited.
Instead, she remembered how she’d taken James aside at their gathering and told him she’d pull her weight. She’d make sure he didn’t regret his decision. She’d never take advantage of him or burden him more than she already had.
He listened patiently, although he didn’t appear overly concerned.
But when she told him he could divorce her whenever he wanted, for whatever reason he wanted, he rolled his eyes, then leaned down and kissed the tip of her nose.
“Stop worrying,” he told her.
Then somehow, old-school Madonna began playing on his stereo system, which he’d mysteriously wired throughout the house. Another construction-husband perk, no doubt.
He swung her into his arms and pressed his cheek against hers while pre-English-accent Madge—Elizabeth’s favorite version, which James clearly knew—sang about how crazy she was for her lover. How her heart raced at his nearness. How their bodies merged in the dark.
Elizabeth clung to James, unable to do anything else. And when the music faded, when the small crowd applauded and he loosened his hold, she’d cried again, and he’d tenderly wiped away those tears too.
She’d stared up at him through blurry eyes, speechless.
It was their wedding song. He’d given her a wedding song.
So how exactly was she supposed to keep her feet planted on solid earth? How was she supposed to stop herself from floating away like one of those bubbles, only to pop in a cold splatter at the first touch of reality?
This. This was why she’d never asked him for anything. Why she’d never let herself rely on him. Sure, she hadn’t wanted to burden a man who already struggled under the weight of an addiction-ravaged marriage, two wonderful but needy kids, and the expenses attendant with all three. Sure, she was accustomed to dealing with her problems on her own.
But more than that, she’d known. If she ever let him closer, she’d fall.
And he’d been married for over twenty years.
With a hysterical half-giggle, half-sob, she remembered: He was now married again. This time to her. And given the circumstances, it was simultaneously the best and worst thing that had ever happened to her.
At a quiet knock on the bathroom door, she froze.
“Are you okay?” His voice was concerned. “It sounded like you were crying.”
Oh, God, how embarrassing. He’d caught her laughing at herself like a loon.
“I’m fine!” she called back.
“Good.” A pause. “I was also wondering what you wanted me to do with your friend Jenny’s wedding gift. The painting. I can”—he must have turned away from the door, because his words became indecipherable for a moment—“while you’re in the bath, if you’d like.”
She sat up straight. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”
“I said I can take the painting and”—more indistinct mumbles—“if that’s what you want.”
This was ridiculous. She wasn’t exactly a shy virgin, and they were both adults. Hell, they weremarriedto each other. They didn’t need to shout at one another through a door.
