It’s strange. I’ve had no appetite since the day Ginny broke her arm, instead picking at food like a baby bird, so I’m surprised when I look up and find over half the containers empty, and my stomach pleasantly full.
I pat my mouth with a napkin as I sit back, keeping my back as straight as possible and sucking in my stomach. My cheeks heat as I realize just how much I ate, Christopher’s voice drifting into my head.
My wife will take the salad—no dressing.
I don’t think we need dessert. Do you, Lynnie?
Oh. Are you sure you want to wear that dress?
Lynnie, you need to stop encouraging Ginny to eat the way you do. She’s already got an uphill fight with genetics.
My stomach churns uncomfortably, but I shut the voice down. Christopher’s an asshole, covering up insults in pretty words. It is something that has always felt sickeningly familiar to what I heard growing up, so I convinced myself it was because he loved me. That he wanted what was best for me.
After so many years, clarity sweeps in—a harsh realitycheck of what I’ve let my husband do to me, chipping away at me so much that the things he says started making sense.
There is nothing wrong with how I look, and there is no battle for Ginny to fight.I have curves—show me a woman who has birthed two kids who doesn’t. But I am in the prime of my life, and unless I’m reading the situation completely wrong,Graftonhas no issues with my body or appearance.
“Are you finished?” he asks, eyes bouncing between the food and me. Something about his expression tells me me he’s considering feeding me himself, like he doesn’t think I ate enough.
A hot flush crawls through me at the idea, and I flap a hand in front of my face, letting out a crazed little laugh. “Yes! I couldn’t, um…eat another…bite…” There’s a huskiness to my voice that sounds nothing like me.
Blue eyes glitter back at me as he angles his body to the side, resting his back against the armrest. “Good,” he tells me in that deep rumble. My mouth twitches. I’m not sure if it’s a frown, a smile, or a panic attack, so I just blink at him, unable to tear my gaze away. “We need to talk about your husband.”
Ice races through my veins. My heart slows to a sluggish pace, almost feeling like it’s not beating at all. I’m not sure what I expected, coming here with him, but Grafton announcing that we “need to talk” about my husband definitely didn’t feature in the top ten.
I inch away from him, trying to create as much space as possible. It’s obvious that he has some kind of agenda, and in my experience, anyone with an agenda isn’t going to be looking out for me or my children.
I level him with a cool look, hiding my suspicion behinda shaky mask of civility. “What about him?” My tone betrays none of my inner turmoil, but his attention drops to the way my hands are clenched together, the bones aching from how tightly I’m holding them. He strokes long fingers over his rough jaw, his expression thoughtful, and as the silence stretches between us, I arch an imperious eyebrow, silently demanding an answer.
“It was a serious question,” he says instead, his thumb running over his lower lip. It’s a little fuller than the top, and before I can stop myself, my eyes drop, watching as he drags it down slightly. My breath hitches in my chest, but I shake it off.
“What question?” Impatience seeps through the words, but I don’t try to pull it back. I don’t know what’s happening, but the longer we sit here,staringat each other, the more it feels like I’m doing something wrong.
“If you are happy,” Grafton clarifies, his tone gentling in a way that makes my stomach clench.
I fix a glare on my face—the kind that might have singed the hair right off his eyebrows if he were even an inch closer. “And, if you remember,” I say, overly sweet and with only a tiny bite. “I answered you.”
He gives me a knowing smile, not thrown by my attitude. “You did,” he agrees. “Now I want the truth.” The deep timbre of his voice settles in my bones, mingling with the bitter taste of guilt.
I shouldn’t be reacting to him like this.
I don’t know him, and he certainly doesn’t know me.
It’s been so long since I’ve felt like someone sees me as something other than Christopher Delcourt’s wife or Mase and Ginny’s mother. My head spins at the idea that this man sees through all of it, to the woman underneath…but I still don’t know what he wants.
I lift my lashes, unable to remember closing my eyes, and find him watching me with a lazy grin curling his lips. My mouth pinches with irritation. “I think we’re done here,” I say frostily, gathering my purse and hooking it over my shoulder. As I stand, Grafton reaches out and grabs my arm, the heat of his large hand searing me through my clothes.
“Sit down.” It’s nothing short of an order, but I don’t move, staring down my nose at him. The corners of his mouth twitch as he repeats, “Sit down, Lynley,” softening it with a, “Please.”
I roll my eyes, making him huff in amusement, but retake my seat. “Get on with it,” I demand. “I need to pick my children up.”
“Two children, correct?” he clarifies. His hand is still on my arm. I flick a too-casual glance at it, debating whether I should pull away or not. There’s nothing untoward happening except him being a little too forward with someone he just met andknowsis married.To his employee.
I pause. “Christopher told you?”
He shakes his head, finally pulling his hand away, leaving my arm tingling. “No.”
I swallow my hurt. I knew Christopher wouldn’t spend time talking about his kids, but it feels like more evidence against him.
