I shift onto my back and let my hand drift over my sternum. My palm slides down over my breasts, fingers circling the areolas. The sensation is familiar, but the soft skin and careful pressure are wrong.
It’s not the same.
Dan’s hands are larger. Rougher. Callused in places from decades of work. They used to cover me entirely. Used to press with purpose instead of drifting.
“Mine,” the narrator bites out. “My mate. Aren’t you?”
A quiet laugh slips from my throat.
Hot damn.
If only Dan still sounded like that.
If only he looked at me like something worth claiming.
I wet my lips and let my hand slide lower, fingers tracing the curve of my waist, dipping beneath the waistband of my plain cotton panties.
My breath deepens.
The hero in the story doesn’t ask permission. He doesn’t wait for a sign. He takes.
I press my thighs together and close my eyes, imagining for one reckless second I hear a noise.
That footsteps climb the stairs.
That the bedroom door clicks shut with intention.
That the weight on the mattress shifts.
Instead, the game announcer shouts from downstairs.
Reality seeps back in.
I withdraw my hand slowly, frustration sharper than desire now.
The audiobook continues, passion swelling in the dark. I turn onto my side, facing the empty space beside me.
The sheets are cool there.
Too cool.
I pull the comforter higher and tell myself it’s fine.
Solid marriages don’t need fireworks all the time.
But as the hero claims his mate in the background of my headphones, I can’t help thinking?—
Maybe I do.
Chapter Two
Mel
The oven has been on since seven, and the kitchen holds heat the way Northeast Maine clings to winter. The heat settles against my skin, clings to my collarbone, seeps into the cotton of my tank top. Brown sugar caramelizes in the air, smoked paprika warming into something deeper, the sharp bite of mustard rising when I lift the spoon from the bowl.
I wipe my hands on a dish towel that has seen too many holidays and reach for the next task. Potato salad. Then corn. Then give the baked beans another stir before they scorch on the bottom because I forgot them while answering someone’s question about sunscreen or folding chairs or whether we still have the old horseshoe set.
Fourth of July in Northwick Cove is not a casual affair.
