Page 62 of The Marriage Mistake

Something in his tone of voice made me turn to study him. Really look at him. Then I said, “Jack. Are you embarrassed right now?”

He shot me a glare, and his eyes immediately dropped to my chest. A second later, his eyes slid shut, and his jaw went tight. “Not embarrassed,” he said. “Not exactly.”

The warm air blowing through the vents was thawing my frozen fingers. Blood prickled as it returned to cold limbs, and my thoughts began to move more quickly. I glanced down at myself to see the wet outline of my breasts pressing against the front of the white T-shirt he’d given me, nipples hard and clearly visible. I slapped my arms over my chest. “Oh.”

“You have fantastic breasts,” he said.

“Jack!”

“I’m just trying to explain! It surprised me!”

“It surprised you?”

A low growl rumbled through him, and then he was whacking the gearshift with his palm and backing out of the parking spot. “Forget I said anything. Forget this morning happened, actually.”

“Great idea.”

“I’ll never take you jogging again.”

“That’s the best news I’ve gotten all day.” I shot him another glance, and the flush on his cheeks had spread down his neck. He stretched it from side to side, squinting at the road like it was taking all his concentration not to crash. The drive was silent, and finally we were home.

Before I could escape up the stairs to my attic room, Jack stopped me by calling my name. “I’m sorry,” he said. “What happened today will not happen again,” he said emphatically, slicing a hand through the air.

I nodded like I was glad to hear it, but inside, I wondered why my chest felt like it was caving in. With nothing more to discuss, I scurried up to my room and locked the door.

JACK

Hot water sluiced down my body, and I did my best to think about anything other than Ember’s soft flesh and her eyes full of lightning. I washed my hair and tried to forget the way she’d kissed me in the water. The way she’d felt in my palms. The way she’d looked, half-naked and outraged, when I’d opened my eyes from the shock of touching her. The way the white fabric had clung to her breasts as she sat there, oblivious, and how badly I’d wanted to lean down and take one of those hard nipples in my mouth.

I was more turned on than I’d been in years. It was constant. Endless. Every day brought fresh images and fantasies and desires. As the days wore on, the fantasies were growing strange. Fantasies of late nights on the couch, with her head in my lap. Waking up beside her on a lazy Sunday morning. Showing her all my favorite places in and around town, and then coming home and telling her to get on her knees just to see the pretty pink flush spreading over her cheeks.

I wondered, as I took myself in hand, if I’d ever felt this intensity of desire before at all. Water battered my back as I bowed my head and gripped myself, running down the back of my neck and into my nose and mouth, but all I could think of was Ember.

I came harder than I had in years, and it barely knocked the edge off my need for her.

SIXTEEN

EMBER

On Friday, I felt a tickle in my throat, and I knew what was coming. I slugged back herbal tea and crossed my fingers and toes, but it was no use. On Saturday, I sniffled and fought a constant headache. The next morning, I woke up to darkness outside, a throbbing headache, a clogged nose, and the worst taste clinging to all surfaces in my mouth. The mother of all colds had waged war on my immune system in my sleep—and won. Groaning, I curled into a ball and suffered while the sky lightened to gray, then purple, and finally blue.

I wasn’t sure what time it was when I heard the creak of the stairs and a gentle knocking on my door. I’d been in and out of sleep for a while, and my whole body was racked with chills. I shivered under the blankets as Jack said, “Ember? It’s almost time to go to my grandma’s for family lunch.”

“You go without me,” I said, turning my head just enough that my voice wouldn’t be muffled by the pillows. My voice was nasally and weak, and I followed it up with a cough and a sniffle.

There was a short pause, and then Jack said, “Ember?”

“Don’t come in,” I grumbled. “Sick.”

Jack, predictably, did not listen to me. My door creaked open, and then he was crouching next to the bed with a hand on my shoulder. He swore under his breath, forehead creased with worry. “You look like hell.”

A groan escaped me as I tried to pull the blankets up over my head.

Jack’s warm palm smoothed the damp hair off my temple as my teeth clacked. “This is my fault,” he said.

I grunted in agreement, and Jack huffed. He stroked my shoulder once more, then told me to get some rest. I listened to his footsteps fade and fell into a state of uncomfortable half-sleep. I hated being sick.

When I was a kid, getting sick had been the most miserable and isolating time of my life. I’d loved going to school, because it meant that I wasn’t at home with my father. I remembered forcing myself to get on the bus and go to school on days when I felt like hell because staying home would be worse. More than once, I got sent home for being ill.