Page 75 of Chasing the Other Woman

Every part of his body feels familiar and unfamiliar all at once. Old and new.

My cheek nearly rests against his chest before I catch myself.

“Don’t look so proud,” I mutter.

“I’m mostly trying not to pass out.”

“From one dance?”

“From you saying yes.”

We move in the middle of the bar, two idiots slow-dancing where people usually argue about routes and drink too much after flirting with weather that could kill them.

Brooks doesn’t sing this time.

I almost wish he would.

The memory comes anyway. Him at our wedding, mouth near my ear, singing like he didn’t care who heard. Me laughing because I was so happy it embarrassed me. His bracelet brushing my wrist every time he adjusted his hold.

I look down at it again.

“You put it back on.”

“I did.”

“Why?”

His thumb moves once against my hand. “Because it belongs there.”

I have a dozen questions. Why did he take it off in the first place? Why did he put it back on? What the hell are we doing?

“I hate you for this,” I say.

His gaze drops to mine. “If I believed you meant that, it might make this a little easier.”

“That what you want? For me to hate you?”

“No.” His voice goes rough. “It would kill me, but death might be a little easier than knowing I fucked up the most perfect thing I ever had.”

The room narrows around us.

But Brooks is right here, and for the length of a breath, I let myself remember what it felt like before every touch had history waiting under it.

I have not forgiven him.

Luckily for both of us, he hasn't asked me to.

His hand stays at my waist, steady and careful, like he knows he has no right to hold tighter.

The song keeps playing.

Then Hershel’s voice cuts through from behind us.

“Brooks.”

The old urgency in it snaps both our heads around.

Hershel stands near the table with the maps, phone in hand. Two other chasers are leaning over the radar now, all humor gone from their faces.