Page 55 of Promise

“Don’t sound over enthusiastic,” I tease.

She chuckles softly. “It’s just that I’ve been waiting to watch this one, but I’ll find something else.”

I don’t want her changing her mind because of me. “Keep it. Let’s watch it.” I’m not opposed to watching this kind of movie. We’ve watched them together before.

She hesitates another minute before clicking back to the original title. “This falls in the middle of the series. I already watched the first half when it came out.”

“Go for it. I’ll catch up.” How hard can it be?

It doesn’t take long to see the pining of the man for a woman beneath his economic status, and it reminds me a little bit of Trin and me. Not the financial part, but the way the female lead believes she isn’t good enough for him, and the way he wants her anyway.

He’s wrecked by her. For her.

Because Trin sits beside me but angled toward the screen, I have both an appreciation for the fictional man in the series and a view of Trin’s neck. The back of it with fine hairs from the shorter cut. The spot where the column of her throat curves toward her shoulder. A spot I used to nip just to weaken her knees. My fingers twitch to trace along that line of skin. To inhale her scent. To kiss her there.

I clear my throat, and Trin shifts, twisting her body so her side is more open to me while her head still turns toward the television.

The position is almost worse. Her breasts are perfectly on display in a fitted tee. Her arms bare. Her hands on her belly before something happens on the screen and she drops them to her sides, resting them next to her thighs. She’s wearing jeans that hug her curves and flare near her ankles.

Her feet are bare, exposing said ankles and I feel like I’m living in this period piece. Trin once explained to me how exposed ankles were almost like flashing someone your breasts. Sexual and scandalous.

I scrub a hand down my face, feeling ridiculous for getting hot over my wife’s feet.

My wife.

Trinity is still mine, but a divide remains between us.

I shift, repositioning myself to mirror Trinity’s position. I hike my feet up on the low table and set my hands next to my legs, smoothing my palms over the velvety material of the couch.

Which causes my pinky to brush against hers.

Trinity immediately glances down, scowling.

“Sorry,” I mutter, dragging my hand back toward my thigh and tucking the tips beneath my leg as if that will prevent me from touching her. From wanting her.

Because the more the tension builds on the screen, the more the tension rises in this room.

She’s so close and yet so far away from me. Inches yet miles.

I try to concentrate on this poor sap trying to come up with a way to be with the woman he loves.

Until I feel something brush the side of my hand. Glancing down, Trin’s pinky flicks against the side of mine.

At first, I think she’s done it unintentionally. But I continue to watch the space between us long enough to learn she purposely moved her hand closer to mine.

When her finger brushes mine again, my breath hitches.

“What?” She turns her head sharply toward me.

“Nothing.” I hold still and glance back at the show. “He’s really aching for her.”

Trinity hums and returns her attention to the screen, but her finger slides over mine until I trap it between my pinky and ring finger. The silicone ring digs into her pinky. Maybe reminding her that we’re still married.

She glances down at where I’ve caged her finger.

“What happened to your ring?”

I hesitate to admit the truth but decide there is no point in holding it back. “I lost it. Tossed it down the track the day I was served divorce papers.”