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Willow’s mouth pops open in disbelief, and I simply wait.
Any second now, she’ll tell me I’m a heartless jerk with the emotional intelligence of a thumb tack. Then, she’ll want nothing to do with me.
My chest squeezes, but I brush it aside.
On some level, I know I’m burning things down. I just don’t know why.
Actually, I know exactly why.
Telling Carter the details of our marriage, like Willow is actually mine, like she would ever choose me in the first place…
It was too much. I need to remind myself—remind her—that this is just an arrangement. I’m not the kind of man who’d be good for her. She needs someone energetic and creative and who isn’t routinely compared to an automaton.
Willow’s gaze flits from my eyes to my jaw to my clenched hands. I stand absolutely still as she pads closer. When her fingers slide over mine until they wiggle their way to the center of my palm, I don’t so much as blink.
“Today,” she whispers, not breaking eye contact.
My brows twitch in confusion.
“That’s who you are today.” Her bare shoulder lifts in a shrug. “Who knows who you’ll be tomorrow?”
My hand flexes, but she doesn’t let me go.
“Willow, please.”
I don’t know what I’m asking for.
Mercy? Forgiveness? A combination of both?
When the microwave pings, she gives my fingers a squeeze before spinning to retrieve our breakfast. She slides mine onto a plate, setting it next to me before hunting in the fridge for hot sauce. I don’t move while Willow sits down, happily tucking into her burrito.
“You know what we should do today?” she asks over a very full bite.
I don’t answer. I don’t even think I’m breathing at this point.
“We should go to my favorite antique store. The living room could use a credenza along the empty wall. Maybe some plants in different pots. A few statement pieces.”
“What are statement pieces?” I ask, finally joining the living and picking up my breakfast.
“You know, like a ceramic horse bust or a giant bronze banana.”
I choke on my bite of burrito.
Willow’s grin is just this side of wicked. “I take it that’s a no for the banana. Maybe something nautical since we live by the ocean? A model ship? An oversized jar of seashells?”
I shake my head, swallowing with difficulty. “I hate the beach.”
“You do?” Willow pouts. “That’s the whole reason I moved here.”
Yet another reason why we’d never work out.
“There was also a career opportunity, but it fell apart after I’d relocated.”
“What kind of opportunity?”
My knowledge gap about her world suddenly feels larger than a nine-run deficit in the bottom of the eighth. If I’d been smart, I’d have spent the plane ride home yesterday researching how to get Willow’s paintings into galleries or museums or wherever fine art goes.
I take another large bite, determined to spend every spare minute learning what I can.
