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That tiny almost-smile has become its own kind of violence.

The flight attendant appears beside me with a warm, professional smile. "Mrs. Kauffman, can I take your wrap?"

My brain catches on the name hard enough to skid.

Mrs. Kauffman.

I hand over the wrap before I can make this weird and slide into the seat across from Everett, then immediately realize the seats are facing each other and this is somehow more intimate than if we were side by side.

Of course it is.

Everything with this man is an ambush in a suit.

He glances up again. "You okay?"

"Fine," I say automatically.

"Liar."

I blink.

"You stole that from me," I tell him.

"I'm aware."

Then his gaze drops to the carry-on at my feet. To the garment bag tucked behind me. To the blush still living high in my cheeks from last night and, possibly, from the memory of standing in my doorway telling my husband that my suitcase is full of lingerie the night before.

A woman could die of embarrassment and Everett Kauffman would probably still look at her with that same level, controlled expression and ask if she needed water.

The engines hum louder as the pilot prepares for takeoff.

I fasten my seatbelt and look out the oval window, watching the gray Seattle morning blur at the edges. My reflection stares back at me in pieces. Big sunglasses. Hair pulled back. Wedding ring.

Wife.

The word still lands strangely in my body.

Across from me, Everett is scrolling through something on his phone, his tie gone for once, the top two buttons of his shirt undone. He looks less severe dressed down for travel, which would be helpful if it didn't also make him look even more unfairly attractive.

My gaze catches on his hand resting against the armrest.

The ring.

Plain platinum. Minimal. Clean.

It does something weird to me all over again, seeing it there in daylight. On the hand of a man who once fired me for being redundant and is now taking me to Cannes for our honeymoon like that's a sentence that makes any sense at all.

The plane begins to taxi.

I grip the armrests without thinking.

Everett notices immediately. Of course he does.

"You don't like flying?"

"I've barely done it."

His brows lift. "Barely?"