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‘Exactly.’ She pressed a hand to his chest as if in triumph. ‘And this is what we agreed, remember? Through the week, we keep to ourselves. Weekends are...different.’
He was more irritated than he should have been. ‘Right, on weekends we can have sex.’ He said it to provoke her. He said it because he was mad, and he hated himself for that, because dealing with his feelings was clearly the last thing she needed. But hell, she was pushing him away right when he wanted to comfort her, and Alex wasn’t one to be told what to do and where to be. She needed him. She needed comfort.
Or did she need space, just as she was saying?
‘Yes,’ she agreed without meeting his eyes. ‘Fine. But right now I want to go to my room and have a bath, and then go to bed,’ she admitted, her voice quivering, so all the anger he’d been feeling, the frustration, disappeared on a wave of concern.
‘Okay,’ he said after a loaded pause, surprising himself with his capitulation. But Tessa was telling him what she needed; he’d be a fool not to listen. ‘That makes sense. Why don’t you go and run the bath and I’ll bring you a glass of wine in ten minutes?’
Her eyes clung to his and the sight of tears sparkling on her lashes made him want to pull her towards him again, to wrap her up in a big hug and promise her everything was going to be okay. She didn’t deserve any of this. Just as they’d come together in grief on the night of Stav’s funeral, he wanted to make love to her now, to blot out her pain, to make her feel better. He wanted to make love to her because it was the right thing to do, because they both needed it, but he took a step backwards, because he wasn’t his father and she wasn’t his mother and they were capable of making decisions in their marriage that were rational and calm.
‘Go on,’ he said gruffly, knowing he’d change his mind if she lingered.
In the bath, she gave in to the tears that had been threatening since that morning.
Finally alone, she let them slide down her face without thinking they were a form of weakness, without worrying she was betraying herself in some vital way. It was okay to be sad. It was okay to feel completely sideswiped by the news of today.
Footsteps in the bedroom outside had her dipping her hands in the bathwater and lifting it to her face, splashing her eyes with the bubble-filled water so the telltale sign of tears wouldn’t be so apparent.
He knocked on the door and waited, and the small gesture did all sorts of things to her.
‘Come in.’
He held out the glass of wine, offering it to her from a safe distance.
‘Thank you,’ she murmured, curving her fingers around it.
‘Want me to go?’ he asked, with no pressure, no expectation.
The problem was, she wanted him to stay, which was exactly why she needed him to leave. She couldn’t let herself go down this path. ‘Please,’ she said without meeting his eyes, so she didn’t see the way his lips compressed at the single word.
‘I’ll be downstairs if you need me.’
He was doing everything right: giving her space, respecting her boundaries. So why did she feel so utterly rubbish when she was, once again, alone?
