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“Yes. I have to clean this place out. His things are everywhere. My parents’ things are everywhere.”
“Your parents died when you were eight?”
“Yes.” He inclines his head toward the picture behind him, the one he’d been studying.
Two boys, one a head taller than the other, are standing in front of a smiling couple. The man has his arm around the woman’s waist and his free hand on the small boy’s shoulder. They’re standing in front of this very house, I realize, but at the height of summer. The smaller boy’s knees are scraped and his grin is wide.
It’s Victor. The eyes are familiar, as is the thick mop of hair, much lighter back then. He’s smiling at the camera like he’s never known anything but joy.
“Oh.”
Victor turns. “That was a long time ago.”
“This is your brother?”
“Yes.”
“What was his name?”
“Phillip.” Victor rolls his neck, every line in his body tense. He’s uncomfortable. Uncomfortable with me here. Uncomfortable in this space.
I step back from the picture. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For showing me this.”
He opens the door and I step out of his grandfather’s office. Victor follows me, and halfway down the hall, his shoulders relax.
I catch his sleeve. “I’m sorry.”
He halts, a tall, suit-clad shadow beside me in the dimly lit hallway. “You already said that.”
I shake my head. “No, I accused you of something I had no proof of, and no way to back up. Not to mention something you’re allowed to do under the terms of our marriage.”
“Don’t apologize,” he says. “Or you’ll force me to as well. For claiming you like that at your friend’s gallery.”
“You, apologize?”
“It would be a first.” He puts steady fingers beneath my chin and tips my head up. “I’m not sneaking out at night. I’m here. Not having sex.”
I can’t think with him this close. “Good,” I murmur. “I’m not interested in Jake.”
“Good,” he says. He’s so close that the word ghosts across my lips, and then he descends, kissing me.
Not in a brief or tender way. Not really like it’s our first kiss, either. He presses his lips to mine with strength and warmth, as businesslike as he does everything.
Maybe it’s from the surprise, or from the long months without any physical contact from a man. Maybe it’s the stress of the day.
But I kiss him back.
He groans into my mouth, hands sliding around my waist. My body tightens, narrows, all sensations emanating from the spots where we touch. My back hits the wall.
I reach up to twine my arms around his neck, one of my hands finding its way into his thick hair.
I’m touching St. Clair.
His hands tighten around my hips, and it’s like he’s thinking the same thing I am, because he lifts his lips from mine. “Myers,” he murmurs.
