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“Arrogant butthole,” she complained and stalked toward the massive en-suite.
After the horrible night Gramps had died, they’d come directly to Ben’s luxurious penthouse apartment in Clifton. Her things—which had been sent over before the wedding—had been neatly unpacked and arranged in the lavish walk-in closet that she now shared with her husband. The apartment had three bedrooms and one had been converted into an office space for Ben. She absently wondered where she could set up her own temporary workspace, but immediately shoved the thought back down. That felt too much like moving on… and it felt like a betrayal to even think of the future so soon after Gramps’s death. Even though, logically, she knew he would want her to.
She stepped into the massive shower with its white and navy-blue subway tiling and dual rainforest shower heads, and once she had the streams set to massage, she sighed in absolute bliss.
She hated to admit it—she reflected as she toweled herself off—but Ben was right, she’d really needed this shower, in more ways than one. She felt refreshed, revitalized, and ready to face the world. At least for a little while. At the back of her mind and at the center of her bruised heart, was a niggling ache, like a gnawing toothache, constant and threatening to flare up into overwhelming pain at any given moment.
But for now it was tolerable.
She padded into the massive walk-in closet and for the first time appreciated the work the anonymous staff member had done in here. It would take some tweaking to conform it completely to her preference, but not much. Her eyes trailed over to Ben’s side of the closet. So many suits. She trailed a finger along the uniform jacket sleeves in varying muted tones of navy blues, charcoals, blacks, and dark grays. The man had great taste in designer wear, but no sense of adventure in his style. But this was Ben, whose picture showed up in the dictionary next to the word staid. Then again, he also appeared—shirtless—in the urban dictionary under the words smokin’ hot.
It was unsettling to see their clothes in such intimate proximity. It brought home to Lilah how real this was becoming. She’d resolved not to live with him after they returned from the honeymoon, but that resolution had gotten lost beneath the massive weight of grief and somehow, she’d never verbalized her intention to live on her own. It had been too easy to stay here with Ben, to take solace in his closeness, and in their shared grief.
Now, a week-and-a-half after their return, she recognized that while she’d been buried beneath her grief, this had become their normal. And she wasn’t sure how, or when, to broach the subject of leaving. She feared she was becoming entrenched in his home, and, worse, she felt no inclination to leave just yet. Or anytime soon.
And that apathy alarmed her. She shouldn’t get too comfortable here, this wasn’t her home. It couldn’t be.
So what if Ben had held her close every night while she cried herself to sleep? Who cared if he’d taken time, he could ill afford to lose, away from the office to grieve with her? What did it matter if he made excuses to touch her any chance he got? Not in any sexual way mind you. Intimate little pats and strokes, sometimes meant to comfort, often just touching for the sake of it.
She reflected on these things that she’d taken for granted over the last ten days. Ben might even think that she was too grief-stricken to notice the growing intimacy between them, but she’d noticed those quiet moments of closeness, and she had appreciated them.
She shimmied into a pair of faded denim shorts, and a plain white camisole top. On impulse she dragged one of Ben’s crisp white button-up shirts on over the cami. It was miles too big, but she liked the look of it. She rolled the way-too-long sleeves to her elbows, fastening it to just below the curve of her breasts. She tucked the hem of the over-long garment into the front of her shorts, leaving the tail to hang over her butt and halfway down her thighs. She checked her reflection in the mirror, wondering how Ben would react to her wearing one of his pricey Tom Ford shirts. He was always so fussy and particular about his stuff. She remembered his reaction when she’d slept in his t-shirt. But then flushed when she recalled that he hadn’t been too particular about wearing it on their long flight to the Maldives.
Her hair—which she’d washed and towel dried—was tousled and messy, honey-colored highlights streaked throughout the mass courtesy of the Maldivian sun. Her miserable honeymoon seemed years ago, considering everything that had happened since, but what had occurred between her and Ben on their last night there remained shiny and bright in her memory. Something to take out and marvel at amidst all the misery.
