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He didn’t move out of the door to let me in.
“Remy—” I started.
“Why have you been crying, Wyn?”
It was an unexpected blow, but man, did it sock me right in the chest.
I drew in breath to recover from the warm concern in his tone, the soft worry on his face, the intense scrutiny of those caramel eyes.
I opened my mouth, and I had no idea what was about to come out, particularly since his gaze dropped to my lips, and I felt that familiar, lovely heat hit other parts of me when it did, before a call came from inside the house.
“Is it Wyn?”
Myrna.
I swallowed, closed my eyes, dropped my head, shifted my chin to the side and gave it a second before I opened my eyes and looked at Remy again.
Mistake.
Huge.
Because I just did all of that. And he’d just watched me do it.
Another expression was on his face now, and apparently, I’d lied before.
Because he was studying me in a way he never had.
Though the warmth and concern were not gone.
“Come in,” he murmured, finally stepping out of the way.
I tucked my clutch closer under my arm and stepped my Louboutin-shod foot over the threshold.
One thing my profession had insured I had not lost the ability to do: walk around in four-inch heels like they were sneakers.
And this was the only thing I had going for me when I looked down into the sunken living room and saw my children not there, so I moved right, toward the kitchen and family room that sat in the point of the L of the house to see my kids lounging there.
And to be confronted with Myrna in the kitchen.
Remy was six-three. Sabre was six-four. Yves was his dad’s exact height. Manon was five-eight.
I was five-nine.
Myrna was at most, five-four, probably more like five-three.
I knew everything about clothes, shoes, handbags, makeup and accessories, and every designer in the world (not exaggerating) sent me freebies. For my clients. And for me.
And I used them.
All the time.
Myrna was a granola, boho, throw-on-some-mascara (maybe), pick-up-your-multi-colored-woven-fringed-crossbody-and-go desert rat.
She mountain biked with Remy.
My ass had tried a spin class once and I detested it, so that had never happened again. But the kids had bought me a pink Schwinn with a cute basket, which I occasionally rode to the grocery store or a coffee shop, and by “occasionally,” I meant this happened maybe five times a year.
I was blonde, my hair ranging from shades of gold to butterscotch (not really, I had no idea what my natural hair color was anymore, and I didn’t allow myself to come even close to finding out, and I never would, until the day I died).
She was a brunette, her long, wild, perfectly tousled hair falling near to her waist when it wasn’t wrapped in some slapdash knot or twisted into twin braids.
Mine went to my bra-strap and I had it professionally blown out once a week, the other two times I did it myself, and I was (almost) a master.
She was busty, but otherwise thin.
I had tits and ass for days, never in my life had I had a flat stomach, and right then was no exception.
I was (if pushed to define it at all, never my favorite thing to do) what I preferred to consider “seasoned.”
She was thirteen years younger than me.
At that moment, she was in cutoff shorts, a slouchy mustard-colored three-quarter-sleeve top that had some kind of metallic bits sewn in and some tassels dangling. Worn Birkenstocks were on her feet and a scarf thing was happening in her hair. Her exposed limbs were tanned.
I was in green houndstooth, wide-legged pants, a severe black blouse buttoned up to my neck, red suede pumps with a thin ankle strap, and sun had not touched my skin unless it was carefully sunblocked since Remy and I moved from New York to Phoenix so he could take the job in a cutting-edge firm that had handpicked him from college.
“Mom, you think you could not be late sometime in one of the millennia you’ve lived in?” Sabre asked.
And I hoped it went without saying that I loved my son more than breath.
But his saying that in that moment when I was facing off with Myrna hurt.
Badly.
I tore my eyes from her and looked to him.
He was not the spitting image of his dad. He got my eyes and there was a lot that was all Sabre. But he got his dad’s body and mouth.
He was also looking beyond me, to who I assumed was his father, and Sabre might not be hanging his head, but he was close to it. Thus, I assumed Remy was giving him a look that shared how he felt about the millennia comment.
Yes, Remy could shout in my face, but he did not (ever) allow any of our children to disrespect their mother.
