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Katherine waggles her eyebrows. “Panties? And yes, the cotton and comfy variety, so your virtue is safe.”
“So, translation, big and beige?” I ask. “Also, is there any reason you didn’t keep your pants on before calling me in here?”
“Of course there’s a reason. I wanted to seduce you. Isn’t it obvious? I planned this whole thing.”
I can’t take any more of this, and with gritted teeth I grab the towel and yank it upward. I let out a low whistle. “Hot. Exactly how high-rise are these? Did your grandmother will these to you?”
“Take your time, why don’t you. Get a real good look. Of course, if you’re not up to this, I bet Dean—”
I rip off the first strip of medical tape.
“Ow!”
“Sorry,” I say.
“No, you aren’t,” Katherine grumbles.
I am, actually, when I get a glimpse of what we’re dealing with. “Kates. This doesn’t look good.”
“Well, probably because I had to go sprinting through a train station, got into a bus accident, trudged through a blizzard . . .”
I gingerly remove the rest of the gauze and tape, revealing the entirety of the wound. I knew it was good-sized and required stitches, but hearing the doctor describe it and seeing it . . .
I feel a little queasy.
A reaction from the blood, I tell myself, and not because I remember the perfection of this back, all smooth skin, firm muscles, and stubbornness.
Katherine, for once, remains blissfully silent, letting out only a small hiss when I dab some of the antibacterial ointment on with a cotton swab.
“Sorry,” I murmur as I begin to clean around the wound. “This hurt?”
“Obviously,” she says, sounding tired.
Eight cotton balls later, I lean back to admire my handiwork. “Okay, I don’t think it’s as bad as I thought at first. The gash still looks a little angry, but the stitches all seem fine, and there’s none of the signs of infection the nurse told me to watch for.”
“Great. A Christmas miracle.” Her head is dipped forward, so her long hair frames her face, shielding me from seeing her expression.
“You okay?” I ask softly, touching a finger to the part on her back that the medical tape’s left pink and irritated.
I swallow.
I should not be here.
Doing this.
With her.
But right now, I don’t want to be anywhere else, doing anything else, with anyone else.
Slowly, Katherine lifts her head again, her dark eyes wide and questioning in the mirror. When our gazes finally meet, the silent exchange lacks the acidity of the past several hours. And for a tiny moment in time, it feels like the old days.
Back when Katherine was my wife, and also my best friend. My everything.
We both look away.
Katherine looks at her watch and smiles. “Merry Christmas Eve.”
“Merry Christmas Eve,” I say as I reach for the clean cotton pad and begin to re-cover her wound the way the doctor showed me. “You know you’ll have to keep your back out of the spray of the shower, right? Otherwise we’ll have to do this all over again.”
She makes a jaunty little saluting motion to acknowledge my orders.
I roll my eyes, but neither of us moves.
“Tom?”
“Yeah.” My voice is rough.
She swallows. “Do you think he’ll call?”
It takes me a second to realize what she’s talking about, and when comprehension dawns, it’s the blast of metaphorical cold water that I need.
“Harry,” I say, my voice flat as I say her boss’s name. I’m thinking about her. Us. She’s thinking about making partner. Of course she is.
She nods, and my flare of resentment abates almost immediately when I see that her eyes are a little too shiny.
“Hey. Kates.” I reach out to touch her but let my hand drop. “Whatever happens, whether or not Harry calls this Christmas or next. He’s proud of you. Your dad, I mean.”
Her head snaps up, her surprised gaze meeting mine in the reflection of the bathroom mirror.
I keep my eyes on hers and tell her what I should have told her years ago, what she needs to hear even if she doesn’t want to. “But I also know . . . your dad, he cared about your happiness more than anything. He wouldn’t want you to sacrifice it chasing a dream of his.”
There’s a flash of vulnerability in her brown eyes, which she replaces almost immediately with a spark of anger. Her go-to defense mechanism. “What makes you think I’ve sacrificed anything?”
“Right.” A touch of bite returns to my voice because anger is my defense mechanism too. “Because our marriage was nothing.”
“Our marriage was something,” she says with so much raw emotion in her voice that it’s my turn to be surprised. “Of course it was something. But I guess we just skipped that part in the vows where I was going to have to choose: you or my dad.”
I go still and stop my awkward attempts at bandaging up her wound. “What? That’s how you thought it went down?”
