“Sure.”
This time he led the way into the kitchen. The champagne flutes were still in the same cupboard, and he got them down, then twisted the cork out of the bottle with a satisfying pop.
“To a new start for you,” he said, lifting his glass to touch hers.
“I’ll drink to that.” She made a satisfied sound after she swallowed the first sip, then had another. “Nice.”
On her third sip, a drop of wine clung to her lip, and without thinking, he reached out to brush it off the corner of her mouth.
She froze, and he did too, still touching her.
Time stood still as his heart tried to claw its way out of his chest and get between them, to say something, anything, but he wasn’t ready, he hadn’t planned this out properly.
And then she inhaled, a little gasp, and a long forgotten part of him took over, the part of him that was still her husband, still a man who would always want to make her feel better, feel good, feel wanted.
He leaned in.
Her hand came up between them, pressing against his chest, and stopped him a few millimetres from her mouth. “What are you doing?”
His pulse pounded. “I—I was going to kiss you.”
“That’s a terrible idea.” But she didn’t pull away.
* * *
Oh.Holy. Hell. Jess hadn’t seen that coming. And itwasa terrible idea.
And yet she wasn’t shoving him across the room, and why the hell wasn’t she shoving him across the room?
Brent’s gaze slid over her face, settling on her mouth again.
Like he still wanted to kiss her.
Deep inside, something fluttered. Something more awkward and confusing than a butterfly. Maybe a brand-new baby bird shaking its wings, wondering what the crap it was supposed to do now.
“You can’t kiss me,” she said. To emphasize that point, she set the champagne flute on the counter.
He followed suit. “Okay. I won’t.”
But he still didn’t move away. “I—” His voice was shaking. “I want you to know that I want to kiss you.”
You want to kiss a lot of people,she wanted to snap back. But he hadn’t. He’d kissed exactly one other person, and she’d kissed that guy, too.
Oh man, this was complicated.
“You should go home,” she said. “Because I’ve spent a long time getting over the fact that you didn’t want to kiss me.”
“I never stopped wanting—”
“Well, I didn’t know that, and now it’s too late. You ghosted me. After four months of marriage!”
“I’m an asshole, I know that. I’m working on that, though.” He stepped back, his face twisted in frustration. “If I could take back the kissing stuff…”
She waited.
“I wouldn’t,” he finally said. “I still want you. I will always want you, and I regret that I lost you because I was chicken shit. This wasn’t how I wanted to tell you that, but there you go. That’s how I feel.”
“Well, I’m moving two hours away from you and starting a new life, so…”
