Before she could answer, I backpedaled a little. “I don’t want to pressure you.”
“I have time.”
Slapping my Amex on the bar, I willed Wes to hurry.
“You know,” she said, “I have all these pockets of time, and I don’t even know what I filled them with before. I guess being sorry for myself.”
Signing my name on the bill, I looked up. “You don’t have to do that, play Monday-morning quarterback. You’re moving forward, so don’t dwell on the past.”
“Thank you,” she said softly, and we stood.
“I would take your hand, but let’s not give ourselves away,” I said matter-of-factly.
“That’s fine. Now I can stare at your ass in that tux,” she whispered before falling in step behind me.
Margaret
“Itook an Uber here,” I told Mick when we stepped outside the bar, my heart stampeding in my chest. It wasn’t nerves or fear of getting caught or hurt. It was anticipation of being held, of being cared for in a way I never had before.
“You okay to ride over with me?” he asked, handing his slip to the valet. Of course, his SUV was directly out front, and it only took a few seconds for them to whip it around.
I simply nodded, and then Mick opened the passenger door for me.
The sky was a midnight blue with stars twinkling in the distance. A breeze brushed by me as the door closed, and a chill ran down my spine.
“Ready?” Mick raised an eyebrow, turning to face me as he got settled in the driver’s seat.
“Ready,” I said firmly.
The foreign car purred as it rolled out of the driveway and onto the street.
“Do you mind if I open the window?” I asked.
“You don’t have to ask shit like that, Margo.”
Cracking the window, I inhaled some much-needed fresh air and closed my eyes, thinking this was normal. And it could be, if I weren’t married to someone else.
“Not for long. You need to break free,” Mick said, bringing me back from what I thought were my private thoughts.
“Did I say that aloud?”
He nodded and made a sharp turn into his building. Entering from the garage, we went up the elevator, his hands on my waist and his mouth on mine as soon as the doors shut.
“I know it’s wrong, but it feels so right,” I mumbled.
“This isn’t you, Mar, to lie or be untrue,” he said, holding my hand, shortening my name even further.
I shook my head as the doors opened and we made our way into his penthouse.
“Maybe we can make it beyond the door this time,” he teased, leading me toward the sofa. “Sit. Water? Wine?”
“Water,” I said, my throat dry with anticipation.
“Sparkling? Still?”
“Sparkling,” I said as he moved toward the open kitchen. “I take it you don’t go to the grocery store yourself?”
He laughed at my accusation, raising his hands in the universal sign for surrender. “Caught. My housekeeper’s name is Rochelle, and she’s a queen. Shops, orders supplies from the ’Zon, waits for handymen, cleans, keeps me in line. Only thing she doesn’t do is cook.”
