Of course, his ex-wife is gorgeous.
All sun-bleached blonde hair with a fitness freak figure, shiny skin, and teeth so white they rival porcelain.
And she’s basically famous. She does alotof product ads and modeling for the big brands, jumping around the globe to breathtaking places.
Judging by what Sophie said, that means jumping through a lot of men, too.
Her current bae seems to have stuck around for a little while, judging by the photos. He’s just as polished and pretty as she is with wiry muscles and an old-blood jawline straight from a cologne ad.
Nothing like Kane, who comes by his good looks with rugged honesty.
I wonder what brought them together.
Sure, he used to be a hockey star—he was an ice king in his time—but that doesn’t explain what they saw in each other.
If they ever saw anything at all.
In my world, people marry for leveling up their reputations or their money all the time. Love, who cares?
It’s more important that your spouse is a minimally fuckable powerhouse.
Also, nothing ever stays the same.
Maybe Daria’s taste in men has evolved. Maybe Kane’s taste in women shifted, too.
If they got together almost ten years ago, a whole lot can change.
“You can come join me, you know. Unless you want to keep creeping,” Kane says, glancing up again. “I don’t bite, duchess.”
Maybe I want you to.
The corner of his mouth curls up like he can hear my thoughts, but he stays grounded on what he’s doing.
Those strong hands are so, so capable as he cracks eggs and briskly whisks them around in a small metal bowl.
“Something on your mind?” He looks up from his stirring.
See? Mind reader.
“Sophie dropped by late last night,” I say, pulling milk from the fridge.
“Is she okay?” He stops what he’s doing and fully looks at me.
“Oh, yeah, she’s fine. I thought she was freaked out about the commotion last night, but she actually wanted to talk about something else.”
“Yeah?”
I hesitate before I say it. “You.”
“What about me?” His eyes narrow.
“Well, mainly that you’re really old and decrepit at the grand old age of thirty-six.” I bite back a giggle. “And the fact that she notices your grey hair.”
“Little snitch,” he mutters.
“But also… she told me a little about your past.” I eye him hopefully.
He grunts as he greases the pan with butter and clicks the stove on, offering nothing.
