I grab a T-shirt that’s fallen on the floor on the opposite side of where it normally lives and try to pull it over my head. I’m only half successful. This broken arm business isreally going to fuck with my day-to-day. I spot a pair of sweatpants and tug those on. I don’t bother trying to tighten the drawstring, since the cast hinders my maneuverability.
Looking around once more, I scratch the back of my head. Delaney tries to come off innocent, but there’s more to this story than she’s sharing. I still don’t fucking know what it is, and it’s doing my head in. Well, the concussion is probably more to blame, but she’s clearly someone with a hatred for orderly closets.
Wife, my ass.There’s no way I would marry someone who lives in such disarray. No fucking way. It would drive me to the edge of sanity looking at that mess every day. I scoff, leaving the closet, cutting through the bedroom, and ready to return to my normal life. As normal as someone who was just in a car accident can be.
My home office silently calls to me when I pass by, just as it did earlier. Staring at the monitor while ordering what I need was enough to take a break from the blinding light. It's probably wise to let the healing process take its course and leave business for tomorrow. Hey, look, I’m turning over a new leaf. Guess that’s what nearly dying does to a man.
I stop when I spot her in the kitchen. Boppy music infiltrates the area around her, and she’s mouthing along, her singing here and there. I take a breath to keep calm. I won’t heal if my blood pressure keeps going through the roof.
Starting toward her, I say, “I didn’t expect you to still be here.”
Her gaze hits me, but then a smile works its way to the corners of her mouth. I can’t deny it looks like she’s struggling to hide her dislike of me. Maybe we were married. Still are . . . separated.Fuck.This is wild.
She comes around to stand so close to me that I can feel the heat of her body. Without me asking, she takes thecotton shirt and stretches to the side, carefully looping my broken arm through the short sleeve. I whisper, “Thank you.”
She drags the hem down over my abs, and without looking up, she whispers, “You’re welcome.” A glimmer of a smile appears when her eyes find mine again. “I couldn’t leave you all alone.” She leaves too quickly to appreciate the proximity.
“Well, you could have, but you chose to stay.” Stationed on the other side of the island from her, I eye the stovetop and the small stack of pancakes on a plate next to it. “I thought you’d be long gone by now. Not making pancakes for a man you supposedly hate.”
With an apron I didn’t know I owned, wrapped around the front of her, and a spatula held tight in her hand, she rests her hands on the counter between us. “Let’s get two things straight, Warner.” I settle onto a barstool, thinking this might take a while. “One. I don’t hate you.”
“Then why are we separating?”
“Because I find you intolerable. That’s not hatred. That's a lack of patience for your BS.” Eyeing the shirt wrapped around half my body, she adds, “Anymore.”
It’s impressive how she talks like she actually knows me. “I have my memory,” I say, testing to see her reaction.
Aside from her righting herself, the reaction is minimal. A few rapid blinks are followed by panic widening the darker pupils of her blue eyes. She licks her lips and then tugs the bottom one under her teeth to gnaw before releasing. “Everything?” Shit, I was only teasing, but her reaction has me wondering if sheisresponsible for my accident.
“Everything.”
Turning around, she hides her face, cutting me off fromstudying and seeing her emotions playing out. When she drops her head down, she whispers, “I’m sorry.”
The song changes, and the flitting tune doesn’t fit the mood. I get up and reach over the counter to stop it on the screen of her phone. Leaning my left hand on the counter, I ask, “Why are you sorry, Delaney?”
“For lying to you.” I knew we weren’t married. My gut told me what my mind can’t seem to remember. She spins back and says, “I still want to be with you, Warner.” Planting her hands next to mine, she leans over the counter so close that I can smell that she’s already dipped into the maple syrup. I start to wonder if her lips would taste as sweet as her breath. “I should have never moved out.”
I’m snapped out of that urge and back into this mess. “What do you mean?”
Her hands cover mine, and she replies, “I should have stayed and fought harder for us.”
Shit . . .
Is this real?Are we?
The doorbell chimes with our eyes still connected. “Expecting company?” she asks, returning her attention to the pancakes, and only briefly glancing back at me. “I can make more.”
I push off the counter, but before I leave, I ask, “What was number two?”
She laughs. “Who said these pancakes were for you?”
It’s best if I walk away before saying something I regret, like letting her still be here. While walking to answer the door, the chime goes off once more, but I ask, “Do you happen to know why my closet looks like it does? I swear it was in perfect order the last time I used it.”
I stop to wait for her response before rounding the corner toward the door. She looks at me square in the eyeswithout so much as blinking, and replies, “I was in a hurry to get my clothes when I left yesterday.”
She’s good, really fucking good.
Picking up my pace, I reach the door and look through the peephole. I open the door once I see the doorman standing on the other side. “Hi Baker, how are you?”
