Still, I bite back my smile and play it cool. "How do you remember what I wore?"
His eyes lock on mine, the casual charm turning into intensity. "Some nights you don't forget."
Damn, that kicks me right where it shouldn't. I hope my cheeks don't go as red as the fabric.
Ben runs his eyes over me again, curious now. "Is it the same dress?"
I sober up quickly and shake my head. "No. Don't think so."
His smirk deepens. "You sure? Looks pretty much the same to me."
"I doubt your memory's that good," I snap.
Before he says anything else, I brush past him and peek into the corridor, even though I know no one's there. No one else lives on my floor.
"Seriously, Ben, what the hell are you doing here? You can'tcome here. And definitely not sayingthat."
"Relax," he says, like that's doable in his presence and strolls in, self-invited. "André said he's out until five."
I pause. "What? Who's out 'til five?"
He rolls his eyes, makes an annoyed gesture with his hand. "Your dear husband."
And now I'm even more confused. I knit my brows. "Okay? Who is André?"
Hands sunk deep in his pockets, he walks the short hallway into the kitchen. A quick, judging once-over. "You don't know the name of the receptionist?"
I keep the door ajar as I face him. "How does the receptionist know when my husband gets home? And how did you get him to tell you?"
"We're friends."
I close the door and make a face. "Friends? Since when? You moved in barely two weeks ago."
"Since I got him pills for his wife's insomnia," he explains, voice casual. "Poor guy couldn't sneeze past ten. She sent me a personal thank-you note because their relationship got better."
I walk toward the kitchen island where he's standing, shaking my head, amused despite myself. "That's so you. You do realize people don't just hand over that kind of intel, right?"
"I guess." He lifts a shoulder, indifferent, and eases onto the barstool, stretching his long legs. Then—a scan around our immaculately staged apartment, and he says, "Wow. Lisa would love your place, by the way."
Like we've skipped months ahead to the part where I'mfine with the fact he's married.
I'm trying—really trying—nodding like it doesn't gut me.
I know he has a woman upstairs who's his home now. They picked the color of walls together and cook dinner together with inside jokes and pasta sauce spilled everywhere.
I haven't found that grace yet, though. Not even close.
"I told her I've had my fill of hospitals," he says, fiddling with his watch to see what's happening behind my face.
I dart around the corner toward the closet.
"Sorry," his voice drifts from the kitchen.
"It's fine," I call, yanking my bag down with unnecessary force.
"Just not my thing," he calls.
"Mine either," I murmur to myself, to the dark walls, to whatever in me still thinks this is a good idea.
