“I’m always right about the things that hurt.”
He stares at his phone. The screen glows with a notification that usually signifies the end of the world forRoss Calder, Architect.He glances at me, then at the lamb on the table.
And then he breaks the pattern.
He holds the side button. The screen goes black. The light dies. He doesn’t pocket the device, but takes it one step further by placing it face-down on the granite. Then he slides it away, past the bowl of lemons.
Without a word, he sheds his jacket and tosses it over a chair. No hanger. No precise folding. He lets it drop.
“It’s off,” he says.
“It should have been off at six,” I say, though my heart does a slow, heavy roll in my chest.
“I know. I’m a fool. An absolute, tunnel-vision idiot. I spend all day trying to impress a man who will forget my name the second I stop making him money. I forgot that you’re the one who actually knows it.”
“I’m starting to forget it too,” I lie. I could never forget it. It’s etched on the backs of my eyelids.
“Let’s help each other remember,” he says, taking the wine glass from my hand and setting it on the table. His fingers are warm, his skin rough against my palm. “I don’t want the lamb. The wine. I don’t want to talk about Arthur or the firm.”
We’ve had our struggles, but I love him. I study him now—the dark circles under his eyes, the way his jaw permanently clenches. I remember the man who once spent a weekend redesigning my tiny kitchen so I could reach the spices without a stool. He was always trying to build a better world for me.
“Sit down, Ross,” I say softly. “The lamb is terrible. Eat it as a penance.”
He laughs. “I’ll eat the whole thing.”
After he pulls out a chair for me, he sinks into his own. He simply watches me, his gaze fixed the way it is when he’s memorizing a site plan. It’s the kind of absolute focus that used to make me feel like the center of the universe.
“How was your day?” he asks.
The question is so simple, it hurts.
“I spent it waiting for you, wondering if you’d realize it was Valentine’s Day or if your secretary would have to send the flowers.”
Ross winces again. “I did buy flowers myself, but they’re in the car, right next to my brief case.”
“Leave them there,” I say. “I don’t want car flowers.”
“Fair,” he says. “What do you want?”
“I want the man who used to look at me with devotion.”
He leans across the table, his hand finding mine again. “I’m sorry.”
I want to believe him. I want to let the tension drain out of me and fall into the safety of his promises.
But I’m Margot Calder. I’m independent and resilient, and I’ve been around my husband enough to know buildings can look perfectly fine on the outside while the dry rot is eating the studs.
So I say, “Prove it.”
He doesn’t hesitate. He stands up, circles the table, and stops behind my chair. Heat radiates from him. The kitchen suddenly feels tiny.
“I’ll spend the rest of the night proving it,” he whispers, his breath warm against my ear. “And tomorrow. And the day after that.”
He leans down, his lips brushing the side of my neck, just below my ear. It’s a soft, tentative touch, a question asked in skin and heat. My rigidity crumbles. The cold lamb, the dying candles, the two hours of resentment, they don’t disappear, but they move to the periphery.
“Dinner is ruined,” I murmur, closing my eyes.
“Good,” Ross says, his voice dropping into that low, resonant register that always makes my stomach flip. “I’m not hungry for dinner, anyway.”
