The familiarity of it—the pet name on his lips, his hands on myskin, the automatic way he knew exactly where to press—threatened to undo me completely.
This was the man who’d rubbed my feet through all my pregnancies, when they were swollen and achy. Who’d sat on the floor of our bedroom at two in the morning, kneading the cramps out of my calves with a patience most men didn’t possess.
Now he was doing it again, and I couldn’t bear the tenderness of it. Not when I was already so raw, so close to falling apart completely.
“You really don’t have to do this,” I whispered, even as my body betrayed me, relaxing into his touch.
“Yes, I do,” he insisted before switching to my right foot. “Can’t have you losing toes. The girls would never forgive me.”
The girls. Always our safe topic, our neutral ground. But even that felt loaded now, sitting in his empty cabin while they pulled the strings for this little reunion from two states away.
“Speaking of,” I said, wincing as another agonizing wave of feeling returned. “I need to call them back. Addie texted earlier?—”
“Already texted them.”
I lifted my head to peer down at him. “What’d you say?”
He shrugged, his face the picture of innocence. “Told them your phone was dead, but that you were riding out the storm here, which is technically true.”
My brow rose. “That’s it?”
A ghost of a smirk tugged at the side of his mouth. “Might have mentioned I had to rescue some crazy woman who drove her rental into a tree in the middle of a blizzard.”
“I’ll have you know I didn’t drive into the tree, Theodore,” I said primly. “I drove into the guardrail. The tree was collateral damage.”
He ran his tongue over his teeth, fighting a full-on smile. “My mistake, Kelsey Dawn. The tree was just an innocent bystander.”
It was strange how easily we’d slipped back into the easy banter that had been a staple of our relationship. Even stranger was how badly I wanted it to last.
He stood abruptly. “Come on, Speed Racer. Let’s get you out of these wet clothes.”
Panic coiled around my chest like a python. The practical part ofmy brain knew he was right. The wet fabric was leeching what little body heat I’d managed to generate. But the thought of undressing in front of him, of being that vulnerable when I was already hanging on by a thread?—
“I can do it,” I rushed to say.
He sighed, a bone-deep weariness that came from fighting the same battles repeatedly. “Let me.”
I let him peel the bloodstained sweater off, obediently holding my arms up like the kids used to when we got them undressed for bathtime.
When his calloused fingers grazed the sides of my breasts as he pulled off my bra, everything changed. Not the slow, subtle shift of tectonic plates, but the sudden crack of lightning splitting a tree in half. My body, which had been half-frozen and stuck in survival mode, suddenly remembered it was alive. More than alive—it was hungry in a way I hadn’t felt in years.
Goosebumps scattered across my skin, and his pupils expanded, the muscle in his jaw twitching before he moved onto my jeans. His knuckles brushed against my belly as he unzipped me, and a small moan slipped past my lips.
“Sorry,” Teddy muttered, mistaking the sound for pain. “Hands are probably still too cold.”
Cold?
They felt like brands against my skin, each touch leaving invisible marks I’d be feeling for days.
The denim clung to me like a second skin, forcing him to work it down slowly. When the red lace came into view—purchased post-divorce in a desperate attempt to feel desirable—he rasped, “Jesus, Kels.”
Which, for the record, was not the review the salesgirl promised. I’d bought them to prove to myself I was more than a grieving mother, a discarded wife, a woman who’d spent four decades at war with her body. They were meant to be a confidence booster. Standing in front of my ex-husband now, I only felt ridiculous.
Especially like this.One year since the AFib diagnosis, one year since I’d stopped working out. When Teddy left, I’d been a gym rat, allsharp lines and tight muscles. Now, softer curves had replaced the body I once weaponized against him.
He probably thought the lace was a pathetic attempt to be something I wasn’t. Or maybe he was cataloging the ways my body had changed, the gym-honed results that had vanished as soon as I stopped chasing them.
Shame stung my eyes when he knelt again, his breath warming my thighs as he peeled them off, instructing me to lift one leg, then the other.
