The art.
Paintings in clinical white and silver, soulless blocks of color that remind me of being in the hospital. When I look at them, it’s like a robot screaming down an empty hallway—no heart, no soul, no humanity.
“What do you think?” James says from behind me.
“It’s nice,” I say, turning to smile at him. When James gives me a penetrating look, I laugh. “Okay, the art is bad. I’ll fix that, though. The rest of it looks nice.”
“Good.” He pauses. “I’ll let you decide if you’d rather be here, or in my room.”
It takes me a second to understand what he means. He wants to know where we’ll be consummating our marriage.
“Your room, please.” I’d rather have my room to retreat to after, especially if things don’t go well.
He leads to a room across the hall. James’s bedroom is the warmest room in the house, the most lived-in. A small pile of books sits on his bedside table, a bookmark shoved in the top one.
On the wall, there are a few framed photos. One features a glamorous-looking couple with dated hairstyles, clearly his parents. The woman has long dark hair and pale blue eyes, and something about the shape of her face makes my breath catch.
She looks like someone I've met before.
No—that's impossible. James's mother died years ago. But there's something hauntingly familiar about her elegant features, the warmth in her smile. I remember she was anactress. That must be it. I've probably seen pictures of her in magazines.
Still, I can't shake the strange prickle of recognition. Like a memory hovering just out of reach.
Another photo shows James standing next to Nate at a hockey rink, each of them a decade younger. Neither of them are smiling, but they still look happy. There are more photos, small memories my husband felt were worthy of remembering. I’ll take a closer look at them later.
That’s the end of the personal touches, though. The comforter on his king-sized bed is, as expected, gray. I can see through the door of his walk-in closet that his clothes are professionally pressed and color-coded. Obviously, the cleaning staff comes through daily, making sure each hanger is set an exacting two inches apart.
When I turn back to James, he’s shrugging off his tuxedo jacket. My heart speeds up as I see the way his dress shirt clings to his well-honed muscles. He loosens his tie next, tugging it off and laying it neatly over the chair next to his bed. He’s careful with his clothes, like each piece of fabric might break instead of just wrinkle.
We’re really doing this. When he’s finished undressing, he’s going to become my husband in that last, most intimate way, and I have no freaking idea how it’s going to feel.
I’ve only had sex a couple of times. Both experiences were brief, messy, and emotionless. I didn’t even get close to the pleasure I’ve read about and seen in films. Hell, I didn’t even get close to the pleasure I get from myself and my vibrator. I know that it’s possible to have incredible, mind-blowing sex—I just don’t know if it’s possible forme.
I swallow, remembering what Cat said earlier. It doesn’t have to be good right away. If the chemistry’s not there with James, it could still get better over time.
James takes off his watch, setting it on his bedside table and looking over at me. His eyes travel over me, from my face down over my breast, stomach, hips. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, and I swear my heart-rate triples. Instinctively, I think back to the last time I took my medication—just a few hours ago. I should be safe.
Should.
When his eyes meet mine again, his pupils are wide and dark.
“I want to see you, Maura.” His voice sounds low and husky. “Do you want me to help you undress?”
He saunters over to me in slow, measured steps. My heart pounds with both excitement and nerves, knowing that we’ve hit the first hurdle of the night.
I’m not ready for him to see my surgical scar yet—maybe ever. I’m sure at some point it’ll be unavoidable, but I plan for that day to come as far in the future as possible. Maybe after the first decade, I’ll consider it. It’s just, once people know about my condition, that’s all they see. They treat me like some fragile, pitiful thing, instead of like a person.
I’ve hidden my scar from every man I’ve been with. It’s part of the reason I’ve had so little sexual experience. When I tell men I want to keep my shirt on, they push. They demand explanations or try to convince me to change my mind. One guy even tried to pull the shirt off without permission. I sent them all home, no second chances.
This boundary is James’s first test, and if he doesn’t pass, I don’t know how I’ll be able to get through tonight.
“Wait.” I put a hand on James’s chest, stopping him. “Not my shirt. I need to keep my clothes on from the waist up.”
Please don’t ask.
Please don’t ruin this.
I watch him carefully, waiting to see his reaction. There’s a flash of curiosity in his eyes, but after a second he nods. “Okay.”
