For a moment, temptation wins over my waning self-control.
I reach out. In the same breath, Rust turns around. He takes in my position, hunched over with my hand stretched out like a lobster claw, ready to pinch at perfect ass height.
I want to sink into the floor from embarrassment.
He chuckles, turning his back to me and patting himself on the rear. “Go on. That juicy piece of prime beef is all yours.”
“I was doing ayoga stretch, you fucking pervert!” I intend to sound outraged at the correct accusation. Really though, I’m just mad I got caught. And I don’t even do yoga!
To emphasize my point, I make claw motions with my hands. “It’s called the… the…‘downward-facing lobster.’My personal trainer says it’s great for your uh—shoulders! I got tense on the hike.”
“All y’all fancy folks with personal trainers. Guess I wouldn’t know a thing about that.” Rust shrugs, but that smug grin stays. “You wanna have a shower first?”
Thank fuck he dropped it and I don’t have to make up more idiotic poses. The only other I could come up with is the‘cockroach that got hit by bugspray’and I’m not keen to writhe around on the floor with my arms and legs flopping.
I hang my bag and my Stetson on the coat rack and pull out my phone. “You go ahead. I’ll grab another cup of coffee while I check for messages from Rex.”
At the mention of my manager that anger flares in Rust’s eyes. In a flash, it’s gone again. I oughta ask him what the fuck is going on, but this doesn’t seem like the right time to push the topic.
He walks up the creaking stairs. “Help yourself. What’s mine is yours.”
When I turn on my phone, I’m assaulted by dozens of missed calls. Rex is out of his mind with rage. That knowledge makes my stomach churn, but another part of me coils in satisfaction.
I like that he’s pissed and there ain’t a thing he can do about it. He got no idea where I am.
I make a face at my phone and bury it in my purse before I scurry into the kitchen to pour myself another coffee. Ignoring Rex is a lot easier when he’s just a notification bubble on a screen and my hunky ex-husband acts as a distraction.
We’re adults and my attraction to Rust shouldn’t be a big deal, but it feels like one.
Since the split, I forbid myself from thinking of him when I had sex or took care of myself with my favorite battery-powered lover. At the beginning, that was near impossible because he was my first. As the years passed, I trained myself well, fantasizing about men who only vaguely resembled him.
Now I can’t stop wondering what Rust hides under his clothes. It feels almost taboo.
But he made it clear that he enjoys me lusting after him. And for some hare-brained reason I can’t make sense of, he still thinks of me as his wife.
I silently repeat the word into mycoffee.
Wife.
The letters taste like warm honey on my tongue, sweet and gentle. But there’s a bitter aftertaste, too. The taste of grief and what could’ve been. Whatshould’vebeen.
The sound of running water has me looking up at the ceiling.
With the corpse problem solved, I’m left to ponder less urgent issues. Mostly, why Rust acts like nothing bad happened between us and he didn’t break my heart so horribly it made me swear off serious relationships forever.
It seems we have the second bit in common.
A guy like him would have no trouble finding another wife to make a home with. He’s the blue-collar boyfriend every woman dreams of. Dependable, tall, rugged, and so strong, he carries dead bodies like a sack of feathers.
But he’s still single.
I chew on my lip, imagining him upstairs in the shower with suds dripping over his broad shoulders, trailing his biceps. I picture tiny rivers running across his chest, following the lines of his abs.
Like hypnotized, I put my cup down on the counter and walk out of the kitchen, toward the stairs. From muscle memory, I avoid the creaking steps. I’m not sure what I’m gonna do when I get upstairs. I don’t even know why I’m still in this house.
A low groan reaches my ears. “Tally…”
I freeze, one foot in the air.
