“Oh.”
Is it my imagination, or does she look disappointed?
“You sure you don’t want to stay for a bit?” she asks.
Not my imagination, then. She’s definitely disappointed.
“Another time,” I say casually. “I operate tomorrow, so I need an early night.”
“Oh, right.”
“Can I say goodnight to Claire?”
“Of course.” She walks softly down the hall and opens the door to another bedroom. “Claire, Luke’s leaving now.”
Claire appears at her doorway immediately.
“Goodbye, Luke,” she says politely. “Thanks for bringing the cupcakes, they were really good.”
“I’m glad you liked them, Claire. Have a good night, okay?”
Claire nods, and Melissa and I head downstairs.
“You still up for doing something this weekend?” I ask. As though it doesn’t really matter to me, one way or the other. “Dinner Friday, maybe?”
“Yes,” she says quickly. “But I have to take the kids to Toronto, and I might not get back until after seven.
“So we’ll do a late dinner,” I say. “I’ll pick you up at eight. If traffic’s bad and you’re running late, just let me know.”
“Okay.”
I use all the restraint I possess to keep my goodbye kiss chaste. It’s a mere brush of the lips. Less than a second of contact. The kind of kiss you might give a girl if her father was watching, and her father was a Mafia boss.
So. A chaste kiss. But it still leaves my lips tingling and the crotch of my jeans feeling tight.
But Melissa told me she wanted to go slow. If she wants to speed things up, she’s going to have to ask.
“Have a good night, Milly,” I tell her before turning to walk out to my car.
TWENTY-EIGHT
MELISSA
Have a good night, Milly.
What a joke. I’ll be lucky if I sleep at all. Hearing Luke singTwinkle Twinkleto Liam did funny things to my heart. It left me hoping he’d stay and keep me company while I read Claire her bedtime story. We could talk some more, and then, when we were sure the kids were sleeping, Luke could tuck me in.
Instead, he left at eight o’clock, with the excuse that he needed an early night. I know he’s operating tomorrow, so it’s important he’s rested, but eight o’clock? No one goes to bed at eight.
And then there was the goodnight kiss, which was more of a tease than a kiss. Just enough to get me excited, without any payoff. So I’m lying in bed, in a mess of twisted sheets, trying to forget how his lips felt on mine. The musky smell of his cologne.
And I’m not going to see him again until Friday night. Seventy-two hours. Sure, I could text him again tomorrow, invite him for family dinner again, but I don’t want to seem desperate. After all, I’m the one who asked to take it slow.
I head downstairs and put on an exercise video, hoping to work off some of the tension. It doesn’t work, nor does the cold shower I take when I finish. I can’t remember the last time I felt this frustrated.
But I eventually fall asleep, and somehow, I make it to Friday without sending Luke any desperate texts. Teaching is a good distraction, although my students have been surprisingly well-behaved since my little rant. I keep waiting for an email from Carole Chan to tell me someone’s complained, but so far, there’s been nothing.
On Friday afternoon, I drive the kids to Toronto for the weekend. Olivia’s there again, but that’s hardly a surprise, and the kids seem happy enough to see her. Next door, Julie Schroeder’s pulling a rake across her immaculate front lawn, and that’s hardly a surprise either—no doubt she’s hoping to see some post-divorce drama. As I walk back to my car, she starts in my direction, but I don’t break stride. I have other things to do tonight.
