He didn’t look remotely convinced. His eyes moved over my face like he was paying attention to every detail, searching for signs of damage. His hands stayed on my face, holding me like I might disappear if he let go.
I realized I was staring at him. At the way his dark eyes had gone almost black with fear. At the muscle working in his jaw. At his mouth, which was much closer than I’d realized.
God, he was beautiful.
I’d known that objectively. Had spent years being aware that Michael Ashford was unfairly attractive. But this close, with his hands on my face and his body radiating heat, it hit me like a tidal wave.
“Just dizzy? You’re sure? Nothing else?”
I couldn’t think with him this close. “I—I reached too high. Got lightheaded. It’s really not a big deal.”
“You’re on the floor, Claudette.” His hand slid down to my neck, fingers wrapping around the side of my throat. “You scared the hell out of me.”
I could feel my pulse hammering against his palm. Could feel the tremor running through his fingers that he was trying to hide.
“Why are you so scared?” I asked, quieter now.
“Sorry, not scared. I’mconcerned.”
“Liar.” I reached up, covered his hand with mine. “You’re shaking.”
His jaw clenched. “Finding your wife collapsed on the floor is generally concerning. Is that really so hard to understand?”
He’d called me his wife again.
The word sent butterflies rioting through my stomach even though this was probably not the appropriate moment for butterflies. But hearing him say it, hearing the possessive edge in his voice when he said it, did something to me.
Made me feel claimed in a way that should probably concern me—but didn’t.
Made me want him to say it again.
Made me want to close the distance between us and find out if his mouth felt as good as it looked.
“Let’s get you off the floor,” he said, his voice dropping an octave.
His hands moved to my waist and I felt every point of contact like electricity. He helped me sit up, his body close enough that I could feel the heat of him, smell that scent that was becoming dangerously familiar.
My eyes drifted to the book on the bookshelf I’d been reaching for.
Every book I’d ever loved was there.
Not just the famous ones everyone read. These were my books. The obscure poetry collections I’d discovered in a usedbookstore during college and spent a month obsessed with. The philosophy texts I’d read the summer after graduation when I was trying to figure out what I wanted from life. Art books I’d paged through a hundred times, memorizing paintings and sculptures.
Books I’d mentioned once in passing at a dinner party three years ago and never thought about again.
All of them here. On this shelf. In Michael’s bedroom.
“How did you know about these?” I whispered.
“I pay attention. I’ve been paying attention to you for a very long time.”
“How long?”
“Long enough.” He said it simply. “I’ve been collecting these for two years. Since I came back from London and realized I was done lying to myself that I didn’t want you.”
My chest felt tight. Like something was expanding inside it that didn’t quite fit.
“It still feels strange,” I said. “This whole thing. Us being married. Us being anything.”
