“That’s exactly the problem.” Her voice cracks on that last word.
I shift closer without thinking. “Then tell me something,” I say.
Her laugh is soft. Hollow. “You don’t want that.”
“Try me.”
She finally looks at me again. “I don’t stay,” she says. The words are quiet.
I frown. “Why?”
She shakes her head immediately.
“No.”
“Scarlett—”
“That’s not even my name.” The words slip out, sharp and unintended.
We both freeze.
The line moves, but neither of us does.
I stare at her. She looks straight ahead as if she didn’t just drop a match between us.
“Not your name?” I repeat.
Her throat works. “Forget I said that.”
Not a chance.
“What’s your name, then?” I ask.
She shakes her head again, harder this time. “You don’t want to know.”
“I do.”
“No,” she says, turning toward me fully now. “You really don’t.”
There it is again. That edge like a warning.
“I do because if that’s not your name—” I gesture toward the marriage certificate “—then, we’renotactually married.” My eyes narrow. “Unless I’m missing something?”
She shakes her head, forehead creasing. Her mouth works, but no words come out. It’s frustrating as hell.
“Scarlett… Burgundy, whatever your name is, you can trust me,” I say, voice lowering, moving in on her.
She doesn’t back away or go stiff. Instead, her body relaxes like she wants this. And her eyes go black, pupils blown and her nostrils flaring.
I flex my hand at my side, fighting the urge to palm her cheek, draw her to me for a kiss. Part of me says that’s all we need—a reminder of last night.
But nope. I can’t.
Not with these mixed signals.
“You think you’re the first person with a past?” I ask quietly.
“That’s not what this is.”
