“Good.” She left the cottage, marched across the lawn to her house, stepped inside, and locked the door behind her.
Upstairs, she was shaking. She stared at the hand that had slapped his face, his handsome, smooth face. She brushed her teeth and tried to focus on herself in the mirror. Her blond hair fell around her face in soft waves, messy now from his fingers running through them, and she stared back at herself in wonder. What had she done? When he took her hand, she had let him. When he pulled her toward him, she had let him. When he kissed her, she’d let him. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, reliving the moment, so sensual and forbidden, feeling his hand on her cheek, his soft lips on hers, the taste of rum on his warm breath, the look of shock on his face when she slapped him. Dear God. She squeezed her hands into fists. She had slapped him.
Suddenly a hundred questions were running through her head. Why had he come back from the Rendezvous alone without the others? Had he planned to seduce her? Was he really in medical school? Why was he even here for Bal Week? What was he thinking, kissing her? She rushedback downstairs, and before she could change her mind she walked back across the lawn to the cottage and knocked.
When he opened the door in his undershirt and trousers he didn’t say a word.
“Can I come in?”
He looked at her warily, his wavy brown hair disheveled, but he pulled the door open and let her in. She walked into the main sitting area that had clearly been converted to a bedroom for the week and awkwardly paced the small space, not sure whether to sit or stand. Wes cleared the sheets off the sofa that sat in the middle of the room, but she remained standing.
“Where are the others?” she asked.
“They’re still out. They stay out pretty late, squeezing every ounce of fun out of this week.”
“I have some questions,” she said, her arms crossed.
“Shoot,” he said, perching on the arm of the sofa.
“What do you mean you go to medical school?” she asked.
“I’m in medical school. I’ve finished my classes and I’m about to start my residency. Listen, Milly…”
“I’m not done.”
“OK.”
“Why did you come here? Isn’t Bal Week supposed to be for college kids and high school kids?”
“Luke is my brother. He and his friends had been planning it for a while. They’re seniors, so it’s their last year. Luke and I are close, but he can get a bit wild sometimes. He asked me to come; he thought it would be good for me to have a break before my residency starts, and I thought it might not be a bad idea to keep an eye on him, keep him out of trouble, you know.” He shrugged. “It was a last-minute decision to come.”
“Shouldn’t you be keeping an eye on him now?” she asked.
“I’m not his babysitter,” he said. “I’m just here if he needs me.” He sighed. “Sometimes he drinks too much. I just want to make sure he’s got things under control.”
Milly nodded, trying to remain calm and absorb all he was telling her in her flustered state.
“He gets that from my father,” he said, looking away. “It’s as if he doesn’t have an off button: Sometimes he doesn’t know when enough is enough.”
“I understand that,” Milly said, then cleared her throat. “I need to know something else.”
“OK.”
“Why did you do that?”
He raised his eyebrow. “Do what?”
“You know what,” she said.
“Milly, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to… I thought you…” He looked at the ground. “I guess I hoped you were feeling what I was feeling.”
She was. She wanted to tell him that every part of her body was filled with longing then and now at this very moment, but she couldn’t. How could she? She had a husband and children, a marriage to salvage, or she’d be ruined, shunned, destitute. He shook his head, and she watched him, arms crossed on his chest, his muscles taut and tense and even more pronounced under his tanned skin.
“I made a mistake,” he said in a whisper. But she couldn’t let him believe that. She took a tiny, trembling step toward him.
“Wes,” she said, “you didn’t.” He looked up, his dark eyebrows lifting, pieces of his tousled hair falling over his eyes, making her catch her breath. “You didn’t make a mistake.” She moved closer and was standing right in front of him now, inches apart, a lingering question between them as he sat on the edge of the sofa. He uncrossed his arms and put his hands on his knees, likely not wanting to make assumptions after the last time. She looked at his hands and she wanted them on her, she needed to feel his touch again, for him to pull her toward him. The thought of his hands moving from his knees to her hips, up her torso, and onto her skin made her heart pound and her breath quicken, but she could tell he wasn’t going to make the same mistake twice.
Milly brought her hands to his thick brown hair and ran her fingersthrough it, brushing it back from his face. The sensation of his hair in her hands was so heightened, it was as if she’d never touched another person before.
