Aurora:I’m sorry, honey. But I see it now.
My phone starts to ring. It’s Aurora. I reject the call. She’s going to want a breakdown of every word George has spoken and every facial expression he’s made since he found me by the pool at the Big House. She and Betty have been together for four years, and as a sucker for burgeoning love stories, Aurora is going to hound me until she gets her fix.
Aurora:Pick up!!!!! I need to know everything that’s happened so far.
Me:That’s why I’m not picking up!
Aurora:But I LOVE love.
Aurora:DO NOT HOLD OUT ON ME!!!!!
I zoom in on our expressions, and yeah, I can see how someone else might think there was somethingmorebetween George and me.
Suddenly, I’m back in bed, with George’s arm around me, his voice purring in my ear.
Tell me what you want, sweetheart.
My skin flashes hot, and I look around the room, as if someone will be able to see every one of my filthy, intrusive thoughts.
In search of a distraction, I pull out the pages of research George gave me last night, settling on an article about situations that can make coping with a breakup especially difficult, such as the belief that an ex is your one true love. George has underlined that bit and written three question marks beside it in black ink.
“Here’s your wife, Mr.Gardiner.”
I look up to see the host pulling out a chair for George.
“And congratulations to you both.”
His hair is wet from his post-run shower, and he smells amazing. He’s wearing jeans and a David Suzuki T-shirt I bought him two Christmases ago.
“What are you reading?” he asks.
I hold up the article and he nods. But I can tell there’s something else on his mind. He looks around the room, then leans closer.
“I know we said we’d forget this morning happened, but before we do, I’d like to apologize.”
“There’s no need, really. It’s fine.” But the memory of my dream and the heat of his body pushing against mine makes me shift in my chair. I open my menu, but I can feel George watching me.
“Frankie?”
“Mmm?” I continue to peruse the egg options as he drums his fingers on the table. He doesn’t say a word until I lift my gaze to meet his.
“I didn’t know what I was doing, but it was completely inappropriate. I’m going to sleep on the couch for the rest of the week.”
He’s taking this far too seriously. I need him to lighten up, to know that I’m not freaking out, even though I am.
“But who will grope me in my sleep?” I ask. “Who will whispersweetheartin my ear?”
He pales. “You said I didn’t talk in my sleep.”
“It was more of a whisper.”
“What else did I say?”
“I don’t think you want to know.”
My phone buzzes with a text message.
Moby:How’s Saint James? Hit it yet?
