Because, yep, I already had that conversation.
Caught him staring at Esme’s ass when she bent over to grab her weekender bag before we left.
Didn’t like that.
Didn’t like that one bit.
“Eyes in your fucking head,” I’d told him.
He got the message.
Real quick.
Because, yeah, married or divorced? It doesn’t seem to matter.
My girl. Mine.
I exhale sharply through my nose.
Christ.
There it is again.
My girl.
I know.
I fucking know.
I shouldn’t be thinking about her like that.
Shouldn’t be claiming her or anything remotely like it.
Not when everything between us is still a mess.
Not when I don’t even know the truth yet.
But technically? According to my lawyer, her producer and that fucking dating app were right.
She’s still my wife.
He’s doing more research, but it looks like the marriage is still very much legal.
And the fact is, I’ve never been good at pretending I don’t feel something when I do.
Especially when it comes to her.
“I still don’t know why I’m coming with you on this trip,” she mutters, shifting in her seat, arms crossing loosely over her chest.
But I can hear it.
Under the words.
That spark.
That little edge of excitement she’s trying not to show.
And yeah—I know it’s there.
