do her very best not to upset him.
“I can’t,” he said, standing there still, the shirt clutched tightly in his hand.
“What do you mean you can’t?”
“I’m having trouble getting the shirt on. My ribs are too sore.” He held his hand out slightly, the shirt still clutched in his fist. “Can you help me?”
All of the air rushed from her lungs, her heart beating a steady rhythm in her ears. “I—” She was supposed to be his wife. There should be nothing remarkable about the request. There was nothing remarkable about it either way. He was an injured man and he needed help. He didn’t need her to be weird.
She cleared her throat and crossed the space between them, hesitating for a moment before she reached out and took hold of the shirt. Their fingers brushed as he relinquished it to her, and a shiver ran down her spine.
She needed to get a grip.
“When you say I go out a lot, you mean that I go to parties?”
She nodded, swallowing hard, her throat suddenly dry. “Yes.” She held the shirt so it was facing the right direction and gathered the material up. “You need to...duck your head or bend as much as you can.”
He bent slightly and she pushed the shirt over his head, dragging it down to his shoulders, his skin scorching hers as her knuckles brushed against his collarbone.
“And you?” he asked.
She looked up at him, her eyes clashing with his. He was so close. So close that it would be easy to stretch up on her toes and close the space between them. She’d only kissed him once. At their wedding in front of a church full of people.
What would happen if she did it again?
She blinked, trying to shake off the drugged feeling that was stealing over her. “Lift your arm as much as you can,” she murmured.
He complied, his fingers grazing his bicep as he slipped into the shirt. “Do you go out with me?” he pressed.
She wasn’t sure how to respond to that. She wasn’t supposed to be dumping information on him, and beyond that, she didn’t really want to. “I prefer to stay at home.”
She pulled the shirt down the rest of the way over his torso, her knuckles brushing against the crisp hair and hard muscle as she did, a hollow sensation carving itself into the pit of her stomach.
It brought to mind all manner of things she’d scarcely allowed herself to fantasize about. Possibilities she’d only just now let go, as she’d accepted the fact her marriage had to end.
And now this. This unique and particular torture that brought her closer to her fantasy than ever before, and further away at the same time.
She took a step away from him, hoping to catch her breath.
He frowned, straightening. “I go out without you?”
He looked just as sexy with the shirt on. Tight and fitted over his muscular frame. She blinked and looked away.
“Sometimes.” She looked up at the clock and saw that it was nearing six, which meant that dinner would be ready. She felt absolutely rescued by that. Maybe when they had a whole table between them she’d be able to breathe again. “I think it’s time for us to go and eat,” she said. “I’ll show you the way to the dining room.”
“You have a full staff here?” he asked, as they made their way through the house.
“Yes. I have kept everyone on since my father died. I didn’t see the point in changing anything.” She cleared her throat. “More than that, I guess I have desperately tried to keep everything the same.”
“We both love this house,” he said. “It’s something we share. At least, you have told me I love this house.”
“Yes, you do. And so do I. I was very happy here growing up. It is the only place I have memories of my mother. I remember hiding up at the top of the staircase and looking down, watching their massive holiday parties. My mother was always the most beautiful woman in the room. She looked so happy with my father. I wanted... I wanted more than anything to grow up and have that be my life.”
Her throat tightened and she found herself unexpectedly blinking back tears.
“Is that not our life?” he asked.
He sounded... He sounded hopeful. It was a very strange thing. Typically, Leon spoke with an air of practiced cynicism. He was not the sort of man who held out hope for much of anything. He was grounded. A realist. It was why she cherished the very few soft moments she had ever had with him. Because when he took the time to be caring she knew that he meant it.
But when it came to things like this, flights of fancy, romantic ideas about life and adulthood, she didn’t expect him to care at all. Much less be able to envision himself as part of it.
She found that she wanted to lie to him. Or, if not lie, be a bit creative with the truth.
“This house is ours. To do with it as we wish. You have been very busy since my father’s death. Fully establishing yourself as the head of the company, expanding. We have not yet had time to throw any large holiday parties.”
“But we intend to?”
“Yes,” she said. That really wasn’t strictly true. She imagined that he never intended to. And she’d been planning on leaving him before next Christmas anyway.
Though she had wished... She had hoped, once upon a time.
Recently, she had given up on it. She didn’t even imagine her own future in this house, much less a shared future. But there was no benefit in telling him that now.
When they walked into the dining room the table was already beautifully appointed. She had warned the staff to keep a low profile. The doctor had told her that it was best to keep things as low-key as possible for Leon while he recovered. It was easy to focus only on the amnesia, which was of course the thing that both of them were most aware of, and forget that he also possessed quite a few physical injuries.
“They made your favorite,” she said, sitting down in front of the steak and risotto that had been prepared for them. There was red wine at her seat. Water at Leon’s.
“This seems a bit cruel and unusual,” he said, eyeing her drink.
“I don’t need to drink it.”
“And that,” he said, his tone hard, “seems remarkably wasteful. You can drink wine. I cannot. One of us should.”
“Awfully giving of you.”
“I feel that I am generous.”
She couldn’t help herself. She laughed. “Do you?” She lifted her wine to her lips and took a sip, suddenly grateful for the extra fortification that it would provide.
“Yes. Are you contradicting me?”
“Of course not,” she said, looking down at her dinner. “You give to a great many charities.”
“There you have it,” he said, picking up his knife and fork. “Incontrovertible evidence that I am in fact generous.”
“Perhaps,” she said, slicing her steak slowly, “there is more than one type of generosity.”
His dark eyebrows shot upward. “Is that so?”
She lifted one shoulder. “Perhaps.”
“Do not speak in code. That is hardly less strenuous on my brain.”
“I am not supposed to bombard you. Much less with my opinions. Opinions are not fact. You need facts.”
“It is your opinion that I am not generous. At least not in every way.”
She let out a long breath, feeling frustrated with herself. Feeling frustrated with him. With the world.