pan.
It was such an anachronistic scene it made her tummy flip.
This was not how she’d pictured Jack whenever she’d allowed herself to think about him over the years.
Not that she’d allowed herself to do that too often.
When they’d been young and in love she’d thought of nothing but him: how it felt to be held in his arms, to be loved and worshipped by him. Then how it would be to live with him. Laugh with him every day. Grow old with him.
He was just as handsome now as he’d been when they’d got married, more so if anything. He’d grown into his looks, his face more angular, showing off that amazing bone structure of his, and his body harder and leaner than it had been in his youth.
She guessed he must have done regular power-gyming along with his power-businessing in the States. Wasn’t that what all executives did now? Strong body, strong mind and all that.
‘Something smells wonderful,’ she said, walking over to where he was busy cracking eggs into the pan.
‘It’s my natural scent. I call it Eau de Charisma,’ he said with a quirked brow as she came level with where he was standing.
She was so surprised that he’d made a joke, she instinctively slapped him gently on the arm in jest and just like that she was transported back in time, into a memory of Jack making her laugh like this the morning before they’d skipped off to the register office. She’d been trying to fix his tie and their fake squabbling had almost escalated into a rough and lustful lovemaking session on the kitchen table.
The memory of it hit her hard, chasing the breath from her body so that she had to back away from him quickly and sit down at the table, her legs suddenly shaky and weak.
What was wrong with her?
Couldn’t she even eat breakfast without going to pieces?
Jack didn’t seem to notice though and, after tipping their food onto bone-china plates, each one probably worth more than her entire stock of crockery at home, he brought them over to the table, placing hers in front of her without a word and sitting down opposite.
‘Thank you,’ she managed to murmur, and he nodded back, immediately tucking into his food.
Her appetite had totally deserted her, but she couldn’t leave the food he’d so generously made for her, so she struggled through it, taking a lot of sips of tea to wash it past the large lump that had formed in her throat.
Neither of them spoke until their plates were clean.
Jack leant back in his chair and studied her, only making the jitters in her stomach worse.
Clearing her throat hard, she looked down and concentrated on straightening her knife and fork on the table until she’d got the feeling under control.
‘Let’s go and sit in the living room where it’s more comfortable,’ he suggested, and she nodded and got up gratefully, feeling a twang of nerves playing deep inside her.
* * *
Jack took the armchair near the fireplace and watched Emma as she fussed around the sofa she’d chosen to sit on, fluffing cushions and straightening the covers.
He felt stressed just watching her.
‘Emma, why don’t you sit down? I don’t think that cushion’s going to get any fluffier.’
Giving the offending article one last pat, she plonked herself onto the sofa opposite him and let out a low groan.
‘I’m so full! There’s a good chance I won’t be able to move off this sofa now I’ve sat down, which is a worry because the view from here is giving me a headache.’ She flashed him a speculative smile.
‘Who decorated this place anyway? Please tell me it wasn’t you,’ she said with a glint in her eye. ‘I really can’t be associated with a man that thinks that aubergine and mustard yellow are good colour choices for what’s meant to be a relaxing environment.’
He snorted in amusement. ‘It was chosen by my grandfather’s assistant—who he was not so secretly bedding—and I haven’t had time to change it since I’ve been back in England.’
She tipped her head to one side and studied him. ‘I bet your place in the States was all cool chrome and marble without a speck of colour to be seen.’
He shrugged, a little stung by her pointed attack on his taste. ‘I like my surroundings to feel clean and calming.’ Despite his attempt not to sound defensive he could see from her expression that he hadn’t managed it.
‘Sterile, you mean.’ She wrinkled her nose.
‘Okay, Miss I-Have-Better-Taste-Than-You, what would you do to improve this place?’
‘All sorts of things.’ She got up again and walked around the room, peering around at the décor. ‘Get rid of the awful dark wood furniture for a start. Put some warm heritage colours in here and some furniture to reflect the era in which the house was built, but with a modern twist.’
‘A modern twist?’
She folded her arms and raised a brow. ‘Yes. What’s wrong with that?’
He grinned, amused by her pseudo outrage. ‘Nothing. Nothing at all. I’m just not sure what a modern twist is. Do you mean you want to fill it with chrome and plastic?’
‘No!’ She slanted him a wry glance. ‘Well, maybe a little of both, but only as accents.’
‘Right,’ he said, ‘accents. Uh-huh.’
He realised with a shock that his earlier joke in the kitchen had brokered an unspoken truce between them and he was actually enjoying teasing her like this. It had been such a long time since they’d had a conversation that didn’t end in one or both of them getting overly emotional, and it was comfortingly familiar to have a sparky back and forth with her again. He’d forgotten how fun it was to banter with her.
How? How had he forgotten so much? The gulf between them had been more than just a physical ocean, he realised; it had been a metaphorical minefield too, filled with piranhas. And quicksand. At least a galaxy wide.
They were both quiet for a minute, each seemingly lost in their thoughts.
Emma walked over to the mantelpiece and straightened the ugly carriage clock in the centre. ‘Sorry,’ she said when he glanced at her with an eyebrow raised. ‘This is what stress does to me. It makes me want to tidy and clean things.’
‘I know. I remember Clare telling me that you’d blitzed your whole house from top to bottom, including the attic, during your exams when you were seventeen.’
That had been about the time he was most struggling with his feelings for her. He’d been half relieved, half frantic when she’d failed to come over to their house to see Clare for two weeks during that time. It had made him realise just how strong his feelings for her were, which had only made him step up his condescension of her when she’d finally turned up again, looking fresh faced and so exquisitely beautiful it had taken his breath away. He also remembered the look of abject hurt on her face when he’d snapped at her for something totally inconsequential. And then what had happened as a direct result of it.
He was suddenly aware that he’d been staring at her while she stood there with a puzzled smile playing around her lips. ‘You look awfully serious all of a sudden. What are you thinking about?’ she asked, her voice soft and a little husky as if she’d read his thoughts.
He cleared his throat, which suddenly felt a little strained. ‘Actually I was thinking about what happened after you came back to our house after going AWOL for those two weeks after your exams.’
She visibly swallowed as she seemed to grasp what he was talking about.
‘You mean when you laid into me about how I’d supposedly flirted with the guy that was painting your parents’