wherein the horse represented our marriage. And that horse I would shoot.”
He threw his phone down onto the couch, then followed its trajectory, plopping down in front of the fireplace. “Did you start a fire?”
She arched a brow. “No. The elves did it.”
“I didn’t know you came with elves.”
“There are a lot of things you don’t know about me.”
He appraised her slowly, watching the color rise in her cheeks. He couldn’t remember the last time a woman had responded to him in this way. Sure, women found him attractive, but he wasn’t the kind of guy to engage in flirtations. He did long-term relationships.
He had a high school sweetheart he’d parted ways with the first year of college, then a girl he had dated until graduation had sent them their different ways. After that, he had been in relationships off and on with women who were practical. Suitable. Potential wife material.
He didn’t do one-night stands. He didn’t do...whatever this was.
But he couldn’t deny there was something a little bit fascinating about it.
“Actually,” he said, giving in to the completely reckless desire to heighten the color in her cheeks even further, “you don’t have all that many secrets from me.”
She stiffened, her dark eyes going wide. “You don’t remember.”
“Maybe I do,” he said, smiling at her for effect.
“No,” she said, narrowing her eyes, “you don’t. I know you don’t.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because I can tell. I can...read it. If you had seen me naked I would be able to see it in your eyes.”
He lifted his hand, rubbing it slowly over his chin. “But I have seen you naked, Lydia. We both know that.”
“No, we don’t. For all you know I got undressed underneath the covers. Actually, maybe nothing happened. We don’t know.”
Heat began to gather in his chest, a ball of fire that spread downward, a streak of flame that combusted in his gut. “I know. Trust me, I know.”
He did, dammit. As much as he wanted to forget. Last night had been a study in torture. He’d been at the mercy of vague impressions of memory he couldn’t quite gain a hold on.
Soft fingertips on his skin, faint, floral perfume mingling with the smell of whiskey and chocolate. Because they had eaten chocolate. He couldn’t remember eating it, but he could remember tasting it on her tongue, mingling with the rich alcohol.
So no, he didn’t remember what happened. Not totally. Only enough to wake up this morning with a hard-on that wouldn’t quit.
He was suffering. She might as well suffer, too.
She was just so damn prickly all the time, and those prickles never failed to embed themselves beneath his skin. The one exception was the night of the wedding that wasn’t.
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