She smoothed a damp palm down her dress, and shifted her gaze back to Amber, who was looking incredibly entertained. “Can you give us a minute?”
“Of course. I’m done here anyway,” Amber said. “I’m supposed to head back to the city to meet Parker for lunch.”
“Then go,” Reese said. “I’ll ask Ethel to help me out of the dress.”
She certainly wasn’t going to ask her ex to unbutton her gown.
The redhead’s eyes lingered curiously as she passed by Mason, but Reese couldn’t blame her. Mason exuded a barely restrained energy that underscored the kind of training that meant, when bad things happened, this was the guy who could take care of the problem. But as a husband, he was guaranteed to let you down.
Bracing herself, she turned to face her ex. “I’m sure you’re not here to discuss my bra size.”
“Nope,” he said. “Though I do find the topic fascinating. What are you now?” He hooked a finger in her bodice, just to the left of her breast—the touch sending a sensual shock that left her briefly paralyzed—testing the fit. “B cup?”
She refused to let him see how he affected her. “It’s none of your business.”
“You’re absolutely right,” he said easily.
Their gazes locked, seconds ticked by in which she felt overwhelmed, over her head. Drowning in Mason’s presence. Just like she had as a young university student. All from the smoldering hazel eyes and the simple masculine finger barely brushing against her skin. And he wasn’t even touching anything vital.
Quicksand. He’s quicksand, Reese.
And for some ridiculous reason she had the intense urge to explain, which made her even angrier.
“You met me while I was a stupid college kid,” she said. “A naive junior who was still lugging around her freshman weight and her romantic ideals.”
Turns out the romantic ideals had been easy to lose, dropped like a stone during her year of marriage.
The disturbing finger finally pulled away, and Reese’s taut muscles relaxed a fraction. Until Mason dropped his hand to the satin at her waist, as if testing its size. “Those extra pounds looked good on you.”
Heart tapping loudly, she stared at him and schooled her features into an expression of nonchalance. She would not let him know how disturbed she was by his presence.
“I liked your hourglass figure.” His hazel eyes skimmed her body. There was no lurid component to the look, just a note of concern. “Now you look more like a half-hourglass.”
Reese fisted her hand, refusing to take the bait. He was trying to get a reaction from her. But she would not play into his plans.
His brow crinkled in doubt as he fingered the netting at her thighs. “And the dress is a bit much, don’t you think?”
The intricate beading on the bodice was beautiful, though the tulle skirt was fuller than she’d intended, floating around her legs like an ethereal dream. But the gown made her feel beautiful. Made her feel special. Just like Dylan did.
In the end, Mason had made her feel like dirt.
“In light of what you wore to our wedding...” He rubbed the netting between his fingers and frowned, and there was a thoughtful curiosity to his expression. “I wonder if maybe you’re overcompensating.”
Anger surged, and she brushed his hand away, ignoring the sparks that arced up her arm. Her body was simply reacting to the memories. They had nothing to do with the man himself.
Reese turned to face him, braced for the battle ahead. “Trust me, Mason,” she said firmly. “Our disastrous marriage was not on my mind when I chose this dress.” Bad enough she had a wedding planner that questioned her every decision—now she had to defend her choices to her ex-husband? “You need to leave now.”
“But I just got here.”
“Well, I have a wedding coming up. And I don’t have time for your pathology.”
His eyes creased with shocked surprise. “Pathology?”
Holding his gaze, she refused to back down as the silence lengthened around them. He knew well and good what she was referring to. When he’d finally returned from Afghanistan all those years ago, they’d tap-danced around the issues long enough to fill two seasons of Dancing with the Stars. Reese, gently trying to help.
Mason, coldly pushing her away.
Her ex finally broke their staring contest and headed in the direction of the door, and her heart soared, hoping he was leaving because of her insult. Instead, he turned and sank into a Louis XV-style, wingback chair. And her hopes sank along with him. He stretched out long legs encased in well-worn jeans that emphasized his raw power, and crossed his ankles. The lazy posture was all an act. Because beneath the laissez-faire attitude was a definite edge, as if he was always scanning his surroundings, taking in every detail. Looking for danger. Prepared to react.
Except, of course, when it came to relationships.
“Pathology,” he repeated, now looking amused by her choice of words.
Irritation swelled. Wasn’t it just like the man to treat the serious issues so cavalierly?
“Surely you didn’t come all this way to give me a running commentary on my dress,” she said.
“True.”
Irritation swelled when he didn’t elaborate. “Or comment on my figure.”
“Right again.”
“So—” seeking comfort, she smoothed a lock of hair behind her shoulder “—why are you here?”
And, even more importantly, how was she going to get the stubborn man to leave?
TWO
Why are you here?
It was a helluva question.
Should he be flippant and say he wanted to drive her crazy? Because she’d always been sexiest when riled? After ten years she still looked so beautiful that the first sight had been like a blast to his chest—surprising, since his lack of a sex drive lately had started to scare the heck out of him.
Or should he go with the blunt truth: because his shrink had sent him?
Pathology, indeed. A soft grunt escaped, and his lips twisted wryly. As if his screwed-up head could somehow be treated by facing the “unresolved issues in his past.” Mason had scoffed out loud at the psychiatrist’s words.
Personally, Mason was pretty damn sure his “issues”—the relentless insomnia, the crippling migraines and a sex drive that had gone AWOL—were all the result of the IED that had exploded eight months ago, nearly killing him. Traumatic Brain Injury was the diagnosis, leaving him with a crappy short-term memory, as well. But what difference did a name make when sixteen sticks of C4 had knocked him on his ass on a pothole-filled
