‘What, Ally?’
‘He was trying to buy the painting for her.’
‘Who?’
‘His wife.’
The words are torn from me and I close my eyes for a long moment, not wanting to see what I know must be on his face. Judgement. Surprise. Pity.
None of those emotions are good.
‘He was married?’
I nod slowly. ‘I didn’t know.’
‘Hell, of course you didn’t. You think I believe you’d get involved in something like that?’
His instant understanding is the last thing I expected and it’s everything I need.
‘You’re not that kind of person.’
‘I’m not that kind of person,’ I agree urgently. ‘He never told me. He didn’t wear a ring. And he was so available. I mean, I saw a lot of him. His wife travelled a heap for work, and his kids were at her mom’s a heap of the time.’ I shake my head. ‘It doesn’t change the fact that I broke up a family...’
Ethan lifts his hands to my face, cupping it and making me face him. ‘You didn’t break up a family. He did. And he broke your heart in the process.’
I nod softly. ‘And not just because I loved him—I did, Ethan.’ Colour floods my cheeks. ‘But he made me into something I despise and that took away every good memory. I have no right to look back on any of the fun we had and smile because it was all wrong. All of it.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he murmurs.
And then he kisses me. It’s a soft kiss, gentle and slow. An apology and an explanation and it’s everything I need. I surrender to it, and in that moment I am weak, because my heart surrenders too.
* * *
Later that day my assistant Lesley pops her head into my office. ‘Ally?’
I put aside the Christie’s brochure I’m leafing through and give her my attention. She’s holding a huge bunch of tulips—huge. At least one hundred flowers crammed together and wrapped in brown paper. They are my favourites.
They can’t be from Ethan, can they?
The very idea makes adrenalin course in my veins and flavour my mouth. I hope—and I know I shouldn’t—that he has sent them to me. And yet if he has? I’m scared of that possibility too.
‘What are those?’ Suspicion is obvious in my tone, my inner conflict apparent in the question.
‘Flowers. For you.’
‘Who are they from?’
She shoots me a quizzical look. ‘I didn’t open the card. Do you want me to?’
‘No, no, that’s okay. I’ll do it.’
I take the flowers from her with a dismissive smile and place them on the edge of my desk as if they might burn me.
Lesley is hovering inside the door. I understand her curiosity. Occasionally I get gifts from clients—bottles of whisky or champagne, the odd paperweight.
Never flowers.
And these are my favourite flowers.
My heart accelerates as I finger the card. Surely they’re not from him? Then again, how can they not be?
‘Are they from him?’ Lesley prompts breathily and I realise she’s seen it.
She’s read the papers. She knows about me and Ethan.
‘Thank you,’ I say dismissively, sitting down without opening the card.
And, though she’s probably still dying to know if they’re from him or not, she steps out of my office and closes the door behind her.
I cannot rip the envelope open fast enough. I tear the triangular back and lift the card out, my eyes running over the neat florist’s typeface.
Your immortal moral soul is not in danger.
I groan, dropping my head forward. My soul might not be but I think I am.
All my good intentions, all my boundaries, are crumbling.
He’s leaving soon.
Less than a week.
I need to be strong and then I need to move on.
That’s all.
But... Ethan Ash is in my blood, my bones. I see him when I blink and I inhale him with every breath I take. He has become a part of me—and not just of me, but of all that surrounds me.
I reach for my phone on autopilot.
How did you know tulips are my favourite?
I can practically feel him grinning through the phone.
Lucky guess. What time am I seeing you tonight?
I smile as I shake my head. I should say no, but the reminder that he is leaving soon fills me with something like panic.
I finish around six.
His response is swift.
Great. Let’s do dinner. I’ll pick you up.
My heart races. Dinner? And he’ll pick me up? From work?
He texts back before I can respond, before I can demur. After all, dinner is not in our rules. And now, more than ever, I think we need to stick to them.
Don’t worry. It doesn’t mean anything. It’s just more foreplay...
I put my phone into my top desk drawer as though it’s a lit stick of dynamite, slamming it emphatically shut. I should be glad.
It doesn’t mean anything.
Those words are important. Those words show that he and I are still focused on keeping our boundaries in place. It shows that we can engage in ‘high-risk’ activities like dinner and flirting and flower-sending-and-receiving and not run the risk of forgetting.
Because it doesn’t mean anything. None of this means anything. It’s just fun.
Panic is what I feel instead of gladness.
I do my best to concentrate on work, but every time I pause my mind wanders to Ethan. To his body. His kisses. To the way he held me all night. To the way he made love to me, hard against the sofa, taking me from behind and playing me more expertly than he does his Fender.
To the way he
