I bet Charlotte would.
Her snarky inner voice made her even angrier. Why should she have to feel like she had to have sex with her husband in order to prevent him from picking up what Charlotte was laying down? She shouldn’t. Not when she was this dang tired.
“I’m tired, too,” she said, sliding past him.
Once upon a time, he would have looped a hand around her waist, pressed her up against the wall, and persuaded her to not be tired in a most delicious way. She’d squeal and laugh . . . and then quickly sigh. Kit knew she liked to be dominated in the bedroom—slightly aggressive seduction was her favorite game, probably because she’d grown up reading 1880s historical romances with dashing sea captains who practiced their wiles on windblown virgins. She had a weird penchant to want to be persuaded. Or maybe it was because she was in charge of so much, constantly having to handle every situation in their family that made her want to surrender control and let someone else slide into the driver’s seat.
But now Kit seemed content to let her pass without a second thought.
“Are you going to bed?” he called after her.
“I just said I was tired,” she said.
He padded out of the closet in his underwear, looking not middle-aged at all, damn him. “How about that cake-astrophe, huh? What a shit show.”
The same words Tennyson had used.
“It would have been avoided if Tennyson had not brought her dog. How much attention does one person need? She only totes that dog around so people will look at her.”
“People would look at her anyway,” Kit said, pulling his toothbrush out of the holder and running water over it.
“What does that mean?” Melanie asked, pausing at the door, stomach still sucked in, arms still wrapped around her breasts.
“You know,” Kit said, catching her gaze in the mirror, looking slightly caught.
“You mean Tennyson’s still pretty.”
“I mean, yeah. She’s always been attractive and, you know, had a good body. Plus she displays it.”
Something about his words hurt. They always did when it came to Tennyson. Mostly because Kit had chosen Tennyson first. Back when they were in high school, Kit had shown up their sophomore year, an athletic, tanned sixteen-year-old with thick, blond hair, an alarmingly sexual smile, and eyes that made every girl sigh. By that time, she and Tennyson were back in school together, Tennyson having gotten a scholarship to the private college-prep school Melanie attended. Kit’s first day had sent the female population on drool alert and the male population on butt-hurt alert. Tennyson had taken one look at Kit and actually uttered mine.
And he had been . . . for a while.
Melanie had always taken a back seat to Tennyson, but it hadn’t bothered her because she was nothing like the temperamental, high-strung, creative beauty who was her best friend. On the contrary, Melanie was steadfast, reliable, and unremarkably pretty with a clear complexion, rich brown hair, and high cheekbones. Her pleasing countenance, compact figure, and unassuming manner was the kind that grew on a person rather than bowling them over. Melanie had no desire to be like Tennyson because she was comfy in her own skin. And in the end the tortoise had won the race, hadn’t she?
Kit trailed her into the bedroom with a leonine grace she’d always admired. He moved with fluid movement that drew the eye as he lifted a magazine from the bedside table and tossed back the covers. In the process, he upended the decorative pillows onto the floor. Melanie bit her tongue instead of pointing out the bench at the end of the bed that had been placed there for such a purpose. Instead she pulled a nightgown from her chest of drawers and jerked it over her head, unfastening the bra beneath. She saw Kit watching her do this and knew he wondered why she was hiding herself. Melanie really didn’t have an answer. All she knew was she didn’t want to be naked in front of him. Perhaps it was because of his words about Tennyson. Or maybe it was the image of Charlotte looking at him with something just short of possession in her eyes. Or maybe it was because she felt old and flabby.
“She’s always been stunning. I haven’t forgotten that,” Melanie said, picking up her laptop and heading toward the bedroom door.
“I thought you were tired?”
“I remembered that I promised Emma I would look at the wedding software she wants to buy. I don’t want to disturb you with the tapping.”
He took off his shirt and tossed it on the floor. She tried to ignore that, too. Then he slid on his reading glasses, looking quite delicious as he opened his magazine. “You can work here. I’m going to read for a bit.”
So neither one of them were really that tired.
And still . . .
Kit looked up and lowered his glasses. “Why software?”
Melanie shrugged. “Supposedly you need software. It’s what the wedding planner will use to keep tabs on everything.”
“Then shouldn’t the planner buy the software?”
“Kit, I don’t really know.”
“Just how much is this going to cost us?” he asked.
Melanie felt her stomach tilt south. She’d been dreading this conversation. Not because she wanted to blow their retirement on Emma’s wedding, but because the preliminary research she’d done on weddings over the last few weeks had essentially inferred that no wedding was done on a budget under twenty-five thousand. Kit was very good about giving his children the things they wanted, but even he would stroke out over what she estimated this wedding might cost, even if it were done as something “simple” as her daughter requested. The thing was, Emma had no clue what things actually cost. Melanie had discovered this when she took Emma shopping for prom dresses. Conclusion—her firstborn had champagne tastes. Simple didn’t mean cheap. “I’m not sure. Don’t worry. Emma says she wants something simple and elegant.”
Kit sighed and looked back down at his magazine, effectively dismissing her.
Melanie padded into the living room and then the kitchen, avoiding the still damp patch created by Tennyson’s puppy. She turned on the kitchen light and nearly screamed when she saw Noah sitting at the kitchen island eating a bowl of cereal.
“Oh my goodness.”
“Hey, Mom,” he said, crunching away.
“I thought you were at Matt’s.”
“I was at Matt’s, but it was boring, so I came home.”
“Oh, well, I wish you would have texted. Your father has a gun, you know.”
Noah raised his eyebrows. “How was the deal?”
“Your sister’s party was nice. I wish you would have come, especially now that I know your prior obligation was something ‘boring.’”
“Mom, I had to be at the kickball tournament. I’m the best one on the team.” Noah then tilted the bowl, drank the milk, and poured another big bowl of something that would rot his teeth out if given the chance. It was the one thing she bought him that was absolute crap for his diet. A mother had to choose her battles.
“So humble, too,” she said, fishing a delicate china cup from the cabinet and starting the fire under the kettle.
“Why is Emma getting married so fast? Just seems weird, you know?”
At last someone who agreed with her. She’d spent all night expecting someone to remark on how young Emma was to be getting married, but no one had said diddly. And here was her voice of reason—a man-child who smelled his dirty socks before putting them on and existed solely on peanut butter cups and Cap’n Crunch.