It's how I like things.
Usually.
Right now, watching her green eyes light up as she discusses some New York set TV show. Watching her dark lips move with excitement. Watching her dig into her pesto, taste every drop, sigh with pleasure—
I want to tell her more.
I want to tell her about how quickly I fell in love with Laura. About how she brightened the darkness. Wiped away my cynical impulses.
And about how quickly the darkness returned.
Or maybe it wasn't quickly. Work had been busy. She'd been distant. We'd been growing apart.
Still, I thought we were okay. That I still knew her. Still tended to her needs.
Then those fucking papers landed in my lap.
And all of a sudden, the voice in the back of my head, the one that whispered questions about late nights and extra singing lessons and new lingerie—
All of a sudden, it was a yell, and I knew she was fucking someone else. In love with someone else. Leaving me for someone else.
There's no dramatic twist to the story.
Only the one person who truly knew me deciding I wasn't enough.
It wasn't long hours or work conflicts or even my particular tastes.
No, it was much more simple and much more complicated.
She didn't love me anymore.
She didn't understand me anymore.
She didn't need me anymore.
Even with three thousand miles between us, I feel it. The heaviness in my chest, the emptiness in my heart, the lead weight in my stomach.
The sight of her hand in his. His lips on hers. Her nails in his back.
I don't think about Laura anymore.
I don't imagine her afternoons at the office. Her evenings at yoga classes. Her nights in his bed.
I don't think about their new home. Or their marital bed. Or the way she looks truly at ease in his arms.
But I still feel the ache of it. That knowledge that goes all the way to my core.
The one person who knew me decided I wasn't enough.
What the hell does that say about me?
So I ignore that other voice. The one begging me to cancel my afternoon and spend it with Eve. The one begging me to bring her back to my flat and spill my guts.
I tease her about her love of pasta. I ask her about her tattoo. I listen to her gush over The Handmaid's Tale.
Then I send her home in the limo. And I spend the afternoon as planned. Digging into a rival company. Finding someone else's weak spots and attacking them.
But it's not the concentration I need.
My mind keeps slipping back to her.
Her groan, her laugh, her smile.
I find the place in Little Italy she mentioned. A New York chain that's spreading around the country. I send her a pint of the non-dairy mint chip. Try to put her out of my mind.
But it doesn't work.
I keep thinking of her laughing with her sister. Digging into her ice cream, utterly at ease, perfectly content.
That same look Laura had with that arsehole.
Like she's exactly where she's supposed to be, doing exactly what she's supposed to do.
I try to tell myself I don't want that.
But it's no use.
I want Eve.
Her need, her desire, her affection, her love.
An hour at the gym calms me. A shower. Dinner.
I'm not like Shepard. I don't have a staff to cook my meals or clean my room.
Military training dies hard. I make my bed every morning. Put everything in its proper place.
I can't concentrate surrounded by mess.
Not in my house.
Not in my head.
Thankfully, the steps to this meal are worn into my body.
A simple roast. Meat, potatoes, peas, carrots, rosemary.
I pass the time with an old paperback. One of the novels Eve loves.
After a few pages, I lose myself in the words.
Until the buzz of my cell interrupts.
Not the timer.
A text from her.
Eve: Do I need to know anything about dinner?
Ian: It's the meal after lunch.
Eve: With your friend on Thursday? Is he secretly your brother or something? Are you secretly judging me as marriage material?
Ian: Are you waiting for a proposal?
Eve: Would you get married again?
My stomach twists at that word. Again.
Of course she knows. Everyone knows. But it's different on her lips.
Ian: No.
Eve: Never?
Ian: The world is a big place. Anything is possible.
Eve: That's not an answer.
Ian: It is.
Eve: So, maybe you'd get married again. But not in the foreseeable future.
Ian: Are you proposing now?
Eve: In your dreams.
Ian: My dreams of you are much dirtier than that.
Eve: Oh.
Ian: Oh?
Eve: Yeah. Oh. You must know my oh by now.
Ian: Oh, I have no response to that, because I'm too rocked with desire to think.
Eve: Basically.
Ian: Good.
Eve: Addie thinks it's strange that I never want to get married.
Ian: You're young. You might change your mind.
Eve: Would you like it if I said that to you?
Ian: I'm not young.
Eve: You're not old.
Ian: I've been married. I know what it's like.
Eve: What is it like?
The oven beeps. The timer.
I need to finish the roast. Turn off my cell. Eat dinner with a book. A movie. A friend who will distract me from the emptiness in my gut.
How does she know the exact place to press on the bruise?
Why do I want to reply so badly?
I set my cell on the leather couch. Move to the kitchen.
Like most of the new buildings in the financial district, this one is modern. Sleek. One massive den/kitchen/dining room combo. Then three bedrooms.
I use one to sleep. Use the other as an office. The third for overnight guests.
It's excessive, yes, an entire room for sex. But it's necessary too.
A thick line, drawn in black. A room completely different than mine. Louder, bolder, sleeker.
A four poster-bed, silk sheets, restraints, toys, lube, condoms. An armchair. A desk. A dresser.
Anything and everything.
My room is much simpler. A king bed. White sheets and comforter. Black dresser. Framed photographs of the city.
It's too easy to picture her there.
The white sheet at her chest. Her lips parting with a groan. Her grey-green eyes alive with passion, curiosity, affection.
I can see it now.
This conversation in my bed. Her as naked as she's asking me to be.
I've never backed away from a challenge before.
I've been a lot of things. A soldier, a spy, a businessman, a husband.
Never a coward.
But I can't answer her question. My fingers are too stiff. My head is too fuzzy.
Ian: I hate to say goodbye, but I have a meeting.
Eve: Hmm.
Ian: I'll send a car tomorrow. Meet me at the restaurant.
Eve: This is a test, isn't it?
Ian: What kind of test?
Eve: For me. Or maybe you. Or your friends. It's something.
Ian: I'm inviting you to dinner with a friend. It's dinner.
Eve: I don't think so.
Ian: Then don't think so. But that's all it is.
I don't believe it myself. Maybe she's right. Maybe it is a test.
But not for her.
For me.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Ian