The First Taste(70)

My cheeks heat, a feat considering I’m already sweating. “Thanks.”

“No, I mean you look hot.” He goes to the bathroom counter and opens the top drawer. “As in, warm. Do you have a hairband or something?”

“Um . . .”

He finds a clip, stands in front of me, and rakes his hands through my hair. He gathers it behind my head, then twists it up to secure it. “Better?” he asks. “And you do look hot, as in sexy, as well.”

I try unsuccessfully to hold in my smile. How can a man of his stature and beauty ever be described as cute? But that’s what he is right now.

Like before, he gets in the tub and pulls me down between his legs, but this time he washes me, dipping my loofah in the water and running it over my back.

“If we were dating,” he says, “I get the feeling we’d be a very clean couple.”

I smile and hug my knees. “It’s nice, though. A bath kind of forces you to slow down. It’s not like either of us gets a lot of free time.”

“I’m not complaining.” He soaps my arms and the back of my neck. “I’ve been thinking about what you said the other night. About work.”

“What did I say?” I ask, only partly focused as I enjoy the scrape of the sponge and the goose bumps it inspires.

“That it’s a bullshit industry.”

“Did I?” I close my eyes and sigh. “I was upset. I don’t really feel that way.”

“What about those things you said to Bell earlier?”

“They’re true. Confidence is the main ingredient for beauty. But I make a living convincing people there’s more to beauty than that, and so do thousands of other people in this city alone.”

“Right. Have you ever considered doing anything else?”

“No. Why would I? It’s demanding, but that’s what I want.”

“What if you cut back?”

“For what?”

That shuts both of us up. I don’t blame him for falling quiet. I never used to think hard work and success could paint such a sad, lonely picture. My life is exactly how I designed it. I get to do what I dreamed of as a girl—what many girls would consider a dream job. Fashion, celebrities, parties in New York City. Yet lately, something about the work is missing. It feels less like a dream and more like a job.

“What was it like?” Andrew asks. “When he cheated?”

I look over my shoulder at him. The question, though out of nowhere, doesn’t feel abrupt. In fact, considering the conversation that led him there, it hits a little close to a nerve. Would Reggie have cheated if I’d been a different kind of wife? Like the daily-luncheon, charity-heading arm candy of his colleagues? “Do you have to ask? Surely you’ve been cheated on.”

“Why do you assume that?”

“Almost everyone I know has. Most, if not all of my friends.”

“Not me. Shana was the only person who’s been close enough to hurt me. She didn’t cheat, though.”

I turn, if only to hide the surprise in my expression. I can’t remember if he’d told me that before because the truth is, I wouldn’t have believed him. I’m not even sure I do now. Maybe Shana did cheat, and he just doesn’t know it.

I lean forward and take our drinks from the counter, passing his back. I’ve talked about Reggie a lot with my girlfriends. We bond over bashing our exes. This is different, though. I’m naked with a man I’ve let get a little closer than I meant to. My past is not an easy place for me to go even when I’m dressed and sitting in my therapist’s mild, eggshell-colored office.

After a courage-bolstering sip of whisky, I say, “It’s kind of like slaving over a lobster dinner for someone you love, and when they get home, they tell you they don’t eat crustaceans. While you watch, they dump everything in a blender and hit shred. Only, that crustacean is your heart.”

“I see,” he says.

“And then they don’t even drink it. They pour it down the drain. And turn on the garbage disposal, just in case there’s anything they missed.”

He chuckles softly, which, despite my macabre disposition, makes me smile. “I think I get the idea, though your cooking analogies could use some work. Who was the woman?”

“The wife of one of the stockbroker’s in his office. I remember when I found them, my throat just closed. It was like choking. I really thought I’d die on the spot.”

“You found them?” he asks.

I put my cheek on my knee and look into the bedroom. “I didn’t mention that?”

“Definitely not.” He must follow my gaze, because he then says, “There? In your bed?”

“I had an appointment near here, and I decided to come home for lunch. It was that stupid.” The worst part is not anticipating something like that, being caught completely off guard. At least if I’d seen a trail of clothing on the way to the bedroom or even heard them, but no. I’d just walked right in to get a sweater from my closet and nearly tripped right onto the bed with them. “He was never very creative.”

Andrew puts his hands on my shoulders and squeezes once. The simple gesture is more soothing than he probably knows. “Isn’t it hard to sleep there?”

I shrug. “It’s just a bed. I’m not going to go through the trouble of replacing it. I got rid of the sheets, of course.”