Weather Girl(70)

“Then I guess that’s a good thing.”

In the full-length mirror next to my dresser, I can see him watching me while I sift through one of several jewelry boxes, searching for the earring’s match. Tonight’s jacket is beautifully dapper, navy velvet with a white shirt unbuttoned at his throat.

Our schedules haven’t lined up for us to do anything more than kiss since that perfect night of our first date, and having him back here reminds me how desperate I am to get him into bed again. Or into a desk chair. Or against the kitchen counter. As long as I can touch him while he falls apart, I’m not picky.

“I’ve always loved your jackets,” I say, trying to refocus on the task at hand, pushing aside a handful of raindrop studs. It’s possible I have too many. “Have I ever mentioned that? You have great taste.”

“Thank you,” he says earnestly. “Some shirts . . . they don’t fit right, or they cling. It took me a while to figure out what I was most comfortable in, and now I love them, too.”

When I find the earring, I hold it up to Russell with a questioning look. “Would you mind?” I’m out of the sling, but I still can’t fully bend my arm, and it’ll be a few more weeks until I have enough strength in my fingers to type for longer than twenty minutes without them aching.

“I’ve had some practice.” He settles behind me, brushing some of my natural curls out of the way. His fingers graze the strap of my dress, thumb tickling my ear as I melt back against him. It would be so easy to drag him onto my bed that for a moment, I almost hate the Hales. “And I feel compelled to mention that it would be impossible not to notice you, no matter what your hair looks like.”

“It’s surreal, though, isn’t it?”

“That you experienced Torrance and Seth becoming grandparents? Yes.”

“No,” I say with a laugh, pushing gently at his chest as he secures one earring. “That after everything, they’re almost back together. The woman who threw her ex-husband’s Emmy out a window is giving him another chance. Maybe we’re done with all this scheming.”

“Are you—” Russell pauses, letting my hair fall back over my other ear. “Are you sure it’s real? That they’ve really changed?”

“I want to think anyone can. Sure, at the beginning, I wanted to do this for less than honorable reasons, but I truly want them to be happy. I want to believe they can change. Maybe I’m too naive, but . . .”

“You’re not naive. You want to believe the best about people. You want to see the good.”

I like the way he says it. That optimism, both false and genuine, has been weaponized against me before, but not now. And maybe this makes me doomed to be a sunshine person for the rest of my days, but so be it. I’ll be seventy-eight and sunny, a cool breeze and a place in the shade.

Maybe it’s that soft haze of contentment that draws out my next question. “So . . . I’m having Shabbat dinner with my mom and my brother’s family next Friday. And I was wondering if you might want to go with me? To my childhood home?”

In the mirror, I watch his face light up. “I would love that,” he says, and those four words do their best to diminish my anxiety about it.

He finishes the second earring, pressing a kiss to the back of my neck before shifting my hair back into place.

“How do I look?” I ask, meeting his eyes in the mirror.

His mouth tips into a sly smile. “If you want me to adequately answer that, then we’re going to be late.”

I turn, smoothing his slightly crooked collar as best I can. I used Torrance’s trick; my mauve lipstick won’t budge. “I don’t mind being a little late.” I hold my hand over the front of his suit pants, where he’s growing hard, tugging a groan from his throat. I wonder if he knows how fucking irresistible that sound is. That I want to find a hundred new ways to make him groan like that. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about last weekend. That was . . . maybe the hottest experience of my life.”

“I can’t stop thinking about it, either. About you.” He kisses the corner of my mouth, then my jaw, then nips on the earring he just helped me put on. His hand trails up my leg, past the hem of my dress, brushing the fabric of my panties. “You bring out this completely different side of me, and I love it.” His voice drops another octave. “Fuck. Are you wet for me already?” he asks as he strokes back and forth.

What we did in my bed must have given both of us more confidence. Lowered our walls.

“Yes,” I say on a heavy breath, adjusting to give him easier access.

He pushes aside that strip of silk and teases me with his finger, the lightest touch before he sinks into my tight, damp heat. I let out a whimper, rubbing my palm harder against him. As my legs start to sway, he brings his other hand under my dress, cupping my ass to hold me steady.

“What else have you been thinking about?” I ask.

He lets out a low hum. “Many, many things. All the places I want to kiss you. How I want to feel you on top of me.” It’s agony, the way he slides his finger everywhere but the place I need him most. Then he removes his hand completely and lifts it to his mouth, sucking gently at his slickened fingertip. “How badly I want to taste you when you come.”

Jesus. This man will be the death of me. I’m certain of it.