Confetti Hearts (Confetti Hitched, #1)(57)

Movement reflects in the glass. It’s Joe walking from the bathroom, drying his hair on a towel. His pyjama shorts show off his lean hips and tight abs. The reflection of the room sparkles with firelight, and it seems like a magical scene from another time and place. Perhaps Joe is walking into our bedroom and there has never been any separation or talk of divorce. I indulge myself in the fantasy for a moment and then draw the curtains, shutting the magic away. I turn to find him watching me.

“You okay?” he asks. “You were miles away.”

“Fine.” The reality is he’s never far from my thoughts. It’s been that way since I met him. I get close and he tips his head back to look at me. His eyes are bright blue and curious in the firelight.

“May I?” I ask, indicating the bruise on his forehead.

He shrugs, offering me a look that strongly suggests he’s humouring me.

I run my fingers over those sharp cheekbones and cup his cheek. It’s reminiscent of the many times I’ve kissed him. His eyes grow slumberous with invitation, and he inclines his head.

It’s a barely there gesture of encouragement, and it’s the hardest fucking thing I’ve ever done not to bend and take what he’s offering. But he’s still justifiably wary of me, and I won’t get what I want if I blow it all on a quick, impulsive fuck. That’s how we started, but I’m damned if that’s how we end.

Instead, I touch a gentle finger to his forehead. “You didn’t break the skin,” I say, my voice thick with emotion.

“No.” His breathing has picked up and he shifts almost unconsciously towards me. I want to throw my head back and crow in happiness. He still wants me. I can work with that. My dread was that he’d walked away and left his feelings far behind. “I think it’s fine,” he continues. “I doubt I’ll even feel it tomorrow.”

I look into his eyes, enjoying this opportunity to touch him. His skin is like rough silk under my fingertips, and this close I can smell his shampoo and the fresh clean scent of him.

“I’m still waking you up in the night. You banged your head.”

“Good luck.”

I grimace. “I remember. It’s easier to wake up Rip Van Winkle than you.”

“If he’d been a wedding planner, he’d have slept a lot longer.”

I chuckle and step back. I want to draw him into my arms and stand quietly together, but I can’t and it’s my fault, so I push him gently into the chair by the fire instead and hand him his plate and cutlery.

“Try and eat something. I’ll make you a cup of tea. Unless you want a cold drink?”

He shoots me a look of unexpected gratitude. “I’d love some tea. Thank you so much.”

I shift awkwardly. Had I never made him a cup of tea before? I obviously fucked up even more than I thought.

I turn away to switch the kettle on, gratified when I hear him start to eat. I feel useful to him and it’s nice. As if I’ve been out foraging and hunting his dinner, rather than picking it off a buffet table while DABBA butchered “Gimme Gimme Gimme a Man After Midnight”.

After I’ve made him his tea, I settle on the chair opposite him. As he finishes his food, I’m pleased to see colour return to his thin face, and I relax back into the seat.

He eyes me curiously. “I’m surprised you’re still single.”

I tense. “What do you mean?”

He puts his hand up in appeasement. “You never lacked for company before me, and I thought you’d be beating them off with a stick within seconds of me leaving.”

“I’m not interested in other men, and you know why,” I say quietly. He stares at me, and I shrug. “You just don’t want to talk about it. Yet,” I add silkily.

He shoots me a fulminating look. “Maybe never.”

I shrug. He exchanges his empty plate for his tea and curls up in the chair as if he’s at home. Typical of the charming mercurial man I married. He’s at ease everywhere, his natural charisma smoothing the way.

He says, “I saw you with that bloke at the wedding and wondered whether you were interested in him.”

It’s so out of track with my own thoughts and feelings that I gape at him. “What?”

His long fingers play with the label on his tea. “The dark-haired bloke fancied the pants off you.”

“And that bothered you?”

“No, of course not,” he flares. “We’re divorced.”

“Separated,” I say coldly.

He rolls his eyes. “You say potato and I say potarto.”

“No, you say done, but I say not quite yet,” I snap.

“Not this again,” he bursts out. He flinches, as if he’s surprised by the temper in his words.

But I’ll take heated emotion over coolness from him and be happy. The memory of meeting him in the solicitor’s office a few months ago is still strong. He’d greeted me with chilly distance, as if I were a complete stranger. Scratch that. He’d have been nicer to a stranger.

My blood warms at the memory of the jealousy and temper that had flared in his eyes when he’d seen me with that wedding guest. But then I remember watching him turn away and flirt with another man. It’d felt like acid running through my veins.

Suddenly, this isn’t amusing or gratifying at all.