Part-Time Lover (Part-Time Lover #1)(50)

I laugh. “Banging hot Danish men with British accents should totally make you ecstatic.”

“We should test this theory again. Just to be sure.” She runs a hand down my arm, and her voice turns more serious, contemplative. “You do make me feel safe. I need that. Thank you for doing that.”

A faraway look fills her eyes, and as I follow her gaze, I see her staring at the collection of bottles on her bureau. One of them is empty. My curiosity gets the better of me. “Why are you keeping that empty bottle?”

She closes her eyes and sighs, then rises, getting out of bed all rumpled and tousled. She walks to the bureau, plucks the crystal one, and takes it to the en suite bathroom. I lean near the edge of the bed so I can watch her through the open doorway. She drops it into the rubbish bin. It lands with a hard thud.

“Why did you do that?” I ask.

She stands in the doorway. “It was my wedding day perfume. I’ve needed to do that for a long time, Christian.”

A pinch of jealousy flares in me and the feeling surprises me and pisses me off. How on earth could I be jealous of her dead husband?

But the vicious truth whispers in my ear. I’m envious in some terrible way that she’s held on to him for so long.

She returns and sits next to me. “I needed to do that.”

“You didn’t have to do that for me,” I say coolly.

“I did it for me.” She tilts her head, takes my hand. “I don’t love him.”

I laugh lightly. “Good.”

What I mean is that’s fucking great.

“I want you to know that.”

That’s more than great. It’s perfect, and I do my best to keep a stoic face while inside I’m pumping a fist in victory. I’m so fucking happy she’s over him. This, right here, is the definition of happiness.

“Okay,” I say calmly, since letting on how much this knowledge thrills me might push her away.

“I’m not holding on to him. I need you to know that. I held on to the bottle because it was a gift from my blog readers.”

Ohhhh.

“The plot thickens,” I say playfully, since her response makes precisely the kind of sense I want it to make. Selfishly, I like her explanation a lot—her past is well and truly her past. “You weren’t ever holding on to something from him, then. You were holding on to something from people you miss having a connection with. You should reconnect with them.”

“That’s not a bad idea.”

I grab her hand, looping my fingers through hers. Our rings touch. As I gaze at our joined hands, our metal connecting, I remember doing the same with Emma. Holding the hand of my first wife nine years ago, did I feel the same with her as I do in this moment?

I loved Emma. I don’t question that. But did I feel like this? This sort of unexpected awareness of the way a person affects you, deep in your body, far into your mind?

I feel like I could talk to Elise about anything. I never had that with Emma.

“You do know I’m over Emma, right? It was years ago, but still. In case you were wondering.” I need her to know there’s no competition from the past—no ghost, no poignant memory. “I don’t have baggage.”

“You do seem remarkably baggage-free,” she says with a smile. “But is being baggage-free your baggage?”

I shake my head. “If you’re asking if I’m tied to my single lifestyle or have some über-commitment to being a playboy, I’m sure Griffin would say yes —”

“Why on earth would Griffin say yes?”

“Oh, I used to tell him my dream was to become a kept man of some gorgeous, brilliant older woman.”

She smacks me. “You’re terrible. Preying on older women.”

I kiss her shoulder. “I can’t resist them.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Are you truly attracted to me because I’m four years older than you?”

“Umm . . .”

“Seriously?”

“No. That’s not it, but I think you’re fascinating. You intrigue me. I like that you’re not focused on the same things a twenty-five-year-old is focused on. You’re building a stellar international business, you’re taking care of yourself, and you’re looking out for friends. You have all this rich life experience, and yeah, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t find it attractive. So sue me.”

She pushes a hand against my chest. “Fine, then I like that you’re younger than me.”

“Oh yeah? You like boy toys?”

She scoffs. “Not in the least. I like it because it means you’re more thoughtful.”

“It does?”

She nods. “You’re pretty damn thoughtful, Christian, and that’s incredibly attractive.”

I yank her closer. Maybe because of her compliments, possibly because we’ve moved past a wall, I say what I wanted to say a little while ago. “That was really intense against the door, wasn’t it?”

She trembles. Like a muscle memory from sex moves through her. “It was crazy intense,” she whispers. “We barely said a word to each other at the club.”

“I think I sort of attacked you. In my defense, you sent that photo in your black lace, and I did give you fair warning.”

She drags a hand down my shirt, unbuttoning it. “I liked being attacked like that. I liked the intensity of it.”