Page 117 of One Wrong Move

“And why not?” I ask. “It’s the honest truth.”

Harper’s swift fingers have undone the bow tie at my neck and have slipped inside the fabric, brushing against the skin of my throat. “I do like it when you’re honest with me. I feel like you’re not honest very often with… others.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Is that a backhanded compliment?”

“No,” she says with a small laugh. “Just an observation. I think you have a lot of acquaintances… people who would consider you their friend. But I don’t think you’re so quick to return the sentiment. I don’t believe you consider many of those same people as friends in return.”

Her words feel heavy, and I struggle under the weight of them for a few seconds before I nod once.

“Maybe not,” I say. “But I consider you my friend.”

A friend I’m hopelessly, painfully and irrevocably in love with.

Her entire face softens with the warmth I feel in my very bones. “I feel honored that you do.”

The words are on the tip of my tongue. They feel hot, too pressurized, and I know they’ll wreck everything. But looking at the softness in her face, the warmth in her eyes…

“I want?—”

There’s a knock on the privacy divider from André in the front seat. I glance outside to see the familiar townhouse. The glossy black front door, flanked by two planters of boxwood, and a gold number eight in the center.

“Home,” she breathes and pushes open her car door. I follow her out and thank André before heading inside the residence.

I watch her play with the puppies, letting them into the garden, checking on their water bowls… In her silk dress and the diamond necklace, her hair still in that sleek ponytail.

It’s so easy to imagine her always living here with me. That this is our home. Our hot dogs. Our life.

My wife.

The word comes unbidden. A fantasy I didn’t realize I had until I saw her walking around my kitchen, looking like a movie star.

It’s late, past midnight, and the house is mostly dark. It’s a weeknight… or I would have suggested we stay up. Order in. Collapse on the couch.

I would pull her into the shower, take the toy out of her, and give her one final orgasm before we’d both fall asleep.

But it is a weeknight… and the tired smile on her face, as she carries Stanley back inside the house, tells me she needs something else right now. Rest.

We say goodnight on her landing, with the dogs pacing around her heels and her mascara still smudged under her left eye. I want to reach out and wipe it away.

I tip her head back, leaning close enough for our lips to almost touch… and whisper, “Take good care of the toy.”

She blinks a few times. “I will. I promise.”

Once I’m inside my room, I tear off the tux. My skin feels too hot beneath it. My morning is due to start way too early, but I get into the shower nevertheless and replay the memories of the last few hours.

Hottest thing I’ve ever experienced.

She is so game, so open, so willing… so happy. Adventurous. I’ve never met anyone who means it quite like she does. Who is as earnest about enjoying life as she is.

Who treasures the small moments like she does.

I lie in bed on my back and stare up at my ceiling. It feels familiar. What preceded it does not.

Old.

She’d meant it, when she said it about Austin Silver. Joked about it when I made the point, but… she had meant it earlier tonight.

Maybe that’s exactly how she sees me. Dean is my age, though. So it hadn’t bothered her before. Does it bother her now? I promised Harper never to open the box, the one with her past. But that doesn’t mean I don’t have questions about it.

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