Page 53 of Reckless Vow

She snorts.

“But yeah, I love it. What about you?”

“As you know, I graduated in creative writing.” She pushes her plate away and I wait, but she says nothing else.

I try to ignore the pinch in my stomach. She doesn’t want to share. Doesn’t trust me enough to tell me. And can I blame her? Trust isn’t something we’ve had a chance to cultivate.

“And you lived in London until recently?” I want to keep the conversation going.

“At first I stayed in Oxford where I studied, but I dated one of my professors, and… well, let’s just say I moved after he didn’t want to accept that we were over.”

What a prick. But I’m unreasonably pleased she ended the affair.

“I returned here to help Paris. She came to see me when she was going through a rough patch with Finn, and I flew back with her. Long story short, I stayed because of Dad and everyone else, I think. It was so nice to be a part of the family again.”

I know what she means. A similar feeling overwhelmed me that night I first arrived, after being away for years.

“And I guess partially because I was in a toxic relationship, so you could say I used the opportunity to run away.” She sighs, the load of her life weighing her down.

Hearing her talk about the assholes she dated curls my hands into fists.

This marriage is certainly an unplanned complication, but I’m glad she was single and desperate to find a husband. Better me than one of the losers she kept around.

“And here we are,” I say, taking a sip of wine.

“And here we are.” She smiles.

There is a sizeable gap between us still, but last night and this meal has gotten us a bit closer. Maybe we can make this year bearable.

“It’s strange to be in this house again like this.” She runs her finger around the rim of her glass.

“It is strange.”

“I feel like I know you and you’re a stranger at the same time. There is so much we don’t know about each other.”

Why is she going there? What good would come out of it? As if our vows of “in sickness and health, for richer and poorer” didn’t unearth emotions that should have been left buried.

“You know pretty much everything about me. I’m a club owner and a pimp.” I grin at her. Let’s not talk about heavy shit anymore.

But she doesn’t smile. She slides from her stool, her thumb by her lips, abusing her cuticles.

The mood shifts between us. I knew tapping into the past would trap us like this. But could we avoid it?

I certainly would like to.

I slide down as well and, unable to help myself, I run my fingers up her arm. If I had even a sliver of self-preservation left, her subtle shudder kills it.

She puts her hands on my chest. Maybe she wants to push me away, but she doesn’t.

Or maybe she just needs to anchor herself. Don’t we both?

“Would you like some dessert?” she breathes.

I’m not sure if she intends the double meaning or if the innuendo is only in my head—correction, my pants—but by now I should just accept that I lost my mind the night I returned and proposed, so I go with that.

“You’re still interested in consummating…” I’m giving her the chance to stop, but fuck, I hope she won’t.

She frowns at first and then her eyes widen for a brief moment, but there is heat in them. “You didn’t seem interested the other night.”

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