Page 52 of Mismatched

And then Anton took my panties.

I clench my thighs.

“So, um—” I cross one arm in front of me in a futile attempt at modesty. “You never really said what the dinner with Carl was about?”

My husband’s gaze rests unabashedly on my cleavage, but almost immediately, his posture changes. He looks away, taking a sip from his water glass. “Ah, he wants to open a branch office in Colorado Springs.”

“Oh.” I blink. That’s not what I expected, but it makes sense when I churn it over in my business brain. “You guys have a lot of clients down there. That’s probably smart.”

His voice is flat. “It’ll involve some extra travel.”

“Well,” I say brightly. “The experience will look good on your resumé.”

He grunts, and then I register the tension in his shoulders. How he’s straightened and folded his hands on the table. I could kick myself. I was hoping to distract with conversation, not kill the mood.

“Sorry. Maybe we shouldn’t talk about work.”

He softens, turning to look at me again. “Just don’t really want to think about work when I’m dying to put my hand up that dress.”

My cheeks flood with heat and I open my mouth to chastise him, but before I get the chance, our waiter appears.

“Here we are—the spaghetti and meatballs.” He places a dish in front of Anton. “And oysters over angel hair.” He puts a second plate in front of me.

I raise my brows at my husband. “This looks delicious. Glad I took your suggestion.”

He returns my gaze with a gleam in his eye, and my heart skips.

Somehow, I manage not to spill oysters into my abundant cleavage as we dig in. A song that played at our wedding comes on over the speaker above us. Anton’s hand rests on my knee in a casual, affectionate way, and I can’t help smiling over at him.

“This is really nice,” I say, admiring how the light over our table accentuates the squareness of his jaw. “I um... it felt like we didn’t get much time together last week.”

He squeezes my knee, looking a little shamefaced. “I was trying to give you space. Maybe I gave you too much.”

“You mean you weren’t avoiding me?” I laugh when I say it, though it comes out a little sharp.

Our eyes meet, and his fingers stroke my knee. “Or maybe I was trying to make you miss me.”

I sip my water, and it’s barely noticeable, but his hand slides fractionally higher on my leg. My heart begins to pound. “Maybe it worked.”

His eyes flash.

I look away, but I can’t hide the blush blooming over my skin. “It’s funny,” I say, twirling angel hair on my fork. “Maybe it’s the therapy, or I don’t know, something. But things feel... different.”

“Different how?” he asks, sounding genuinely curious.

I turn to face him, not sure how to put it into words. “Little things. Like... sometimes I find myself thinking about you when you’re not around?”

His brows draw together. “Thinking about me?”

No, that’s not right. I run my hands over my face.

“Uh, thinking about us...” I whisper, eyes glued to my plate. “Doing things.”

I let my hair fall between us, watching his expression through the strands. He covers his mouth, and I can’t tell if he’s hiding a smile or a frown.

“Because normally you don’t?” he asks, amusement clear in his voice.

“It’s not that I never have,” I say, sounding defensive. And for a second I panic, wondering if I shouldn’t have shared this at all. “It’s just... more on my mind now.”

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