Page 4 of The Wrong Heart

The jitters in his gold-dusted irises flutter away, manifesting into a colony of butterflies in my belly. “I think—”

A tipsy brunette bumps into us, laughing her apology as she stumbles by, and we’re reminded of our audience. We take our two-person rendezvous to the far-right corner of the sidewalk until Charlie’s back is level with the brick building. I dip two fingers into his front pocket, while my purse dangles beside me in my opposite hand. “Is this normal?”

His warm gaze flits across my face. “Grinding on each other in front of Benny’s Diner?”

“The fact that we stillwantto grind on each other in front of Benny’s Diner after seven years together. When does the light dim? When does the spark fade?”

“Never.” Charlie traces his fingertips along my parted lips, that familiar knowing smile etched into his. “You’re the sun, Melody March. The sun only knows how to shine.”

Lord help me.Only this man could be equally proficient in computer analyticsandspouting off glorious words like poetry. “I’m the sun, and you’re the sky.”

I try to hide my adoring smile in the buttons of his dress shirt, but he tips my chin up with two long fingers. “Do you think it worked?” he repeats, soft and subdued, eyes twinkling when they meet with mine.

“Yes.” It’s a cautious, hopeful whisper. I lean up on my tiptoes, my five-foot-two frame hardly able to reach his lips. He bends down, and I seal my declaration with a kiss. “Do you?”

Charlie grins as he sweeps his nose against mine. “I hope not. I really enjoy practicing.”

“God, you are—”

I intend to swat him with my purse, but I’m almost knocked off my feet when that purse is ripped from my hand in a sudden flash, and I stumble, momentarily stunned and confused, my next breath sticking to the back of my throat as I try to process what the hell just happened.

But I don’t have time to process it because Charlie takes off, leaving me in a stupefied haze on the sidewalk, knees struggling to keep me upright.

My purse was stolen.

And my husband is chasing the thief through the crowded downtown, dress coat billowing behind him as he bumps into slack-jawed bystanders and hollers at the stranger tostopandget the fuck back here.

The fog lifts, enabling me to follow. “Charlie!”

My sky-high wedges are hardly effective running shoes, and my ankles keep twisting, my mini-skirt hindering my speed.

Is this real life?

I still can’t process the fact that I’ve been robbed, and Charlie is chasing him down, and I’m chasingCharlie, and not a single goddamn person is trying to help. They just stand there gawking, watching the scene unfold through their cell phone screens.

“Charlie!” I call again, begging him to stop, tolet it go. This is madness. The offender makes a sharp left into the middle of the street, Charlie right on his tail. “Charlie, please!”

He keeps going, keeps gaining speed, lessening the gap between them.

The moment he reaches for the man’s arm, tearing the purse from his grip, a scream erupts from the bowels of my very essence. A category five hurricane. It shreds my insides, liquifies me, whittles me down to dust and debris.

“Charlie!”

A pick-up truck blows the red light and slams into my husband.

Tires screeching, glass shattering, metal breaking bone.

Screams, sobs, gasps.

Charlie is struck hard, bouncing off the windshield, tumbling over the hood, and rolling off the vehicle, landing in a heap on the pavement.

The thief climbs to his feet and hops into the passenger’s seat of the pick-up, then the truck takes off.

It just bolts.

It leaves the scene of the crime in a flash of burnt orange, rusted hubcaps, and a plume of exhaust—a cloud of carnage.

And then I’m running.

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