Page 88 of I Almost Do

She pulls a manila folder from the briefcase and gives me a small, shaky smile.

I don’t smile back. I can’t. I’ll give her what she wants. God knows she deserves to be happy. But I can’t smile at her when she hands me divorce papers. I’m not that big of a person.

I stand and drink her in. She’s stunning. She always shakes her head a little when I tell her that. But she’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known.

Though I can tell she tried to tame her auburn curls, the wind had its way with her outside. Her lashes are a sooty frame for those gorgeous eyes of hers. Her lips are a natural rose—the exact same color as her nipples. And her freckles… I want to taste every one.

I let my gaze travel down her body. Over those slim curves. She’s wearing a silk blouse and a gray pencil skirt, which are not her usual style, and ruby boots that definitely are.

Her breath catches, and I drag my eyes back up to find her expression stricken. The realization that she might be feeling intimidated by me makes me ill.

I wait for her to speak, but she says nothing. So I move to the front of my desk, sit on the edge, and beckon her closer. I hope my more casual stance will relax her a little.

I try again to smile, but I can’t. I’m physically incapable of it.

She comes closer… closer… until she stops within touching distance. She’s not maintaining a “casual acquaintance” personal distance of two to four feet. Instead, she’s moved near enough that I can scent her shampoo. I imagine I can feel her body heat.

But for as close as she’s come, she won’t look at me. I think she’s staring out the window past my shoulder.God, the mouth on her. She’s close enough to kiss. All I’d have to do is lean forward and close the distance.

I look up and find she’s finally ready to make eye contact. I clench my jaw to hold back the words I shouldn’t say. Words like “You can burn those fucking papers. I’m not signing them.”

Aaand now she’s looking past my shoulder again. She acts like she’s the one about to get her heart ripped out.

“You traveled all this way, Clarissa. It must be important for an in-person meeting without calling ahead first. What can I do for you?”

She holds out the envelope, and in a gentle voice, she says, “You can sign these papers.”

Of course. I knew she wanted a divorce the second she walked through those doors. What else, besides divorce, would be so important she’d show up in person unannounced?

If there is one universal truth, it's that Clarissa Harcourt-Mellinger is pure class. Even in pajamas and a messy bun. Even in a wrinkled evening gown with the lipstick kissed right off her face. Even when she moves out and takes my heart with her.

She'd never tell me she didn't love me anymore over text or a phone call. She'd do it in person, with kind eyes and a squeeze of my hand.

I've known this day was coming for a while. She's spent the last four months pulling away from me. She's not on my insurance anymore. Not on my cell phone service. She sent back the car I gave her and bought her own.

Even as I worked to get my head out of my ass and move out of my own damn way, she was done. I got my shit together too damn late.

She's talking, but I haven't heard a word since she said, "Sign these."

"James."

I jerk my head to where she's standing. She's moved over by the seating grouping, indicating I should sit on the sofa. She still has that manila envelope in her hand.

I give a disoriented blink, then frown. "I'm sorry. What did you say?"

She pulls a sheaf of papers out of the envelope, and she holds them out to me. "I said, I'm sorry if I misinterpreted your letter. If you meant it to let me know you wanted to move on, I'll"—the distress on her face is clear—"I'll understand."

Wait. What is she saying?

"I was hoping you'd rather sign these papers," she says, letting them hover in her extended hand between us.

I walk over and take them from her. I skim them, from the law firm letterhead to the words written beneath. Then I sit on the sofa. Hard. Just drop right there without a single thought or plan.

I lift my eyes and see her standing there, nervous. One of her hands is clenching and unclenching at her skirt.

I turn my attention back to the papers in my hand. It's a petition to transfer the trustee status of her trust fund from me to a corporate entity owned by Harcourt. The justification is cited as "conflict of interest."

"There's more," she says. Then she sits next to me and opens the briefcase she carried in with her.

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