Page 77 of The Rom-Commers

“What?” Charlie asked.

“The thumping.”

“I’m not thumping,” Charlie said.

I put my hand on his chest. “Yes, you are.” Then, out of fairness, I shifted to my own. “But I’m thumping worse.”

Why did this keep happening?

For a second, I got caught up in the scientific question of it all—but then I looked down to see Charlie shaking his head at me like I was the most exasperating person on earth. “Emma?” he said.

“What?” I asked, like it might be something important.

“Can you get off me now?”

Oh, god! His broken tailbone! What was Idoing?

But before I could scramble up, from across the kitchen, we heard a sound that pinned us in place a little longer. A woman’s voice like an irritated schoolmarm’s, demanding: “What the hell is happening in here?”

And in the one second that followed—that felt like ten hours—I didn’t even need to see the wryThank you so much for this momentexpression on Charlie’s face to know that this was, of course, his wife.

Sorry—ex-wife.

AS CHARLIE ANDI scrambled up—Charlie notablynotclutching his tailbone now—she watched us, arms crossed, like she’d just discovered a pair of naughty teenagers.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

I knew her face already, of course. I’d seen her in many red-carpet photos with Charlie—always dressed in black and wearing superhuman heels even though she was tall to begin with, the two of them smilinglike nothing, not even an insurmountable height difference, could scare them. With her straight dark hair slicked habitually back into a low bun, she was always then, as she was right this minute, tall and sophisticated and sleek as a mink.

The opposite of me, is what I’m saying.

I wasn’t short—but I definitely wasn’t tall. And you’d probably come up with a thousand words for me before you landed on “sophisticated.” And if there was one thing I’d never, ever be, it was “sleek.” My curls would make sure of that.

“We were just”—Charlie glanced at me—“doing research.”

She crossed her arms and looked at the scatter of vegetables. “Is that what they call it?”

What was that expression on Charlie’s face? I hadn’t seen it before. Was he embarrassed? Guilty? Something was going on between these two that I couldn’t read.

The ex-wife looked at me and touched her collarbone. “I’m Margaux,” she said, like that should explain everything.

“I’m—” I started.

But Charlie jumped in. “She’s just a writer. Here to do some—writing.”

Huh. That smarted a little.Just a writer.

Margaux tilted her head, likeIf you say so.Then: “We were supposed to have dinner when I came to get Cuthbert tonight, Charlie. Did you forget?”

“Of course not,” Charlie said.

Um, I thought.Wewere supposed to have dinner tonight. What was Charlie talking about?

“We were just finishing up,” Charlie explained to Margaux, like we’d been hard at work doing something important.

Margaux nodded, with a vibe likeI’ll allow it.

Then she looked Charlie up and down. “We’re already late,” she said then, “so…”

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