Page 72 of My Ex-Best Friend's Wedding

My heart squeezes at the thought. A very real tug of desire follows. Of course, I can live without him. I can even live without ever kissing him again. Only now I’ll know exactly what I’m missing.

I drop my eyes. Am I going to play it safe like I’ve been doing all these years? Or am I going to admit what I really want? Which at this particular moment is to take his hand and lead him to my bedroom so that I can have my way with him.

The very idea makes me smile.

He puts down his fork and sits back in his chair, apparently willing to wait for my answer.

Am I going to pretend I don’t want this man because I might have misunderstood his question? Or because I might get hurt or be turned down? Have I really become someone who can’t admit what she wants? Or go after it?

I look up and meet his eyes again. “I don’t think it’s working.”

“No?” He cocks his head. “Why not?”

“Well.” I stand and square my shoulders. “People who aren’t really dating generally don’t sleep together.”

He’s watching me intently.

“As in, they don’t have sex.”

A muscle ticks in his cheek. His brown eyes go a shade darker.

“From what I’ve heard, when a man makes breakfast for a woman it’s usually because they’ve spent the night together. I think you’ve got things backward.”

“Is that right?” The question is whisper soft.

“Um-hmm.”

“I hope you’re going to straighten me out.” This comes out in a husky growl that makes my entire body tingle with awareness.

“Oh, I am.” So bold I barely recognize myself, I straddle his legs, sitting in his lap so that my chest rubs against his.

“I can’t tell you how glad I am to hear you say that.” His hands slip under my T-shirt. We both groan as they cup my breasts.

Within seconds my shirt is on the floor. His head drops. His tongue circles my nipples.

My head falls back as his hands slide under me. Trembling, I lock my legs around his waist and thread my arms around his neck as he stands. My only clear thought as he carries me to my bedroom is how long I’ve waited for this and how very much I want him.

Thirty-two

Bree

Manteo

I’m up at dawn Monday morning. Even before making coffee, I race up to my office and sit down at my computer hoping against hope that one of the agents I queried has read my proposal and responded. All I need is one e-mail requesting the full manuscript, one e-mail saying that although I’m inexperienced they can tell that I have talent and want to represent me. I’ve checked three times a day for five days now (this includes Saturday and Sunday since I’m not sure whether they work on weekends). So far not a single one of them has replied.

The literary agency disclaimers made it clear that it could take three to four weeks to receive a response. But they also said that they don’t necessarily respond if they’re not interested in the material. Which means I have no way of knowing whether they have or haven’t read my proposal. Or read it and didn’t like it. It’s possible I’ve already received five great big silentnos and just don’t know it yet.

As I make my way down to the kitchen I tell myself not to worry. There are plenty of fish in the publishing sea, and I have appointments with two more of them at the conference. The truth is the manuscript is the least of my worries, yet it’s the only one I can allow myself to focus on.

During the years I spent writingHeart of GoldI never imagined how much I’d miss it once it was finished.

Without the manuscript to work on, my marriage, and all the problems that stem from it, are front and center. Which begs the question: Did it take me fifteen years to write it because I put my children, family, and business first as I’ve always believed? Or did it take fifteen years because I needed it to hide out in?

Cup of coffee in hand, I settle at the kitchen table and try to put my head in the right place, wherever that might be. I’m still searching for that safer place when Lily enters. Although she’s earlier than usual and I know she must still be half asleep her face is already set, her expression is stony. Lily’s disappointment in us knows no bounds. Though no longer a child, her view is childishly simple: she thinks her father will stop cheating if I just “rein him in.” And though she can’t possibly know about the ultimatum I gave Clay, I can tell she senses that something has changed. Just as I sense her withdrawing and becoming more secretive.

“What time will you be home for dinner?”

“I won’t. I’m going to Dana’s after practice. Mrs. Barrett invited me for dinner and then we’re going to study for a chemistry test.”

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