Page 61 of The Wrong Husband
“It was a deep question.” I trace my thumb over the curve of her eyebrow, down the slope of her nose.
She trembles. “Here’s a not-that-deep one.” Her pulse beats at the base of her throat, “What would your ten-year-old self think of you now?”
“That I’m the luckiest man in the world for sitting next to the most beautiful woman in the world.
“Aww.” She sighs. “That’s so cute. And I don’t believe you, but I appreciate the sentiment.”
“I mean it”—I hold her gaze—“and you know it.”
Something flickers in the depths of her eyes. She nods almost imperceptibly.
“Can I ask you a question?” I hold her gaze. Without waiting for her to reply, I ask, “Why do you sometimes tap your chest three times?”
She seems taken aback. “Was it that evident I do that?”
“Only to me. And only because I watch you so closely.”
She lets out a soft chuckle. “My own personal stalker. Of course, you’d notice something like that.”
Her gaze flicks away, as if sorting through her thoughts, then returns to mine. “It’s a self-regulation technique. Something I picked up along the way.”
I tilt my head. “Do you often need help staying regulated?”
“When I became a resident,” she says slowly, “the hours were brutal. Constantly on my feet, juggling impossible demands. I started snapping. Losing my patience. This tapping exercise helped me stay calm under pressure—kept me from unraveling.”
She pauses, then nods, like she’s made a choice to let me in. “But honestly? I think it goes back to my mum. She wasn’t cruel—just… Demanding. Precise. I was always on edge around her, terrified of messing up, of disappointing her. I don’t think she meant to be harsh. But the pressure to be perfect? That was real. And during med school, it built up. I found myself more reactive than others, more easily triggered. This”—she taps her chest again—“keeps me centered.”
I watch her closely. “I want to be that for you. Your anchor. The one who steadies you. Who helps you come back to yourself… If you’ll let me.”
Something shifts in her face. The sharp edges soften. Her eyes shimmer.
“And there you go again,” she says, voice tight with emotion. “Always raising the bar on what a romantic gesture should be.”
She swallows, offering me a shaky smile. “I’ve got another question for you.”
“Ask me.”
“What’s the one thing you’ve always wanted—but never let yourself have?”
“This. You. A place to land.” I close the distance between us, until our eyelashes tangle. “I’ve always been better at walking away, but not this time.”
“Wow,” she breathes, “that’s intense.”
“I’m an intense person.”
“No kidding.” She lowers her gaze to my lips. “Are you going to kiss me again?”
“Do you want me to?”
She leans in until her lips are a millimeter from mine. “Don’t you?”
“Do it,” I speak against her lips.
This time, I want her to take what she wants. I want her to initiate the kiss.
She raises her eyelids, and our gazes clash. I look deeply into her eyes drowning in the green, the gold, the silver that makes me feel like I’m skiing down a slope and losing control. Then her mouth touches mine. Soft. Sweet. It’s like the gossamer wings of destiny have brushed up against me. My heart stutters. My balls tighten. I hold still, barely allowing myself to breathe.
She licks between my lips; a groan rumbles up my throat. She makes a noise deep in her throat, then flattens her breasts against my chest. She feels lush and feminine.
