Page 32 of So Close

“Is that what the fuss is about? I suppose I could’ve been involved in any number of dubious situations over the past six years.” My voice is studiously light and amused, but my pulse has accelerated. He’s shrewd and will take my carefully chosen words as the warning they are and become even more cautious. “Here I was, hoping he just didn’t want me to leave.”

“I don’t believe he could bear it.”

“He can,” I counter briskly. “He already has. If he could just stop thinking of me as his finish line, his prize for all his accomplishments, he’d enjoy his success simply because he’s earned it. At least I like to imagine him that way.”

“There is truth in that.” With his fingers around the stem of his glass, Witte spins it slowly, round and round. He’s not a man who fidgets, so the motion is intentional, designed to put me at ease. “I was told you transferred into Columbia’s Psychology Honors program during your junior year.”

I nod. “Southwest to the northeast – what an acclimatization that was!”

“I understand that fewer than ten percent of transfers are admitted due to the high retention rate. You were one of the chosen few.”

“Who doesn’t want an Ivy League degree?” I say blithely, not wanting to get into a discussion about Lily’s life. I set my hand over his again. “There are only two things you need to know about me, Witte: I want the best for him, and I’ve dedicated myself to becoming the wife he deserves.”

He studies me for long moments. Then his face clears and resumes its usual kind mien. He pats the back of my hand, stands and collects our plates, placing them in the sink. Pulling mitts on, Witte opens the oven. The scent that floats on the heated air is delectable.

I watch as he plates individual Beef Wellington servings, potatoes au gratin and green beans almondine. “How is it that you’re single if you don’t mind my asking?”

“I never said I was,” he returns with a smile.

“Well …” There is a look of devilish mischief in his eyes. “Do tell.”

“You remind me of her, actually. As beautiful and tempting as a serpent, and just as dangerous.”

“Oh, Witte.” I laugh, pleased that we understand each other now. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

I take another sip of my water but note the faint mist of condensation on the wine glasses, which tells me the Syrah is perfectly chilled. He would know that, of course; red wine served at room temperature is a travesty. But to chill it so that the temperature isjust rightprecisely when it needs to be … well, that’s an art.

“Witte.”

My pulse leaps at the sound of your low, resonant voice. You round the corner from the dining room, carrying your glass and your empty plate with your silverware balanced on top. You stop short when you see me.

“What are you doing?” you ask, frowning.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” I rejoin, shooting you a long glance over my shoulder. I play it cool, but your sudden appearance has me reeling.

Your nostrils flare. I arch a brow, knowing that challenging you always gets your blood hot in the best way. I let you see how fiercely and urgently I need you; Iwantyou to know.

Inwardly, I’m far less steady. You’re breathtakingly handsome. Your skin is naturally a sun-drenched hue, which plays so well with the dark luster of your hair and the brooding somberness of your velvety brown eyes. Your brows have tapered into a frown, but the lines of time only season you in the most flattering way. A five o’clock shadow contours your tightly clenched jaw. Square and sculpted, it anchors a strong chin and balances the sensuality of firm, full lips.

You are truly a masterpiece.

“Let me take those,” Witte says.

“I’ve got it, Witte.” You jerk your hands out of his reach, taking the plate and glass with you but leaving the silverware suspended in midair.

Thrusting my arm out, I catch the knife’s blade between pinched fingers. Simultaneously, Witte has caught the fork, moving with the speed of a cobra strike. For a heartbeat, we contemplate each other’s dexterousness. Then, I set the knife and my glass down and wipe my fingers on my napkin.

“What the hell were you thinking?” you snap, dumping your plate and glass in the sink with far less care than the delicate items require. “You could’ve hurt yourself!”

“It was instinct,” I deflect simply. “Anyone would’ve done it.”

You take my hand and examine it minutely, massaging my palm and fingers to see if blood wells anywhere.

The innocent touch has a profound effect on me. Awareness sizzles up my arm. “I’m fine.” The catch in my voice betrays my response to you. “It was a lucky catch.”

I caress your jaw with my free hand. You become motionless, staring at me fiercely. I brush the thick silk of your hair from your forehead, then trace your brow with my fingertips. It’s a joy to touch you and devastating when you lean into my palm, nuzzling for far too brief a time.

You pull back abruptly. The glare you send me could melt asphalt.

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